“The next time you place your tiny paws on my computer, it better result in a great (expletive) story! Otherwise, get off my keyboard! Evidently, delete and publish means nothing to you. Got it??”
A conversation with our kitten.
Paws
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Cramping
One of my sisters once said camping in a hotel was much better than camping outdoors. My friend, one of the toughest guys I’ve ever met, would agree with my sister.
A terrific comedian, Jim Gaffiigan, did a fabulous bit on the miseries of camping and the possibilities of being eaten by a wild animal. I can’t steal his humorous thunder, but I can describe the reality, vicariously, through one of my friends.
What you are about to read is shocking. These are text excerpts from a friend currently camping with his wife, family, and some friends.
Day one: “Let the wife do all the shopping for me and packing. She woke up bubbly this morning, and my goal is to knock the bubbly out of her being.” (I requested confirmation.) “I need her to stop being bubbly. So, I’m going to antagonize her until she is no longer bubbly. I want her to be as miserable as me. So, I’m knocking the bubbly out of her being.” (When not camping, this is a happily married couple of over fifteen years with three wonderful sons.)
Day Two: He just described his wife as a Roman Candle. She didn’t respond very well after she did all the packing and retrieved all the food. Evidently, she didn’t pack his favorite foods. He may be sleeping in the car, if there is one near by.
Update: “I was a dick head to my wife at a subconscious level.”
How lovely. This poor man loves his wife, but hates his weekend life in the woods. I’m not buying that entirely.
Day Three: “I’m going to cover myself with honey and this expensive huckleberry jam we purchased at the campsite’s convenient store in hopes a bear soon takes me out of my misery.”
I haven’t heard from him since.
‘
The Truth
My wife recently referred to me as a non violent active volcano. I took it as a compliment. Preferably, I would enjoy the the term “Passionate”. It’s far more delicate and refined. If I read into it any other way, I may erupt with silly anger only to embarrass myself, friends and my family, only too easy of a task.
The truth is….my wife is correct, and so am I.
Co-Laziness
“When I wrote this book…..”
Don’t give me that crap. Usually trying to keep my writing positive, I am going to accentuate something negative, or shall I write, realistic, today. There are many things on this earth which annoy me: terrorists, Trump, Hillary, The Family Circus, but nothing more than a celebrity or ex sports star claiming to have written a book about themselves, unless it is written by themselves. “When I wrote this book”……wait a minute……….who wrote this book? You may as well begin by stating the truth. “When I was sitting on a bar stool telling stories, some man or woman jotted down notes, then converted these stories to well crafted sentences, paragraphs and chapters all ending with, ‘wait till you hear this next one’ so I could get most of the credit by paying him or her to do so. Only in miniature font, shall I give the man or woman credit putting in the majority of the work into said book.”
I despise the term “Co-written” unless you have two people collectively sitting down with a pen, notebook, laptop, sticky notes, journaling over a cup of coffee or a can of beer and composing sentences together. Screen writers do it all the time. That, I respect. What I don’t respect is the lack of integrity some possess by not properly acknowledging those actually writing the book, which is the most difficult part.
Sadly, my father convinced me at a young age to read the book “The Mick”. It is an autobiography about the “Great” Mickey Mantle. With “Great” bold letters, the book’s cover read, “The Mick” MICKEY MANTLE, H. Gluck. Who’s this H.Gluck guy? Who cares? Naively, I believed this was written by Mickey Mantle himself. How does this freak of baseball talent with good looks, Centerfield speed and astonishing power find the time to write a book about hitting home runs while hung over on a daily basis in Yankee Stadium? Of course, I want to be this guy! Drinking and dining at the finest restaurants for free in New York, hitting bombs in Yankee Stadium, making loads of money while taking your pick of any girl you want, yet still being educated enough to write an autobiography? Chicks love the long ball, but they also love the brains. He had it all. In the eighth grade, I thought, “oh, yeah, I want to be him.” Mickey Mantle didn’t write one word in that book and probably forgot or regretted every word he uttered while giving the writer complete artistic liberty.
Heartwarming as the stories may be, whether it be blaming your failures on drug, alcohol, or mental issues, please give those who write these tender stories verbal credit or a crap load of money.
This morning, I was motivated to write this piece because of something I read on the front page of the sport’s section. Since I am overseas, and you wouldn’t know which periodical I may be referring to, I still won’t disclose who inspired me this morning, but I will tell you, he made me question his complete lack of integrity, not just as a “writer”, but as a baseball player.
If I ever told someone my silly stories and wanted them to write them down while falling off a bar stool, thus completing a book, I would insist the title be, “Co-Laziness”.
I Want to Get Physical
At the end of my half ass working day of writing, while additionally feeding dogs, cats, squirrels, birds and other animals I don’t even recognize on our block, I need a break.
