​Sometimes, doing the right thing also means doing the hardest thing.
 
It has been about three weeks since The Hubster and I surrendered Rusty—aka The Rust, Rustinator and Rust Person—the beautiful but damaged Aussie shepherd we took into our hearts a couple of years ago.
 
Despite being a gorgeous pure-bred, with a magnificent red and white coat, as well as one blue eye and one brown eye, he had been dealt a bad deck of cards from the start.
 
First, Rusty was born in a puppy mill.  Second, the owners of the mill took him from his mother and litter mates a full four weeks early because a family had seen his beautiful colors online—and was willing to pay nearly $1,000 to have him “delivered” earlier.  It saddens me to say that these folks are related to us, and that they also convinced Rusty’s breeders to bring him to them.  So, he was separated, probably terrified and so not ready to be wrenched from his mother, who was now several hundred miles away, on Thanksgiving Day of 2013.
 
It was an awful match from the get-go.
 
Bred to herd, Aussies need a lot of space to exercise, and because they are also super-smart, should have a job to do.  But the family lived in a small townhouse with no yard; on top of that, they were gone most of the day.  And because they didn’t want a puppy tearing apart said residence, Rusty was crated nearly all of the time. 
 
Nine months later, the family decided they couldn’t be bothered with him.
 
So, when I saw that one member was advertising Rusty on social media, we decided to step up to the plate.  We didn’t know how long we would keep him, but we knew we had to try to give him the love and security he had never had. 
 
Meeting at a park halfway between our towns, The Hubster still remembers how it went down.
 
“I’d only met Rusty once,” he says.  “But as soon as I opened the van, he immediately jumped in.  The look on his face was, ‘Let’s get out of here.  Now.’”
 
We can’t prove it because we weren’t there, but his behaviors upon bringing him home indicated that he had also been starved as punishment, and frequently smacked across his hindquarters as well.  (Our groomer and vet thought so, too.  Another vet familiar with Rusty told us, “It’s pretty hard to screw up an Aussie.  But they did.”) 
 
But ultimately, while our household was absolutely a few steps up—a big back yard; our two other dogs, Hank and Sadie, to hang with, and a whole lot of snuggling from us—the right fit wasn’t here either.
 
For starters, we knew Rusty was an anxious guy.  What we didn’t realize is that it was much more serious—in fact, he suffered from acute post-traumatic stress disorder.  And even if we showered him with a zillion kisses every single day, that condition wasn’t going to go away.  And who could blame him?  Being snatched from his mom and brothers and sisters way too early, then boxed up, hit and denied food, he was, quite simply, a hot mess. 
 
Thus, we noticed odd behaviors, such as snatching any food he could reach; barking incessantly at our feet during dinner, and not allowing us to brush his back legs.  He also took to growling and barking right in Sadie’s face.  Thankfully, she ignored him.
 
Maybe this conduct would have lessened had The Teenage Daughter kept her promise.
 
Before we got Rusty, she had solemnly vowed that he would be “my dog,” and to that end, she would be responsible for everything that entailed.  But she neither walked nor brushed him (tasks left to me); refused to let him share her bed (“He sheds!”), and wouldn’t even feed him.  So the poor guy would settle next to her closed door every night, while Sadie and Hank slept with us.  And because Rusty was a super smart dog, he had to have felt, once again, like the odd man out.     
Still, we probably would have dribbled along except for one very big thing.
 
Late last year, Sadie and Rusty got into an epic dog fight. 
 
Sadie had been patient for such a long time, and that day, Rusty got in her face one too many times.  Blood was drawn on both sides, not to mention floors and walls.  The Hubster and I literally had to tear the two dogs apart; we were sure that one would have been killed if we hadn’t been home.
 
Still, we assumed the fight was an anomaly.
 
But then the brawls increased, first every few months, then every month, and finally, every few weeks.  They always began when Rusty sauntered over to Sadie, then snapped at her, inches from her muzzle.  We learned to pull the dogs away by their hind legs, which resulted in Rusty biting me hard on the hand once, and The Hubster receiving more than his share of injuries as well.  
 
