All posts filed under: Humor

The unfortunate members of my household provide entertainment – along with the rest of the world.

Woodstock ends his days.

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Woodstock moved in with us Friday. This evening he was sleeping on the rug in the front parlor. Tibbit pretended not to notice. When she believed no one was watching, she sampled a small taste of Woodstock. Delicious. Hamish interrupted the tasting, as he is of the opinion that that Woodstock flavors belong only to the elder dog. Hamish spent a little time with Woodstock, lulling the little bird into a calm. Hamish says that Woodstock’s succulence is improved when the fear adrenaline no longer courses through Woodstock. Don’t be fooled little Woodstock. Your time is nigh.

Generational Transmogrification: I am turning into my Grandma.

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Earlier this week, I lounged on the sofa with a crackly plastic wrapped novel from the library, feet propped on the footstool, glass of iced tea to hand. My reading glasses were propped on the end of my nose. With my right hand I played the page turning game: flip flip flip past the corner of each page yet to be read – can I flip through all of the pages before I finish reading the page I am on? It is an annoying, compulsive habit I’ve had as long as I remember. On my lap sat a bowl of popcorn. On the floor next to me a started but recently abandoned knitting project. The few completed rows of my new sweater looked good nestled next to the big ball of yarn in the bowl. Then I had déjà vu. Except it wasn’t déjà vu, it was memory, long-buried, unsought. I had been a part this scene before and not because I spend part of every day lounging and reading. I stopped my page flipping, …

The lunch that wasn’t.

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I sat in the feeble 1970s conference room chair at the lab table in the front of the room yesterday late morning. I was managing the start of six lab projects involving data from Alaska to Western New York, spanning the past 3,000 years. Different student research groups and I trotted from lab to museum to department office to other lab to other lab – up and down steps, across streets, through countless locked doors. And I was starving. Empty bellied, weird head buzzing weakness, tunnel-visioned hungry. The WideEyedSpouse was home from work and I sent him an email, saying I wished I were there. He replied: “I wish you were home too. Then you could have some of my fried egg, fried ham and cheese sandwich!” – kindly attaching a picture. I leaned in close to the laptop. I could feel the crusty toast, taste the salty ham. I think I drooled on the keyboard. Bing, another email from the WideEyedSpouse –  “All gone,” it said, with an image attached. I wept.  

Sweet Tibbit’s Very Bad Day

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She thought it was a great idea at the time. A remarkable opportunity even. How often is a dog left alone in the basement after all? As she snacked her way through the tasty cat box bites, Miss Tibbit savored the rewards of her momentary independence. The biggest, best bits gone, Sweet Tibbit thought she would have just one more nibble of the wheat cat litter. Delicious. She paused, licking her chops, and yes, perhaps one more sample. And another. Perhaps a bit more. I admit, that part is recreative speculation based on observations taken during subsequent events. The first hour after Tibbit was found in and removed from the basement, she couldn’t get comfortable. Her belly was too achingly full to lay down and she sat on the bed next to me awkward and tense, staring intently into the middle distance. I wondered then, did Miss Tibbit regret her feast? I left for a couple of hours of work, where concentration was hard won as I imagined the messy horror Sweet Tibbit may have …

Budget Sequestration Made Me Eat Cheap Peanut Butter.

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The WideEyedHousehold must make decisions about financial sequestering by prioritizing categories of expenditure. Just as our Senate is divided in debates about preferential priorities, so we are. Just as our nation must make difficult choices, so we must. “Compromise” in the WideEyedHousehold results in unpalatable solutions, as it does in our nation. As you may know, I dreamed of an exotic winter break far from snowy Buffalo. Last week during spring break, we ate lunch at the Ikea just outside of Toronto for our international vacation. The basic parameters of an exotic, international locale with regional cuisine were met. They were met stupendously if the rumors about horsemeat in the Ikea meatballs are true. How intrepid of us to eat the little meat balls all unknowing, even with an unconcerned panache. As you may know, the WideEyedSpouse likes beer. I like to eat. He feels that beer sort of is food. I feel that food is food. The Spouse prefers good beer. I prefer organic, limited ingredient, small batch peanut butter. Our preferential priorities battled …

No Dogs Allowed? Hamish the Corgi Finds a Way.

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“Where are we going?” Hamish the Corgi asked as he watched me dig the hiking pack out of the coat closet. It wasn’t easy. Five months of hats, scarves, gloves, reusable bags, dog towels, and YakTrax had crammed themselves on top of it. I looked over my shoulder and up the steps to look at Hamish. He stood in the hall, big ears perked wide and high. He was smiling. “Tifft Nature Preserve over by the lakeshore,” I told him. “Awesome,” he said, “that’s not mine yet.” He disappeared into the kitchen and I heard rummaging in the dog cupboard. I yanked the day pack strap and slammed the closet door before all the other stuff escaped. I went up to the kitchen to fill my water bladder. Hamish was waiting by the sink with the dog hiking water bowl and dog water bottle. He looked from me to the treat bin on the counter, me to treat bin, me to treat bin. “Don’t forget to pack the go-go crunchies,” he reminded me, nudging my …

Australian Shiraz grapes make my teeth purple.

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Italian Sangiovese grapes do not. I’ll let you wonder about the testing program that was necessary to come to this conclusion. Perhaps you should take a moment to cast your mind over the many other red wines that may, or may not, turn my teeth purple.  I’ll test those too if you insist. I also suggest that you think about the kind of week a person might be having to make such testing seem like a Good Idea.

My school bag smelled like the 1970s. Heh?

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It was entirely accidental. The WideEyedSpouse and I have been streaming the old Julia Childs off of the PBS website. They are rasty and sketchy and black and white. And in them, Julia wastes nothing. She made a French onion soup and tossed in the butts of the onions. I was aghast. I thought those were for the worm bin. Another time she made a French tart crust. Pie crust to you and me, but she used a different technique, evidently a French one. What really caught my eye and stayed with me all through the week and into my errand run to Target, was her masterful use and reuse of waxed paper. She made the crust dough and then wrapped it in waxed paper to chill in the fridge before rolling it out. Apparently this gives the gluten some time to relax. Whatever. Because it was t.v. and none of us had then or have now the time to sit around and chat with Julia over coffee while we waited for the dough to …

The tiresome collision of skeletons and snow.

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Outside the lab window, above the human skeletons dangling from their cranial hooks, I could see the wind howling snow across the small Fimbulwintered quad. It looked horrible. I put my chin in my hand and gazed into the whirling wretched iciness and thought about a beach. A long, wide beach with nice medium sized waves and only a few other people around. The sun glared off the water and I could almost feel the heat. I sighed and imagined settling my shoulders deeper into the hot sand. It was great. I smiled. I heard a faint, wah, wah, wah sound off to my right so I turned my head, idly wondering what it was. Oh. It was one of the grad students in the lab. He was describing his research project to me. To get my input. Which I really wanted to give because I like that part of my job. I tuned back in, sighing to myself. I’m tired of winter. Temperature at posting: 16 degrees F, light snow, wind ~15mph.