wideeyedfunk

Category: Life

Always so surprising.

  • Wretched Chores Made Less Crappy: Weed Pulling Cocktails

    Dangerously weedy driveway cracks.

    The weeds in the driveway now hit the undercarriage of the WideEyedRides. I can hear them smacking the bumper and the bigger sticky-er ones make tiny scraping noises as I putt-putt up the drive. Brush fires are a concern when I park the hot engines over the verdant crack weeds. I can’t turn my face away any longer. It is time to weed the driveway.

    Years ago the Spouse and I developed a system for undertaking this wretched chore – which, you may note comes about ONLY during the smoking hottest sizzling portion of the summer.

    Our system does not include herbicide. Have a look at that image over there on the right. If I blasted those tall, healthy, nearly blooming weeds with herbicide what would I get? Tall, dead, yellow weeds, even more likely to catch on fire, that’s what. And I don’t want to hear anything about maybe taking care of this before it becomes a problem, prophylactic herbicide application, whatever. This happens every year and has in every house we’ve ever owned. The situation exists. And the solution includes gin. Lots of gin.

    The WideEyedHousehold Driveway Weed Remediation System:

    WideEyedSpouse’s preferred components.

    First wait until the worst of the blasting heat fades. Tonight that’ll be about 7:45. Then assemble the ice, gin, tonic, and cucumber/limes, and mix up a couple of weed pulling cocktails –leaving the ingredients easy to hand. The Spouse and I find it useful to gather the weeding paraphernalia at this point. Now take a few moments to assess the situation, look over the weeds, measure the length of the drive, wave to passing neighbors – and end the assessment phase when the ice cubes no longer float, but rattle emptily.

    Ok, so it’ll be about 8pm by this point. Maybe a little later. About an hour of usable daylight left. Now you need to step into the kitchen to mix up another couple of weed pulling gin and tonics. Get your music – Elvis or Delta Blues are best here – and start with the weeding. You should be feeling pretty cheery as you move into your second weed puller cocktail. But here’s the key to this step: start at the end of the drive most visible to the general public and be thorough while you still have the will and ability to be so.

    WideEyedFunk’s weed pulling cocktail components.

    When the ice is alone in the glass again, return to the kitchen and mix new weed pullers with your muddy, weed stained hands. It’ll be moving on to 8:20, 8:30 by this point. Dusk really. This is when the really noticeable work happens. Crouching carefully, so as not to spill, yank out the really tall driveway weeds. They’re the ones causing the problem anyway.

    By 9pm it’ll be over and all will be tidy in the driveway – or let’s be honest here – it will be dark enough or your vision bleary enough to make it look tidy. Doesn’t matter. Effect is the same. Chore is done. Just FYI, it is tempting to mix another weed puller to sip on while appreciating the less weedy driveway for a little while but trust me, this is a Bad Idea. We’ll just leave it at that.

    Remember, don’t ever drink and drive. But by all means, drink and weed if necessary.

  • Who cleans up the ick?

    Maybe it is because I am from New Jersey. Maybe it’s because I read too many books of questionable topics.  But when I was standing in the sandwich shop on Niagara Falls Boulevard and saw the Eraser (www.erase-it.org) business card, I thought, Oh yeah, I need to put that card in my wallet. Because you just never really know. Discreet and professional biohazard remediation is EXACTLY what a person wants to have on speed dial. When you need it, you need it.. As I stood at the long counter of the sandwich shop waiting for my Philly cheesesteak (Buffalo interpretation) hoagy (Buffalo spelling. Inexplicable.), I thought of many reasons to call the Eraser:

    Vampire extermination. Ash and anciently rotting bio-ooze are left behind every time. Disgusting.

    Borg attack. Watch StarTrek Voyager on Netflix for a while. They just look smelly. Really, really smelly.

    Ghoul nesting. Ghouls drool. They prefer carrion. Even if you don’t mind them around, someone’s got to clean up sometimes. They’ll rot a house out otherwise.

