Why Can´t Delora Be Tranquila?

As she stands in the lift line in the Sierra Nevadas on the best ski day of the season, Delora can´t help but feel dissatisfied that she hasn´t learned the secret to Spanish tranquility.  She sees the baby blue sky and the packed power and knows that she should feel joy at the prospect of skiing this magnificent mountain 11,400 feet above sea level.  Instead, Delora wants to know the answer to a secret.  She want to know how the Spanish remain so carefree, joyful even, while being jostled in a crowd.  She wants to unleash her inner zen so that when someone blows smoke in her face in the "line", she will accept the Buddhist mantra that we are all one.  Instead, Delora looks at the inefficiencies of thousands of skiers in a funnel formation pushing each other towards a small entrance to the chair lift.  Delora notes that if she managed the world, she would install a system of alleys that would force people to queue into a line. But this is only in Delora´s perfect world.  Inspira, expira, she says to herself as she practices breathing exercises and her Spanish all at the same time.

The breathing doesn´t help and Delora feels her inner hostilities being released when the man behind her puts both of his skis on top of hers and pushes her forward.  She recalls reading in the book, Spain is Different, that Spaniards have a different sense of personal space than Americans do.  She reminds herself to embace this cultural difference!  Delora should be a gracious and kind Ambassadoress for Americans everywhere.  She should not be an ugly American.  But Delora is from New Jersey, where people are killed for lesser offenses than riding on the back of someone's skis. Delora turns to give a warning glare to the offender, but as she turns, she sees her husband and children watching her closely, so she decides to take one for the team.  After all, she is testing out rental skis.  Who cares if there´s a 200 pound man on-board scratching them up?

Can you see the smoke in this picture???

She puts up with this annoyance for several more minutes seconds and then she snaps.  She says the only thing she can think of in Spanish that might be appropriate and that she knows she can pronounce correctly, "Hombre, en serio?"  Man, are you serious?  Managing to free her skis from under his,  she then places both of her skis right on top of his tips.   He looks at her with a puzzled look. Delora immediately feels much better, then much worse. Delora's family looks like they are not at all surprised at her outburst.

Later, Delora has an introspective session with herself where she admits that she is unable to let the little things go.  She has recently read an article that says that this very quality is the secret to happiness. She wonders whether her failures are due to her birth order, some German DNA, or what. Then Delora admits to herself that she is happy in other ways.  She regrets that she is not always a great spirit guide to her children and that she cannot always be a gracious Ambassadoress for America.  She is not naturally tranquil -- at all.  She hopes that another few months in Spain will help, or at the very least, that she can summon a tranquility super power.

Flamenco Sisters

It seems that genuine flamenco attire from España brings out the tiny dancer in all of us!  Behold my beautiful nieces:

ANOTHER Pet Psychic weighs in...

This pet psychic is Chip's sister's friend.  She's based in NY:


Thunder is east/northeast from the last place where he was seen.  You have to go twice as far as you think you do.  He isn't worried, he just wonders why you are taking so long to come get him.  He doesn't think he's lost.  There is another animal in the house who has a chip, he may have a new chip, go twice as far in the ENE direction and call vets in that area to find out about chips put in since Christmas.  The door he goes in and out of is wood the house is stone; the door frame is stone- not cobble shaped, either flat blocks or large rectangular pieces.  There is an arch shaped piece on top .  He's fine, just waiting for you.  


We'll be looking again tomorrow...wood door... stone door frame... Thun-der!

Exploring My Inner Heroes

[Spoiler alert:  If you have not watched HEROES Season 1 yet (fool), you may want to wait to read this riveting post...]

When you live in Spain and can't turn on the TV because it's way, way too time consuming to figure out how to use anything from Telfonica, the most poorly run company on the planet (the same company that Thunder Perkins ... moment of silence ... could have run better than the current CEO),  you compensate by spending vast sums of money downloading Heroes -- Seasons 1 through 4 -- for about 60 dollars per season, even though you know that it sells at BJs for 39 cents.  Thanks itunes.

