During the wet, dark and dreary days of winter, I often dream of the sunny days of summer and eagerly anticipate their return. I should be careful what I wish for. Summer’s here and Dorothy Parker’s words ring in my head, “what fresh hell is this?” Here in the west we are in the midst of a serious heat wave. June broke all kinds of records and July, although only a couple days old, is following the pattern. Yesterday it was 100 degrees. That is just wrong. I realize that may be nothing compared to what those poor people in Pakistan have faced this year, but I live in the northwest where we like our temperatures somewhere between 70 and 75. We’re weather wimps. Continue reading…
Brian Williams, former NBC anchor of The Nightly News, recently began his mea culpa tour on the Today show. When pressed for details he did the evasive two-step by claiming he got things “mixed up.” He never came right out and said “I lied and more than once.” (I’ll bet he never inhaled either.) As an anchor at a major network, Mr. Williams was in a position of unique responsibility and visibility. Why would he lie? It seems obvious someone might call him out on his deception. He betrayed people’s trust and should have consequences but he’s certainly not alone in his lying ways. People lie. And that’s the truth. Continue reading…
As I write this post the search continues for the clever convicts who are on the lam from the New York prison. Their escape is reminiscent of The Shawshank Redemption complete with a trip down a pipe to freedom. One little difference is that Shawshank was a movie and the protagonist was an innocent and wronged party. These escapees are vicious cold blooded killers and it’s only a matter of time until they perpetrate more murder and mayhem. Speculation abounds on how they pulled this off but one thing is clear, they had help. Some of that help came from Joyce Mitchell, a 51-year-old prison employee. On the surface she appears to be an average hard working wife and mother but she’s now told authorities she had planned on picking them up and heading off with them. Instead, at the last moment, she checked herself into a hospital with a panic attack. Good idea, she had a lot to panic about.
What would make a woman do something like this? Shouldn’t it be obvious these guys are murderous scumbags and they might be using her? It’s obvious to those of us watching this drama unfold from a distance but psychopaths play people like a violin and Joyce was this duo’s concerto. Those in the know at this correctional facility report that inmates regularly look for the “weakest links” among staff. Once they find their potential victims, the manipulation begins, a process of “grooming.” It’s not like an inmate would walk up to a staff member and say, “hey baby, you’re cute, want to help me escape?” Even the most vulnerable would think something was wrong with that brazen request. Instead it’s a long, slow process that unfolds in the tiniest increments. A compliment here, a “disclosure” there. They know how to make a person feel good, or helpful, or needed. At first they insinuate themselves in the tiniest of ways. Over time the staff member may begin to divulge personal information giving the psychopath even more grist for the manipulation mill. The inmate will make the person feel listened to, cared about, understood. The inmate works hard to get the staff member to see them not as the incarcerated criminal they are, but like a friend, brother, son, or even lover. At some point the staff member may do just the tiniest of favors for the inmate and then – gotcha. “Downing the duck” as it’s called by the inmates. Now the victim is owned.
Former FBI profiler Clint Van Zandt describes money or emotions as two primary motivators that influence people. In this case it appears emotions drove the getaway bus. Richard Matt, one of the murderous duo, apparently charmed Joyce and over many months convinced her they were in love. Research has shown that women are attracted to the “dark triad” traits typically found in the bad boys behind bars. If you don’t look beneath the surface the personality traits of extroversion, callousness, impulsive behavior, and narcissism make a man look outgoing, confident, masculine, and charming. If they happen to have physical traits that are attractive, the duck may be downed sooner than later. Personally I fail to see the attraction with these two but maybe they just aren’t photogenic or green isn’t in their color wheel.
Keep in mind all psychopaths are not found behind bars. They are all around us and research has shown that even in brief encounters they are experts at reading body language and non-verbals to zero in on the perfect potential victim. But other times psychopaths have successfully chosen assertive, outgoing, confident women. Men are victims too. There is no one path to being manipulated by a psychopath. Don’t fool yourself, we could all fall prey given the right circumstances. Just ask Frank Abagnale, the famous con man portrayed in Steven Spielberg’s movie, Catch Me if You Can. He fooled some of the smartest people around while he posed as a pilot, physician, lawyer, and professor. And he’s still raking it in, he’s just gone legit now.
