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Should I be proud that I outsmarted dogs?

Published by wideeyedfunk

We’re out of dog biscuits.

No, I mean, we’re OUT of DOG biscuits. Cookies. Snackies. Num nums. Call them whatever you want, doesn’t change the fact that the jar is EMP-TY.

The WideEyedHousehold economy runs on milkbones. I don’t want to hear a lot of noise about dogs should listen. They listen just fine when they want to. And when they don’t want to, I rattle the cookie jar lid, sharpens their hearing right up.

I carry a pocketful of cookies pretty much all the time. Dogs are less apt to be nervy when there’s a pocketful of cookies around.

But we ran out. No Cheerios to replace them. No Cheez-its, chips, or peanut-butter-stuffed-pretzels. Nothing. The WideEyedSpouse and I are on our own. I opened the fridge, hardboil some eggs? Too messy. Cut some cheese chunks? No, I’ll end up eating it all linty from my pocket and everything. Arugula? That’s just panic talking.

My eye fell on the bin of dog dinner kibble on the bottom shelf of the pantry. The dogs like it there so they can hang out near it. Sniff it. Stand near it. Lick the edges. I had a sneaky, underhanded, dishonest thought about that kibble and the empty dog cookie jar. No one was around – Miss Tibbit was upstairs policing Ancient Wiggins the Cat, Hamish was policing Miss Tibbit.

Slowly, quietly, so so so so carefully I scooped a handful of kibble and threw it in the cookie jar. Sound travels faster than the speed of light in the WideEyedHousehold and after an ultradense clatter of dog feet on the steps, they stood, waiting, staring at the cookie jar. Glancing at me.

“Who wants a cookie?” I asked. Hamish ooched his butt forward and Tibbit sat firmly. I lifted the cookie jar lid, selected two pieces of boring, everyday, nothing special dinner kibble and flipped them in the air. “Snap!” Snap!” They trotted off to harass the cat some more.

I smiled the Grinch’s smile.

One Score and Two Hours Ago…

Published by wideeyedfunk

…the Spouse and I married on a Tuesday afternoon and unbeknownst to us, the WideEyedHousehold formed. Coalesced. Here we are four apartments and four houses, five cities, and 16 cars later.

We got married at 2:30pm and I planned to stop and think about it at 2:30 today – exactly 20 years later. When I looked at the clock it was 4pm and I was folding whites in the basement laundry room. I thought back. At 2:30, the Spouse was vacuuming the downstairs while I vacuumed the upstairs. Evidently marital harmony sounds like whining Orecks.

Twenty years ago today I had on a purple dress with a little row of flowers along the back, Watteau train level. The Spouse had on a suit, the first of the three he’s owned as an adult. I remember our family sort of awkwardly assembling at the church, then there was some chanting, then we were married. No one bothered to turn on all of the lights in the church. It was after all a Tuesday afternoon, not a busy God day, and marrying folks doesn’t take all that long.

Today I’m wearing a Chewbacca for President t-shirt and shorts. The Spouse, a red polo shirt and shorts. We rode bikes to the farmer’s market, hit the bank and post office, and stopped at the Lloyd’s Taco food truck in the park on the way home. The sounds of a city Saturday stood in for ceremonial chanting and the sun gleamed through breaks in the clouds. I thought about 20 years’ of marriage the whole time.

What we have here is one of those linear moments, a point of connection with the past so clear and strong that the intervening years fold. Then and now seem the same. Overlapped. I am lucky that the connection is positive. The anchor secured in that day is tied to an ever-spindling line of love, connecting me and the Spouse through the times, the places. Connecting us so that the promises we made 20 years and two hours ago matter the same now as they did then.

Later we’ll put on the fancy: the current version of The Suit for the Spouse, a dress with a purple pattern and bright red shoes for me. We’ll have a nice dinner in a place with valet parking. And we’ll smile at each other.

Abeyance

Published by wideeyedfunk

Yep, this is the summer of abeyance.

The house isn’t quite painted. Decisions about staying or going are waiting until the green is replaced by blue on ALL FOUR sides. “And on the garage,” the Spouse says.

The grapes aren’t quite ripe. Miss Tibbit the Useless Little Black Dog hangs around the arbor, so they must be close. I caught her using her nibble teeth on the bird netting. “You’re going to have to wait,” I told her. Unbelieving she licked her chops and glanced at the fat clumps of red grapes.