    October 22nd Incidents. Ask the WideEyedDad what happens when you feed an old dog curry on October 21st.  He could have called the Eraser instead of using a pointy nail to clean the cracks in the hardwood flooring.

    Mob hit. Obvious. And, according to many, many novels, movies, and shows, most of us will have to deal with this eventually.

    Zombie attack. We all know they are gooey and splashy when they go.

    Ultimately I left the business card and simply programmed the number into my phone. The Eraser’s card was the most useful of the hundreds of banal real estate, lawn care, handy man, hair salon, whatever crap pinned to the board – who am I to deprive the rest of North Buffalo of the Eraser? Anyway, now you all know who to call too…tell him WideEyedFunk sent you.

  • Nice to see you. What books did you bring?

    Wide Eyed Funks visit one another every now and again, even though leaving the comforts and libraries of home is difficult for us. We are happy to see each other even if the joy of the family visit is tempered by the knowledge that a certain amount of reading time is going to be sacrificed for actual human interaction. It is, at best, bittersweet.

    We have developed a solution to the problem. And what I can’t decide is this: is our solution – mutually enacted, endlessly repeated –  conscious or unconscious?

    When a visit to or from a Funk household is impending, the book stack begins. What might the visitor like to read, what might be passed on to the host from the far-flung family collections? Once the visit begins, the discussions about “what have you been reading” are far more interesting than accomplishments, work activities, household life events, yah yah yah. That stuff comes and goes. The books, they linger. And, the best part, since everyone has new books to read, no one is left out when an entire room of Funks is lounging, reading, quiet. That’s the part I can’t figure out: do we bring books to keep other Funks quiet? Or is the happy quiet fortuitous? I suppose it makes no matter.

    This time a mixed stack of books came from one set of the Virginia Funks. A mixed stack will go home with them – some which originated with the New Jersey Funks.

    Snack. Beer. Book.

    To Virginia:

    Island of the Lost

    American Lion

    Honolulu

    Cold Mountain

    Moon Called

    The Good, the Bad, and the Undead

    Getting Stoned with Savages

    The Year 1000

    Soulless

    To Buffalo:

    Red Earth and Pouring Rain

    While I Was Gone

    One the Occasion of My Last Afternoon

    The Virgin Queen’s Daughter

     There’s more to say – there always is with books, but really, I’ve got some reading waiting for me. And yeah – maybe I need some snacks and a glass of wine too.

  • Twenty things I could have bought with the $20 I lost yesterday.

    1. 2,000 pieces of penny candy. Two thousand.

    2. 20 minutes of satellite phone time to talk to the Spouse from the remote fieldwork location.

    Strawberry Shortcake Donut, with Angel Cream.

    3. 2 dozen Paula’s Donuts. That’s 24 items of pure deliciousness.

    4. Two tickets to a Buffalo Bisons game.

    5. 20 Mega Millions lottery tickets.

    6. A shovel.

    7. 6 bags of Family Size potato chips.

    8. Gas for a scenic drive to Olcott and back, with a stop at Reids Hot Dogs.

    9. A really big bale of toilet paper.

    10. Contact lens solution, pickles, potato chips and fair-trade coffee at Target: the intended purpose.

    A dog needs a good chair.

    11. A dog chair.

    12. A dog license renewal.

    13. A marriage license (17 years ago).

    14. 180 dukie bags for dog walks.

    15. 2 completely drinkable bottles of wine, or one wine-in-a-box (Equivalent of 4 bottles – stays fresh for a month. Just saying.).

    16. 2 6-packs of quality beer.

    17. Almost 3 months of Netflix.

    18. Approximately 60 showers, 8 dishwasher runs, 5-10 loads of hot water laundry (whites and dog beds) – in other words, a summer month gas bill.

    19. An emergency room copay. The Spouse got rollerblades for his birthday.

    20. 48 vegetable plants.

     If only I had used my wallet to house the $20. All of that could have been mine.

