The Dharma Diaries

DOES A BEAR SHIT IN THE WOODS?

It schnowed yesterday. There was white stuff on the ground in Pittsburgh the day I was born, but I was only three hours old and don’t remember it. Naturally, I was pretty suspicious of the mysterious forces at work and barked my adorable head off till HE let me out. HE’s the one who told me it was schnow. HE thinks HE knows everything- when I should eat, what I am allowed to play with, what time I should walk, for cryin’ out loud! The list goes on, but I won’t bore you the way HE does me. Suffice it to say that we’ll call it “schnow” just to get HIM off my adorable back.

I’ll be one year old in just a few short weeks and at this point, I have a pretty good handle on things. HE worked (completely ignoring me, as usual) way too long yesterday & I’ll admit...I was a little bored, so I shredded the mail and chewed the corner off a place mat because I could. HE was suitably impressed with my handiwork and spoke loudly at me for quite a while. “Job well done!” was all I could think, as I sashayed my adorable ass downstairs in search of adventure.

The clink of keys in the kitchen distracted me enough to drop my goof ball and fly (as if on gossamer wing) to the door, determined to not be banished to THE CRATE...
Surprisingly, I was told I could “tag along” (honestly, HE treats me like a baby!) and run some errands. Trust me, I know what errands are- a boney at the bank, a rawhide at the post office and maybe, just maybe, an open window in the truck, so that my adorable ears might flap in the (much cooler than Cuban) wind.

With aforementioned boney firmly planted in my adorable mouth, we headed home. I tried to steer but HE is always in my way. The French Bull dog next door was on patrol, so I made a quick pish and slinked inside before she could spot me. (Don’t get me started on the French!) For something completely different, HE proceeded to talk on the phone for hours, ignoring me, so I slipped downstairs again and heavily drooled on one (only one!) of HIS “favorite” slippers. When HE discovered me gnawing on it, I got lots of attention, so I’ll be sure to try that again soon.

All in all, a pretty average day. I sneaked outside when I overheard HIM talking with the Russians across the road about me being the only Havanese within 100 miles, and of course, they were waxing rhapsodic over my countless adorable charms, so I loped off into the woods. I suppose that I should explain that we live in the woods, so pretty much everywhere you look is, well...woods.

For some unknown reason, I have gathered (by HIS endless blabbering) that I am not supposed to explore said woods on my own. “Bite me!”, I said under my adorable puppy breath and took off like a bat (yep, I know what a bat is- had one in the kitchen) out of Hell, which is apparently a place I’ll be visiting at some point soon, according to HIM.

I picked up a schtick, dropped it, found a pine cone- dropped it- and stopped dead in my tracks. My adorable nose twitched, dripped a little and quivered uncontrollably. Suddenly, I remembered one of HIS many phone calls revolving around a bear that had been spotted the day before. ‘Course, I didn’t believe HIM ( he makes stuff up all the time!) and I didn’t see the stupid bear, (if I’m being totally honest, they freak me out a little) so I only had HIS word...until that glorious moment, finally alone for one damn second, adorable paws firmly rooted in bear shit. In the woods. Alone.

I scouted for eye witnesses and proceeded to roll. It was so fresh, that it was still moist (maybe from the “schnow”?) and I was able to get the shit really imbedded in my hair. (I’ve heard that other dogs have fur, whatever that is, but not the Havanese!). I rolled, dove & leaped about with an air of dignity rarely seen while cavorting in a steaming pile of shit. Torn from my reverie by the (kinda loud) sound of HIS voice booming in my general direction, I was startled and panicked for a brief, shining moment.

I considered my options (knowing that it was only a matter of time) and decided to hide the evidence in the best way possible, so I ate it. Well, you’d think I was spawned by Satan herself the way HE carried on. Was not (even slightly) amused by the amazing aroma that I had acquired (all by my adorable self, thank you). No praise, no proverbial pat on the back- in fact, HE shrieked (like a damn girl scout) grabbed me (kinda ruff) and literally chased me around the house, completely ignoring the Russians (so rude) screaming his bloody(not so adorable) head off until I acquiesced (dogs have vocabularies too, ya know), doing my doggone best to look sheepish (whatever that is) and avoid trouble.