My grant proposal MIGHT be funded but we won’t know for sure until October, when the federal budget passes or fails. “Just hold tight,” the grant program officer told me. My heart thumped HARD twice, then pattered away a little quicker than normal. “Have you ever had a heart attack or stroke?” the Doc asked at a recent check-up…

Amazon hasn’t shipped our package of dog poop pick-up bags yet. One thousand small black bags for one thousand offenses against the neighborhood. I’m carefully hoarding our few remaining bags. “Oh no, you are DONE,” I tell Hamish the Corgi as he thinks about marking another lawn on evening walkies.

I might need to go to Alaska on business. I might drive to Virginia for family. We might take the Mighty Mebe on a road trip to Boston. We might be out of half and half for tomorrow’s coffee. I might need a new outfit for dinner out on our 20^th wedding anniversary – “Isn’t it funny,” the Spouse helpfully stated, “how I can just put on my same old suit but you need a new outfit every time.”

Advice givers and poets might say to live in the now. Don’t tell ME to live in the now. I live plenty in the now. Right NOW I’m working to accomplish what is DUE NOW. Right NOW I can smell the aromas (stinks?) of hot lavender, French thyme, and asphalt floating in the front window with 92 degree heat pulses. I see the late summer sun battling with enormous cloud formations piling over the lake. I hear my neighbor blasting epic sneezes in his kitchen.

Abeyance, urgency, tranquility, reminiscence. These are the life states I balance, or usually FAIL to balance. Too much tranquil thinking leads to greater urgency. Too much abeyance removes the ability to reminisce. Urgency supersedes all.

I’ll take a little abeyance here and there. Abeyance means hope and change and renewal. Abeyance is an ever-bloating bubble of potential big and small, a grand swelling of options – sure when all fails the swelling is like a necrotic plague bubo but let’s not linger there – SOMETIMES the swelling is gloriously buoyant like a pre-Hindenburg Zepplin…and ok I’m not sure that analogy is going in a good direction either…

But. Abeyance. Hold tight. Hold fast. And smell the sun warmed herbs.

Save the grapes.

Published by wideeyedfunk

In past times the marauders took all.

This year we vowed to defend against their incursion.

The harbingers arrived yesterday evening, as we ate the evening meal. I gazed out the open windows and into the gardens as is my habit in weather fair and foul. The grape clusters are small this year, but numerous, and their purpling flesh glowed in the lowering sunlight. I admired their bounty and watched the leaves of the vines rustle in our summery breezes.

But wait. My eyes sharpened and I peered intently. Not breezes rustling the leaves! Not breezes at all! The leaves shook and shimmied as two, no three, no! Many robins and starlings gripped the vines with tiny feet and ravaged the fruits with rapacious beaks. A fight broke out over a particularly lush patch. Wretched pillagers fighting! Over MY grapes!

“They are here!” I announced to the WideEyedSpouse, “They are in the grapes!” He slewed about in his chair and gaining his feet stormed the arbor with determined strides. The winged looters fled his arrival, perching tauntingly out of reach on roof and tree.

The Spouse returned to the kitchen. “Our loses are small yet,” he gravely reported. We thought on it. Do we cede all to the feathered freebooters? Do we protect the harvest, as we vowed? “The air rifle we saw in the market earlier today would make short work of the problem,” he decided with a dark eye. I could see him measuring distance, angle, wind – seeing in his mind’s eye the small pirates falling from the arbor. Neutralized.

“Yes,” I agreed, uncertain of the wisdom of this choice, “but they are many, and you must sleep sometime.” We loaded into the Mighty Pathfinder and set about procuring defensive matériel. We fought even tinier marauders bent on attacking our very persons, buzzing in our ears as we draped the precious harvest with fine netting. “How can this work?” we asked ourselves of the fine, light nylon.

Today the vile garden thieves circle the arbor, cheeping tactical data to one another. The netting wafts in the airy day, effective still. Wish us luck Friends, as we guard our precious grapes.

Work avoidance.

Published by wideeyedfunk

Miss Tibbit and I followed the tiny lizard footprints and tail wiggles through the driveway sand. They pitter pattered up a little slope, back down. Around a bump. Wee busy lizard feet. A winding curly trail crossed over the lizard tracks. Once. Twice. The lizard tracks ended in a particularly fancy curlicue. Uh oh. Miss Tibbit and I looked at each other. We’re pretty sure a snake just had breakfast.

