Origin of "Pillow Fight"

How hard can it be to buy a pillow?

That's what I wondered during my chat with another customer at Bed, Bath & Beyond. We were both in the linen department, shuffling through shelves and shelves of pillows, when she told me this was her third return.
"The first one was too firm and gave me a neck-ache," she said. "And the second one was too soft and flat. Buying a pillow is so difficult!"
I nodded sympathetically, but really, I wondered if maybe she was just a tad high maintenance. With so many pillows and so many options, how could one possibly go wrong?

There were pillows for side-sleepers, stomach-sleepers, back-sleepers, and sleepers who contort themselves into positions with no identifiable name. There were firm pillows, medium pillows, soft pillows and pillows for people with asthma or people who snore. There were down-feather pillows, foam pillows, memory foam pillows, synthetic pillows, latex pillows and for those with allergies, wool-cotton pillows.
All I had to do was pick the right pillow. Piece of cake, right?
When dozing off, I always start on my back, but eventually shift to my stomach, so I selected a firm, down-feather pillow. In the store, I gave it a test drive, hugging it to my chest, imagining it in my bed and cradling my head as I finish reading The Hunger Games trilogy. Ummm, felt nice. I could easily imagine myself dozing off to dreamland with this baby. I whipped out the credit card and bought two.
And the next day woke up with a throbbing headache and stiff neck.
Back to the store I bolted with the pillow-bricks in tow. Obviously, a firm pillow was not for me. Obviously, I didn't sleep on my back as long as I thought I did. Obviously, I needed a pillow more suited for stomach-sleepers. Logic abounding, I selected the softer, more gentle pillow for stomach-sleepers. Obviously.
And awoke the next morning with my face embedded in my mattress.
So, I'm heading back to Bed, Bath & Beyond for yet another exchange and a third purchase. Following the footsteps of the "high-maintenance" gal I talked to just a few days earlier. Now, I know what she meant when she pondered the difficulty of buying a pillow. I feel her pain.
Literally.

Ear Plugs and Aspirin

So there I was last week at my favorite concert venue, the spectacular outdoor Mountain Winery amphitheater, to see Texas rockers, ZZ Top. Yeah, that's right. Had me pegged as a Huey Lewis and The News kind of gal, didn't you?

Well, ha! Take that.

Except the truth is, I'm not into ZZ Top. I could name three of their songs, maybe four, and probably only because I wasn't in a position to switch radio stations. Not that I think ZZ Top is bad, just not my taste.

But I love going to anything at Mountain Winery. I'll often do so more for the intimate ambiance than the actual performers themselves. With a good friend to enjoy a tasty dinner and a glass of wine, nestled under the stars on a balmy summer night, with close seats enhanced by the spectacular twinkling backdrop of Silicon Valley, I can enjoy just about any kind of music.

Or so I thought.

Which explains how this mild-mannered 50-something woman came to be in the 7th row at Mountain Winery, listening to the opening act: a charming little quartet named Nashville Pussy. I use "listening" in the vaguest sense of the word since I'm sure the blood gushing from my ears cushioned the full impact of the piercing screams that were emitting from the stage. The tattooed, big-haired, bad-permed band of two men and two women made heavy metal screechers AC/DC sound like the angelic Vienna Boys Choir.

Nashville Pussy made my head hurt. And judging from the sea of empty seats around us, this was a shared reaction. Others were distancing themselves from the explosive caterwauling onstage by seeking refuge in nearby bars. I had to admit, another Mountain Winery $14 four-ounce glass of house wine seemed like an excellent idea right about now.

But I had to question whose not-so-excellent idea it had been to bring the elderly man sitting three rows in front of me. At least I think it was a man, an older fella with rounded shoulders and a flock of disheveled white hair brushing his weathered, wrinkled neck. He was wearing a yarmulke. A man of faith, no less, maybe even a rabbi. Good God. I wondered what the poor soul was thinking of the oh, so genteel Nashville Pussy. I watched him, curious to see how long he would last.

Ah, there it was. Motion. He was twitching in his seat. Preparing to either plug his ears or bolt from his chair. But I was wrong. He was nodding his head. Gently, at first, then faster, faster, faster, until he went full throttle, up and down, up down, up down, up down, up down, with pumping shoulders keeping beat.

What we had here, folks, was an honest-to-goodness, full-fledged senior metal head.