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It’s early morning, I’m sipping coffee, and my old girl is resting on a fluffy dog bed as close to me as she can get. In the past her preference would have been to drape herself across my lap and lick my face, arm or whatever was readily available. A 70 pound lap dog. Now her arthritis makes that too uncomfortable so she settles for a bed and close proximity.
Ceanna Rose, a Gordon Setter, is now 11. Not so very old but she’s a big girl and aging fast although you might not notice at a superficial glance. She’s still lovely to behold with nary a grey hair. She’s eager to go for a walk and always ready to eat. Everything. There are moments when she shows a joie de vivre. She still enjoys laying on the grass in the sun and greeting her friends at the Sunday morning dog gathering. But every day I am saying goodbye.
My relationship with Ceanna has been a troubled one. I never felt the unequivocal to the depth of my soul aching love I felt with my heart dog. Many times I wished Ceanna would find another family. Just go away. She had health issues, emotional issues, and personality issues. The trifecta of frustration for me. But she was also sweet, loving, and loyal. I felt compassion and care for her and worked hard to give her a good life. Now the thought of losing her brings a sense of deep sorrow accompanied by a thread of relief. Relationships are often complicated.
For many months her back legs have been getting more unstable. The muscles in those legs made strong from agility have atrophied. Her toes are turning in and she trips herself. She has started to fall and each one is like a betrayal. Ceanna looks surprised her body isn’t working. The world was always scary to her, now it must feel like the sky is falling. There are also signs of doggie dementia. She gets stuck staring at something or waits immobile in a room and doesn’t seem to know what to do. Her eyesight is apparently fine but she has trouble going through doorways and overall she seems more restless unless she’s dead asleep. With my vet’s help we treat what we can but the reality is I’m saying goodbye.
Watching a dog age is an emotional journey. Along with the pain of losing a companion, it’s a harbinger of our own decline. I feel this more acutely as I get older. Ceanna’s knees creak, my knees creak. She can’t remember how to leave a room, I can’t remember where my coffee cup is. Watching her lose her independence stirs a primal anxiety in me and I know what I’ll be thinking about in the nighttime. Saying goodbye is about loss, it’s a reminder of all the losses we’ve felt in the past and the fear of those to come.
Goodbyes are part of the human condition. Ceanna is luckier than I in this regard. She is fully present in the moment and doesn’t contemplate the existential meaning of life. She doesn’t feel regret or embarrassment about the past, although maybe she should given the mayhem she’s perpetrated. But she doesn’t, nor does she worry about the future. She’s in the moment. Her feelings, good and bad, come and quickly go. She’s not worried about whether she’ll make it to Thanksgiving. My responsibility is to make her moments as good as they can be. Salmon treats and massages will fill her days. There’ll come a time when the bad moments she experiences far outweigh the good, and then it’ll be time for the final goodbye.
Ah, my sweet bed. A comfy, cozy haven. I love being tucked safely under the covers in peaceful bliss. All is well. And then . . .the night visitors arrive. Those pesky thought intruders that come unbidden at random times but are most reliable in the early morning hours. As I slowly start to wake up they appear at the threshold of my consciousness and enter without waiting for an invitation. They’re often a decidedly dark cast of characters and I really wish they’d take up residence at a Motel 6 instead of in my head. On occasion, there are a few lighter visitors, the thought equivalent of Girl Scouts selling cookies. I welcome those, who doesn’t like a little Thin Mint thought? But it’s the others that fill me with dread.
Usually the thoughts announce themselves with a question. “Is today the day?” When I was much younger the questions would have been full of youthful drama. Is today the day I fall in love? Get into graduate school? Sail off on a schooner? But now the thoughts are harbingers of existential dread. Is today the day it happens? “It” is not a good thing. Is today the day my body fails me? My brain betrays me for good? Or the most terrifying of all, is today the day I become incapacitated and dependent on others for everything? These are not totally irrational thoughts. We all have a “use by” date and I’m approaching mine but where’s a little denial when you need it?