  • Peanuts, Beer, and Minor League Baseball on a Spring Evening

    The Buffalo Bisons beat the Columbus Clippers in a dramatic bottom of the 10th inning run from third as the Clipper’s catcher scrambled for a mis-pitched ball. The 1000 or so Buffalonians in the stadium hooted and whooped as they filed out of Coca-Cola Field into the gloaming twilight.

    We were at the game last night because the Spouse won the department lottery for the company’s baseball tickets. We fed the poochies, locked down the household, and set off to the Metro station. We walked past permanent Santa who watched us from above, and we descended level after level into the bowels of the creepily uncrowded Metro tunnel. I emptied my pockets for the $8 round trip ride for the both of us. Parking downtown was $5. But then, where’s the adventure in parking a car?  I do that every day one place or another.

    The Buffalo Bisons mascot Buster and his son Chip wandered the stands – the Spouse high fived Chip. The Boy Robin tromped up and down the stadium stairs yelling “Snow Cones! Three dollars!” with relentless cheer and hope. I think he was selling the same couple of snow cones the whole evening. Like Batman’s true sidekick he remained stalwart in adversity, and his cape fluttered heroically in the wind, his eyes were sharp and clear behind his mask.

    “Cold Bud, Bud Light, Peanuts!” Alrighty. I got some peanuts and the Spouse got a can of Bud from the Conehead – “With this can the Conehead guarantee, if it’s warm, this beer’s on me…” The Spouse sipped – it wasn’t warm. And the peanuts were great, fresh, salty, flakey. When I was done with the bag the Spouse was covered with the red peanut skins caught by the evening breeze.

    We watched the fast game. We looked over at the General Mills Big G on their heritage cereal plant. Trucks heading to and coming from Canada roared past on the 190. The Spouse and I were featured on the big screen not once, but TWO times – the Delta Sonic Super Kiss Cam and the other time during a lull in the game. I know, right – how many times do you get to be on the screen in a professional league arena? TWO times in one game when you go to minor league. I think we are celebrities now. I could tell people on the train home wanted my autograph. Actually, the Spouse and I speculated that since the audience was sparse we ALL got a turn up there.

    A crazy old guy dressed in full Bisons regalia, including batting cap, which maybe was for his protection, shrieked incomprehensibles at the Clippers – he’d point at one coming to bat, run his finger across his throat, punch one fist into another, point at his belly button and then back the batter on deck. You know it was weird. But, it was unnerving the Clippers, we could all tell. So, we cheered our unconventional psychological weapon as the innings of no runs, no hits, all strike outs and walks marched on.

    The tension of the 10th inning was eased by a tiny blonde girl in the front of the stands. “Let’s go Bisons!” her little voice piped – we clap, clap…clap, clap, clapped in response. She called it again. We clapped. She looked transcendent with joy and it was on – she chanted, we clapped, over and over until her little voice rasped and she collapsed, exhausted, next to her dad. I think we transformed her life last night, and taught her the intoxicating power of controlling a crowd through performance. I hope she’s ok.

    Massive mosquitoes like small fighter planes arrived and menaced in the lights above us. They weren’t quite hungry enough to come down for dinner, but everyone was scared and looked up at the swarm pretty regularly. A new player for the Bisons stepped up  – his stats at all zeros. The crowd cheered him on, welcoming him to their club. He struck out I think, but I was busy watching the mosquito swarm.

    The Spouse and I have been to ball games in a lot of states. Big stadiums in PA, WI, and MN, little Wrigley where we saw a home run go through someone’s window across the street – and more. Last night’s game in the more empty than full stadium, with little contests, races, and swag give-aways between most innings, with young guys in ill-fitting uniforms trying real hard– was the best, fastest, and most cheerful game I’ve ever seen.  We’ll be back Bisons – because your baseball is fun baseball.

  • Street level synchronicity

    The spouse was driving us to Gramma Mora’s for carnitas and margaritas because sometimes life is just right. Ok, almost just right, because we were aiming for Suzy Q’s BBQ Shack but she decided not to open on Tuesday. Anyway, we hit a red light. I guess even on good days that can happen.