The last fight, which nearly cost Sadie an eye, was the determining factor. 
 
After consulting with our vet, who agreed that surrender was the best option, I took Rusty to our local humane society.  A terrific non-profit with a re-homing rate of 97 percent, Rusty still had to go in for a doggie interview to make sure the place could likely find him a home. 
 
Upon seeing him, they praised his gorgeous colors and said that with his pure-bed status, Rusty was a “hot commodity” and would probably be adopted within the week. He would also be checked out by a vet (as it turned out, he had several deep bites from Sadie, and had to be sedated and sutured), as well as walked five times a day, with a trainer also spending bunches of daily time with him. I also made sure to let these folks know that Rusty needed to be the only dog in his new family.  I added that if at all possible, he should live on a ranch, where he could work and run and be loved, loved, loved from sunrise to sunset.
 
As two employees, one on each side, walked him away, Rusty turned and gave me a quizzical look.  He seemed to be saying, “What are you doing?”
 
I made myself wait a week before calling the society, which is when I heard about Rusty’s wounds.  A day later, a worker contacted us to ask if we could bring in any dog food, as he was refusing to eat their kibble.  Staffers had been feeding Rusty baby food to get him to eat.  
 
The Hubster and I delivered a large bag of Rusty’s familiar grub within 30 minutes of that call.  We didn’t ask to see him and they didn’t offer.  I think we both knew that a visit would confuse Rusty and undoubtedly cause more heartache—on both sides. 
 
But once there, we were also told that it looked like Rusty was likely going to be adopted the very next day! The potential forever family didn’t have any other dogs!  And they lived on a ranch!     
 
I checked the society’s web site a little while ago, and Rusty is no longer on the adopt-a-pet link.
 
I should feel good about all of this, and I guess I do.  But I’m also sad because I really miss Rusty.  Of course, I also love him, and I always will. 
 
Most of all, I hope that Rusty now has the life he has always deserved. 
 
Have you ever rescued and/or surrendered a pet?  I look forward to your comments and stories. 

​Most of the time, I love being a wife.
 
Of course, there’s the best benefit: I get to share my world with someone I adore, who adores me back.  And when it comes to our particular dance card, that means divvying up life with someone who’s also my biggest cheerleader, and in that role, has my back, too.
 
I’m also lucky that The Hubster steam cleans carpets; make a darn good pot of chili, and keeps my computer running smoothly.   He does lots of other stuff, too, like grocery shopping when I can’t; washing dinner dishes most nights, and feeding our three goofy dogs. 
 
He has also brought home flowers, ice cream and chocolate for no reason at all, other than to make me happy. 
 
But despite him shouldering all of these tasks—which he does (mostly) cheerfully after working very hard at a couple of day jobs—there’s still a lot to do.
 
That’s because I remain the chief cook and bottle washer. 
 
A partial list of these responsibilities includes nutritionist, interior designer, Uber driver, seamstress, hostess, housecleaner, Internet service negotiator, social secretary and activities director.  I can’t forget researcher, closet/linen/spice rack organizer, rose pruner, groundskeeper, errand runner, inventory consultant, events planner, bookkeeper and laundress.
 
So, while I wear these hats (mostly) cheerfully—and even enjoy putting on a few of them—this is why, just like my husband, I want a wife. 
 
Those of A Certain Age might be feeling some déjà vu right now, because somehow, the phrase is oddly familiar. 
 
Perhaps that’s because they’re remembering a landmark editorial titled, what else, “Why I Want a Wife.”
 
Only nine paragraphs, it was written by Judy Syfers, a stay-at-home mom, who, in a fit of frustration, penned the piece in a couple of hours.  Published in December of 1971 in the premiere issue of Ms. magazine, this little essay poked wicked fun of the traditional roles defined by conventional marriage.
 
