wideeyedfunk

Category: Life

Always so surprising.

  • Are you heading to the basement?

    Cruising on the Kulana Huli.

    Are you heading to the basement? The Spouse asked me. I glared at him, turned a page in the LL Bean winter coats catalog. I didn’t want to head to the basement. The basement is where the fitness gear is kept. The stationary bike. The weights. The Bowflex that came with the house. The basement is a place of boredom and discomfort. I dislike it. On the other hand, I do like reasonable blood pressure and the ability to be agile as my person betrays me with age. So, as a household the Spouse , the dogs, and I frequent the basement. The people use the wretched gear. The dogs sniff the cat box and chew things.

    Joe’s Deli has new specials up today, the Spouse continued on in an apparent non sequitur. It was a sneaky tactic. In the secret language of our long association he was suggesting two things: 1) Get take-out – and house rules state that if you SAY take-out, we GET take-out. Period. He didn’t quite say it though. 2) Avoid the basement – take-out and basement rarely occur on the same day.

    I flipped more pages in the catalog.  It was a crummy choice. The basement and good health but no delicious take-out OR take-out and an escalation of the impending waistband emergency.

    What if – and here I looked up to make direct eye contact with the Spouse – what if we rode our bikes over to the deli to get the take out?

    The bright light of my genius flared the room and the Spouse stood straight and tall. He looked at me with love and awe. And so it was.

    Buffalo Zoo bison at dinner. Dining in tonight.

    And it was great. I saw wondrous things on the ride to the take-out. A small red rubber ball, the kind that come from gum machines and dentist office chests, sadly lost and alone on the street. A jogger, a thousand joggers in the park, sweating and puffing. I smiled at them from my dignified, scarfed position aboard the mighty Kulana Huli. I bet they weren’t getting take-out.

    I stopped at the zoo to look at the bison munching  their hay. We saw a butt made of pumpkins – with a stuffed straw person built around it to look like someone’s pants were drooping as they bent over. An angry or mean young person was flinging cds into traffic from atop an apartment building. A dog ran into the street and was saved. A cop car went by in massive fury, sailing over bumps at high speed. I smiled at a guy mowing his lawn and he smiled back.

    Blurry Pumpkin Butt. Me and the Kulana Huli cruised by too fast for a clear shot.

    Within 30 minutes of the decision, the Spouse and I sat the stools at the kitchen table with a cheesesteak for me and a turkey reuben for him. His beer bottle fitzed when he opened it, and my wine gurgled into a glass. We smiled pretty smugly at each other and I think at the same time sneaked soggy take-out chips to dogs.

  • A goldfish escaped in the car.

    It isn’t what it sounds like. I didn’t actually lose a Carassius auratus auratus in the car. It isn’t like the time the lobsters got free and headed for liberty under the seats. We could hear them shuffling around under there while we sped for the house. I held my feet up, sure one was going to get me. The Spouse had to keep his foot on the gas, his Achilles tendon vulnerable to lobster attack.

    Today I lost a tasty, cheddar cheese flavored multigrain Goldfish™. I like to buy them in the 30 ounce milk carton. Probably there are about a million in there. 75,000 servings of crunchy saltliness. And as we were driving along in the new all-black nearly perfect Pathfinder, one of them flopped its way out of the carton and disappeared in the crack between the seat and the console.

    The Spouse didn’t turn his head but I could feel his awareness of the escape.

    I casually reached two fingers down into the crevice where I could see the fish stranded on a small ledge. Nothing. I peered down into the crevice. Gone. Disappeared into the underseat ether.

    Uh oh, I said. The spouse laughed. Not like a hah-hah laugh, but an oh-great kind of laugh. He claims not to care too much but I sort of doubt him.

    I doubt him so much that I debated whether or not to tell him about the other two escapees who hid under my leg for a few hours. Maybe he won’t notice the Goldfish shaped oil smootzes on my seat.

  • How do I know I’m alive if I don’t feel fear?

    5 questions pertinent to my WideEyedWeek:

    1. Why do deadlines cluster?
    2. Why does bureaucratic paperwork take an order of magnitude longer than time budgeted for it?
    3. Why am I smarter as deadlines approach?
    4. Why do I prefer to be startled by deadlines clearly marked on next week’s calendar?
    5. How do I know I’m alive if I don’t feel fear?

    Anybody have any tums?

  • You Funks and Your Damn Doubles

    After 23 years of losing at backgammon to Funks, the Spouse might have a valid point. We Funks tend to roll doubles. Kind of a lot.

