Thanks for joining me!
Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton
Thanks for joining me!
Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton
It is a dark and stormy night. But earlier today it was almost 80 degrees! Yesterday was in the 70s also. However, on April Fools Day it snowed. Yes, it snowed. The people in Cleveland decided to forget how to drive in the snow and there was a pile up on 77. Luckily I was working from home. I don’t think this is going to last though. As we move back into the workplace I am rediscovering little joys I forgot. Like listening to the guru on the Sirius fantasy channel. I have come to the sad conclusion that my fantasy team, The Killer Tomatoes, is just pathetic and in need of a new name. The Cleveland Indians will not be the only team changing names, but I’m going to give the Tomatoes one more year. My problem is that I get sucked into the rookie or sleeper mode. I want to strike it big like in Vegas. But I end up with a bunch of rookies and the sleepers stay asleep. Our league, Cut That Meat, has been together for years and years and I’ve only won once.
While walking Chester in the snow, I was thinking of new names for my sad fantasy team (suggestions are welcome). The I heard the theme from Harry Potter. That would be my cell phone. I carry it with me in case I fall or something I can call my husband to come get Chester. And he might even get me. Anyway, I looked at who was calling. It was a 330 number which is somewhere near Akron, not that far. It could be someone I know, or from work. So I answered it.
“Yes, you have an ad in the busy beaver?”
“The ad in the busy beaver?”
“I think you have the wrong number I don’t know what the busy beaver is.”
“Umm hold on, is this umm 321-3134?”
“No, it’s not.”
OK about now it was dawning on me that this might be a phone call I might want to get out of. I mean he sounded nice enough, but the longer I stay on the line the longer he has to sell me something, right?
“Ohhhh, I see what I did.”
“OK, thank you.” (and I hung up)
Why on God’s green earth did I thank him? Come on, Martha, what were you thinking? Thanks guy for calling me and interrupting my thoughts of fantasy stardom. I was on the verge of a breakthrough name there. Sheesh.
No really I didn’t care, but as we walked on I wondered what the busy beaver was. It hit me that it may be a sex line, like I’m supposed to talk all hot. I got a chuckle out of that one, because I could talk the talk but I’d be picking up Chester poo at the same time which isn’t exactly walking the walk he’s probably thinking.
I went home and after burrowing under a blanket like a kid after bedtime I looked up the busy beaver. Turns out it’s a home improvement store in Ashtabula which is only 20 miles or so from me. I never heard of it! I looked to see if they were hiring, figuring that must be it, but they weren’t. So what ad is he calling about? I was tempted to call him back and ask him.
“Hey, remember me, the lady who thanked you for calling the wrong number? So what ad is in the Busy Beaver and how do I get the ads? What kind of stuff do they have there? Any good sales going on? Do they have Christmas deer that light up? I mean it is snowing here…what’s the garden section like?”
He’d be thrilled I’m sure to make my acquaintance. Actually I’m going to drag my husband to the Busy Beaver when it’s a nice day. We will take the Model A and drive through Dairy Queen. This must be done after my diabetes blood work is taken tomorrow. But so it shall be written, so it shall be done.
On another note, I am a terrible dog mom. We were on the park side of the fence when who should walk by on the other side but Enzo and his owner. (for the newer readers, Enzo and Chester got into it ONE TIME and ever since are arch enemies) Enzo did absolutely nothing (good dog) but Chester went berserk (bad, bad). Why, Chester, why??? The gate to the park has about a foot in between the rails…it’s for cars not for Chesters. Chester was throwing himself around, I was hanging on for dear life (Enzo’s probably) and Chester was trying to shove his big head through the gate. I did the unthinkable. I dumped some water on his head. He stopped lunging and looked confused. While I had his attention for 2 seconds I told him to “LEAVE IT.” He whined a little but oh my, he left it. Granted it was halfway down the street by now. I do not advocate this as a training method in any way, in fact it’s probably just one more reason for him to hate Enzo, although that may not be possible. But sometimes we all slip a little and at least he didn’t dislocate my arm. I did buy a clicker and some cat treats (for Chester not the cats) so I can try to continue his PetSmart basic training. He did graduate believe it or not, I have his diploma. He got an extra biscuit because I felt bad. I hope Enzo got one too for having to put up with the Chester display.