Still smarting from the infamous “skunk incident” last July, I was in no mood. I raced around the house, leaving remnants of bear shit on the couch, the rug, (was only on the bed for a minute for cryin’ out loud) and apparently, the effluvia (look it up) was permeating the entire house, which I would think was a good thing, but apparently not so much.

Once HE got a hold of me again (and got some bear shit on his hands) it was over. HE screamed and ranted and raved, drawing a bath (aarrgh!) while holding me by the scruff of my adorable neck. I think the worst is over, but HE still seems to be a little pissed - muttering about the puppy breath being a “thing of the past”...who knows? I try to not pay attention to his constant drivel and just do my thing, knowing full well that I will be forgiven. Why does HE love me so? I’m Dharma, dammit- and freakin’ adorable.

Heart Month-No Laughing Matter?

Sadly, like millions of others- my family is no stranger to heart disease. Cardiac failure has played a role in several deaths close to home, including my father and grandparents on both sides.

My dad, and his before him, were both dead by the age of 54. Little wonder then, that I had some anxiety regarding my own health as I approached middle age. Granted, the advancements in health care, with an emphasis on awareness and prevention have been staggering since my father’s day, but still...

I smoked (just like them) and had little to no concern regarding my own well being, believing (like most young folks) that I was impervious to the dangers that felled other members of my family tree. That, in addition to the fact that I appeared to be in good health, kept me from over analyzing the situation as I breezed through life, with nary a care in the world.

For the most part, I enjoyed my youth. I had a lot of friends, was pretty sociable and spent a good deal of time yukking it up with my pals, participating in theatre productions and later, in film and television as well. Often playing the “comic relief”, I did actually spend a lot of my time laughing.

I still remember being a kid and my father wagging his finger in my face , accusing me of “making everything a joke” and “not taking life seriously” enough. Admittedly, he had plenty to be concerned about but I had purposely chosen a different path. Now all grown up and having had a small “Myocardial Infarction” myself, it would appear that my “smart - ass attitude” may have actually saved my life.

I was lucky. Several years ago, I went out for lunch with friends, felt a weird sensation in my left arm and became short of breath. My coworkers concern swirled around me as I suggested that I might be having a heart attack-but insisted on driving myself home to have a nap, thinking I was jumping to conclusions. Against their wishes, they did let me leave- but I drove myself to the hospital instead.

Stress tests, angiograms and minor surgery were in my future as my brand new cardiologist asked me “what the hell was so funny?” Sure I was scared, but was laughing out loud at the absurdity of the situation. Looking back, it’s comical to have thought that I would escape what heredity had in store for me since birth. The difference between my survival and the generations before me? Hard to say for sure, but I have always lived by the adage that “laughter is the best medicine” and lately, medical science seems to agree.

In a 1996 study published by Dr. Lee Berk and fellow researcher Dr. Stanley Tan of Loma Linda University in California, research showed that laughing “lowers blood pressure, reduces stress hormones, increases muscle flexion and boosts the immune system by raising levels of infection-fighting T-cells, which produce disease-destroying antibodies.” (www.oohoi.com/inner_self/mind/laughter)

In Berk’s study, the physiological response produced by laughter was opposite of what is seen in classic stress, supporting the conclusion that laughter is a “eustress” state: one that produces healthy and positive emotions.

In March of 2007, researchers at the University of Maryland
( www.umm.edu/news/release/laughter) concluded that laughter is “linked to healthy function of blood vessels. Laughter appears to cause the tissue that forms the inner lining of vessels to dilate, or expand in order to increase blood flow.”

When the same group of study volunteers was shown a film that produced mental stress, their blood vessel lining developed a potentially unhealthy response called vasoconstriction, reducing blood flow.

Michael Miller, M.D., director of preventative cardiology at UMM medical center was quoted as stating that “given the results of our study, it is conceivable that laughing may be important to maintain a healthy endothelium and reduce the risk of cardiovascular disease.”