    If you have never played backgammon it might be hard for you to get why he complains so much about Funks and Doubles. Here are the essentials: you have to move all of your pieces from A to B on the backgammon board. You move them according to the numbers you roll on your two dice. If you roll doubles, it is like you have four dice – you get to move four times instead of two. Double sixes are the EZPass lane. Sweet.

    Rolling doubles is fun. Rolling doubles makes a person smile with lucky joy. Rolling doubles makes a person feel smug, even if they try to not show it. Observing your opponent rolling doubles is annoying. It is like getting a mystery chunk in your nice cold glass of milk. You can overcome it the once but multiple offenses turn the whole thing sour.

    The Spouse learned to play backgammon in the summer of 1989 on the giant screened porch attached to the back of the Parents big old South Jersey Victorian. Two Brothers and I were home that summer (Younger and Older. Oldest lived elsewhere by then.) and we played backgammon a lot. Hours of evening backgammon while hungry bugs worked at the screens, desperate for our blood. Older Brother was almost unbeatable. Younger Brother played indifferently. If the Spouse wanted to spend any time with me, he had to learn backgammon. I think he learned about Funks and Doubles in his first game.

    I just asked the Spouse how many games of backgammon he has won from Funks over the years. He claims he’s had winning streaks. That there was time when he could not be beat. When I sniveled over losses. (I do not remember this.) Ok, I changed my question, how many times have you won against Older Brother? The Spouse shrugged and pretended to be busy with his iPhone.

    The WideEyedHousehold went on vacation last week. We did the back to nature thing and walked in the woods, had campfires, and when it rained we played backgammon. I rolled doubles more times than I did not. I won the first game. Best of three, we thought. I won the second. Because of abundant doubles. One more game, we said. I won. Doubles. A final game because the Spouse really thought he could do it. Halfway through he couldn’t stand it anymore. What’s up with you Funks and your  #%*!@$ing doubles!  I mean…really! Then he got a double or two. But he lost.

    Funks roll doubles. It is just one of those things. Sort of entertaining for us. Useful in the moment. Serving no greater purpose. I’ll take it. Rolling doubles is better than not.

    Game 3. Soon to be a loss for the Spouse.

  • Hamish the Corgi is Embarrassing.

    Have you ever heard of display urination? No? Neither had I until Hamish the Corgi came into my life.

    Evidently dogs, male dogs most of the time, like to lift their legs nice and high to wee when other dogs are around. Hamish is keenly aware when an unfortunate is locked inside, watching from a parlor window as Hamish prances across this other dog’s front yard. Hamish will take a moment to be sure he is in the ideally, most obnoxiously centered viewing position, then he will lift his tiny, 5 inch leg as high as dogly possible to wee on that other dog’s property. Usually you can hear the barking change from alert to berserker during the display.

    If that were all, I’d probably get over it. However.

    And mind you, I’m going to have to be indelicate here.

    Hamish, my furry pal, my buddy who is napping next to me now, well, he’s a display dooker too. Don’t be coy, you know what dog dookies are. The problem, if we can stretch our minds past the initial, unavoidable catastrophe of me having to carry tiny plastic bags to clean up warm dookies, the problem is that Hamish unequivocally prefers to dookie in front of homeowners, on freshly sodded, well-watered, carefully groomed lawns. Sure, who wouldn’t – the grass is soft and cool and deep. Probably it is very nice.

    But.

    There are many lawns in this condition. Many without an owner in sight. Hamish likes the ones where the owner is sitting on the porch with an evening glass of wine, enjoying the end of the day. Or even better, the ones where the owner is actually STILL out there working on the lawn. It is embarrassing. Heh, heh, Hi, I say, making it Very Clear that I have a dookie bag at the ready. Awful.

    The absolute topper, the dead most humiliating display dooking didn’t involve a primped lawn though. Instead, it included an entire multigenerational family reunion. Oh god. Folks were clustered on their front porch, iced teas, family albums, smiles in much evidence. Ahh, they said almost in unison when Hamish hove into view, what a cutie! People pointed him out to others. Someone ran inside to get Auntie Clara to see the cute Corgi.

    Hamish looked at them with his goofy smile and paused. He does like to be admired. Then, in a careful, smiling pirouette he turned his hind quarters to the 30 or so happy people. And he dookied.

    I think I heard Auntie Clara – whoever she was – gasp. One older grampie was wheezing with laughter. Otherwise. Silence. Long seconds of silence. Hamish didn’t mind. He took his time. I cleaned up and we walked on.