Have a good weekend, and send me some fantasy name ideas. I will give you naming rights in the fantasy stadium.
By the way, I’m glad they are going to change the Indians name. It’s overdue. Just please not the Spiders…the mascot for the New School in NYC is the Narwhal. What about that???
Recently I had the urge to revisit a song. Happily there was a video as well. Some songs are just so awful they are brilliant. This is one such song. It’s called “Fish Heads” and it is done by a group called Barnes & Barnes. Apparently it was shown in 1980 on SNL, which explains where we likely saw it, as we didn’t have kids yet and could stay up and watch SNL without passing out during the opening monologue. We used to sing this song all the time even when we didn’t want to. Talk about ear worms, this is the night crawler of earworms. This is the king cobra of earworms. The lyrics are simply about fish heads doing things that fish heads oughtn’t do. This doesn’t sound bad but believe me, it is. SOOO bad. In fact, it has sunk through the hole at the bottom of the toilet of badness and returned to claim its place in the sun like the victims of Motel Hell.
Anyway, I had the urge to watch “Fish Heads” again, and to my delight I still enjoyed it. It has aged well. It’s just as bad/good now as it was in 1980. Then, while walking Chester, I thought about things that age well and things that don’t.
Well: peeps. According to my husband they actually improve with age.
Not well: a container of something that I left in my car for a whole year during the pandemic. I recently fished it out..sing it everybody…fish heads, fish heads…
I want to age well. I have another 30 years or so according to the psychic in New Orleans, so I have to start thinking about it in another ten years or so. Seriously though it’s not like I don’t have any good role models. My mom died when I was young and impervious to aging. But my Aunt Alice lived a nice long life and was the epitome of aging well. She was royaler than a queen to me. She played the piano her whole life and held herself with grace and kindness.
Grace and kindness…I want to be these things. I am not. I am generally kind but my thoughts vacillate between “I understand” to “What on God’s green earth were you thinking?” I used to not feel bad about it, I just figured it was my lot in life to be a smart ass. Then I attended this class where they told us to look (not really look but pretend) at ourselves and ask “would I want to be this person’s friend?”
That threw me. Now, every time I have a sarcastic comment or put down I feel like a bad person. No, I would definitely not want to be that mean girl’s friend! Sigh… what a complete pain in the butt. How am I supposed to age gracefully when I have literally no practice. What can I do? I want my kids to be proud of me, and better yet, I want my grandkids to be proud of me (it’s too late for the kids). I don’t want people to avoid me because I’m a jerk. I want people to call and see if I can go out for coffee. Well, most of the time I want that, the rest of the time I want to sit and watch the British Baking Show.
It’s going to be a long 30 years. I figure the best hope I have is to forget about it and think about something else. So while Chester and I were walking I thought of what I want to accomplish.
I want to learn Spanish. I’d like to learn the program Finale. I want to read about Anne Reinking and Gypsy Rose Lee. I’d like to learn something about Czechoslovakia.
I want to say the right thing without putting my foot in it. I want to be able to talk about something interesting for once. I want to remember somebody, anybody’s birthday in time to get a card to them. Thank God for facebook on that score but it’s not enough time. I’d have to remember to look ahead and that isn’t feasible.
I want to be fearless. If I want to zipline I will (I don’t but could be talked into it). I want to write a book and submit it until I don’t feel like it, regardless of rejections. I think I’ll get another tattoo that says fearless so I don’t forget. Then try to live up to it. Suck it up buttercup.
Speaking of buttercups, our crocuses have literally exploded into bloom. OK, maybe not literally, exploding crocuses would be awesome though. They seem to have tripled in number. I see the squirrels have been busy too, moving around the bulbs. Some must have been buried in my Hosta garden because I didn’t plant them there. Spring has arrived in Cleveland. It’s a beautiful thing. It’ll probably snow this weekend but hey, it has to snow on the daffodils 3 times before winter is over. Then we can move on!
Chester has become insistent at the CVS drive-through. They always give him a biscuit. (remember, Milk Bones = doggie crack) The last time he was boring into her face with his eyes until she looked at him. “Does he want a biscuit?” she asked.