Having a love affair with food, and cooking it when it’s fresh, walking through a grocery store is usually my place of solitude, unless some fool is playing, “Let’s Get Physical” by Olivia Newton John over the loud speaker. It absolutely ruins the one hour break I have before my wife comes home, stinking of culvert maintenance.
Being one of this store’s best customers, who also suffered through Duran Duran’s “The Reflex” while purchasing “forty dollars a pound Copper River Salmon”, the freshness of the fish allowed me to give the store a pass. However, listening to “Let’s get physical” bursted the buttons on my newly dry cleaned blouse. After sarcastically having a chat with the cashier regarding this critical dilemma, he applauded me by laughingly pointing out the man who I should “get physical” with, regarding this grocery store musical crime.
Assuming I’d be banned from this store, instead, I was given a badge of courage by the other hard working members of the store, all collectively agreeing with me.
A Hearty Stew (For Everyone)
For Mother’s Day, I decided to make a stew. I didn’t do it for my mother. Rather, I did it for a dog. Seeking the proper ingredients necessary for a hearty stew, I visited the local farmer’s market bagging fresh carrots, garlic, peas, corn, pearl onions, yukon gold potatoes, brussels sprouts, and, of course, stew meat. I had to drop by a common store for the stock. We will share this stew with our dog, Jack, because that’s what my mom would want.
Even when our mother was cooking stew for eight to ten people at a time, including a few others who had moved out of the house, she still saved some for our dog, Bolivar. It was beautiful to witness her care so much for a dog, as though he was one of her own litter. It was beautiful right up to the point when one of her sons, working and living outside the house, yet remaining in the same zip code, could smell the stew from afar.
Left over stew simmering on the stove for Bolivar, my mother was probably doing laundry, dusting, windexing every window in the house, vacuuming, or praying for a break when an intruder slipped into our house and ate our dog’s lunch. She caught him with a mouthful and read him a prison riot act. (This was very uncommon for my mother to read riot acts.) It was our brother, Steve, who had a knack for smelling and eating everything edible, even if it was meant for a dog.
Our mother loved and cared for anyone walking on two legs or four, but she was also very fair. Steve had probably eaten twice that day before lunch, and mom knew it. Bolivar deserved that meal, and Steve, good soul that he is, was shamed into cooking another stew for a hungry dog.
Sweetness
“You guys, my daughter is so smart.” “Hey, seriously, my son is really, really good at everything.” (Cue the trumpets.) “I hereby declare, our dog is the sweetest, kindest, most polite and dumbest canine God has bestowed upon us all, and I will fight any man or woman who says otherwise!” I’ve been guilty of one of these former proclamations.
Parents of children and animals whip these phrases around as if they are stone cold gospel only furthering themselves from parishioners questioning their beliefs. Sometimes, when it comes to family, pride can cloud our judgment, much like honesty can get you in a heap of trouble with your significant other.
I’m not knocking parents, because I think they actually convince themselves that these statements are true, and that, my friends, is unconditional love. It is also, sometimes, confirmation of their legal blindness. When their sons or daughters grow up, they may or may not end up being astronauts, professional athletes, rap stars, blackjack or coke dealers, but, one way or another, they will, without exception, live up to some form of standard.
When my wife and I had our first child, a bernese mountain dog we named Etta, after about two years of her life, I determined that she wasn’t terribly smart. Sweet, but not smart. (Sometimes, I prefer people with similar characteristics. It seems to clear up the pretentiousness.) None too happy about my remark, for months my wife denied our ebony and ivory fur ball was anything short of future canine valedictorian status.
Not being a member of the “make your animals do tricks” organization, my wife and I would just give simple orders. “Sit, please.” “Wait……wait.” “Where’s your ball?” In addition to finding her gigantic beach ball sitting just feet away from her, she was pretty good at the former two commands or suggestions as well. But, it was her genuinely goofy, rather dumb looking smile she would maintain at all times, making you think her mind was in another room or county.
Frequently traveling with Etta and our other dog, Jack, gave us time to evaluate her intelligence, or lack there of, outside of her comfort zone. Six years ago, my nephew was participating in a wrestling tournament in Wenatchee, Washington in mid December. Although there was a winter storm warning, we packed up the dogs and headed east, opting to stay the night at a dog friendly hotel. After the tournament, and before heading to bed, we took the dogs outside for a potty break and a romp in the six inches of snowfall. Being impervious to the cold, our large dogs had a blast as we threw gigantic snowballs directed at their bulbous heads, only to laugh at them attempting to catch the balls in their mouths. It was terrific family fun, and Etta’s goofy smile never wavered. Not being impervious to the cold, my wife and I finally decided it was time to head back to the room. Etta must have understood the outdoor fun was over, and before we could tell them to follow us back to the room, Etta decided to lead the way, and surprisingly, she was heading precisely to our room which had direct access outside from the first floor. My wife, Britt, looked at me with excitement and said, “She knows which room we’re in. I don’t think she’s as dumb as you think she is.” At that very moment, Etta busted through the screen door to our room and dove onto our bed, soaking it with her drenched locks. The grin she maintained as we followed her path into the room negated any lecture we may have provided as we looked from her to the now useless screen door on the rug, riddled with a less than inconspicuous hole. I then looked at my wife with a smile and didn’t say a word. We never spoke of her intellect again.