    The walking man on the traffic light post at Hertel and North Park tick, tick, ticked away the seconds of waiting. The spouse reached over and turned on the radio and music came on that had the same beat as the walking man. (Go on out to youtube in another browser window and start Basement Jaxx, Raindrops and it’ll be like you were there too, maybe in the back seat thinking your own thoughts…)

    I tapped my foot on the floor mat and watched an out of shape new mom dressed in yoga wear jiggle her way across the crosswalk – the smiling baby’s head visible in the carriage bobbed to the beat along with her mom’s footsteps. Weird, I thought, three or four things following the same rhythm.

    To the left, on the cross street, two fit youngish men walked a long-haired dachshund who was smiling as much as the baby. His tiny feet pattered in double time to the main beat and his owners swung their arms in synch. The dachshund stopped to sniff a lamp post and I looked to my right.

    A teen aged girl with a bouncy walk and bouncy blond pony tail strode past an old woman who was tapping one long, arthritis gnarled finger against the glass of the Stock Exchange vintage stuff shop. The tap, the bounce, they were in time with the rest of us at the intersection. The girl disappeared into a beauty shop. The old woman turned away and walked on.

    The light changed to green, the walking man flash, flash, flashed in the other direction, and the Spouse accelerated away from the moment.

  • You have all that gray hair, but your face looks so young.

    Elvis on the move, moments after he ditched a wad of gum or tobacco in the potted palms.

    Once again I was minding my own business in a public place – brain elsewhere because I had just delivered a research paper while feeling ever-so-queasy from a little too much wine and a few too many Elvis sightings the evening before. I was in a city far from home – not Vegas but the other Elvis city. I am never completely aimless or preoccupied when I’m in a strange city, because that’s just not good business, but I was sort of slumping along in my smarty-pants suit heading back to the conference center after a respite from the noise and hot air of too many brains talking too much.

    A youngish man, 31 years old as it turns out, swooped in beside me, his pencil behind his ear, notebook at his side. He matched his pace to mine and looked at me. Since I wanted to be able to describe him to the police after he ran off with my purse, I looked back at him. I’m a naturally friendly person, and maybe nefarious people are less inclined to rob nice folks. So I took a chance. I smiled at him, a little social smile. A smile that said I see you walking here next to me on this fine spring day, Stranger.

    He blurted out his line: “You look young.”

    Huh?

    I didn’t falter, but I thought, Where can this backhanded comment possibly lead? Because friends, I am not particularly young and his statement about my youthful appearance sounded insultingly surprised. I was willing to play this through. I had the time, and people are so fascinating, aren’t they? I said, “Oh?”

    This person hiked up his oversized jeans and looked awkward. I looked around to see if he had associates sneaking up on us for this riveting conversation. Nope. He said, “I mean, you have all that white hair in there,” and he gestured to the front of his hair – where mine has turned mostly white. I guess he figured I might not know what he meant. As though nearing middle age women don’t notice the constant encroachment of the white. He continued, “You have all that gray hair, but your face looks so young. It doesn’t match.”

    I smiled pretty big at him because I was really, truly amused. I said, “That’s the joy of life keeping me looking young.” He seemed confused. He shook his head and looked at the ground. He attempted to clarify his point and said , “Well, I’m 31.” I thought, And so?

    I realized that I had no idea what was going on, and I decided to end the social engagement. “Time does pass,” I told him. I accelerated my walk and he peeled off to the side, joining some friends at a trolley stop. He told me to have a nice day.

    It is a week later, and I still can’t figure out what was going on. The street I was on is notorious for unsavory party-city activities. The goal in shops, restaurants, and from folks on the street is to separate tourists from their money and/or self respect. The person sure swooped in on me like he was going to lay down a sales pitch line about his “cause” which just needed some financial support. But instead of any of that sordid business, he and I talked about time passing, aging, and the joy of life. Does it even really matter what was going on?

