Pumpkin Spice Not So Nice

August. Otherwise known as the Sunday of Summer. Read that somewhere, and ain't it the truth? The sweltering heat is pushing triple digits with a humidity index that's making my curly hair look like a worn-out Brillo pad and boy, nothing would quench my parched throat like an ice cold beer.  A Midori Margarita or brain-freeze Slurpee would also do the trick. 

Or how 'bout a steaming hot pumpkin latte? Yup, they're back and I love 'em. 

But not in August. 

Pumpkins represent autumn--that chill in the air, falling leaves, changing colors. Pumpkins are scarecrows and harvest festivals, not swimsuits and beach days. Pumpkins in summer are like Santa sightings in October--encroaching on the current season and just really damned annoying. 

And when pumpkin lattes and pumpkin brownies and pumpkin muffins and pumpkin everything become so readily available ahead of schedule, it ruins the anticipation.

Or as I like to say, "How can I miss you if you won't go away?"

Anything launched ahead of schedule loses its luster because in this age of instant gratification, it's here before we've even had a chance to register its absence and look forward to its return. We no longer have to wait for any "special time of year" because salivating retailers are hawking their wares with that mentality that, "If you like it in October, you'll love it in September, and you'll really LOVE it in August!" 

Same goes with Christmas. Why not take a beloved, joyous two-day Christian holiday and turn it into an obnoxious three-month marketing opportunity that steamrolls over Halloween and Thanksgiving? Don't even get me started on the exploitation of Christmas and these "Christmas in July" sales. That's a future rant. You've been warned. You're welcome.

Right now I'm focused on pumpkins. Love 'em, don't want 'em. Not yet.  I want to relish the Sunday of Summer and all that goes with these waning summer days before we enter a new season, replete with pumpkins, pumpkins, everywhere.  And not one minute, or gourd, before.

But after Labor Day, let's talk.

The Sound of Silence

For years, every Tuesday morning at 5am I've been awakened by the distinct "beep-beep-beep-clank-clank-clank" of garbage trucks on trash day. But suddenly, the past few Tuesdays have been silent. No trucks. No beeping or clanking. Just the pre-dawn stillness of 5am. Seems the sanitation department changed their schedule and pick up is now in the afternoon at 5pm.

I am not pleased.

Not that I can call Waste Management about this. I can just imagine the look on the person's face as I complain about the lack of noise at 5am. 

But in the hushed darkness of early morning or late evening, the absolute silence is louder than any garbage truck, honking car, or barking dog. It's an unearthly silence where I can hear the ringing in my ears, the pumping of my heart, and the blood coursing through my veins like the Indy 500. A silence that threatens to break at any given second with the sudden piercing intrusion of a dying smoke alarm battery or the ominous crack of breaking glass. The silence is the reason why I run my Roomba right before going to bed. I doze off to the reassuring whir of my little iRobot as it bumps into furniture and baseboards, warding off uninvited sounds while sweeping all that dog hair. And if it finishes before I fall asleep, I turn on a podcast, although I've yet to stay awake through one. It's not the subject I'm seeking, it's the noise. Any ambient noise to mask that ear-shattering silence.  

I know, weird...or maybe not. Because when I Googled the subject, I read that Robert Roth, Ph.D, Director of the Sleep Disorders and Research Center at Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit, told Prevention Magazine that "...if your room is too quiet, every little 'inconsistency of sound' becomes that much more evident and disruptive." 

Hear that, Waste Management? Straight from the expert's mouth. Or to paraphrase a certain song:

"Hello darkness, my old friend, we need the garbage trucks again."

Uh, at 5am, please. Thank you. 

Worry Warts and Wounds

My mom always used to say that it was a good thing I never had kids because I would have made myself crazy with worry. Is that a headache or a brain tumor? Tummy ache or Ebola? And sure, this little sliver embedded in the thumb may appear inconsequential, but what if it travels through the bloodstream and pierces my baby's heart? 

I don't know how parents do it, I really don't. How can you love someone so much and not worry every single day over every single thing, like tainted spinach, mall shootings, school bullies, and falling meteorites?

See? I'm worrying on your behalf. 

So yeah, it's probably just as well I never had kids because I would have driven myself into an early grave and them into lifelong therapy. But Mom had a point because I have dogs, and I worry. Good God, how I worry. 