For eight years, this warm and wonderful dog warned us when people were in our driveway. If she liked you, she’d rest peacefully at your feet. When having fun, her laughter was a gregarious bark. Although not bred for swimming, she would happily retrieve tennis balls in the Puget Sound on a sunny day just to please us. After inadvertently passing wind in our living room, embarrassed, Etta would quietly excuse herself to her own doggie timeout, even though we didn’t mind. When Britt or I were sick, she’d sense it and huddle close to comfort us. When Jack, six years older than Etta, needed to go outside for a break, she’d come upstairs to let us know. Up until the day of her passing, I don’t remember her tail not waging. She may not have been the smartest dog on the block, but no one who met her, whether it be at home, the park, the vet clinic, or on vacation could present an argument that she wasn’t the sweetest dog in our world.
Dancing with the Pirates
Convincing my wife to watch “Dancing with the Stars” with me the other evening caused her to look at me as though I’d finally started taking hallucinogenic drugs. Of course, I don’t use drugs. That still remains years and blocks down the path of my bumpy life. She was surprised, because I’d never made such a suggestion. Late at night, it’s usually Seinfeld or Jaws putting us to sleep.
For years, my mother and one of my brothers have watched this dazzling show and find it entertaining, so I thought we’d give it a shot. It was entertaining. You put a pair of dancing boots on Geraldo Riviera, and it guarantees entertainment, in the most sinister of ways. Not that I can dance, but if Geraldo’s partner just brought a carry on cardboard cutout through customs of him on stage, you wouldn’t have known the difference. I don’t mind making fun of Geraldo. I felt he owed me after making me suffer through three hours of mindless television regarding an Al Capone vault not providing any substance or resolution as to why we paid for television.
Years ago, when this delightful program began to air, my mother immediately took interest. So, living in another city and speaking to her only once a week, I always wished to take interest in her leisurely activities. Watching “Dancing with the Stars” and “Little House on the Prairie” was one of her activities.
Not giving a Yankee dime about the outcome of the dancers’ demise, I loved my mother’s commentary. Similar to rooting for a baseball, football or basketball team you don’t give a crap about, you wish to support the ones you love, even if it involves dancing or soccer. I wanted to root for her horse in this race.
“Who are you pulling for, mom?”
“I’m rooting for the girl with the wooden leg.”
With my sister laughing in the background, I replied with some distraction and incredulousness. “What? Is this dancing with the stars, or dancing with the pirates? Does she dance with an eye patch, and is the parrot on her shoulder taking lessons as well?”
Turns out, Paul McCartney’s ex wife was participating in the event, and I had no clue she had a wooden leg, or “prosthetic” now used in times following ancient Greece. Loving my mother, unconditionally, I had to root for the lady with the wooden leg.
Costa Robbery
My wife’s current place of employment, Deet Bug Spray, is sending her to Costa Rica for research regarding the recent malaria outbreak. She’s worried about the journey because she only speaks fluent English, a dose of French, some Gaelic, but no Spanish. As an educated man, I provided some pointers. (Other than two years of taking Spanish in high school where the only words I recall are “caca” and “punta”, I had to reach deeper into my pocket of trilingual specialties for her survival phrases.)
My favorite movie, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, provided more practical Spanish than two years of me ignoring my high school teacher. “Manos Arriba.” Estu Es Un Robo.” Translation: Put your hands in up! This is a robbery. I haven’t explained what the phrases properly mean to my wife, but I know when she enters a restaurant, she will either get free tacos or sent to jail. Either way, it will be funny.
Adios.
Catch of the Day
My wife and I recently won the sweepstakes and decided to take a trip to a place where it only rains once a day. Sometimes, it may rain every other day, but since I used to be a betting man, there is only one guarantee on an island other than the time: The fish is always fresh.
One of the most glorious and, to many others, seemingly meaningless pleasures in my wonderful world is ordering something off the menu without actually looking at the menu. (I take the menu home later for leisurely bedtime reading.)
“What will you have to order?”
“The catch of the day.”
“How will you like it prepared?”
“However the chef prepares it.”
This is why I carry Benadryl in my wallet at all times preparing for uncomfortable and life threatening allergies. If the fish is fresh, there is a slight chance, twenty minutes later after eating it, my throat may be shutting similar to the bars at Alcatraz, and my face may look similar to the puffer fish I may have consumed. Either way, well worth it.
I do feel safe when my wife is with me to witness this production and keep her ” well charged” cell phone with her at all times in case 911 may come in handy.
Sometimes, I wonder if the catch of the day is the fish or my wife. I’ll take the latter.