Gaaaah…….no he wants to eat you, stick your hand in here just a little further…
“Yes thank you. He would love one.” Maybe I’m learning to age gracefully just a little.
The squirrels are up to no good. You know I like squirrels and you know Chester does not. They have decided in their small-brain wisdom that it’s fun to play in our backyard. We started knocking on the door before letting him out, but they are getting bold and don’t even care. Especially when I have just put out a cylinder in the bird feeder. Note I said bird, not squirrel feeder.
In my quest to support small businesses I go to the Willoughby Wild Bird store. I buy these cylinders of bird food. Because I am physically and spiritually unable go into a store and come out with only what I went in for, I have obtained a bag of peanuts and ears of corn. The peanuts are for the blue jays who literally sit outside the window and squawk until I throw some out. The corn cobs are for the squirrels. I don’t understand why they ravish the cobs but ignore the already removed corn on the patio. I guess they don’t like that the corn has touched some other bird food. Like my grandkids.
Anyway, I toss out an ear of corn and one minute it’s there, the next it isn’t. Where do the cobs go? My husband has found a couple while mowing the lawn, but I blame the neighbor’s squirrels. I suspect the neighbors pay them. A couple days ago I tossed one out and it was gone in an hour. I thought maybe a fox or racoon took it, but then I saw something in the tree. I couldn’t figure it out. It was yellow. Guess what?
Yep, somebody put the corn in the tree. I guess sharing is not a concept squirrels embrace.
Chester and I had quite the adventure! We were enjoying the nice day on our usual walk when I heard a kid yelling. I couldn’t figure out what it was, but when we walked by the Great Danes’ house I saw one of the Danes out in the yard jumping around. When you have dogs, your house is known as “the grey dog’s house” or “Jackson and Brutus’ House” or “Macy’s House” or “Chester’s House.” The Great Dane’s live on our usual route. I stopped because something seemed off. They are usually extremely well behaved. Then I realized the Dane had a racoon trapped and I went into action mode. You know the fight or flight reflex? And moms lifting cars off of kids? I get it! I have never met the two Great Danes in person, but a dog is a dog. I took Chester up on the patio and asked the kid if he needed help. He explained that the Great Dane, Ozzie, had slipped out of his collar in his quest for the racoon. I called Ozzie, thinking he’d want to see Chester. He didn’t care about Chester. Chester was too busy sniffing their grill to be much help. I got excited and in my best “oh boy isn’t this great” voice, like Flounder in Animal House I started calling Ozzie and clapping.
The racoon was hissing and spitting. Ozzie looked up like he was interested, came toward me, but when the racoon tried to leave he decided it would be more fun to chase it. He was play bowing, lunging and happily dancing around. The poor racoon couldn’t catch a break. The kid asked me “should I get treats?” and I responded “YES.” Meanwhile Chester was enjoying the patio smells.
When the racoon decided to play dead for a minute, I called Ozzie in my mom voice. You know the one. He didn’t have a choice when he heard that. “Ozzie, come.” He came, tongue hanging out and I swear he was smiling. He looked so happy to have played with the fluffy thing. He glanced at Chester who was still mesmerized by the grill. I kind of laid across Ozzie and held on. I didn’t have to bend over much. The kid opened the door and offered treats, wisely backing into the house with each one. Apparently Ozzie is food motivated like Chester because he didn’t hesitate. It was like Hansel and Gretl dropping pieces of bread. Ozzie couldn’t resist. Once the door was shut, Chester and I left, Chester oblivious to the racoon. As we started home, I watched the racoon for a minute to make sure it was OK. (what was I going to do if it wasn’t? sheesh) It seemed ok, just scared, and kind of shocked. I felt bad but Chester and I continued our walk. Now whenever we walk by there he slows down to see what’s going on. So far, nothing else, but I really want to know what they grilled! It must have been spectacular!
Before any of you dear people lecture me on dangers, I am a grown-ass woman (as my friend says) and I know the risks. But when an animal is likely to get hurt, I just automatically act. Internally I knew what to do, I mean I didn’t grab the racoon! It comes from years of dog ownership. You would have done the same thing.