Later the Spouse and I gazed out at the Atlantic, trying to work up the energy to read our novels. I think the sun was going supernova above us. A pod of Bottlenose Dolphins arched and swam in the middle distance. “I guess we’re clear of sharks,” I said to the spouse and went in for a swim. Three pelicans glided at wave height along the pellucid outgoing tidewaters.

Invisible jets roar overhead. “Clearly we have stealth technology now,” the Spouse observed. I’m more concerned with the miniature jets that swarm the shrubs near the stairs to the deck. Dozens of juicy dragon flies are busy with something in there. Carova Dragonfly

Hamish has settled into our life here. He is squeaking his bunny toy across the livingroom. It keeps trying to get away. Tibbit makes wide passages around the coffee table. The base is a sculpture of two wild horses, their noble heads supporting the glass table surface. Tibbit is deeply suspicious of their total lack of animation. We all saw the horses outside. They stank and moved and were interesting.

Vacation.

High places

Published by wideeyedfunk

Miss Tibbit and I stood in the rain eating black raspberries off the canes in the backyard. I reached high, Miss Tibbit plucked the low ones with her front nibble teeth. Their pure, rain-washed fruitiness is soothing my stomach after a feast of lamb vindaloo and chicken xacuti, samosas and deep-fried paneer at the Taj Grill. I can hear the rain pinging on the steel frame of the scaffolding. We should be painting. Monsoon-like rains and passing lightening storms make it impossible.

Lion Stout from Sri Lanka. The WideEyedSpouse said it was heavy on the mocha flavors.

Lion Stout from Sri Lanka at the Taj Grill. The WideEyedSpouse said it was heavy on the mocha flavors.

The scaffolding arrived a week ago on a big rig. It traveled across country for 22 days to get here. Twenty feet of bright yellow painted tubular steel and mini-girders. So cheery. So horrifyingly high. From July 2 to July 5 we spent the daylight hours perched on Level 1 (6 feet), Level 2 (12 feet), Level 3 (18 feet) scraping, washing, priming. The husband of each neighboring household came to see. From my aerie they all looked the same: wide legged stance, arms crossed over the chest, head tilted back, mouth a little open. I think the WideEyedHousehold looks a little otherworldly up there with gangling arms and legs working on the small 2 by 6 feet platform – reaching out, over, up, to deal with the house’s overhanding soffit and decorative exposed rafters. The high roof and architectural details looked so cool (“badass” the Spouse says) when we bought the place. I didn’t think about spending days and days with them.

The aerie in position.

One set of neighbors had a party over the weekend. From my post up high I could smell the bbq, drinks, and perfume. The women’s dresses were a swirl of color. Kids laughed and played. The men kept easing around the corner of their house to peek at the scaffolding. I painted on primer during their cocktails. I painted through their dinner. I painted as they sat, idling with wine into the summer evening.

WEF, up high – and the ground crew.

The WideEyedSpouse and I spelled each other in the high places. I don’t know what he thought about up there, but I started jealously guarding my time on Level 3. The breeze was nice. Voices faded to murmurs and traffic on the nearby Scajaquada Expressway rumbled at a deeper tone. Squirrels and birds chirping and chittering in the trees were my companions. I became nothing but arms attached to a paint scraper, or arms with a paint brush instead of a hand.

“I can’t believe you are painting your own house,” WideEyedNeighborP said. “What else are we going to do all summer?” I said, “Sit around on the patio and drink?” I think when we are done I’ll install the scaffolding among the back yard maple trees. My own industrial tree-house. It’s possible I’m becoming weird.

Working from home on a Friday morning.

Published by wideeyedfunk

The dogs and I were minding our own business here in the partially-painted WideEyedDomicile. Tibbit-the-Useless-Little-Black-Dog was monitoring the front walk and alerting us to the passage of Every Single Thing. Hamish the Corgi kept sighing and rolling his eyes at me here in the office. My grant proposal writing was going ok. You know, words were coming out of my fingertips and the keyboard kept on clattering. That’s the noise of productivity friends.

wee uke But then I thought of my uke. My cute little soprano uke resting on its wee stand in the parlor. Once I thought of my little uke, I couldn’t stop thinking about Elvis.

