wideeyedfunk

Tag: Buffalo

  • It simply isn’t possible to give thanks without cranberry sauce. And stuffing.

    WideEyedSpouse and I sat in the Mini in the only remaining spot at the far, littered end of the suburban Wegman’s supergrocery last evening. The teeming swarm at the city Weg’s where we usually shopped had been too scary to brave. I figured suburban families would already have their feasting supplies and we’d be ok out here in the hinterlands. I watched a grannie yank the last grocery cart away from a hapless young man a few car lengths away. I had a bad feeling I had miscalculated terribly.

    The Spouse held up the list. I held up the grocery sack and the tire iron. We bumped fists and rolled out of the Mini in good formation. Evaporated milk, stuffing mix, jellied cranberry sauce -in-the-can, Reddi-whip, condensed mushroom soup; the critical essentials of a classic Thanksgiving. The rest of the ingredients were already at home, but without these final pieces it would just be a nice dinner, not THANKSGIVING dinner. Problem was, the ten thousand pushing into Weg’s up ahead were after the exact same items.

    We squeezed into the store and passed the fresh vegetable section, thank god we didn’t need celery. Two men were down over there, their wives standing on their bodies to reach the celery remaining on the highest shelf. I saw a roiling mass of women at an endcap about 5 meters away. I could see cans behind grabbing hands and pushing bodies so it was soup, cranberry sauce, or evaporated milk.

    I’ve got your back, the Spouse said in my ear as I handed him the grocery sack and tested my grip on the tire iron. I plunged in, yelling excuse me’s and ducking under arms. I saw stars when I took an elbow to the eye, and blacked out for a moment when a spikey boot heel drilled my left foot. I had no time to think, but I realized this situation was too serious for manners. I shoved the tire iron through a gap in the bodies and propped it on a shelf edge making a wall for me to squeeze in against. Something battered my shins, and I looked down. A toddler was down there sent in low, his mom pushing his diapered bottom to get him closer to the goods. I planted my foot in front of him, leaned on my tire iron prop, and grabbed a can of soup. I lofted it high and in my peripheral vision watched the Spouse’s long arms snag it. While he fought off scavengers in the back I snared a can of evaporated milk from a lower shelf and tucked out. I handed the can to the Spouse for safekeeping in the grocery sack.

    We trotted quicktime past the dairy cases along the back of the store. The Spouse used his height to reach into the open door above a dithering shopper. He grabbed the first can of whipped cream he could get. I checked it as we jogged up the baking aisle. Fat free. Huh. Too bad. I looked along our back trail and considered revisiting dairy to try again. Reading my mind, the Spouse took the whipped cream and shoved it in the sack.

    My foot skidded in something on the floor near the end of the aisle. It was red – cranberry sauce, we’re close I told the Spouse, pointing to the smear. He looked past me and paled. Blood, he said. I turned my head in time to see a fit woman in a Barbour jacket toss a hank of hair and scalp to the floor next to an unconscious woman in a suit. She grabbed one of the final bags of stuffing mix and a can of cranberry sauce. I wanted to send the Spouse into the hole she made in the crowd before it closed and we lost the chance at the supplies but he wouldn’t go. It’s all women, he argued, I can’t go in there hurting women, I’ll be arrested. He looked at the crowd. Besides, they’re scary.

    Fine. I bounced on my toes and limbered my tire iron arm. Best to be quick, I thought, in and out. I grabbed the back of the True Religion jeans in front of me and yanked upward, hard. The woman in them shrieked and fell back, pulling at her wedgie. I rapped a khaki-clad knee lightly with the tire iron and that suburban mom went down whimpering. I stepped over her and the shelving was almost in reach. I pushed off the ground and jumped high, coming down with my arms on the shoulders of two wiry yoginis. They should have collapsed. They didn’t. They were clearly far stronger than me and I didn’t want to get into a wrestling match with these rubber bands disguised as affluent and good-looking suburban moms. I backed off and applied the tire iron: ribs on the right, ribs on the left. Hah! Both went down! – yoga doesn’t make ribs stronger. I reached for the last bag of stuffing mix with my right hand and with my left cracked the tire iron down on the wrist of a husband who had been brave enough or stupid enough to battle women for a can of cranberry sauce on Thanksgiving Eve. He screamed like a little girl and dropped the can. I caught it on its way to the linoleum floor.