It’s funny, my husband has quick reflexes, much quicker than mine. Once we were somewhere with the boys when they were little, maybe 3 and 5. They started to get up in this fake covered wagon. My husband leapt up the step and grabbed them, pulling them out. There were wasps inside the wagon. I didn’t even see them and stood there like a log while he was a hero. I don’t have quick reflexes but I guess I’m better at it than I thought at least when it comes to dogs.
I haven’t seen Ozzie since, but I’d like to, he was a nice boy. Chester was a wonderful boy! He thought it was an adventure too, new smells galore. We are going to take him to a new (for him) park today and let him explore the Grand River. No grill to sniff but maybe he’ll catch a fish! Have a great week!
On Saturdays and Sundays I like nothing more than sitting in my pajamas and watching “Bitchin Rides” on television. Of all the motorhead shows my husband watches, this one is my favorite. I think it’s because they actually like each other and don’t throw in all the made- for- tv drama of infighting and such. Plus I like the name “Kindigit Designs” and Kev Dog seems nice.
Anyway, we were watching “Bitchin Rides” and enjoying a second cup of coffee when they started fixing up an old VW van. It had two cabs, and was just so cool and in a half second I was transported to Blue Ridge Parkway in Virginia and North Carolina. I then took a mental drift to Death Valley. Cars can do that to you.
My parents had some interesting vehicles. None held a candle to the 1970-ish Volkswagen Camper Van. I think it was a 1970 because I looked up pictures and as soon as I saw that glorious brown plaid I knew. Some things just stick in your mind—you can’t unsee them. That brown vinyl on the seats and the plaid curtains..well let’s just say it defined my fashion sense and not in a good way.
When you entered the van via the sliding door, you saw the icebox/water supply to your right. The water was always warm, especially in Death Valley. My mom was rather fascinated with Death Valley and made us stop halfway through so she could grab some tumbleweeds. I don’t know if this was legal but they took up a lot of room and fell apart so she tossed them back out after a bit anyway. We drank the warm water while she wandered around trying to catch the tumbleweeds. At least we didn’t dehydrate.
The back couch of the van folded into a bed. We kids would lay in the bed and look out the back pretending that the cars behind us were after us. We had to duck down and hide or they would get us. But we didn’t sleep there, no that was the adult bed. The kids had other arrangements.
There are times when fate smiles on us, and I was blessed to be the oldest child. I got the pop up top. Oh my, I would sleep there every night. It was amazing and I’m not being sarcastic. The sides of the pop up were mesh, like a screen. I could look out and see everything in the moonlight. Once we stopped the van on the beach of the Everglades and slept. It was legal then I guess, I didn’t care. I got to sleep next to the ocean and not get bitten by the little gnats, the “no-see-ums” as my dad said.
My sister, well she wasn’t quite as lucky. There was this hammock that went across the driver and passenger seat. And the steering wheel, dashboard, and was just about long enough for her. Just about. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but at least it was wide enough, just a little short and unpadded and the steering wheel didn’t help. My brother on the other hand…well there was a pad that went next to the little chair thing when the table flipped down. It was padded but narrow and too short. Nothing at all like my luxurious fresh air mecca of a pop-up. Meanwhile our parents slept in bliss on the vinyl covered brown mattress.
We kids loved that van! But we didn’t have to drive it. We were on the Blue Ridge Parkway and my mom was driving. The Blue Ridge Mountains aren’t Pike’s Peak but to the VW it must have seemed like they were. My mom had her foot to the floor to go about 25 miles/hour up the switchback. We could see the line of cars behind us…on and on and on. At least she was driving and not me. I was too young to drive but once my dad let me drive down our street. I got so frustrated I left the VW in the street and walked home.
If I could get a retro car, that’s what I would get. Although… I always wanted a Jeep until I drove one. It was a purple/pink open Wrangler and it was so rough I thought I’d have a broken tailbone on the test drive. Plus it was cold. Now heat-wise the VW was fine in the front, but the back end where the kids were tended to be a little nippy at times. Our parents’ solution was to get a space heater. Unfortunately we took our new puppy on one of our trips and he peed on my sister. No problem (for me anyway) but my mom had her change her pants and put the pants over the heater to dry. No, they didn’t start a fire but the smell lasted for days. Potent stuff.