The essay was actually heard first, when a nervous Syfers read it out loud about a year earlier at a rally in San Francisco, where she lived with her professor spouse and two young daughters.  And even though men in the audience heckled Syfers as she read, “Why I Want a Wife” had both an immediate and long term impact on millions of women
and men.   
 
Today, in fact, Syfers’ piece is required reading for many university classes, and can also be found in anthologies as an example of feminist humor and satirical prose. The work also pushed Syfers toward a life spent in social justice around the world. 
 
But if the essay was meant to actually change the way men and women take care of everyday business, it hasn’t
done much. 
 
Indeed, even though The New York Times reports that the number of women in America who are their family’s sole or primary breadwinner is now at 40 percent—a figure that has quadrupled since 1960—the time that men spend taking care of a house hasn’t altered in nearly three decades.  Breaking the numbers down further, men’s participation in household tasks topped out at 94 minutes per day in 1998.  But by 2003, it was down to 81 minutes, not much different than the 76 minutes it was in 1985. 
 
I also know that what we wives do doesn’t come cheap.   
 
As a matter of fact, www.salary.com recently released its 16th annual “Mom Salary Infographics” for both stay-at-home and working mothers.  Working 40 hours per week at a base salary of about $1,000, a typical wife’s annual income would be $48,509.  But with 52 hours of overtime added every week, that annual paycheck jumps to more than $94,000 over the initial baseline.  (Check out details here, at www.salary.com/2016-mothers-day-infographics/.) 
 
Total cost?  Sit down, since it’s $143,102.
 
That’s more cha-ching than I’ve ever seen in any for-pay job.  I’m also sure that as much as he’d like to, my husband will never be able to give me this kind of wage. 
 
I also don’t claim to have any answers as to why most husbands are allergic to brooms, dustpans and organizing kitchen drawers.  For that matter, I can’t figure out why wives who work outside the home still end up doing nearly all of the stuff in the home. 
 
I can only hope that my daughter’s generation, and the ones that come after hers, will have a more successful go at it.    
 
Meanwhile, I can still dream about having my very own wife. 
 
How about you?  Is your role as a husband or wife a traditional one?  What about all of the singletons out there?  I’d love to hear your comments and stories! 
 
P.S. Read Judy Syfers’ “Why I Want a Wife” at www.cwluherstory.org/why-i-want-a-wife.html.   Listen to the story behind the story at www.thestory.org/mediaplaylist/popup.   

 I wish I’d been the first to come up with this terrific observation.

Because really, it’s the reason that I do this one great thing I do every few months.    

Still, since the thought comes from Ann Patchett, one of my favorite essayists, I’m happy to share what she has to say about addiction.

Sadly, I can’t find the exact quote, but writing about her love of opera, Patchett thinks that an addict isn’t truly an addict unless he is compelled to share his addiction with others.

That’s exactly how I feel about the movies.  

Because they are just so darn awesome, I want all of my friends to know just how astonishingly wonderful the best films can be.  And since all of these chums where I now live think a really old movie means that it’s from the 1980s, I feel it’s my sacred duty to screen the classics… often dating back a good 60 years.

So, once every two to three months, I host Girls’ Movie Night.

I’ve been doing this for about four years now, and the template is basically the same.
 
We start at around six o’clock, with guests out the door by 10 p.m.; that’s because all of us have husbands and kids at home.  Men aren’t invited, so my spouse makes himself scarce for a quiet night out alone. Back here, there are always appetizers; a sit-down dinner (where I read interesting facts about the movie aloud), and dessert. Also, everything is made from scratch, with the menu always having something to do with the movie we’ll be watching.  (Thank goodness it has been a potluck affair from day one, and thank goodness there are some great cooks in our crew.)

For instance, when I showed The High and the Mighty, the kitschy 1954 John Wayne film that’s also the first airplane disaster movie, we featured tropical food because the action unfolds on a flight from Hawaii to California.  (Here’s the trailer, with a luscious score by Dimitri Tolkin, at www.youtube.com/watch?v=64BarFD6Mso.)

