Had really hoped to close the book on Unwanted Houseguests at Chapter 3.  No such luck.

A couple of weeks ago, Ernie called out to me, saying, “Hey, Mary! Come here a sec.  Does it smell in here to you?”

He was in the downstairs powder room.  I wanted to yell back, “I don’t know, did you just go?”

However, I assumed this was not a case of typical bathroom odors as he is not in the habit of asking me if it smells in there. 

I approached the bathroom trepidatiously.  I leaned my head in and whoa!

 “Yes,” I answered.  “It smells like dead fish.”

I speak dog fairly fluently.  Not Cesar Milan fluency level.  But well enough.

 Which is why I was completely surprised the other night to discover perhaps not as well as I thought.

 But first, a little context.

 Regarding my boast of my dog speaking skills:  We are on dogs number 4 and 5. Daisy, age 10 and Winnie, age 8.  Altogether it has been over 30 years that dogs have been members of our family.  So, you know.  After all that time, you learn to speak their language.  Nothing inherently talented about it.  It just goes with the territory and you soak it in, like osmosis.

Ah! Thanksgiving.  That treasured time of year where family and friends gather around the table to partake in that most traditional of feasts where the turkey is the centerpiece, the piéce de resistance.  Unless of course you happen to be Italian-American.

Guest Blogger: Mona Liss ponders the etiquette of emojis.

I've come to realize that texting is now an art form. It's not just the words, but the added illustration - that cutesy or heartfelt emoji - has become integral to the message. And sometimes, just an emoji itself is the most powerful text.

Actually, when I think about it, it's laughable how we 'dress up' our messages with an emoji, and even elaborate with two plus more.
Is it a reciprocated red heart or a smiley, smirky face?❤️😆....Crazy, it can take so much time to figure out what's appropriate to communicate through a pin size illustration or a cartoon.🤯

I can recall the time when a text was a quick message. No emojis, just words. But now, it's an art form to convey a multitude of different emotions.🤔

There was this great little Italian restaurant right around the corner from our house, that was a favorite of ours.  An Italian family from Naples ran the place.  Really good, authentic Italian cuisine for an affordable price, a BYO to boot.  Great place to take the kids.

However.  You had to know there was a however coming, right?

Most of the waitresses, who were sisters and/or cousins, somehow all related, were mean.  They really didn’t enjoy their jobs it seemed, and really seemed to not like their customers at all.  They were akin to the Soup Nazi, for any Seinfeld fans.  Don’t mess with them in any way or they will give you the malocchio (maloik).

Every time we would go we’d hope to get one of the nice waitresses.  The four of us would eye up the situation once we were seated and try to ascertain if we would end up with one of the nice ones.

On one particular occasion, we ended up with the meanest one of all of them.  We placed our drink order and perused the menu and accepted our fate.

Laundry.  Like many other chores, it’s sysphean in nature.  No sooner do you complete the task and you have to do it all over again.  Lather, rinse, repeat. But there’s no other alternative.  Well,  to clarify,  there is no other alternative if you value cleanliness and hygiene.  Hey, I’m sure there are some people out there who don’t mind not washing their sheets every week.  Or wearing that pair of jeans for like the 5^th time.  I, however am not one of them.  I am a certifiable germaphobe, who HIGHLY values cleanliness and hygiene.

But before we go there, when I think about laundry, I can recall the first time I saw Ernie’s, who was my then college boyfriend, bedroom for the first time.  We walked into his room and no lie, I could not even see the bed because of the mounds of laundry all over his floor.  I mean, perhaps I should have gone running for the hills at that point (glad that I didn’t though, 38 years married and counting).  But given my germaphobia, I should have recognized that on that point we were incompatible.

We’ve had the opportunity to live the trendy, hip, cool, artsy Brooklyn life these past couple of weeks.  Without actually being trendy, hip, cool, or artsy ourselves.  Talk about fish out of water. And speaking of fish out of water, having lived in the suburbs our whole life, the first adjustment was just city life in general: the sights, sounds, smells, people, and activity of a lot of people living in a concentrated area.  Let alone the specifics of this particular neighborhood, Greenpoint, in Brooklyn.

Well, peeps, this week’s blog can practically write itself.

Remember the Underdogs R Us blog from a few months back?

You know, where I was marveling at the fact that our Phillies were the number one baseball team in America, while at the same time was confused because it was a strange feeling, one that we from Philly are not used to, being the city of underdogs that we are?

Yeah. The old feeling is back.  That new, strange feeling of being number 1, was short-lived, a blip, a flash in the pan, not in it for the long run.  Not in it for any runs, something our Phillies couldn’t seem to manufacture to save their lives and our hopes in the playoff series.

And just like that, after the hot Mets, a team that seems to have St. Destiny on their side took us out, we are back to the old familiar feeling of trying hard, giving it our best, but somehow coming up short.  It’s like the Mets were us from two years ago, and we were the Braves. 