    That dog is completely embarrassing. And there’s nothing I can do to change him.

  • 17th Wedding Anniversary: Furniture

    No traditional gift is defined for the 17th wedding anniversary. Evidently, being married for 17 years is somehow unremarkable. A middle anniversary. One where you aren’t newlywed, nor have you achieved anything truly notable. It is just part way along the long haul. It is Indiana if you are stuck driving from New Jersey to Minnesota. It is Iowa if you are taking the interstates from Buffalo to Phoenix. Not interesting, not there yet (whatever that means for wedding anniversaries), but at least making some progress.

    In modern gifting etiquette, the 17th anniversary gift is furniture. I am disappointed in this because at first I read the chart wrong and thought it was porcelain. I need a new toilet, a new bathroom sink, and a crown to replace a fracturing molar in my maxilla. Porcelain seemed just about perfect. But furniture?

    I guess the giftie list inventors figure that by 17 years the kids and/or dogs have pretty much ruined anything nice you ever had. Maybe it would be a nice anniversary present to sit on a sofa with no crumbs or dog hairs. To have a chair that only you have read in. To get some new mattresses that haven’t any springs poking up. The Spouse and I don’t NEED any new furniture. I mean, it just isn’t a priority right now.

    The 17th giftie seems better than the 16th though. Last year the Spouse and I were supposed to purchase (or be given) silver hollowware. I guess I don’t know or care what that is. I am pretty sure we justified the purchase of a new double door LG gas range. That’s silver. And hollow. Huh. What do you know, we are instinctive anniversary gifters.

    I cruised ahead on the gift list to see what goodies will come on future anniversaries. Jewels. Land. Books. Luxuries of any kind (ran out of ideas I guess). Then, in year 44, groceries. My god. Groceries. That’s something to look forward to. For my 44th wedding anniversary I’m going to be poor enough, hungry enough that groceries seem like a really great gift. Or I’ll be a survivalist hoarder and groceries will be an even more satisfying gift.

    Yesterday the Spouse and I celebrated 17 years of being married by having saffron poached salmon and mussels cooked on our hollowware stove, eaten on our heritage Grandma’s dining room table furniture. If only I had also been using that new porcelain crown.

    The Spouse brought me a packet of peanut butter cups. I ate them. I bought him a lottery ticket, giving him nothing or millions of dollars. Seventeen years. Where ever has the time gone?

  • Do Calories Still Burn if I Wear Cutoffs to Exercise?

    Roller blading learning curve.

    Yesterday evening I pedaled along behind the Spouse at the Delaware Park loop. I act as his traffic break, his pace car, and his medic when his new roller blading skills fail him. Sometimes they do. I carry a phone (for 9-1-1) and cash for the hospital snack bar in case we get stuck in the emergency room before dinner. Last night he was skating along just fine and I had the time to look around, to think about something else.

    I pedaled along and marveled.

    Everyone, EVERYONE on the loop wears technical fitness gear. I saw compression shorts and tops for running, rollerblading, biking, power walking, ambling, and baby carriage pushing. There were sneakers shaped like feet. Running shoes like tiny, complex space ships. Walking sticks made of a fantastic alchemy of carbon fiber, tungsten, and leather. Biking pants with the bike built right in I think. And the bikes – they were lean and elegant, like arrows whirring along the path. The male long distance runners from nearby colleges ran in a line like ducklings wearing absurdly tiny shorts, wee little shoes, and sweat bands. Young women showed off their fitness in glamorous belly baring tops paired with matching low rise yoga crop pants. Everyone looked so…active.

    My eyes fell on the Spouse ahead of me. Aside from wrist guards, helmet, and rollerblades, he had on an ancient pair of Carhartt shorts and an old long sleeve Osterville t-shirt. The shorts were a little baggy. The t-shirt flapped in the wind of his not-so-swift passage. Looking sharp, I thought. A 70-year old runner passed us in his compression gear, his stringy legs flexing in the shiny shorts. His thin chest evident in his tight running top. A bike whizzed past, biking shorts, Camelback, aerodynamic helmet and all. As always, the biker oogled my awesome ride. Jealous.

    My smooth park ride.

    Who wouldn’t covet my smooth park ride? It is a 2005 Kulana Huli one-speed cruiser. It is substantial at 40 or 50 pounds. Its sweeping handle bars stretch back nearly to the wide, sofa-like seat where yesterday I lounged in my unraveling Levi’s 501 cutoffs. My garden Crocs fit perfectly on the giant rubber pedals and last night the out-of-round white wall tires made a happy buzz on the asphalt as we lumbered around the park loop.