He went on to say that “the magnitude of change we saw is similar to the benefit we might see with aerobic exercise, but without the associated aches, pains and muscle tension.” Miller did admit that the study was not able to determine the source of laughter’s benefit, but suggests the possibility that the chemical release of endorphins that flood the body while laughing, could be a determining factor.

More studies are underway as each fresh discovery triggers new research. An earlier study by Miller suggested that laughter may be good for the heart and was based partly on questionnaires that helped determine whether people were prone to laughter and ascertain their levels of hostility and anger. Half of the 300 volunteers in the study had suffered heart attacks or had undergone coronary bypass surgery; the other half did not have heart disease. People with disease responded with less humor to everyday life situations than those with a normal cardiovascular system.

Miller concluded by saying that “we don’t recommend that you laugh and not exercise, but we do recommend that you try to laugh on a regular basis.” I, for one, plan on staying the course. I’ve laughed my way through plenty of difficult times, but have always- knock on wood- come out ahead of the game. My mom would probably prefer that I was less of a clown sometimes, but we’ve had a lot of laughs together and she’s still here. My advice? Listen to Nat King Cole and “smile, if your heart is breaking.”

Tyra Banks Ate My Cell Phone

Yes, I adopted a puppy in November. Call me crazy. Devastated after losing my 14 year old terrier to the ravages of canine diabetes, I did not relish the idea of spending the winter alone in the woods without a dog to snuggle up with, which ( for dog lovers) does help stave off cabin fever and the accompanying doldrums.

I knew I wanted to rescue a dog in need and had no plans to adopt a puppy. No plans to house train in below zero conditions. No plans to bring a confused, abused and possibly insane animal into the home and yet- the best laid plans...

After searching the shelters for possibilities, I saw her. Small and frail and afraid, she called out to me as they often do. I took one look at those enormous, heavily lined eyes, her gorgeous hair (er, I mean fur) and seeing the possibility of intense beauty behind the fear, I proclaimed her new name was Tyra Banks and brought her home.

Naturally, all hell broke loose. She was fewer than 10 months old and had clearly been mistreated by some monster with no name. Tyra was afraid of the outdoors, had never seen a toy and had no clue where to pee. My severely lacking patience, combined with grief and loss over her predecessor all combined for an emotional roller coaster that had me tearing my hair out with frustration.

Having had (and trained) dogs my entire life, I was adamantly opposed to crate training and was always happy to expound on my totally uninformed position that it was “cruel” and “inhumane’ and just plain wrong.

This was, of course PTB (Pre Tyra Banks). Naturally, everyone I spoke with had an opinion, one which often had the word “crate” in the sentence. I pretended to listen knowing all the while that they were clearly mistaken and that crate training was not an option for me.

Tyra continued to pee wherever she cared to and destroy Christmas ornaments, shoes, caps, gloves and scarves, while I gently wept, walking her dozens of times throughout any given 24 hour period with virtually no success.

My fingers flew over the keyboard as I surfed the web for total strangers’ advice. More allusions to the “C” word. Hmm. I read. I mused. I caved. according to www.perfectpaws.com “Crate training can be an efficient and effective way to train a dog. Temporarily confining your dog to a small area strongly inhibits the tendency to urinate.” So far, sounding good.

Still believing that “father knows best”, I acquired the crate but did not put her in it. Then Tyra Banks ate a box of Hanukkah candles, peed right in front of me and devoured my cell phone. I had done enough research at this point to know that I could not introduce the dog to the crate through fear. Having visited www.itspawsible.com and www.thedogtrainingsecret.com, not to mention www.cratetraining.net I had picked up a hint or two.

I introduced her to the crate, made it inviting with blankets and toys and threw in a boney for good measure. Slowly, over a period of days, she went in by herself, making a little nest, taking a short nap. If she didn’t “go” during one of our numerous visits outside, I would suggest the crate for a while and try again. In just a few days, Tyra Banks chose to pee outside and was amply rewarded with praise.

I continued the experiment, giving her short bursts of confinement while working, since she would not leave me alone and insisted on “acting out" right in front of me, chewing up my brand new slippers and munching on clothes pins. She was not “punished and banished” to her crate for such behavior- she was admonished and then later- lovingly crated while I worked, in order to to avoid a slip.