    I crouched low and backed out of the fray, feeling the Spouse pulling me along by my belt. I shoved the tire iron into my pants and we stepped out into the main front aisle, smiling and walking slow – acting normal so that the howling crowd didn’t sense the value of the swag in our grocery sack. We weaved through a jam of laden carts and I worried about folks buying 25 pound frozen turkeys only hours before they needed to be cooked to safe temperatures. Spouse grabbed a sack of frozen French cut green beans from one of the carts and held it to my eye. It was starting to swell shut and that along with my injured foot made us vulnerable in the crowd.

    We cleared check out in only 17 minutes because Weg’s had an armed officer enforcing the 10 items or less rule in the last two checkout lanes. The Spouse zipped the grocery sack inside his coat and we headed for the Mini, frowning with deep concern. These expressions were camouflage. Thousands of hostesses still flocked the entrance to the store and we had the last of two of the essential Thanksgiving ingredients. We never would have made it to the car if we had appeared triumphant and relaxed.

    The Spouse put the Mini in Sport Mode and we fled home. Now, on Thanksgiving, my eye is less swollen, the pie is in the oven, and dinner is scheduled for 5 o’clock this evening. I am smiling across the room at the WideEyedSpouse and thinking grateful thoughts about my world. Happy Thanksgiving friends. May you have much for which to be thankful.

  • Miss Tibbit does not care for pixies.

    Nor does she like princesses. Finds Captain America alarming. Is disturbed by tiny Spidermans.

    Chefs, nurses, steampunkers, post apocalypse victims, bees, cats, and ninjas – also Not OK.

    Miss Tibbit alerted us to her concern for three continuous hours last evening. A tiny pixie quivered and shook in fear as she selected a tootsie roll from our bowl of treats. Miss Tibbit’s gaping, toothy maw was visible and audible in the large window behind me.

    I get that it is a little weird for Miss Tibbit, having strangers tromp up onto her porch. Ringing doorbells. Yelling in high voices “Trick or Treat”.  But I had to ask her, Miss Tibbit, where were you when someone stole our middle sized pumpkin yesterday afternoon? Why wasn’t an actual perp more disturbing than 30 inch high vampires?

    Miss Tibbit had no answer for me. She sniffed my face while I asked and tried to look intelligent.

  • I know I would paint better if I had a pair of Dickies painters pants.

    Wine: Does Not Impair My Ability to Paint Awesomely.

    I own a nice brush. I bought quality paint. I sanded and primed properly. I’ve painted ceilings, walls, trim, floors in 5 different states, 6 different domiciles. Satin, flat, matte, semi-gloss, stain, paint stain, epoxy, and varnish. Interior, exterior, basement, attic, kitchen.You name it. I’ve painted it. And while I’m no pro, I can lay some paint.

    But you know what? I was standing in Sherwin Williams the other day waiting for my paint to shake and I saw that their Dickies painters pants were on sale. It was a really good sale, only $18. That’s a great price for any kind of pants, an exceptional price for magic skill infused painters pants. I didn’t buy them.

    Here we are, a little more than 24 hours later and I am commencing with painting the bathroom. I am all geared up in my ladies Carhartts and I am feeling ill-prepared. Queasy that I could do better.

    Don’t mistake the situation. The ladies Carhartts are good, solid pants. They lived in 3 states with me. They traveled to 3 continents with me. They knelt with me inside them in the mud of a 4,000 year old whale hunting household in Chukotka. They crouched with me in 27,000 year old cave deposits in Portugal – where they also worked with me on a 100,000 year old Neanderthal beach camp. These pants and I have spent weeks on survey in the Western Aleutian Islands.

    Now, here in Buffalo, they are paint pants. But the trouble is, the thing that keeps bugging at my mind, they are FIELD pants really. Not paint pants at all.

    I just have this terrible feeling that I do injustice to the pants by painting in them, and injustice to the bathroom paint jobs by not having the proper pants on for the job.

    The magic pants!

    UPDATE, REMARKABLE UPDATE: From 1,500 miles away, WideEyedCousin D had my local Sherwin Williams store put aside a set of painters pants just for me. WideEyedCousinD, I thank you, the paint thanks you, and the house is ever-so-grateful. The Carhartts just want to hug you.

