The weather has suddenly turned colder as we hit September. We’re discussing it one morning in the office. FYI, the office building’s furnace broke down at the beginning of summer, and it has yet to be fixed.

Coworker #1: “I swear, last week it was ninety degrees. Now I’m freezing. My car actually told me it was fifty-two this morning.”

Coworker #2: “That’s what happens when August clocks out.”

Boss: “Morning, team. How’s everyone adjusting to the weather?”

Me: “We’ve decided we’re all mad at the atmosphere.”

Boss: “Good. Stay unified. It builds morale.”

Coworker #2: “So does central heating.”

Me: “Which we’re still waiting for.”

Boss: “Scratch morale. Let’s all be cold together and build character instead.”

The furnace was fixed a few weeks later, when the surprisingly early onset of cold weather made the office temperature technically illegal, and the senior managers decided working from home was a more distasteful concept than having their workers attempt to type in the office wearing gloves.

My daughters’ middle school (grades six to nine, ages twelve to fourteen) got a new principal. He’s stricter than the previous one. For example, he instituted a no cell phone policy and a no backpack policy (both would be left in lockers or a staff-attended storage room).

The former I thought made sense because my daughters had told me how distracted their classmates often are (and my daughters share a flip phone anyway; they do the same extracurriculars, and neither is old enough to drive), but the latter confused me, and I wasn’t sure it had been totally thought out. I asked the new principal about it at the school’s open house, shortly before the school year started.

Me: “Hi, welcome to the school! I like your no cell phone policy; it makes a lot of sense with the different research I’ve read, especially [particular book about teen mental health].”

Principal: “I read the same book, and that’s a huge part of why the rule is in place.”

Me: “I’m confused about the backpack policy, though. Can you explain that one?”

Principal: “That’s just a matter of logistics. There are so many students enrolled that it’s hard for them to fit through the hallways during passing periods if they have backpacks on.”

Me: “Ah, I see. But… what about students with medical devices, like inhalers? Or the approximately third of your students who menstruate and will need to change a pad or tampon during the school day?”

The principal’s eyes went wide for just a fraction of a second, just long enough for me to be pretty sure he hadn’t thought about that.

Principal: “Oh, medical needs. Yes, of course; students can have a small bag or purse for carrying things like that.”

And a few hours later, there was an email “clarifying” that students were allowed to carry small bags for things like pens and pencils, pads and tampons, and medical devices. I’m glad I asked!

I have a redbone coonhound, the kind of dog featured in the bittersweet novel ‘Where the Red Fern Grows’. She’s named Ann, like the one in the book. They’re not common in the Pacific Northwest. We had to go to a shelter a few states away to get her, and she gets noticed often when I take her for walks.

Most people just comment that they’ve read the book, or wonder if we take her hunting (no: I’m not skilled enough, and she’s scared of loud noises like her namesake), or are just curious about a breed they don’t see much.

One interaction stands out:

Woman: “Oh, is that a redbone?”

Me: “Yes, she is!”

Woman: “Is she fixed?”

Me: “Uh, yes; she is.”

Woman: *Scoffing.* “Typical.”

Me: *Confused.* “She came that way; she was already three when we got her. Although I would have done it anyway.”

Woman: “That’s very selfish of you. People really like this kind of dog, and some people would have liked to breed her!”

Me: “She’s not even papered or anything; she’s probably not purebred. And more importantly, she’s not your dog.”

Woman: “So selfish.”

She stormed off. I just shook my head, and Ann and I continued our walk into a greenbelt so she could sniff for raccoons, squirrels, opossums, and other creatures she likes to bay at, not caring at all about the weirdo we’d just encountered.

Our dog has been scratching a lot lately, so my husband got some anti-itch ointment that our vet recommended. Just now, she started really going at it.

Husband: “Where’s the… the dog lube?”

I slowly turned to face him.

Me: “The “dog lube”?”

Husband: “Yeah, you know. Dog lube. For her scratching. I can’t think of a better way to say it.”

Me: “I’m sure almost any word would have been better. It’s next to the dog shampoo.”

When I went to pick up my nine-year-old daughter from school today, I passed a group of students also walking home. One had a gorgeous red dahlia. She handed it to me.

Student: “Here, would you like this?”

Me: “Are you sure? You weren’t going to give it to your mom or dad or someone at home?”

Student: “It’s fine, you can have it.”

Me: “Well, thank you! I love it.”

A minute or so later, my daughter found me.

Me: “Look what one of the other students gave me!”

Daughter: “It’s very pretty. The teachers told us to give those to parents who look exhausted.”

I like the flower even more now!

Related:
Flower Power, Part 3
Flower Power, Part 2
Flower Power