We’ve covered the topic of aging more than a few times on this blog.  Here comes one more.

I recently read an article from The New York Times that outlines a key to longevity, something to give us all a little leg up (because who can’t use a little help with getting their legs up when you are over 60?) on Father Time and the Inevitable.

Seems like the experts “are increasingly finding that having a positive mind-set is associated with aging well.” Well, that and a $1.50 will get you…wait, I don’t think there’s anything you can buy for a $1.50.  That and $5.00 will buy you a McDonald’s value meal.

Ok, so maybe that’s like, did we really need a study to know this?  Apparently.  It was a decades long study and found that those with positive beliefs around getting older lived seven and a half years longer than those who felt negatively about it. More research found that it was also associated with lower blood pressure, and a reduced risk of developing dementia.

Well, color me, sunshine and flowers! Take that Father Time! I am going to claim my extra seven and a half years, thank you very much. Don’t have to tell me more than once. I am all in!

Well, seeing as I just became a grandmother for the first time, babies are pretty much top of mind with me right now.  So, let’s go with it.

I am a bit in awe and jealousy of the accoutrements available to new parents these days.  Where were all these devices when I needed them 32 years ago?

The one in particular that is simply amazing is called the Snoo.  Or, in my words, the magical bassinet.

The bassinet I used for my two kids was passed down to me from my mother-in-law.  It was already like 30 years old by the time it got to me.  I can tell you that not much technological advancement took place in bassinets between 1960 and 1991.  They were what they were.  A safe place to put your baby so they (and ergo you) could sleep and/or do things like go to the bathroom. 

Fast forward however to the year 2024, and the simple, basic bassinet has gotten a significant upgrade. Magical status as I have previously mentioned.

Welcome Guest Blogger, Dana! She’s got some interesting and hilarious observations about self-checkouts. Why don’t you self check it out?! Lol.

I know it says written by Mary Lunghi, but I have PTSD from setting up this Squarespace site that I just can’t go back and try to figure out how to change that to Dana. Hmm…sounds like another potential blog.

Over to Dana:

I’m here to talk about self-checkouts. I feel like there could be a buzzfeed survey asking, “What is your self-checkout personality?”

As for me, I am pro self-checkout. I’m usually pro anything I can do on my own. Order my overpriced coffee on the Starbucks app so I don’t have to wait in line to order in the store? Definitely. Schedule my doctor appointment online so I don’t have to call the secretary? Obviously. Pump my own gas? I didn’t grow up in New Jersey. Check out my own groceries so I don’t have to stand in line while the person in front of me writes out a check? YES PLEASE. You get the idea. But I’ve come to learn that not everyone shares my love of the self-checkout.

Don’t you love those photos you see on your social media feeds of people joyfully jumping up in the air?  It just looks like so much fun and there seems to be such joy in it.

A couple of years ago when Ernie and I were on vacation in the Outer Banks and were out for a walk, we found ourselves on a pier that jutted out into the bay.

“Let’s take a couple of ‘jumping in the air‘ photos,” I exclaimed!

With that, I art directed Ernie into the middle of the pier and told him to jump.  He did a few different jumps beautifully as I snapped away with my phone camera.

“Ok,” he said.  “You’re turn.”

We switched places and I did a couple of jumps.  Nothing fancy. Just straight up arms and legs akimbo, big smile on my face.

“Ya got it,” I asked?

“I need a couple more,” he answered.

I decided to improvise at that point and instead of jumping straight up, I kicked my legs out to the side, knees bent.

A tenth of a second later, when my feet hit the pier, my knee was not having it, and instead of holding me upright, collapsed with a sharp pain whereupon I crumpled like a rag doll, albeit one crying out in agony.

OMG, you guys.  It’s worse than the Zombie Apocolypse.  Well, you know, mostly because the Zombie Apocolypse is not real.  And this, my friends, very much is.

My social media news feed’s latest terror unleased on unsuspecting me, is the “outbreak” of some deadly mosquito-borne disease currently hitting parts of New England.  Have you heard of it? The EEEV (eastern equine encephalitis virus).  As if the other mosquito-borne diseases weren’t bad enough, West Nile, dengue, malaria to name a few.  They are like a walk in the park, apparently, in comparison to EEEV.

To wit: The death rate is 30 to 50%.  If you are lucky enough to survive you will likely suffer permanent brain damage of some sort, paralysis, seizures and other such things. 

Now, the saving grace in all this is that it is rare.  Something like only 11 cases a year on average annually.  There are 330 million people in the US.  Now, for most people, that will put it all in perspective and have an immediate calming effect.  I, however, in this instance, am not like most people, much to my own detriment.

Ah! The joys of dog ownership.  I know.  The title of this blog is the hazards of dog ownership.  Trust me.  We’ll get there.  But first, let us examine how wonderful our canine companions are before we move into the hazardous territory.