Like with Hazel, my nine-year old greyhound. It started when I took her to my back-up vet for what I thought was a broken toe (Worry #1). X-rays showed the toe wasn't broken, but maybe sprained because she yelped every time it was touched. And so, Dr. H. stabilized the paw with plenty of tape and gauze, and told me to remove the bandage in one week. 

When I did, the problem toe was fine. However, the paw had been wrapped without padding in between the toes, so a toenail had embedded itself into the toe next to it, creating a bloody gash (Worry #2). Back to see Dr. H. who cleaned it, this time remembered to insert padding in between the toes (uh, thank you), and wrapped the foot again. 

When we returned to my regular vet the following week to remove the bandages, the toe gash was starting to heal, except we found that the new bandages had created yet another problem (Worry #3): a bloody, dime-sized crater on the outside of Hazel's paw. The vet cleaned it, wrapped it again with extra padding, and told me to remove the bandage in one week. At my request, he also started Hazel on antibiotics, because, you know, flesh-eating disease and stuff like that (Worry #4). 

Well, I removed the bandage last night to find that the wound was now a bright pink, pulpy, oozing abscess. And Hazel was clearly not herself (Worry #5). No zoomies. No downward dogs or playful barks towards passing pups.

Maybe I was overreacting. After all, I recently had a blister the size of a grain of rice on the knuckle of my middle toe, and for days I limped like a failed Firewalker.  Maybe this was just the canine version of a blister. Maybe there was no need to worry and if we let nature take its course, everything would heal and my girl would be fine. 

Who was I kidding? I was worried. Back to the vet we went, where he took one look at Hazel's neon pink paw and confirmed a now-raging infection (Worry #6). He numbed the abscess. Cleaned it. Sutured it. Wrapped it with falsely cheerful green tape and sent us home with powerhouse drugs we hope will work.

Until then, I'll continue to worry, if not about sprained toes and infected wounds, but eventually over something else, because yeah, Mom was right: I'm on the road to crazy. 

With worry.

Just Another Morning

He's been there sporadically over the past year, leaning against the brick wall near the entrance of the Hayward Peet's. Standing alongside a confiscated Lucky's shopping cart stuffed with, well, stuff. A small, slight man, Hispanic, late 50s maybe, hard to tell with his weathered skin.

My excuse for being at Peet's at the ungodly hour of 6:30 am was to fuel up with caffeine before trying to beat traffic on the notorious Hwy 92 eastbound. But this guy wasn't a commuter. He was clearly homeless, although he never asked for money. All he said each morning was, "God bless." Going in, going out, a simple nod and "God bless."

I wanted to help him, but you just never know where your money is going, right? So, like other commuters, I occasionally bought him something from Peet's, although really, just how much Major Dickason or banana bread can anyone take in one morning?

Then one day while cleaning out a closet, I came across a nice nylon duffel bag that I'd forgotten about and thought, ta dah! How about I stock it with supplies, things a homeless person might need?

And so, off I trotted to Target where I bought a pack of undershirts and a sweatshirt. Men's socks. Toiletries, personal hygiene supplies, and a box of granola bars. Packed everything neatly and stored it in the back of my Honda CRV for the next time I saw him.

Except he disappeared. Perhaps the continuously cold, damp, windy weather proved to be too much. Sure, there were other homeless people who could use the supplies, but something about this guy with his simple "God bless" had touched me. This was his bag.

Then one day, months later, there he was at his usual spot in front of Peet's. Giddy with the thought of brightening his day, but also not wanting to insult him, I approached him tentatively and asked if he could use a few supplies. "Sure," he said.

Great! When I returned with the duffel bag minutes later,  he was engrossed in conversation on a phone that, I couldn't help but notice, had the familiar Apple logo. When he saw me, he nodded and continued talking while waving me, somewhat impatiently, toward a spot where I could place the bag. Sort of like he was a Wall Street stockbroker making an important trade and I was the local deli gal delivering his salami on rye, hold the mayo.

Uh, okay. 

I followed his instructions and dropped the bag atop his packed Lucky's shopping cart. I wished him a good day and he lifted his chin in acknowledgement, then turned his back to carry on with his conversation.

Alrighty then. And a God bless to you, too.