  • Dental hygiene at what cost?

    The husband contributes a guest essay while the WideEyed…Wife travels for work.

    I am the husband of the beautiful and talented author of the wideeyedfunk blog you are slowly falling in love with one week at a time.  I am your guest author this week as the wifey is off doing her big-brained, intellectual work in another one of the 50 States. When I am not absent mindedly looking for the ketchup or awesomely rewiring our light fixtures in a drunken stupor I am allowed to go outside and play with the public at large. You can see some stuff out there if you open your eyes and look around. Sometimes you see good things and sometimes you see things you wished you hadn’t, but there is always something.

    Here’s an example of the latter:

    This past weekend I was sitting in the car waiting for the spouse to come out of a store.  I was passing the time with my iPhone watching a movie on Netflix and marveling, as I often do, at the wonders of modern technology.  When I was young a telephone was heavy, it could be used to whack a burglar in a pinch.  It had a rotating dial that schoooooook—ch-ch-ch’d its way back and forth as you dialed each digit in the phone number in question. AND it had a cord that attached it to a jack on the wall. If you were out and about and needed to call someone then you needed a payphone and some pocket change.  Disgusting things those pay phones…did they ever get cleaned?  I don’t think so.  All that spittle, face oil, ear detritus, and other disgusting effluvia just piling up on the receiver year after year. Yuck. If you wanted to see a movie you went to the movie theater…another arguably disgusting public experience.  Now you can do both…on a phone that is the size of a wallet. Amazing.  It will never get old to me.

    Anyway…I digress.  So there I was sitting in the in the car minding my own business watching my movie and marveling as indicated above.  In my peripheral vision I see a car pull into the space in front of me.  No biggie…still watching my movie.  Again, in the periphery, I see the driver door open.  Movie still has my attention.  A female head and attached shoulders lean out from the interior of the car.  Not a whole person, just the head and shoulders.   I am starting to think that maybe, just maybe this could be one of those “see something” moments.  My instincts were validated seconds later as a stream of spit jetted forth from her mouth on to the unsuspecting street below.  Spit? I guess that cheapens the moment somewhat and girls are made up of sugar and spice and everything nice so let’s try to pretty it up a bit…a cascading water fall of liquid erupted forth from her mouth and showered the ground below?  Either way…it happened.  I saw it. THEN…a hand shot out from the interior of the car and it was holding a toothbrush.  Oh…I see.  All the sudden it wasn’t a gross experience anymore…it was simply good dental hygiene.  Well ok, I can respect that.  Good dental hygiene is important at home or on the go.  Carry on my good woman! Spit out that toothpaste with pride! My respect for this person was renewed…for a moment.

    My good feelings were soon shattered as the hand swung down and knocked the toothbrush against the bottom of the car. Umm. What?! What am I supposed to think now?  Gross right?  Will that toothbrush ever be used again?  I hope not. Certainly not…right?  I mean, she might as well have just knocked it against the street.  The filth of humanity is on the street and gets kicked up onto your car as you drive.  Your toothbrush and the bottom of your car should never have the pleasure of meeting. It’s not a written rule but I am sure Emily Post would have a word or two on the subject.

    So as I sat there trying to gather my thoughts, the car slowly drove to the opposite side of the street and parked again. A man soon emerged from a nearby house, walked to the car, gave the woman a quick smooch and then climbed into the passenger side. Nice right?  Maybe it’s a date and she was stopping for a quick tooth brushing before picking up the man.  I can appreciate that…very considerate. But I couldn’t stop wondering if that toothbrush had been through this routine on previous occasions.  How would that guy feel if he had just seen what I saw?  Would that quick smooch have happened?  Maybe the date would not have happened. But, at that moment, my wonderful wife climbed into the car and suddenly all was right with my world again. I drove off and left the two strangers to enjoy their…let’s go with date.

    Don’t forget to brush!