And when you have the flu and Dr. Juan (or Jose) McDreamy, your Spanish house-call Doctor, has almost cured you, but you're still bedridden, you can watch 500 hours of Heroes in a row.  If you're not familiar with the show, here's the premise: sometimes ordinary people have a gene mutation (Darwin, blah, blah) and they develop super powers.  One person can fly; one can zap people with electricity from her hands.  You get the idea.  Some powers are sort of useless. No thank you to the ability to breathe under water, for example. Yet some powers are pretty fantastic. Beware, I've "heard" that when you watch many episodes in a row, this starts to happen:

1. You start to believe that you just might have a super power developing yourself.  After all, sometimes they develop in adults, and they're not always obvious -- such as the ability to control people like a puppeteer, for example.

2. If your power hasn't fully developed YET, you spend an inordinate amount of time wondering which power you would use if you were indeed developing powers, as you think you secretly might be.

Here's an example of a little game I play with myself.  Let's just say, my chica loses my dog. I ask myself: which superpower would I use to fix this problem?  Flying doesn't really help, although it might be useful after the fact. But the answer is obvious, right? It would be Hiro's abilty to time travel.  Why? Because then I could travel back to the moment when that sneaky Chica was about to tie Thunder to the post and grab him.

Another example.  Kids won't fill out essays the way you think they should be filled out for boarding schools.  Which power? YES: Matt Parkman's ability to perform mind control!  You wouldn't even have to say out loud that writing an essay about wanting to be in the Peace Corps would be better than an essay about wanting to be a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader, for example.  You could just think it.  Better yet, you could forget about all those time consuming applications and mind control the admissions committee into admitting your kids (for free!) because they're so smart and creative and hold the secrets to the future in their hands (I'm trying out my mind control powers right now, Admissions people).


Here's my final example for today, but don't blame me if you want to try this game yourself.  Ok, let's say you're in a foreign country and you need to learn a language, um, say Spanish.  Remember that cute little red-headed waitress with the ability to learn everything she's read, including languages?  Bingo!  Yes, yes, I know she ends up with a brain tumor from the extra workload, but I'll limit my learning to Spanish. And just to be safe, I'm carrying a pack of tissues in case my power turns out to be mind control.  Poor Matt Parkman gets a nose bleed every time he has to control someone who is really stubborn. With these kids, I'm gonna need a bunch of tissues.

Day 25...

You all have been so great about checking on Thunder's whereabouts...and I wanted, so badly, to have a happy ending to the story of our lost dog in Madrid.  I still hope for a happy ending, but I have mentally turned a corner here. My days of roaming the streets with a fist full of posters are dwindling.  I still yell "Thunder" into any recessed, arched alleyway surrounded by vegetation.  People still stare, startled, like they do at someone with Tourette's, but I don't care.  I've started intensive Spanish lessons again, so I have enough stress in my life.

And I'm waiting... just waiting.

For what, you ask?  For that day when I'm walking down the street and I see my Thunder with someone who has never taken him to the vet to check for a chip, nor called the police, nor checked with the dog shelters to see if their new dog was someone else's.  When that day comes, I will be ready.  I will take that person DOWN like Angelina Jolie in Tomb Raider, kicking butt and taking names!  I will execute a kick turn, stunning the dog-knapper, and if I need to, I will twist his or her arms, and karate chop(!)... unless, of course, it's a grey-haired old woman, in which case, I will be careful not to knock her over.  Instead, I will use the formal "Usted" conjugation in Spanish and will say, "Perdona" respectfully, but will then, nevertheless, grab Thunder gently and jog away without incident.

Either way, I will yell: POLICIA!  I will have my forensic evidence ready (Thunder's hair on my tape lint brush.) I will have my chip scanner in my purse with Thunder's papers and, after many more Spanish lessons, I will know how to explain it all to the authorities in Spanish...

Note to Admissions...

Besides having a lost dog and rotten karma, we are living through one of the worst trials ever to test our resilience on the face of this planet: we have 3 children applying to boarding schools. THREE! 

It's not like the kids haven't been preparing their essays for some time now (admissions officers).  So why does it feel like we've spent days cramming for a test, unshowered, in our pajamas at 5 pm, surrounded by dirty dishes, take-out food, crumpled papers (and a wine glass)?  Why have we exhausted the entire supply of Wite Out -- tape, liquid and pen -- on the Iberian Peninsula?  Why didn't I pay that consultant in Connecticut the exorbitant amount of money he required to manage this process?  And why am I screaming alot?  I'll tell you why... because everything has to be hand-written!  In case you don't have one of your own, a 14 year-old's handwriting is not a pretty sight.  Sometimes the words start out large, then they get very, very small.  Sometimes there are large mounds of congealed liquid and tape white-out re-written in another color pen. Some applications look like they've been written while riding in a motor boat or on the back of a scooter.