    I fretted a bit, pedaling along among the appropriately suited fitness herd with their technical gear, following the brave Spouse as he learns to roller blade, am I any less fit in my cut offs? Do my Crocs and my one-speed cruiser make me less healthy? Does it matter that I had a nice dinner, a glass of late summer Rosé, and then wandered over to the park in what I happened to have on? Would the Spouse be a better roller blader if he wore shorts at least a little related to sports?

    We are never going to find out. I like my Kulana Huli. I love my cutoffs. And the wine is ok too. Furthermore, the Spouse is never, not ever, going to wear spandex compression shorts to roller blade. At the very least because Carhartt canvas is really, really good at preventing road rash…

  • The Dog Has An Opinion. Why Do I Listen?

    Hamish is forming an opinion.

    Hamish just told me he thinks it’s more than time for morning walkies. It was simply his opinion. I didn’t care. Then he expressed his opinion to Miss Tibbit and she got all excited about it. It is now her opinion, also. Evidently, we will be having walkies soon if I am to have any peace in my day of Big Thinking.

    Hamish has an opinion a little too often in the course of a day.

    He believes that Wiggins The Cat should not be wandering around the house at 5:30am. He tells the cat so. We all must listen as a captive, bed-ridden audience.

    He strongly believes that nasty looking, ancient, fuzzy dog should not walk on our sidewalk or wee on our flower beds three times a day, every day. He cries his thoughts on the matter in full voice, telling the block, telling the scrappy dog. As far as I can tell, only Miss Tibbit cares.

    Hamish defends his opinion.

    Hamish is entrenched in the notion that toys are his, and he graciously allows Miss Tibbit time with them. He observes her using toys from his Chair, and when her play is too rough, too fun, too engaged, he sits up sharply and tells her so. She never, ever listens. He speaks louder. She selectively hears harder. His opinion on this matter is of no consequence to Miss Tibbit.

    When distributing his opinions, Hamish adopts a particularly annoying body posture. His ears are pricked. His head is high. His back is long and stiff. His stubby tail stands out. His tiny T-rex front legs are planted firmly. His lip curls after he declaims as he prepares to press his position. It should be cute.

    I am unutterably tired of Hamish’s opinions.  But I still listen.

    He is expressing one now, as Miss Tibbit approaches the top of the stairs without sanction. In Hamish’s opinion, it is not yet time to go downstairs. Now we all know.

    I listen because I, like everyone else in the vicinity, have ears. I listen because Hamish is my companion, my dog-protector, and there may be a time when his opinion has value. Like, say, when the bear was coming to camp last summer. He didn’t care for that. Or when a skunk wandered toward Miss Tibbit in the backyard. He doesn’t like skunk stink. Even though his opinions are mostly the windy exhortations of a dog with too much to say, I listen. And if I am honest, he listens to all of mine.

  • Nothing Gets Done When I Have a Big Stack of New Library Books

    A person should never, ever visit the library on a Thursday, not if they want to have any kind of a productive weekend.

    Reading spot out back.

    I had Big Plans for last weekend. I was going to burn some paint off the woodwork in the bathroom. Mulch down the few garden beds still exposed to the burning drought-sun. Maybe clean the house. Mow the dry, brown vegetation patch that used to be the lawn. Watch a movie. Knit. Ride bikes. All kinds of things.

    Reading spot out front.

    Instead I read. Two romance novels, a couple of period mysteries, a fantasy novel, some modern literature, and a little bit of history.  I read on the sofa with my feet propped on the dog-worn ottoman. Read in the back yard on my new vintage-style woven-strap lounger. Perched with a book at the kitchen table – just for a moment was the intent but I creaked when I finally stood up. I read in bed. At my desk. On the front porch. On the back deck while burgers grilled. I may have spoken to the Spouse and the Dogs once or twice. I know I fed the fish and the cat because they are still alive. Otherwise, it was the books.

    If I happened to be in a place where I absolutely could not read, like say, when I was driving the car out to the Clarence antique/flea markets to find something to make into a bathroom vanity (failure – we accidently bought a beautiful piece of furniture we can’t bear to cut holes into) – if I couldn’t be reading, I thought about the stack waiting for me back at the house.

    Library book stash table. Custom built for the purpose by Funk Brothers Furniture.