  • 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.

  • Hamish Rides Console

    He’d ride shotgun but he is too small to see out the window. So he rides Console.

    Riding Console in the trucks we’ve had over the years is easy. The space between the driver and passenger seats is huge. The console is a big padded platform that looks like it was designed to provide mattressy respite for beefy man arms. There’s enough space that a passenger beefy man arm would not accidently touch a driver beefy man arm already using the console. Hamish the Corgi fits on truck consoles with room to spare. His panoramic view of traffic, countryside, and snacks being eaten by the passenger is unparalleled from the console.

    However.

    When Hamish cruises the urban scene with me and the Mini Cooper S, he struggles to maintain the attitude of superior contentment. You can see that he is smiling, but maybe his back teeth are clenched. Smile and clench your teeth – then say “this is great”. That’s exactly how Hamish looks riding the Mini console.The Mini console is low and he mainly has a view of the giant Mini speedometer. The console is narrow. He wedges his barrel chest between the seats and perches one front paw on the console in front of him. The other he rests on a human or waves in the air to counter balance g-forces on spirited turns. The console is short. About two thirds of Hamish hangs off the back, dangling in space over the rear seat floor boards.

    None of this deters Hamish. He will shove Sweet Miss Tibbit out of the way to ride console. He calls Console before we’ve even left the house. Before my shoes are on, or keys are in my hand. As I lift the dogs into the back of the Mini, Sweet Tibbit watches Hamish hustle his fuzzy person into the console position and sighs. She sits behind the passenger seat and leans against it to watch the world pass. Sometimes she peers over Hamish’s ears, asking what’s going on up there?

    Nothing much Sweet Tibbit. Nothing much.

    Miss Tibbit wants a turn on the Console. Never going to happen.

  • Car Fever Part 2: Rapid Onset

    The Spouse heard an ad on the radio for Mike Barney Nissan at approximately 7:35am last Thursday. We were in a period of remission with the Car Fever, having administered the aggressive treatment of switching cars so we both felt like we had New Cars. It seemed to be working. But then that ad came on the radio and in the 15 seconds it ran, the Spouse’s fever raged anew. His hands quivered, his heart palpitated, his eyes glazed – no I wasn’t there but I’ve seen the Fever strike.

    I received his email at approximately 10am. Nissan is offloading the 2012 Pathfinders, it said. Emails from the Spouse often include Cars For Sale topics: the 1971  Lincoln Continental, the 1974 Mercedes Benz 280, the 2002 BMW 740iL, the 1969 Triumph GT6+, the 1978 Mercedes Benz 450SEL and that is just in one month – all advertised on Craig’s list, Hemming’s classifieds, a taped up handwritten sign at work. There’s always a car out there.

    The Spouse’s email also pointed out that we would have less trouble hauling the gear and pets on vacation if we had a Pathfinder. He casually mentioned that probably Buffalo would actually have snow this winter, and the Pathfinder is a 4×4. These are Justification No. 3 for getting a new car (Car Fever Part 1) -well established new car irrationalizations.

    I sighed, saved my grant proposal draft and headed online to read Pathfinder reviews.

    I learned that this model Pathfinder will be the last of the truck-based Pathfinders. The 2013s will be crossovers, based on a car platform. Eww, I thought. I read reviews critiquing the Pathfinder for lacking entertainment: no little movie screens, no on-board GPS, no useless stuff I don’t care much about. I learned that the Pathfinder drives like a truck, not a car. That a person can pop this giant, beautiful vehicle into 4×4 low and head off road. After all, it’s called a Pathfinder, a Path Finder, paths are off-road…trucks go offroad. I was not offended by any of the reviews which seemed to miss the trucky point of the Path Finder.

    My reply email to the Spouse simply asked, do you want to test drive one? His answer came before my finger lifted from depressing the mouse button on SEND. Okay, he said – I could feel the raging inferno of his Car Fever through the email connection. It coursed through the ten miles separating us. Its virulence infected me, and all I could think about was getting my Mini Cooper S back (the Spouse took it in our Car Trade) because we would surely sell the Rabbit.