Since this is not the crowd I’d invite for house guests I work on escorting them out but they don’t go easily. Hints are ineffective. Getting annoyed only causes them to hide for a moment before they reappear like a drone on the horizon. The more I try to actively push them out, the more they push back. So I give in. Sometimes I just observe them like leaves floating on a river. Sometimes I try to actively invite other thoughts into my mind. I seek out positive possibilities where I can find them. Maybe today’s the day it’s going to be a nice morning and I could enjoy a moment outside with a cup of coffee. Maybe today’s the day I get to have lunch with a friend. Or perhaps today I get to run my dog in agility. Unlike the dark visitors that push for center stage these thoughts need to be drawn out. Actively engaged with. Since denial has never been in my repertoire I have to consciously alter my focus to something hopeful and life affirming because staying in bed and contemplating the menu of mayhem that could befall me is a waste of the moment and doesn’t end well. I’ll bet the Wicked Witch was having a pretty good day until that house fell on her. If she’d squandered her time worrying about Dorothy she would have missed out on some witchy pleasures in the meantime.
“Worry never robs tomorrow of its sorrow, it only saps today of its joy.” ~Leo Buscaglia
Having intrusive thoughts of existential worry does not mean you’re crazy or abnormal. For most of us, it’s just a part of the human condition. Don’t berate yourself for your thoughts but try not to keep looking for the house that could fall on you. Turn to the simple pleasures of the moment. Sip and savor.
Here are some good reads on mindfulness to consider:
I remember when “going to bed” was an entirely different experience. I used to be able to sleep most anywhere, if sleep was what I wanted to do. As long as there was a relatively horizontal surface I was good. A fluffy pillow was a bonus. You could have parked a Mack truck under the mattress and I probably wouldn’t have noticed. But sleep was just one thing one did in bed and not necessarily the best thing. Just take your clothes off, jump in, and go for it. A candle was high romance. Continue reading…
A neighbor saw me digging in the dirt the other day and told me he’d read something about research, bugs, and a serotonin boost for those who garden. I’d be happy to stick my face in the dirt and dig to China if need be to get a little squirt of that happy neurotransmitter. I checked it out and here’s what I concluded. Continue reading…
While TV trolling the other night, I stumbled upon a “reality” show. I tried to move on but it was like watching a train wreck. I had to gawk. I watched and blurted mocking commentary. Seriously? WTF? What is going on? Who is that sleaze ball psychologist? The show? Married At First Sight.
I’ve been thinking about social media, the internet, and the future of this blog. It’s been almost one year since I wrote my first post and I need to make a decision about where I’m going to go with my writing in general and this blog in particular. I’d wanted to write for years but somehow never found the time. A familiar tale for many. But last year, as a career change loomed on the horizon, I felt it was time. After years of listening to others I wanted to have a voice and what better platform than a blog? All I had to do was hit the “publish” button and voila, published. No pesky rejection letters for me. I could have total control over my posts and I thought eventually there might be a small amount of income. I was thinking really small. Like under six figures, including decimals. Continue reading…
Focus on the journey, not the destination. Joy is found not in finishing an activity but in doing it.- Greg Anderson
We agility people like our ribbons. We like to adorn crates, cars, house and all available surfaces with ribbons. At an agility trial you can get a ribbon for running the course correctly, a qualifying run known as a “Q.” You can get a ribbon for placement in a class. Less frequently you can get a title ribbon meaning you’ve racked up enough Qs to earn a new title. And way less frequently you can get a humongous ribbon for a special event. Contrary to what Freud might think, I’ve never had penis envy but I’ve had ribbon envy for some time. They’re big, they’re pretty, they are quite a statement about what you did and I wanted one. I never thought I’d get one of those big beautiful babies but then, amazingly, I did. My Bea was the fastest dog of the day in the sporting group and I was over the moon thrilled. For about five minutes. Continue reading…