Well, okey doke then. As for me, I'm sure I'll have a better time at my next Mountain Winery concert this Friday. I just hope my ears stop ringing by then.

I hear bad boy Huey Lewis puts on a hell of a show.

Tammy and the Scrub Jay

I've never been much of a gardener. I plant it. I water it. I kill it. End of story.

That's why, when Deborah arrived at our book club meeting bearing a tray of teeny weeny tomato plants in biodegradable pots, I didn't hold out much hope for mine. I knew the poor thing's fate.

But to my surprise, my plant not only survived, but thrived. It started growing exponentially, first in inches and then in feet. I started getting into this whole gardening business, creating a tomato paradise for my girl (yes, I've determined my tomato plant is a "she"). I moved her to my upstairs balcony that gets full sun and scorching heat. I repotted her in specialized vegetable soil and fertilized her, taking care to water her daily and talk to her often.

"You go, Tammy!" I encouraged my blooming beauty.

And go she did. Tammy rewarded me with tomatoes, first just a few and then a lot, big, fat,bursting juicy ones. When I compared notes with my book club peeps, I learned that my plant was producing more than any others; at last count, I had 45 while Deborah had 19.

Go, Tammy, go!

Except now there's trouble in paradise. A scrub jay has discovered my plant and is hanging around, eyeing my ripening beauties with an interest I find disturbing. John, a gardener friend, told me that the winged intruder won't go after green tomatoes, but the minute he sees red, my tomato is dead.

Oh, hell no. Game on, baby. It's me against the scrub jay.

For starters, John told me to dangle tin can lids from the metal support tower since the flickering shine will frighten the bird. And it appears to be working because for the past few days I've seen my nemesis hopping on a nearby fence, staring at Tammy while squawking with obvious displeasure. Seems I've spoiled his dinner plans.

But only for now. Something tells me I haven't heard the last of this scrub jay yet.

Need an Ego Boost? Play Me

Should I ever find myself on a therapist's couch and am asked why a clever gal like myself suffers from low self-esteem, I'll blame those two guilty culprits: No, not Mom and Dad.

Try Words with Friends and Draw Something.

Because thanks to these two popular smart phone games, I've discovered that I can't spell and can't draw. There's probably a lot more I can't do, but I haven't yet discovered the games that will further deplete what little confidence I have left.

Really, how else can I explain the ten dozen consecutive games I've lost to each of my friends on the online version of Scrabble known as "Words with Friends?"

At least that's the game as I know it. From their end, they probably call it "Words with Idiots."

Here I am, tippy-tapping simple words like, "RAT" and "FOOT" and the ever-popular "QI." Whoa, lookee me---I just scored 14 points! Whoohoo, I rock. Satisfied and feeling just a tad smug, I sit back and imagine my opponents writhing in my infinite glory.

Then Sharon counters with "CONJUNCTIVITIS" down over "ESOPHAGUS" across, grabbing three double words tiles in the process. Or Peter responds with "AUDIORADIOGRAPH" over three triple point letters, while Terry creates "REPERTOIRE" and "UBIQUITOUS" out of my simple "PET" while crossing two triple word tiles. Deb does a slam dunk with "DEMYTHOLOGIZERS," Maria rakes me across the coals with "DISEQUILIBRATED" and Kim takes it home with "METHOXYFLURANES."

Their triple digit points leave my eyeballs spinning. Even as I look at the words they created, I can't quite figure out how they did it.

They make my brain hurt.

So I take a break and move on to Draw Something, the online game in which you draw a sketch based on a certain word and your opponent tries to guess it.

My word is "ATHLETE." Okay, that's easy. Using my fat finger as a stylus, I draw a stick figure holding a brown baseball bat and hitting a white softball with red stitching. I'm quite pleased with my creative use of color. I hit "send."

Then my opponent, whom I can only guess is channeling Leonardo Da Vinci, sends me her drawing. A multi-colored, three-dimensional sketch of a Renaissance court jester, so life-like I can almost feel the velvet of the jester's cap and hear the laughter of the king he's entertaining. What's the word I'm trying to guess?

"FOOL."

A subliminal message, no doubt.

But the perfect word for using up those extra "o"s in that other game, and across a double-word tile, no less. I'll score a whopping 16 points!

And so it goes.

Just a Little Pee'd Off

I've about had it with dog owners who think the world is nothing but one great big toilet for their pup's personal use. Seriously. I just want to smack these folks upside the head and ask, "You think this is okay? Really?"

