My brother took a quick picture of this shopper in a big box store. She must have been on her way to the Easter parade.
Now that I’ve seen it, I have to wonder whether, If someone tells me I dress like a dog, the correct response might be, “Thank you!”
Happy Easter!
Dearly Beloved and I didn’t go to many movies last year. We’ve seen too many that were too loud, too soft, too long, too violent, too foul-mouthed, too stupid, not to mention too expensive. Or maybe it was that we were too lazy. Our interest began to wane shortly after we swore off movie popcorn because it was so bad for us.
We haven’t jumped on the Red Box bandwagon either. It’s fine if you know what you want, but it’s not a way to browse, is there? I can’t even buy a can of tomatoes without reading the cans, so I can’t choose a movie based on the title alone.
Tuesday, I rented Flight and Skyfall from our library and congratulated myself on getting two movies we wanted to see for less than the price of a movie ticket. While I was out, I ran by the plant nursery and selected a flat of snapdragons and several spring and summer perennials.
Had DB not been interested in seeing them, too, I’d have simply watched them on my laptop, but he wanted to see them on his fancy HD+ TV, so he brought our old DVD player in from the bedroom and hooked it up in the den.
About 15 minutes into the first one, the screen suddenly went blank. No sound, no picture… just grey screen. We put in the second movie. Nothing.
“I think,” DB informed me as he fiddled with a fistful of remote controls, “that it is probably the player. It has died of old age.”
I assumed that we’d watch them on the laptop at that point, but DB had a different solution: ”We need a new DVD player.”
At this point, I should probably mention that the man has been sick with a stomach flu–again– for almost a week now. He has really felt rotten. That made me the designated shopper.
I headed over to Best Buy, which is in one of those parking garage kind of malls with a Best Buy and Trader Joe’s on the same parking level. At any given time, there are so many cars trolling for a parking space that there is no such thing as an empty spot. One waits until she spots a shopper leaving the store and tries to be in the right place at the right time to snag the shopper’s parking space. When the thin mom with the pony tail, a baby in a car seat, and a cart full of environmentally correct bags headed toward the aisle I was on, I guessed “black SUV” and stopped just short of it, flipping on my turn signal so that the trollers behind me would go around. I’d guessed right. I listened to my book on CD while she loaded her baby and her groceries into the SUV, pushed her cart to the side, got behind the wheel and maneuvered her vehicle out of the tight, perpendicular parking place amid all the circling vulture cars.
DB had suggested Best Buy because they were apt to have knowledgeable sales persons to assist me. I think they were at lunch. The very nice young man who assisted me said that he knew nothing about them. I selected one that was the same brand as our TV.
Much to the disappointment of the drivers lusting for my space, I put the DVD player box into the car and walked up to Trader Joe’s at the other end of the parking level, figuring that I might as well take full advantage of my parking space. I returned home with three bags of groceries and a DVD player.
DB opened the box and assembled his toys, only to find that the required HDM1 connector was not included and had to be purchased separately. This time I headed to Target, which is across the street from the Trader Joe/Best Buy mall.
Since I don’t go to Target very often, I might as well stock up on some pharmacy and laundry items while I was there, I figured. I left with the connector cord and two bags of purchases.
When I returned the movies to the library so that I wouldn’t have overdue fines, I ran by Walgreen’s to drop off a couple of prescription renewals, then ran into EarthFare because it was giving away free Irish Vintage Cheddar with a small purchase. What the heck, since I was already in the neighborhood?! While there, I bought an corned beef brisket, a couple of crab cakes, and three bags of groceries.
I saw on Wowbrary that my library has ordered Life of Pi, another movie we want to see. I put it on hold. Why not? We have a giant box of Boy Scout popcorn we need to eat.
Look at how much we’re saving!
I’ve confessed to being a comic strip freak. Before I even learned to read, I’d spread the paper on the living room floor, and lie on my stomach to “look at the funnies.”
Some of the strips our small newspaper carried were, not surprisingly, war-related. Our nation was at war and the entire nation shared the pain and sacrifice.
There were daily strips centering around children who were either orphaned or had mysterious family circumstances. Nancy lived with her Aunt Fritzi, but her friend Sluggo had no family at all and lived in a shack somewhere. Moon Mullins’ young brother, Mayo, slept in a dresser drawer. Children wandered the streets, for the most part without any adult presence. Henry had a mother, but no hair and no voice.
Her leap year birthday somehow kept Little Orphan Annie 11 years old for decades. The child with no eyeballs had already been around since my mother was a child. After the comic strip fell into decline, L.O. A. was fortunate to find success on Broadway.
And then there was Dondi, the five-year-old tot who was found on the streets of Italy by an American soldier during World War II and brought to the United States. Eventually that was changed in backstory to the Korean War, since the dark-eyed little guy, like Annie, never aged.