Weeks have gone by. Tyra Banks pees outside. If she is cranky or mischievous, I recommend a “time out” in the crate, but never force her. If I catch her dragging a boot through the living room, she drops it and steps into her crate all by herself and takes a little self-imposed nap. This morning, while the ever-present plumber was here, I couldn’t find Tyra Banks. I looked upstairs and down, calling her by name, whistling and starting to worry that she had sneaked outside.

I found her, sound asleep, in her crate with the door somehow closed -without any assistance from me. Did she close it herself? It wasn’t actually latched, so my guess is yes. Does crate training help? My guess is yes.Is Tyra banks a good girl? She sure is getting there.

Go With The Flow

Just as the last gift was unwrapped, the last fruitcake tossed and the last, last minute gift delivered....company arrived. It wasn’t a surprise- in fact the post-Christmas gathering was planned months in advance.

Little wonder then, that the plan unraveled faster than a ball of yarn in the paws of a psychotic kitten. Don’t get me wrong-I love making plans. It’s the execution of a carefully thought out, meticulously choreographed and minutely detailed extravaganza that is usually my downfall.

The months-long preparation to drive to Philly, hook up with family in Media, PA and meet there with friends who were coming in from Pittsburgh, collapsed like a house of cards mere hours before the truck was packed.
Frenzied conference calls ensued. Alternate cards were laid out on the table before the players and a new hand was dealt. I selfishly volunteered to stay home and let everyone come here.

Granted, accommodations are less than ideal for six adults, six dogs and a partridge in a pear tree- but “what the heck, it’s the holidays!” I muse, while tearing through the house, making beds, getting the plumbing (always the plumbing!) attended to, scribbling shopping notes on tiny post- it’s strewn throughout the place and whipping myself into a frenzy of straying outside of The Plan.


More phone calls ensued. Strep throat struck in Philly, knocking out two very important members of the group. Sighing, I picked up the phone and added one more, in lieu of the now-missing loved ones. Creating menus on the phone with Pittsburgh, I flew out of the house, picked up an extra large dog crate, more beer , less wine and looked heavenward as it began to snow.

Choking back tears on another call from Philly, I hastily made additional post-its to facilitate the completion of all tasks before the roads became too slick to navigate.In light of shifting the venue, searching for the now all-important fondue pot became tantamount to finding the Holy Grail. A minimum of three was required to pull off Bob & Ron’s now famous fondue for ten and my basement was (and is) “The Nightmare Before Christmas” - a result of my flinging dozens of crates filled with ornaments, dog stockings and assorted holiday “cheer”, resulting in the impression that Santa had literally exploded in a last ditch effort to smother my tiny house in a mountain of holiday splendor.

One by one, cars appeared. Dogs barked, luggage arrived in heaps. Bags and bags and bags of groceries were unpacked. (Bob and Ron are always prepared!) The phone rang incessantly as the mayhem ensued and I multi-tasked my little heart out shouting instructions to anyone who would listen.

I don’t care for surprises (ask anyone who was at my fortieth birthday bash) but made a valiant attempt to “go with the flow” as continual changes were thrown at me, including a last minute “date” appearing on the scene. (don’t ask!)

Folks settled in as the dogs made themselves at home on every couch, chair and hassock in the place. Menus were fine- tuned as the animals, en masse, were fed and walked (repeatedly- in below zero weather). Maps were poured over as all parties concerned debated which sights were to be seen, now that the party was in the Catskills.

Amidst the mountains of coats, scarves,suitcases, hats and boots-I surveyed the comical scene and smiled. I was once again reminded of how fortunate I am. My friends had traveled hundreds of miles- at a moments notice, just to congregate and make merry... without hesitation.

The house smelled like hot cocoa and cookies (and dogs, dogs, dogs!). I breathed it all in, trying to capture the glorious moment in my head... creating the proverbial movie in my mind. I snaked my way through the living room, the ever-present phone to my ear, making even more plans for the next day- and the day after that. I forced myself to stop and smell the roses (yes, I mean dogs), soaking it all in. I took a picture or two to remind me of the moment and told each of my friends how much I love them.