Despite the fact that I’ve been doing this get-together for a while, the ideas keep on coming.

Take Gidget (www.youtube.com/watch?v=adtFTiOQMMA), the original beach party movie, starring the adorable Sandra Dee (“…although she’s not king sized, her finger is ring sized…”).  It was summertime, and we chowed down on hot dogs, chips and s’more bars.  And when I showed the underrated 1950 film Caged, a gritty story about an innocent woman in prison (star Eleanor Parker was nominated for a Best Actress Oscar and should have won), we ate homemade chili ladled from a big steel pot. (Take a look at some of its top-notch performances here, at www.youtube.com/watch?v=dRY_U4yS1oE)

I’m pretty sure we’ve watched well over a dozen movies by now. 

Some others are Sunset Blvd (William Holden is my forever celluloid crush); Double Indemnity (featuring the best screenplay ever written—and oh, that anklet!); It Happened One Night (the first movie to win Oscars in all major categories), and Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, with Ellen Burstyn and dreamboat Kris Kristofferson showing us
one of the best on-screen kisses of all time. 
  
I’ve loved movies since middle school.

My best friend then was Linda Mayberry, and it was she who introduced me to the wonderful celluloid gems that would play on TV. 

We’d watch them mostly on weekends, but sometimes catch The Million Dollar Movie, where the same film was on the air every night for one full week.  Given that the stations showing these movies tried to fit in as many commercials as possible, the editing was often choppy, and the prints weren’t all that great either.   
  
None of this mattered to me. 

However, I finally got the chance to see how great films are really made to be viewed—on a huge screen with a crisp print, replete with appreciative audiences and state of the art equipment—when I took an American film class at UCLA.
There, in what’s now called The James Bridges Theater, I watched (among many others) Grapes of Wrath (1940), Strangers on a Train (1951), High Noon (1952) and a sneak preview of Paper Moon (1973).  (Director Peter Bogdanovich was around to answer questions afterwards.  When I raised my hand, he addressed me as “sweetheart.”)

Today, going out to the movies is still one of my very favorite things to do, especially a few months before the Academy Awards, when so many fantastic films are showing in theatres. 

But most of all, I like going back to the classics made so many decades ago.  To my mind, that’s when so many of the great movies were made.  I’m also lucky right now, because I can watch most of them right at home.  There’s no giant screen, of course, but when I get caught up in the story and the acting and the score, it takes me to a place where that’s not necessary.

And of course, being a movie addict, I am compelled, always and forever, to share. 

I’d love to hear about your favorite movies!  Comments are always most welcomed and most appreciated!

P.S.  I grew up to write and co-produce my own movie, Botso.  The trailer, and much more, is at www.botsomovie.com.

I wasn’t exactly a blushing bride.

In fact, I was 50 years old when I slipped into a shimmery pink, custom-designed ensemble, and, clutching a bouquet of matching Gerber daisies and sweet peas, walked down the aisle (actually, a manicured lawn) to enter into wedded bliss with my soon-to-be husband. 

That was the first time, and the only time.

Now, this month, we are about to celebrate a decade of marriage. 

There are times when it seems that I’ve blinked and the years have passed. 

But there have also been formidable challenges that have made those 3,650 days and nights sometimes feel a whole lot longer.  

These trials have included navigating the rocky relationship my spouse had with his three grown daughters when we married (we’re all pretty good now), as well as the free-falling loss of his once solid business.  Too, there was a period when both of us were working hard yet still not making enough to pay all of our bills.

But hardest of all was the abrupt foreclosure on what we thought would be our forever, dream home.   

In fact, the most awful times were right after we lost the house, when we were barely speaking to one another (my choice) and my anger was just a tad below a rolling boil.  

This was in 2008, and because we were casualties of that first massive wave of foreclosures, we never realized that we literally should have, and could have, held our ground.  (The bank representative we had been working with had repeatedly told us not to worry, and had also said, many times, “I promise you we will work it out.”  The lender itself went belly-up less than a year later.)  In the end, we were given one hour--yes, you read that correctly--to vacate, and with a deputy sheriff at our door, believed that leaving was our only option.     