While Annie found her niche on Broadway, poor Dondi faded into obscurity. In fact, I had forgotten about him myself until I drove past this sign:
I’m taking this as proof that he apparently shed his Groundhog Day time warp, grew to adulthood, found God, and went into the ministry. I hope you’re relieved, too.
You’re welcome.
We have had more rain in the last couple of weeks than I can remember. (Don’t go correcting me on that. I admit to having a very poor memory.) Our new dog, Scout, is energetic and loves to go for walks, so she has been assisting me in my Walking My Butt Off campaign.
Even though we’ve bought her a raincoat, today is simply too slushy to venture out.
Our neighborhood was designed over 100 years ago and every time I go for a walk, I see something I never noticed before. Lately I’ve been concentrating on garages. Many of them were built with what I assume were maid’s quarters. Some of the older ones have living spaces on the same level.
Old garage with ground-level apartment.
More likely, the living space is apt to be above the garage bays, like this newer wood frame one with a Juliet balcony.
O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou, Romeo?
One garage in particular fascinates me because it is so large and lovely in its Tudor style that it doesn’t seem to need the very grand house in front of it. If it is an in-law apartment, they must be very, very nice in-laws.
As the property has a large wrought iron fence around it, not to mention a barking dog, it’s hard to get good photographs without risking arrest.
Yep, that’s all garage. The house isn’t in the photograph at all.
Partial view of front.
Side view.
Not that I have garage envy. After all, we have an eight-room unit above our garage, too. It’s called “our house.” We live on a downslope.
On the street behind us, a 50′s Cape Cod home with two-car attached garage has been the object of a year-long renovation by its young owner. The work has been meticulous and since it looked completed, we were surprised when a structure started rising behind the house. This is the view from our sunroom. At first we thought it was a pool house, but there is no pool.
Guess what.
We’re calling it the Taj Garage.
Since my Dearly Beloved and I are, and always have been, Total Opposites (deserving of capital letters) it stands to reason that we would have different skill sets. That became more apparent than ever during the recent moving process. I’ll just say modestly that while I rose to the occasion, Dearly Beloved was often clearly out of his element.
Lest you think I’m bragging, let me point out that I’m not talking high finance or brain surgery, but things like how to arrange furniture, for instance, or color selections… what to keep and what to give away. In some of the areas, he assumed he had expertise. ( I am speaking of a man who chose navy and mauve furnishings for every office he ever had… and spent less than five minutes making the selections, probably.) Because I mull these things over beforehand, my decisions are usually more …um… thoughtful.
I know to blot, not rub a stain… to prune azaleas after they bloom… that one can refreeze bread… that a microwave has settings other than popcorn… In blunt terms, I know the same crap other homemakers know because I’ve done it for a long time.
One day we were riding in the car and although I can’t remember the particular incident, he acceded to my suggestion over something, acknowledging that my idea was better. The man who never utters a profane word, said in exasperation, “I don’t know SHIT, do I?!”
“You know STUFF,” I assured him. ”You just don’t know SHIT.”
It has become his mantra. He tells the neighbors that he knows “stuff.”
Just stuff; no s-h-i-t. He spells the word in the telling. Then he points out to the guys that they might be similarly handicapped.
One of the areas in which he is most deficient is the concept of nesting. He can build a nest egg. but how to nest a cluster of objects clearly mystifies him.
When he retired, he announced that he was taking over the unloading of the dishwasher, something we’ve heard that many retired husbands do. (Loading the dishwasher apparently requires more advanced skills.)
Emptying the dishwasher is simple. Putting it away properly has proven to be beyond him. I even rearranged drawers to try to make it logical for him.
It didn’t work.
The cabinets are even worse. Some have glass doors, but I keep the junky plastic items– measuring cups, mixing bowls, colanders, and some of my larger Tupperware containers and lids hidden behind solid doors. Smaller containers and lids go in a deep drawer in the butler’s pantry. To keep the assemblage neat and functional, one must sometimes take an item out to put a larger, but similar item under it. That, my friends, is what I call nesting.
Exhibit A.
Exhibit B.
- – – – - - - – – -
The pots and pans fare no better. Sometimes a small saucepan lid is lost for weeks in the bowels of the corner cabinet where it’s been dropped inside a Dutch oven or behind the double boiler.
I, who am not known for my neatness, despaired. I e-mailed several friends who’ve told me that their husbands unload the dishwasher at home. Possibly, I could send DB for lessons.
One sent back a photo of pots and lids lined up on the counter–her husband’s idea of unloading. A second explained that yes, her husband unloads the dishwasher, he doesn’t put the items in cabinets because that requires skill of a level equal to that of loading the dishwasher. Ahhh. A third simply sent a photo of a carton of milk in a pantry. ???