    We headed over to the dealer armed with an insurance estimate and the happy knowledge that Nissan was probably desperate to get rid of the old, trucky Pathfinders before the new sleek, car-like versions came out.

    There were several dozen Pathfinders on the lot. We met Charlie the salesman. We drove an S. Boring. I felt nothing. The Spouse felt disappointed. We got in an SV, which has a good bit of kit as the Fifth Gear guy says. Even has a backup camera that gives an insect like eyes-in-the-back-of-your-head view. Yes, we said, we want this. But we don’t Need it. Charlie, the Spouse and I spoke plainly, even abruptly, moved through hours of negotiating in about 15 minutes. Yes, no, yes, no, lower, it’s already at cost, lower, will you commit to a buy? If it’s lower.

    At approximately 7:35pm, we had a 2012 Nissan Pathfinder. Car Fever was broken. The Spouse claims that he can enjoy life again. He claims that he can stop searching the internet for cool cars. He claims that he is done with the Car Fever. This time, he says, he got a vehicle that he can keep for good.

    I mean really, he’s only said that 13 times before. You know what they say, 14th time’s the charm.

    The Spouse in Pathfinder: Self Portrait. Doodle in Pen on Acid Free Laser Printer Paper (8/30/2012).

  • 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…

  • Surviving the zombie apocalypse just got more complicated.

    I prepared myself. I read FEMA’s advisements for disaster preparedness. I studied The Zombie Survival Guide. I watched Shaun of the Dead, Night of the Living Dead, 28 Days Later, Walking Dead, and Zombieland.

    I learned that:

    1. Zombies just aren’t smart. They aren’t stealthy. They don’t think.
    2. Zombies have a single, consuming, burning desire – to eat, variably, brains and living flesh.
    3. We can outlast Zombies. Their bodies rot will away around them. Eventually. Probably.
    4. My 12-gauge shotgun and plenty of BBB shot, high velocity shells will get me through. Well, and a pair of good sneaks.

    I was wrong.

    Throughout Buffalo last weekend I saw signs that the apocalypse has arrived. And the zombies are more dangerous than any of us feared.

    1. Zombies can drive.  Will cars become their hunting tools? The abilities to drive, to be safely locked in the steel boxes, to flee the urban areas have always been the mainstay of human survival in the zombie apocalypse.
    2. Zombies like a bargain. Discounted gasoline. Yard sale deals. The implication? They are planning on some kind of future and wish to conserve personal resources.
    3. Zombies remain prone to fits of hunger-rage. The yard sale sign was found fluttering along a main roadway blocks from its origin. Clearly Something Bad transpired.

    I’m uncertain about how to plan for the new zombie apocalypse. Do I need more, bigger weapons to take on carloads of shopped-out, starving zombies? Should I avoid sales of any kind? I worry that none of us will survive the new, complex zombie threat.

    I wish you well in the battle for survival and perhaps I’ll see you in the aftermath.

  • Why Teenagers in Beater Cars Always Speed

    The Spouse and I were ripping down the QEW (Queen Elizabeth Way) from Niagara On The Lake in Canada to the Peace Bridge border crossing. Our bellies were full of British style pub food from the Angel Inn and the Mini Cooper S was enjoying running at higher rpms for a little while. The speed limit on the QEW is 100kph – about 62 miles an hour. Normal highway pace. Rarely have I seen anyone moving so slowly.

    Traffic was pretty light. It was midday and the Canadian rush to the U.S. for cheaper mall shopping was over. The Spouse had the Mini cruising in the right lane without obstructions. Every now and again a massive BMW or Mercedes would blow past in a blur of color and grace. We’ve seen this phenomenon in Europe too, and have long speculated that other countries must offer a Speeding Pass to the owners of luxury performance cars. I am always jealous when the tail end of a Beautiful Car disappears ahead of us.

    I noticed that the Spouse was intently watching the rear and side mirrors. Usually this signals the arrival of something spectacular: A Boss 302. A Ferrari, Aston Martin, or Bugatti perhaps. I glanced behind us and saw what looked like a red brick lumbering down the QEW passing lane.

    The Spouse stoically watched it pass us: an ancient, rusted, teen-filled, bald-tired, exhaust belching beater.  “Pour it on Mercury Topaz,” he said, “gotta stay ahead of the breakdown.”

  • 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.