What? No, I can’t tell you why, it just happened that way. The why is lost in the vasty mystery of my inner mind. I don’t question this stuff.

Now, an hour later, I can more or less play “Can’t help falling in love”. My neighbor who also is working from home today might be regretting his decision. But I’m glorious in my own mind. I’m obviously channeling Elvis as I plonk and screech and warble my way through it. Over and over.

Anyway. I’m smiling. The dogs are relaxed. And I’ve paid Elvis his due. Back to the clattering keyboard.

Uke at work

Rain Delay

Published by wideeyedfunk

We lost the Mini to car fever yesterday. The WideEyedSpouse struggled heroically for months. Yesterday he succumbed. Yesterday, a bright sunny day perfect for painting a century home, we spent in the air-conditioned comfort of a car dealer’s showroom. The Mini stayed there. We left to rearrange the snow shovels in the garage to fit the new WideEyedMobile. “Tomorrow we’ll work on the house all day,” the Spouse said, staring dreamily in at his new ride.

But. Rain. Guilt-less, feck-less, fancy-free we fled the Homestead with our Niagara Wine Trail Passports (thanks WideEyedMLB!) in hand and turned left and right for an hour or more, heading east and north into rural western New York. We crossed and crisscrossed the Erie Canal. We skirted Lake Ontario. We saw old houses tumbling down, fixing up, and hovering undecided in a state of quasi-repair. Trucks and Chevys from oldy-time hid half under tarps – rusty butt ends sticking out. Kids played in puddles, trailers huddled in clusters on abandoned farm fields. We breathed deeply of non-city air and wallowed in the joy of the moment.

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Old House | Freedom Thief

Published by wideeyedfunk

We had freedom once. We hiked. We rode mountain bikes. We visited antique shops and flea markets, clutching take-out lattes. We read the whole Sunday paper to fill the time before brunch.

But our lives seemed empty. So we bought a house and fixed up it. Then we moved. Bought another house and fixed it up. Then we moved, to the biggest, oldest house yet.

It must be painted. I do understand that there are professionals who do these things for you. For buckets of ducats. But the WideEyedSpouse and I sort of want to see what is happening on the house. Get a sense of coming maintenance. And, we want to run the 35 foot boom lift and stare down at the neighborhood from our lofty position.

Yesterday we started.

We scraped. I washed with pre-painting detergent. No, I’m ok, it only burned a little when it dripped down my arms and off my elbows.

We painted. Creamy white. Deepest blue. We painted until 12 minutes after sunset, knowing that rains were coming and hoping for the necessary 1 hour dry time before the deluge. I worried over this and the Spouse told me, “The rain never comes from that direction anyway.”

After one day of painting, the WidedEyedHouse is about 1/20^th done. The torrential spring rains are, as you might expect, lashing against the newly painted walls. The paint is holding steady so far. The members of the WideEyedHousehold are huddled inside, nursing blisters and sore muscles and bruises. Desperately avoiding thoughts of 19 more 10 hour days of scraping and painting in the hot summer sun. Dreaming of lattes and brunches and aimless weekends.

Pulled pork eight ways since Sunday

Published by wideeyedfunk

The WideEyedSpouse smoked a ten pound pork shoulder over the weekend. I mean that exactly. Over the weekend. It was a 16 hour process, not including the preparation of the rub, the annual smoker cleanse, the pre-smoke meat rest, the post-smoke meat rest, and the actual pulling of the pork. The smoking aromas were intoxicating. Enticing. I told the Spouse that it was like I had traveled to some city with a BBQ reputation and I was in line for some of the good stuff. All day.

As it turns out, ten pounds of raw pork shoulder equals about seven pounds of smoked pulled pork. For two people.

We are now two days out from the initial meal of pulled pork sandwiches, Memphis style. I have eaten:

Pulled pork on a plate,
Pulled pork out of Tupperware,
Pulled pork sandwiches, again,
Pulled pork snackies for evening peckishness.

There are half pound pulled pork packets in the freezer for future delights such as pulled pork chili, pulled pork omelets, pulled pork fried rice, pulled pork tacos, pulled pork sandwiches, again.

And tonight, friends, the pièce de résistance of pulled pork, a pulled pork pizza.