One application will require a microscope to read.  But hey, admissions, you asked for it.

Other notes to admissions:

If you ask a 14 year-old athletic boy what he wants to do when he grows up, he probably won't say that he really wants to figure out how to split the atom (like I told him to).  Instead, he'll say that he wants to play Centerfielder for the Red Sox.  And his back-up plan won't be to work as an apprentice for Mother Theresa (as I suggested).  He'll want to be a Rock Star.  If you ask a 14 year-old girl what she likes to read, she's not gonna say, Little Women (like I told her to).  If she's halfway honest, she's gonna say Twilight, or some other piece of romantic vampire chick-lit.

Sure, I probably could have persuaded my offspring to follow my suggestions (with threats, itunes gift certificates and cash), but late one night after I had failed to persuade a single teen; after a certain petulant child explained to me that she or he had answered an essay question with one sentence because one sentence was enough;  I threw my hands in the air and realized that our applications (did I say "our"?) were not going to turn out as I planned.

And maybe a certain child was right:  maybe one sentence was enough...

Look Up Thunder!

If you're going for a walk in the evening, you'll notice that there are different Christmas lights strung across many of the streets in Madrid.  Do you notice lights on the grey/blond woman's street? What do they look like?

Here are some examples:

These are on Velasquez

These are on Lagasca

Jorge Juan

Ortega y Gasset

Send me a sign boy dog (through the Pet Psychic) and I will continue to look for you...

Karma Cleansers please...

Changing your karma from bad to good is much more complicated than I thought.  Of course, you can be pure of thought and deed for all of your life, and all of your past lives.  Um-hmmm.  But what to do if you, or some previous incarnation of you, screwed up along the way?  That is surely the case with Delora at this moment in time.  First, it was a lost son, then it was lots of little things leading up to a lost dog.  Within a day of the lost dog, a certain son was admitted to the hospital after a bad ski accident.  I'll spare you all the whiny details, but something is wrong I tell you!  Something is way, way wrong.

As I wait to hear more from Thunder and from Pet Psychic #2,  I wonder if there isn't something I can do to change my karmic path. Short on time, I do what everyone in need of a quick karmic change does:  I google "How to change your karma from bad to good."  I need something black and white, cut and dry. I could burn sage leaves, for example, or light a red candle.  (WHY, oh why, didn't I pay attention to that Feng Shui lecture I attended a few years ago?)  But if you're hoping for a quick google fix, you're in for a rude awakening.  Most websites offer a metaphysical analysis that requires several lifetimes just to read and digest.  Who knows what else will happen to us by then? Plus I can't change what the spirit currently inhabiting the body of Deb Perkins did in 1820.

Some of you (and you know who you are...) have invested a good amount of time reading about this stuff, so could you please send me the Cliff Notes?

NAMASTE...

Pet Psychic CSI

(Thunder and Lucia take a bike ride in happier times)

Walking the streets of Madrid gives me plenty of time to analyze every message from the "spirit in the dog body known to Deb Perkins as Thunder"and I must say, there are some holes in the communication.
First, the "grey haired lady with bright eyes" doesn't seem to exist.  OK, maybe one woman, somewhere, a real carrot-eater, has grey hair and bright eyes, but I haven't seen her yet.


But -- bear with me for a minute -- what if the lady's hair isn't really grey?  I mean, I've already been warned that my pet may not be able to distinguish beige from white.  What if, he can't tell the difference between grey and BLOND?  Luckily, there are fewer blonds in Spain, than say, in Sweden, and most of them are highlighted.  This could change my whole dog finding strategy.  Maybe I go from chasing the grey-hairs curb-side, to making salon visits to places that specialize in blonding.  Below, my sister sends evidence to support the blond woman theory...