    See, I have a small greed problem at the library that results in nice, tall, interesting stacks of books on the table at home. They let me check out 50 books at a time in the city library and I figure, why waste the opportunity? The Spouse and I meet at the café in the heart of the Central Library and have a nice lunch. After, he heads back to work and I, my full stomach, and empty book sack hit the stacks in this order: mystery, fiction, sci-fi. I break to check for things on the computer. Then, new fiction, new non-fiction, biography. They are all in the front of the building. I head to the back. Gardening. Knitting. Animals. History. Women explorers. All explorers. Sometimes, I trudge all the way back up to the front if I forget to pick up my stuff on hold. Finally, home with the heavy sack of book-goodness. I resist the urge to page through the top one at red lights. Mostly.

    When I visit the library on a Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday I can be rational. I am In Control of the Reading. But a Thursday is so close to Friday (T.G.I.F.) that I simply settle in. Surrender to the stack. Wallow in the inky stink of well-thumbed library books. I like to flick the pages as I read. I like to prop the spines on my stomach as I lounge. I like to carry a small stack subset from place to place when I am nearing the end of one and know I’ll need another.

    It is Thursday again. I am down to the last picks of the stuff from last week. A cozy-mystery in a long running series that I find annoying and compelling. A new Victorian-era mystery. Book two of a sci-fi series. A book about beekeeping. Some literature thing I yanked off the new book rack that I’ll probably like. The trick is to Stay Away from the library today.  I would really like to get something done this weekend.

  • Worm Bin Chronicles: Inception

    WideEyedSpouse says, “We are not having a worm bin in the kitchen.”

    WideEyedFunk answers, “Mm hmm.”

    The Worm Bin. In the Kitchen.

    I bought Worms Eat My Garbage in June of 2009 and I don’t know why. The Spouse saw it sitting on the sofa and instantly, no pause for contemplation said: “We are not having a worm bin in the house.” I simply did not acknowledge that he spoke.

    Kiska Harbor and the 2009 camp.

    Several weeks later two colleagues and I were lounging around on Action Packers in our tiny weatherport on the shore of Kiska Harbor. Outside of the weatherport Kiska volcano loomed over us to the north (albeit invisibly because of the low clouds), the waters of the harbor ruffled in a stiff, rainy wind, and the Kiska Island Valor in the Pacific National Monument layered over the hills around us as far as the eye could see. My colleagues were on Kiska Island to map WWII features. I – along with Brian H. who wasn’t present for the worm talk – was there looking for much older Aleut occupations. Anyway, three of us were in the weatherport waiting for potatoes to boil and for the simple pleasure of being inside, sheltered from the vastiness of the western Aleutian Islands.

    The topic of worm bins came up. I can’t remember who brought it up. But it is exactly the sort of topic that might arise in one of our field camps. Debbie C. was deeply intrigued. Of course she had heard of them. I mentioned the book. Janis K. actually had a worm bin, had had it for years. Debbie and I leaned forward on our Action Packers as Janis described the formation and care of her worm bin. I think I took notes. I looked at Debbie and she looked at me – oh yeah, we were getting worm bins.

    I came out of the fieldwork that summer intent on having a worm bin. But as it turned out, the WideEyedHousehold was going to move 1,500 miles in a few short months. The Spouse said, “I am not moving a worm bin to New York.” I sort of heard him on that one. Besides, I figured they had worms back east.

    Time passed. The worm bin lingered in the back of my mind. We bought a house and I built a compost area but it didn’t satisfy. I needed a worm bin. And then the miracle happened. My neighbors across the street mentioned that they have a worm bin. In the kitchen. Have been running it for years – no trouble, no smells, just great. My heart pounded. I hardly dared to ask…my neighbor offered me some scoops of her worms. Oh yeah.

    I told the Spouse. He said, “We are not having a worm bin in the kitchen.” I said, “Um hmm.”

    Inside the bin. The wellspring of nightmare horrors.

    Three days later I dumped a bunch of junk out of a bin in the basment, drilled some holes in its lid and handles, and headed across the street for my worm scoops. Ever since, two months and counting, there’s been a worm bin in my kitchen. So far, the Spouse has only had one nightmare about it. Apparently in his dream he was reaching in to feed the worms and one leaped out of the nesting material and burrowed under his finger nail. I guess in the dream he managed to tourniquet his finger and the worm wiggled out, but his success in solving that small dream problem hasn’t made him like the worm bin any better.

    We’ll see how it goes. For now, there are several dozen? hundred? WideEyedWorms munching away on tender veg scraps in my kitchen. And one WideEyedSpouse who prefers not to think about it.