Still, we had a bit of luck in that we were immediately able to move into a friend’s vacation home, for free, while we waited for the tenant who was renting my own smaller home to move out in a month.  It was around this time that my husband also got a call to teach one class at a private high school, which was a start (he is now going into this fourth year as a full-time employee). 

I did a lot of crying, privately and publicly, and I didn’t care who was watching.

Despite having promised to be by my spouse’s side for better or worse, sorry, this was not what I had signed up for.  Naturally, I wouldn’t allow—nope, at least I had the power here—to let him so much as hold my hand. 

One friend told me to get a divorce, pronto.  Another, my best friend and matron of honor, listened and then asked one question. 

“Do you love him?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, weeping.  “I do.”

“Then you’ll get through it.”

She was right. 

After all, he hadn’t cheated on me, he hadn’t abused me, and he wasn’t an alcoholic or a drug addict.  He was just someone who wasn’t very good with money (as it turned out, his late wife had handled that part of the business, and he had been stumbling to do it all himself, something I didn’t fully realize until it was too late).  He is also a very kind man, and certain people had taken advantage of his naiveté. Sadly, that took us into even darker waters.  

Eventually, I owned my part of the mess.

Because the business had done so well for so long well before I arrived on the scene, and because we had been able to make a very large down payment on our dream home, I assumed he knew what he was doing when it came to handling our finances.  Most of the bills were in his name, and frankly, I liked it that way.    

But as it happens, I’m quite good at budgeting and saving (thank you, Mom!), so after the fall, I took control of the checkbook (which my husband was very happy to hand over).  Bit by bit, we got back on our feet again.  I’m especially proud that my credit rating is higher than it has ever been.   

Although those times are not something I would ever want to go through again, I’ll say this: they not only made us stronger as a couple, they made me realize that I wanted to stay married. 

Indeed, there was something about taking my vows in front of God, and in front of family and friends, which made me recognize how strong the commitment really was. 

For one thing, given that I was late to the marital merry-go-round, I’d already trotted around the block a few times. So, I knew that what we had was pretty special.  For another, I had my own, personal comparison when it came to an intimate partnership:  I had lived with and loved another man, my daughter’s first father, for many years, but we had never made our commitment a legal one. 

This coupling was not nearly as easy to walk away from.

And guess what?  Because I stayed, chances are that I’ll live longer.

According to a 2013 feature from the online magazine Slate, study after study about getting married tells us why. 

For one thing, having a family gives people something to live for, and because of that, also discourages risky behaviors like smoking and riding a motorcycle.  The article also says that a life partner provides an outlet to discuss personal stresses, and helps with remaining more intellectually engaged with others as well, which can avoid dementia.  (There are many more reasons right here in the entire article, at http://www.slate.com/articles/technology/future_tense/2013/10/marriage_and_health_it_may_extend_life_but_increase_the_risk_of_obesity.html)

So, here’s wishing you a happy anniversary, Larry Grant.   Thank you for running the marriage marathon side-by-side with this girl clown.     

And always remember this:  I love you to the moon and back—and there are no plans on this end to leave the arena. 

Yes, no, or somewhere in-between…what are your thoughts about marriage and other kinds of commitment?   

Those who have known me for a very long time, as well as friends just learning about yours truly from this blog, are aware that I’m a journalist and foodie, as well as a wife and mom.  And once upon a time, I was Celery, the Ringling Brothers trained circus clown who juggled with scarves while balancing on a rolla-bolla; played a beribboned violin, and balanced a peacock feather on my nose. (My husband is adamant that I will always be a clown, but, that’s another post for another day.)

From time to time, though, this girl clown wears another job hat that most of my chums don’t know about.

It requires a neon orange vest.