Dogs are not color blind - they see color, but their chromatic acuity is significantly less than humans'. This is for two reasons: (1) dogs have far fewer cone cells in their retina (cone cells are responsible for seeing color); and (2) dogs are dichromatic (they see only two primary colors - blue and yellow) whereas humans are trichromatic, meaning we see three primary colors - red, blue, and yellow.  Humans have 7 times higher proportion of cone cells than dogs, meaning that when dogs do see colors, they are pale or faded. 


Another issue with "Thunder's" explanation of his whereabouts on the night of December 23rd: he confirms that he was indeed spotted 4 blocks from my home on the night in question and then he ran for an hour before settling down to rest. Yet, still, he is only 2 blocks northeast of my apartment?  I could crawl for an hour and I'd still be a mile or two away, right?  Does this make any sense?  


Look, spirit of Thunder, if you're smart enough to know that your presence in the Grey-haired (or blond) woman's life has opened her up to allowing more people in her life  -- and trust me, you are the smartest, zen dog I know -- then can you please send me a more accurate picture of where the %^& you are?  
Here's another idea: This time of year, each street in Madrid has it's own unique set of Christmas lights.  I assume you don't read Spanish (neither can I, btw...), and can't read a street sign, so perhaps you could tell me about the Christmas lights on your street.  


I will (cha-ching) get back in touch with the pet psychic to refine her vision a bit.  So could you give her something a bit more concrete: a park where the grey/blond woman takes you, a restaurant near by, a metro station, a landmark of some sort... I'm getting a reputation in the hood.  The gyp-sies (always pronounced as in Borat), beggars and homeless all know me by name and promise that they will find my perrito!  Then they wink at each other and chuckle at the crazy American with the fist full of reward posters.

Brother can you spare a dog?

I'll admit, I'm a pet psychic's worst nightmare.  First, I'm so grateful to hear from the spirit of the animal known to Deb Perkins as Thunder, that I'm psychically kissing the psychic's feet.  She provides me with details of where to find my lost dog: a grey-haired woman with bright eyes; a recessed door in an alley way with plants (a plant?); Northeast by 2 blocks; a slight incline.  The psychic suggests we meditate, then send Thunder positive messages before we leave to look for him.  On the street, we should call to him and listen for his bark!  What more could a bereft dog owner ask for?  I picture our reunion.  I'll be yelling Thun-der, and I'll hear his arf! arf!  and I'll go straight to the door with the plant next to it.  I'll knock and the Grey-haired lady will become like a Spanish grandmother to us and the dogs forever and ever, amen. I sleep soundly for the first time in a week.

Then the looking begins.  Joyfully, we set off in two groups searching the area where our Thunder awaits.  We've been told the grey-haired lady is sociable and that we should talk to as many people as possible.  I figure the grey-haired lady probably speaks to other grey-haired ladies and they become our focus group.

We start asking every grey-hair we meet if they've seen our dog.  Most are not bright eyed, in fact, most members of our focus group are vision-impaired and squint to see the poster we hold in front of them.  Many are wearing hearing aids and respond with the Spanish equivalent of eh?  But the most common response we get is a frightened look, a widening of the eyes and a backing away from us as though we're about to rob them of their last euro.  We're not exactly a frightening looking bunch, yet we instill fear in almost every older person we canvas. We loose a tiny bit of hope when a couple of grey-haired nuns point to the sky and callously suggest that there are more important things than lost dogs. NUNS!

As the day wears on and the city sounds drown out everything and I can barely hear what my children are saying next to me, my pretty picture starts to dissolve in front of me.  Imagine standing in the middle of Times Square in NYC and calling Thun-der!  Imagine listening for his bark.  It's assinine.  We reach a spiritual low when Lucia, Sam and I find a building inset from the street and cleverly catch the door as a resident leaves.  We figure we'll leave some posters and the grey-haired lady will see them and give us a jingle. Instead, we learn that some Spanish apartment buildings trap you on the inside requiring a key or a code to get out.  After 15 minutes of entrapment I mentally channel the spirit of Thunder and say: Thun! Address please!

I apologize pet psychic.  My faith lapsed just a little bit today.  Here you are giving me direction and here I am wondering if maybe two pet psychics would be better than one.  Or maybe three would be better than two.  Maybe we could cross check the facts just a tiny bit.  But tomorrow is another day. Another chance to be treated like a beggar, another chance to find that magical alley way with the little plant in front of the door where the grey-haired lady is comforting our lost dog.