If I sound annoyed, well, uh, yeah. My front porch smells like an outhouse at the close of Lollapalooza and the black cluster of flies only reinforce the image.

In the 11 years I've had dogs, I can truthfully say that I've never purposely let my dogs do their business on or near a neighbor's property. Once, my sweet greyhound Lucy couldn't hold it as we were leaving my townhouse complex and she peed near a neighbor's porch. When we returned from our walk, I went to this neighbor's house with a bucket of water and white vinegar and washed the puddle as best I could.

Because here's a newsflash, folks: Urine stinks. Urine draws flies, and urine attracts other dogs. For more urine.

But some dog guardians seem to be under the mistaken impression that their beloved pups squirt lavender water. And so, I'm giving these dolts the benefit of a doubt with a gentle reminder, this "no pee" sign I've posted near my porch. Honestly, though, I doubt it'll help. You can't make someone be considerate. Respectful. To the contrary, it's probably just a matter of time before someone steals the sign while waiting for their precious Snookums to finish her business. On my porch, of course.

And adding yet another knot to my already twisted knickers.

Secure in Her Forever Home

Every time I feel the need for a chuckle, I sneak a peek at this picture (left) of my silly Olivia and voila! Mission accomplished. I love this picture for two reasons:

1. It's a classic example of a greyhound "roaching" (the dead cockroach pose that greyhounds are known for).

2. Only a happy, relaxed, and content dog will assume this position and expose her belly.

And Olivia has come so far from the frightened, wary dog she was when I adopted her in November; the dog who would stiffen when I'd try to hug her and wouldn't come when called. The dog who bared her teeth and made my hair stand on end with a skin-crawling growl if I got too close.

The dog who didn't trust or love me.

Fast-forward eight months later to a loving, sweet and affectionate Olivia. Friendly towards strange people and strange dogs. She's goofy, playful, silly, giddy. No growls, no way. My biggest problem now is a 70-pound dog who insists on affection, climbing onto my lap and demanding kisses with adoring, love-struck eyes and one very wet nose.

I accommodate her requests. With pleasure.

Because this former race dog, who just ten months ago was living in a crate for up to 22 hours a day, had previously never known any type of love, treats, toys or affection. Today, when I see Olivia prancing about with her stuffed squeaky shark in her mouth and pure, unbridled joy, my heart flutters and I share her joy.

And so, roach away, my sweet 'livvy. You've earned it.

Letter From a Dog

I don't normally share the dozens of jokes, heartwarming stories and "aw shucks" photos received through email. Nice for a quick read, but I figure we all get enough junk mail.

And so, I read, click, delete.

But I have to share this one sent to me by a Pet Tales reader. I cried when I read it the first time. And later, when I read it again, I cried again. Oh, how I miss my Elvis.

Maybe you've already read this "letter from a dog." Maybe it's old news to everyone, but me. Don't care. I'm posting it anyway (slightly edited for length) in memory of my beautiful boy.

"DEAR FRIEND,

It is my time to say goodbye. I have been called home, away from you. I know I leave you in loneliness and pain, for that is the way of people when they say goodbye. Dogs are different. We don’t have regrets or wish that we could alter the story of life.

I leave you with memories of our life together...when you looked at me and the corners of your mouth turned up, you smelled and looked different. Lighter, happier. That was my life, my work. Nothing more clearly defined my purpose. When you smiled, I knew why I was here.

I remember my heart jumping out of my chest when you came home and called my name, or grabbed my toy to play with me, or feed me. I hope you know that I loved all of those things. Whatever you chose to give me, whatever time you spent with me, I loved. And I thank you.

You know that there is always a goodbye hovering in the shadow of a dog. We are never here for long enough. We were never meant to share all of your life, only to mark its passages. We come when we are needed. We leave when it is time. Death is necessary. it defines life.

I will see you again.
I will watch over you.

I hope, in your grief and loneliness, that you will consider how sad it would have been had we not had this time together, not had the chance to give each other so much.

I do not mourn or grieve, but I will miss standing beside you, bound together on our walk through life, even as I know there is a long line of others waiting to take my place and stand by you.

Thank you. It was nothing but a gift.

Finally, I ask these things of you: Remember me. Celebrate me. Grieve for me. And then, when you can, let me go, freely and in peace.

When you are ready, do me the great honor of bringing another dog into your life so you can give and receive this gift again."

~Author Unknown