Speaking of puppies, Chester has been enjoying the Cleveland thaw. We have had 50 degree weather this weekend but it’s not real. It’s the Braxton-Hicks stage of Cleveland weather. We’ll go back to cold again for awhile until false spring labor begins again. Then the warm days will get closer together until we have a rare snow on Mother’s Day, then it will be done. I guess Mother’s Day is the birth. Sorry, folks, for being graphic but it’s true.
Chester’s way of enjoying the thaw is to run around in the mud. He sees a squirrel or senses there may be one there and runs at full speed toward the back fence. I can hear the whap, whap of his feet as he flies through the puddles. Ugh. He does that so he can get some doggie crack/aka a Milk Bone biscuit since he was our protector from the squirrels. We have a Paw Plunger that looks like a car wash for his feet, and we do use that and a bunch of towels. We are a little tired of it though. Finally last night John said “how about we forgo going out and just give you a biscuit?” Chester was OK with that. He spent some time in the house sleeping instead.
The birds are back, and we saw a spot of snow where they had all walked. I thought it looked cool so took a picture. I also took a picture of the birds; they are the black dots in the tree. Chester doesn’t care about birds at all. It’s all about the squirrels, bout the squirrels and bunnies…Have a good week!
It was the best of times..it was the worst of time. If you have suffered through any home improvement project (and who hasn’t?) you understand. We are having the inside of our house painted. The painters are doing a great job and if anyone in the area needs to know who they are let me know and I can hook you up. Personality-wise, they are Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. This was one of my favorite movies because it captures how successful relationships seem to work. (Paul Newman and Robert Redford don’t hurt either…) One talks more and has the big ideas, and has a vision. The other is quieter and tends to the details, like excellent painting. Both need each other to balance. If you think about it, most duos work like this. Both are good at what they do but when separate their greatness is incomplete. For a mental exercise in the 20-degree cold, think of other duos and see if this is true.
Anyway, Butch (not his real name of course) made a comment suggesting that my husband and I have lasted sooo looonng because we are like that. (these youngsters, heh heh) He’s right. We knew this when we read the book “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” back in high school. If you aren’t familiar with the book, it explores the differences between what the author calls a “romantic” and “classic” view. The author seems to view himself as classic but he may have changed his view later in the book; I don’t know because it was a little boring and I haven’t read it for a very long time. To be honest, I feel the same way about Monty Python, which my husband loves. I have never made it through Monty Python and the Holy Grail awake while he cracks up at the killer bunnies. On the other hand, he’s not as fond of watching Pride and Prejudice on endless loop. Regardless…my husband actually cares about how cars work. I want to get in, turn on the butt heat and go. I don’t even like scraping ice. I usually brush off the snow, scrape a hole I can see out of and crank up the defrost. By the time I get to the highway it’s clear. He cleans his windshield off completely. Both methods work, although some might argue his is safer. I’ll channel Scarlett O’Hara and think about that tomorrow.
Not to criticize either philosophical bent– we complement each other. Butch was right. This summer will be our 40 year anniversary and mostly happy. The times we were not happy was when one or the other did not respect the differences in outlook. But while we have different ideas, when we settle it the outcome is greater.
Back to the house painting. We are having the bottom of the chair rail section painted different than the top. The top is called “cultured pearl.” That is definite. But we are completely stuck between three greys for the bottom and the guys are coming back tomorrow to paint it. We are to the point where we are going to flip a coin; a Spanish doubloon John got from Santa. Whatever the doubloon says is it. Or we could throw a dart at the wall blindfolded and see which one it lands on. We both see the beauty in all three. Decision, decision…the pressure is on.
By the way…did you hear about the three-legged dog who walked into a bar? He said, “I’m looking for the man who shot my paw.”
Sorry. Chester is just fine paw-wise. He must have lost his fool head going after the squirrel, threw caution to the wind, and stepped on something. He went to Camp Bow-Wow one day last week while the painters were here. He made some friends at Camp; a black lab kept following him around and they were play-bowing, sniffing and jumping. We have been walking every day even in the bitter cold. We also went out to Lakeshore Reservation (where I made the video in the last post) with the grandkids. Chester is starting to cuddle more (he is probably cold), which is a mixed blessing as he is 70 pounds. A 70 pound lap dog is like a weighted (really weighted) blanket. Nice until you try to get up! Below are some pics from our outings, and a picture of the greys. What would you pick??