Their husbands, like mine, know stuff.
But–you guessed it… they don’t know shit.
I’ll drink to that!
- – - – – -
Happy Valentine’s Day, Dearly Beloved. I love you.
Our newspaper runs weekly photos of available dogs and cats to promote adoption of homeless animals. Dearly Beloved and I had discussed the possibility, but felt that Miss Piggy might not approve. After she went temporarily blind from her corneal ulcers though, Bonnie seemed so lost that we thought another dog might help her mobility. Also, DB wanted a walking buddy for those 3+ mile walks he takes every day.
Two weeks ago, a photo of a beagle mix named Wilbur caught DB’s eye, so we went to the Humane Society to see about him. Unfortunately, he was easy to locate, as Wilbur’s barking and baying were constant the entire time we were there.
“Yeah,” one of the volunteers offered, “Wilbur’s got a big mouth.”
DB decided that Wilbur wouldn’t do, so he walked around, looking at all the other dogs. There were some adorable puppies, which we knew would be quickly taken, so we passed on those. DB chose a dog of about 70 pounds and the attendants brought her out for him to meet. She seemed like a nice dog.
I asked that one other dog be brought out. When I’d walked past her run, she’d come up to the fence, wagging her tail and looking directly at me without being distracted by the other dogs or people walking around. She checked out my eyeliner. I noticed hers.
“I choose YOU,” those eyes said.
When she was brought into the enclosure to meet us, she didn’t simply wag her tail, she wagged everything south of her rib cage. She piddled a little with excitement when DB approached her… and then she set about charming him with her exuberant yet gentle, mannerly ways, as he walked her around the property.
That is how Scout, a two-year-old skinny boxer, retriever, shepherd mix came to be ours.
Scout was polite and deferential to Bonnie, whose only orders to the new girl were to leave her chew bones alone. Scout was on medication for an upper respiratory infection, but refused Pill Pockets, which were Bonnie’s favorite treat. Yikes! I am not dexterous when it comes to stuffing pills down an animal’s throat. For the first 36 hours, Scout would not touch her food. We had one dog that ate everything, another that ate nothing.
At night she sleeps in the crate we bought for her. She likes it.
The night Bonnie had her stroke, after she had entered the state where she seemed to be unaware of anything around her, I was sitting on the hall floor with her. I’d tried to lift her onto her bed, but she’d wiggled off so that only her head was pillowed. Suddenly, for no reason I could discern, Bonnie screamed… an anguished, primal scream like nothing I’d ever heard.
Immediately, I heard Scout scrambling in her crate, trying to get out. Dearly Beloved thought she wanted to go outside, so opened the kennel for her and walked down the hall, calling her to follow. But Scout went a short distance down the hall, then turned back and came to the place where Bonnie lay. She sniffed her briefly and then did the strangest thing. She lay down in an exact mirror image of Bonnie’s position, her head on the pillow, too, her nose just barely touching Bonnie’s.
It lasted only a few seconds, then she scrambled off the pillow and followed DB down the hall.
I don’t know the mysteries of the dog world, so I have no speculation about what passed between them in that instant. Bonnie lay quietly and screamed no more that night.
More than one person has offered that perhaps Bonnie, with her failing organs, had been waiting until she felt it was okay to leave us and that Scout’s arrival allowed that. I don’t know. Yes, I’m aware that dog is god spelled backwards.
Scout was rescued by the Humane Society from a kill shelter in another county the day before the barking Wilbur’s photo appeared in the newspaper. She was examined, spayed, and de-wormed her first day at the Humane Society. We adopted her the day after that. She was rescued twice in less than a week. Or perhaps it was one rescue for her, one for us.
It’s going to be interesting. For one thing, we’ve discovered that she can jump the backyard fence from a standstill. She doesn’t run away–she simply jumps back over. She has gone from being a non-eater to inhaling her food as soon as it reaches her bowl. I now medicate her with a syringe pill shooter. She wags her backside enthusiastically as I shoot her a pill into the back of her throat. Go figure.
And get this… Scout is a SQUIRREL CHASER!
We chose her name from To Kill A Mockingbird. I find myself telling folks she’s a GIRL Scout when they ask. To describe her to the grandsons, I explained that she was a BROWN(IE) Scout. And yes, her coloring– brown with white chest and feet–is like Tonto’s paint horse, Scout.
But those eyes are pure Angelina Jolie.
(PS. I have posted so many photos of a sleeping Miss Piggy in the past, I’ve added a photo of her from last summer to yesterday’s post. She always reminded me of a teddy bear when she held her tongue like that. It was one of my favorite expressions.)