We made more calls to those who could not attend and told them how much we loved them too. Either I’m becoming a complete sap as I mature, or maturity has caused me to appreciate something I have always possessed. Either way, it feels good, so I think I’ll just “go with the flow.”

The Missing Christmas Carol

SUNG TO THE TUNE
‘WALKIN’ THROUGH A WINTER WONDERLAND’



Coast is clear- wife is missin’
didn’t ask for her permission....

I’m wearin her clothes, her silk pantyhose
Walkin’ ‘round in women’s underwear!

In the store, there’s a teddy, little straps-
like spaghetti....it holds me so tight
like handcuffs at night

Walkin’ ‘round in women’s underwear!

In the office, there’s a guy named Melvin
He pretends that I am Murphy Brown

He’ll say “Are you ready?” I’ll say “Whoa man!”
“Let’s wait until the wife is out of town!”

Later on, if you wanna- we can dress like Madonna
Put on some eye shade and join the parade

Walkin’ ‘round in women’s underwear!

We’re walkin....in women’s underwear!

-author unknown

I Remember Mama

As a child, It’s difficult to appreciate the hard work that our parents go through to make the holidays special, magical and wondrous. Today, as an adult, I can look back fondly and revel in the efforts that my parents endured- between work, keeping the house running and still finding time to make Hanukkah memories that linger.

My father was a jeweler and far too busy (especially during holidays) keeping food on the table and a roof over our heads to be burdened with magic, so the brunt of the “Festival of Lights” fell on my mom. She too, worked at my dad’s store during the busy times and was woefully overworked during the season, but undaunted in her task to create special times that my sister and I still discuss to this day.

We both complained bitterly that we were given “short shrift” during the holiday’s, since we were not blind to the Christmas trees, stockings and the heaping piles of gifts that our non-Jewish friends appeared to reap from the mystical Santa that never slid down our chimney, therefore my mother had to be more than creative in an effort to appease us.

Because Hanukkah is celebrated over a period of eight nights, we were told the story of Judah and the Macabees. We lit the Menorah faithfully and had the requisite potato latkes and chocolate coins, known as “gelt”. We made our gift wishes known and my mother would make a game out of each night, with notes strewn throughout the house, teasing us with clues as to the whereabouts of each hidden (single) gift every night. To make it more exciting, the gifts grew in size and desirability as the nights wore on. Clothing was always first on the list, I suspect because mom knew it was a let down. This way, the final night was anticipated greatly, with the fervent wish that we would get something we actually, truly, desperately desired!

One year, it was the coveted bicycle for each of us that unbeknownst to us, our parents- exhausted from working all day and long into the night, had to assemble.

Another year it was stilts. Ahhh- the stilts! My sister and I wanted them so desperately, we almost forgot the feeling of being cheated out of Santa when they appeared before us, with the warning that they were never to be used inside the house. Yeah, right. As soon as the parents were out of sight, we were very busy mastering the art of stilt walking up and down that grand staircase in our Victorian home (it’s a Hanukkah miracle that we didn’t kill ourselves) and walked to school every day on those stilts for months!

For quite a while, my entire life revolved around LEGO and my mother kept me well stocked through the holidays as each new piece came out on the market. I missed having “special time” with mom during the season and had little understanding of why the parents weren’t around enough, so I started writing notes to mom about my daily activities at school and play. I would write my thoughts down and then enclose them in a LEGO house, or barn, or school, or even a Temple (as I recall) constructed laboriously and with great detail, adding window boxes, lights, chimney’s and the like.


Every morning, without fail, I would awake to an entirely new LEGO structure that was built (By mom, of course) late into the night with a reply to my note, laden with what their day was like and responding to my carefully elucidated details of my fascinating third grade life. It wasn’t until many years later that my mom explained how grueling it was to take apart my LEGO house, read my missive, write a response- and then rebuild a new structure of her own design, replete with turrets, smokestacks and outdoor lighting from her own LEGO imagination.

This simple (or so I thought) tradition made Hanukkah magical for me. I had no clue how tired my parents were, nor how hard they had worked to make it all seem so effortless for my sister and I- but looking back now? Wow.