  • Santa Lives in Buffalo, Strapped to a Railing

    Last March Santa looked forlorn strapped to the fifth floor balcony of an apartment building near the Canisius College Metro station. His cherry red suit was faded to a soft tea rose pink. His pink cheeks had bleached to vampire whiteness. Traffic soot embedded into his beard, hair, and the rim of fluffy white on his hat gave them an ultra-real dimensionality that shouldn’t be possible on his round plastic body.  Now a year later, Santa still rigidly dangles that hundred or more feet off  the ground. But between last March and today he had his weeks of glory, and the true brilliance of the apartment owner shined into the December nights.

     We assumed that Balcony Santa was collateral damage in someone’s busy life. You know what I mean – wreaths that were perky in December but flap forlornly in February’s gusts, the spindly Christmas tree carcass that appears on the curb in April, and one of my favorites – Rudolph standing in an unkempt front garden with late summer purple coneflowers bobbing around him. We figured Santa was just like those forgotten remnants of Christmas spirit. But this winter, on a fine December evening we were hurtling down the Scajaquada Expressway and there he was shining far above the road. Santa was lit and glowing: his red suit agleam, his dark eyes like holes in his dreadfully cheery winter-white face. He hovered, one arm in the air raised to spread a message of Christmas cheer: “Farewell to all, and to all a good night…” He lit up the Christmas season. He glowed through New Year’s Eve. And then he was shut off.

     You have to figure that Santa is tied onto that balcony railing pretty firmly. Even permanently. He hasn’t sagged. He doesn’t move in the 50 or 60 mile an hour winds that howl through the city. And when I think about the annual effort of untangling lights, hanging lights, prying lights down, stowing lights – I wonder if Santa’s owner isn’t much smarter than me. Sure, a person would have to have selective vision, to be able to look past Santa on say, the Fourth of July, but I bet that is easier than going hypothermic for the Christmas spirit every year. Balcony Santa isn’t forgotten. He is simply waiting in his aerie. And maybe, he is keeping an eye out – checking off the naughty and the nice.

  • Why Can’t My Husband Find the Ketchup?

    Men and women see the world differently. This isn’t my opinion; it’s a strongly supported scientific hypothesis. Men and women perceive space and the items in it differently. I wrote an article about it. I think about it all the time for my work. But for some reason I never applied my ivory tower notions to my household.

     Why does my husband have to lean into the refrigerator hunting the ketchup? It’s been on the same door shelf position in all 11 of our households over the years. It isn’t rocket science. The man memorizes the URLs of hundreds of routers and switches and techie stuff for his work. But he can’t reliably find the ketchup.

     It just isn’t his fault. Evolutionary psychology tells us that men learn large territories and routes through them, while women learn smaller areas in greater detail. Back in the day, men were hunting the big game over days of effort. Women were taking care of every other detail of life, including feeding themselves and their families using their detailed knowledge of local, smaller resource areas. Don’t argue it. Just accept it as an idea. A maybe explanation for inexplicable male behavior in the household.

     The notion has important implications for maintaining a harmonious marriage.

     You have to remember that your man is not being deliberately obtuse to avoid domestic responsibility. He is using the skill set thousands of generations of men developed during critical phases of our species’ survival. He quite honestly may not have the ability to remember that the ketchup lives on the second door shelf.

     You are thinking that he should be able to see the bright red ketchup there on the door. That the bottle placement is stupendously obvious. But evolved psychological tendencies can be remarkably subtle and powerful. Give your man the benefit of the doubt. Don’t expect him to know what you know about the ketchup, the car keys, the dog’s leash…when he asks, just tell him exactly where the object is or pretend you can’t hear him. Don’t worry if he can’t find stuff when he is on his own. He won’t even notice there’s a problem because this is normal for him.

     Is it easier to be a woman? I think so. After all, I can use a map to go the long distances – and I have all that extra time to travel them because I am not hunting the house for my keys, the dog’s leash, or the ketchup. Enjoy the partnership. Let evolution run wild and free!