I suppose the first, last, and everything in between joy about having dogs, is unconditional love.  Really, that does sum it up.  Dogs love you without reservation, without any conditions or prerequisites necessary.  And when you return their love, it’s like that love goes up mutually exponentially.  I could list some of the other joys, how happy they are to see you when you come home or walk into a room, how they love to snuggle with you on the couch, give you kisses (being a germaphobe I struggle with that one a bit), love to walk with you, play with you, and really just be with you-wherever you are and whatever you are doing, but unconditional love is the foundation.

And that’s a good and necessary thing because that will aid you through the hazardous parts.  Ah here we go.  See how I did that? Nice segue into the meat of this blog.

Music in the Meadow. Concerts in the Park. Tunes on the Lawn.

Seems like they are everywhere these days. A veritable explosion of free music in the summertime hosted by various townships.

Where has this been all my life? And by all my life I mean when we were raising little kids. What a perfect no cost activity to do with the children that gets them, er us, out of the house for a little bit.

Works out great though for this stage of our empty nester/retiree life too. In fact, that’s pretty much what you see at these things. Old people and people with young kids. Nothing in the middle. Nobody in their twenties or thirties is going here for date night. If so, that might end up in the file under How Not To Impress on a Date.

I used to think that, when it came to rules, people fell into two groups quite cleanly. Those who follow them and those who don’t.

You are either the person who stays seated in your 400 level ballpark seats because that’s the ticket you paid for OR the person who will move up to the 100 level when it’s late in the game and people have emptied out leaving prime seats open.

You are either a rule follower or a rule breaker.

Then I had a conversation with my good friend LouAnn the other day.

We discussed the possibility that perhaps it’s not such a clear-cut dichotomy, but rather it’s more of a continuum. A sliding scale if you will.

You are not a rule breaker per se, but a rule bender.

So generally you follow the rules. You don’t think of yourself as a rule breaker. But you may bend the rules ever so slightly on occasion.

That led to a discussion around what might be the appropriate occasions to be a rule bender and still fall within good moral values.

I was going through some of my old stuff the other day. One of the things I came across was my kindergarten report card.

Let me tell you, the bar 56 years ago was very low. They were happy if we could tie our shoes, know where we lived, and could count to ten.

Today’s kindergarteners are writing a thesis on climate change. Or as my son-in-law put it, “Nowadays if you don’t speak a second language by age 5, you’re falling behind.”

Seriously?! I mean, here’s another one to add to the long list of the glories of aging.

But first, let’s start off with newborns. Cuddly, sweet newborns. We all know that lovely, fragrant smell of a newborn right? And I am not talking about any lotion or talcum powder (pre knowing it can cause cancer era). The newborn baby him/herself has a natural pleasant smell.

It’s a real thing. Studied by scientists. It’s apparently a combination of chemicals from amniotic fluid, sweat glands, and vernix caseosa which is a waxy, white, cheese-like coating that covers a baby’s skin in the womb.

The smell is so nice. Maybe not as nice as a new car. But close. Scientists say the smell helps strengthen the bond between parent and baby. I mean, well, yeah. Evolution isn’t dumb. Bad smelling babies’ chances of survival probably would decrease significantly. Once they start pooping, and vomiting, the parents will have plenty of bad smells to contend with at that point. Gotta get that bond secure first to handle all the icky smells to come. And the teenage years. But let’s not jump that far ahead.

There I was last week, innocently minding my own business, eating my breakfast, when Ernie announced: “I think I might raw dog it.”

I nearly choked on my spoonful of mixed acai berry yogurt. I didn’t know what raw dogging was, but my immediate thoughts went to something nasty and I wondered, frighteningly, if it would need to involve me in any way.

I sputtered, “What in the hell is raw dog it?”

He smiled, laughed, and said, “Oh, you haven’t heard of this?”

Turns out, that the trend of taking an activity and giving it a catchy name, branding it as cool, continues apace. To the list of Girl Dinner, Fart Walk, Hot Girl Walk, we can now add Raw Dog.

Basically, this is guys getting in on the action. A little bro-speak to add to the repertoire.

Summer is upon us. And in this era of climate change, our first excessive heat wave, with triple digit heat indices and/or temps was raging before the official start of summer had barely begun.

As someone whose body doesn’t sweat properly and therefore is more prone to overheating in such conditions (see previous blog post, Start the Car), this does not bode well for me. However, I know what to do, and am prepared.

Light weight cotton or linen or anything breathable and loose clothing. Check.

Pony tail holder to keep hair up. Check.

Sun hat or visor. Check.

Bottle of water. Check.

Cooling towel. Check.

Water spray/fan combo bottle. Check.

Sweater. Check.

Sweater, you ask? Did you read that right, you ask?

Yes, yes, you did. Sweater. A lightweight, white cotton cardigan sweater from Gap.

Why, you may ask?

Because even though it’s a million degrees outside and conditions are right for me to pass out from heat stroke, walk into any store and it’s like walking into Antarctica.