I even wrote the people at LEGO all about it once and I’m sure they were enchanted, but did not feel it necessary to bestow every piece of LEGO ever created upon me, as a peace offering of Hanukkah magic. That was my mom’s job and she still manages to make magic for me every day, one way or another.

If the LEGO people are listening....it’s not too late. That little boy is still alive with wonder deep inside the grown up man and I remember mama (and her Herculean efforts) with appreciation, a sense of Hanukkah magic and love- above all else- love. Thanks, Mom.

Thanks For The Memories

It’s that time of year again—a time to gather family and friends, make some time-honored recipes and give thanks. I have so much to be grateful for that I hardly know where to begin.

First and foremost, I am grateful that I’m still here to celebrate the holiday. Having survived (over the years) three stomach surgeries, a small heart attack, esophageal cancer and a stroke, it’s a miracle that I can still be such a pain in the neck, but (fortunately for me) my family and (oh, so special) friends still want me hanging around and apparently, I have a lot of unfinished business.

My doctor seems to feel that I will “still be yakking it up, even as they lower me into the ground” (nice, huh?) and I am determined to keep talking (and writing) until such time.

I am thankful that I grew up with such a strong sense of family and what it means to be surrounded by love and support from a (very) colorful cast of characters. Thanksgiving has always provided fodder for stories over the years, and it wouldn’t surprise me if there was an entire book waiting to be written, if only I could find the time.

I am thankful that my grandparents were around during the “wonder years,” and that I had the great good fortune to grow up in a multi-generational household. We weren’t exactly the Waltons (Goodnight, John-boy) but we had traditions that I still hold dear and close to my heart. My mother’s parents were among the first in Binghamton to acquire a color television (yes, I’m that old!) and an instant holiday tradition was born. Dinner at Gramma Fay’s and the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade in living color.

Back in the day, relatives gathered from near and far to celebrate (my Gramma Fay was one of 11 siblings), and the laughter and tears of those huge dinners still reverberate today. My father’s mother, Gramma Helen, lived with us for a number of years and passed down family history, some incredible recipes and the importance of family values and a sense of belonging.

My Aunt Marcia, Uncle George and assorted cousins were in attendance, and are still around to reminisce and ruminate as I give thanks. Just this year, Aunt Marcia gave me my grandmother Helen’s “good china,” which I now use every day (after all, if I only dragged it out for “special occasions,” I’d be able to use the dishes 20—if I’m lucky, maybe 30—times!

My Grampa Mack was an extraordinary human being, and I am extremely thankful to have grown up with his amazing generosity of spirit. I sorely miss him (and the rest) to this very day.

Although my father has been gone a long, long time, my beautiful, talented, creative and loving mother is still going strong in Delray Beach, FL. She might not care to admit it, but she is, in many ways, directly responsible for me being the happy (and hapless) lunatic that I am today.

My sister lives in Canada now and celebrates a “Thanksgiving” that I don’t even pretend to understand, but it is impossible to get through the day without recalling one year in particular. Vicki was already in college when my mother asked for her help with the turkey. Apparently, Mom had asked said sister to take the bird out of the oven to cool.

Presumably, Mom intended that the turkey should cool somewhere inside the house (duh), but Vicki (for whatever reason) put it outside, where our German shepherd spied it, sniffed it and dragged it through the snow, happily chowing down. I don’t remember a lot of laughter in that moment—but we sure do chuckle about it now. Being the hopeless romantic that I am, I like to think that they are all looking down on these special occasions, laughing, crying and thinking about keeping the turkey indoors.

I do know that this time of year always conjures up memories that need to be written down before it’s too late. Are there Hanukkah stories to relate? You bet. Passover tales to be told? (Oy! Don’t ask!) All I can say is, if I’m not six feet under, apparently I’ll still be talking. As long as someone (yes, even strangers on the street!) wants to hear it (there are still plenty of memories to pass down to my nephew) I am on call. Hopefully, there are plenty of stories that have yet to unfold. Can’t wait to see what Thursday has to offer. One thing is sure, with my sister 1,000 miles away, the turkey is (probably) safe!