Be advised that this particular occupation won’t work if being outside on cold mornings is a deal breaker.  It’s also a gig that’s an absolutely terrible fit for those who hate smiling and waving.  Most of all, it’s not a position for folks who are incapable of giving directions, especially to small children.

You see, a few times every month, I’m called on to be a grammar school crossing guard. 

Besides wearing the baggy yet festive vest, which sports equally blinding yellow trim, there’s also an old-fashioned, wooden handled stop sign I foist up high. Comfortable sneakers are a definite plus, and in the wet foggy mornings 
we get around here, a warm hoodie, knit cap and scarf complete the look.     

I began this work a little more than five years ago, when my little family moved to the sweet beach town where we 
now live.

Money was tight. 

My husband’s once-thriving business had taken a spectacular nose dive; our big dream house was abruptly foreclosed on us, and I was between the lucrative television show jobs I still land every once in a while, thanks to the miracle of telecommuting.  I knew I wanted to be at home for my then 10-year-old daughter, but I also knew that even a little extra dough in our bank account would be more than welcome. 

So, when I saw the notice to be a substitute crossing guard (as well as doing occasional lunchtime yard duty) at the school six blocks away from the house where we were now living, I jumped at the chance.  I wouldn’t have to buy new, fancy work clothes, and I could still be home for my child, who was not thrilled about our unexpected move. 

But mainly, it was a job that yielded a paycheck, so I swallowed my pride and applied.  Although I wouldn’t be in a classroom, I’d still be in contact with children, so I had to be fingerprinted and take a TB test, too. 

I gamely went through every hoop, and was finally hired a few months after first hearing about the job.

What I didn’t know then is how much I’ve grown to love, absolutely love, wearing the neon vest.

These days, the paycheck is nice but not needed quite as much as before.  What that means is that I no longer have to get up early on those days I’m called, and I no longer have to work the afternoon shift, either.

Except here’s the thing: I want to.

Maybe it’s because everyone loves crossing guards.

Rough looking men who drive testosterone-fueled trucks; moms full of little ones in common sense vans, and white collar folks behind the wheels of expensive cars--all of them smile and wave.  I think that’s because, much like a fireman, I’m considered one of the good guys performing a truly necessary service to the community.  And since I’m neither armed nor dangerous (unlike a policeman, especially these days), I’m also utterly benevolent and non-threatening. 

Simply put, my neon presence represents all that is good and comforting in an increasingly complicated world.

I especially love escorting little kids across the street. 

They soon learn that by me walking out first into the intersection, I’ll take the hit, literally.  I also get to teach bicyclists, skateboarders and scooter riders to always walk with their accoutrements in the crosswalk.  I let everyone know that it’s never okay to run.  With folks trying to get to work at the same time, it’s a juggling act, but maybe 
because of my past experience in that ring, I’m good at it. 

As it turns out, school crossing guards have been around the United States for nearly 100 years. 

The heartland of Omaha, Nebraska, was ground zero for the idea.  In 1923, its police department created the position after an influx in cars on its roads made parents anxious about how to best protect the children who walked to school.  Called safety patrol officers, they were assigned to that city’s busiest and most pedestrian-heavy intersections.  The concept was the right idea for the right time, and by the mid-1950s, crossing guards were working in nearly every American town. 

However, I’d be neglectful if I didn’t mention the most famous crossing guard ever. 

Neither man nor woman, she was a dog named Lori. 

Lori traveled around our country, from school to school, where she boasted a variety of tricks, including carrying a safety paddle sign in her mouth while standing on her hind legs to stop traffic. The lesson was this: if a canine of undetermined origin could be taught traffic rules and safety, so could children.  Much loved, she died in 1977 and 
was buried with special honors.      

As for me, the academic year is nearly over, which means that my vest and sign will soon be returned to their school closet home for the summer. 

But I’ll be back. 

Smile and wave if you see me, because come September, the neon vest life will, once again, be calling my name.

I can’t imagine it any other way.

What jobs have you had that ended up being something different than what you expected?  And, what memories do you have of your school crossing guard?  I’d love to read your comments!