wideeyedfunk

Tag: Delaware Park

  • We sure class up the Park.

    That’s right. When the WideEyedHousehold hits Buffalo’s historic Delaware Park for walkies on a Sunday afternoon, the classiness level escalates. As it should. Olmsted designed this park for promenading. For nodding at neighbors. This past Sunday was cold and rainy. The wind slashed and our rain gear rustled. I made my standard comment, “This is just like weather the Aleutians!” Usually we have the park to ourselves in foul conditions, but after the Big Storm people were out running, skating, strolling like it was a sunny summer day.

    Miss Tibbit displayed her manners and deportment for everyone by hooting and baying at a big, white pony-sized dog, an ancient Golden Retriever, a large piece of blowing trash (no one has ever claimed she is smart), a brownish dog, and a yellow lab who ran past with a ball in his mouth. Each time she heaved her 35 pounds against her little pink harness and jumped around on her hind legs while caroling out her high pitched psychopathic singing yelps. “Cookie?” I asked each time. Her butt plonked to the ground. See, classy.

    I smiled at passersby, all of whom seemed particularly eager to meet my eyes. I wondered if my new mascara sample along with my bright green coat made my eyes stand out. Maybe it was my relentless good cheer despite the nasty weather. It didn’t matter, I was happy with the world and smiling like a maniac all over the park. Then, “why is your zipper down?” the WideEyedSpouse asked me as we stood in the kitchen after walkies. I snapped my eyes down to look and hands down to feel. Sure enough, below my tidily belted waistline, my jeans weren’t zipped. All those maniac smiles to all those strangers meeting my eyes…you can’t buy that kind of class.

    Hamish the Dignified and Well-Mannered Corgi found himself a French fry wrapper along the walkies. I only noticed when I heard strange snuffling noises. He had forced his nose deep into the empty packet to lick any remaining molecules away. The little french fries printed on the packet wiggled and squirmed with his efforts. Miss Tibbit crept over to get some tastes. Hamish snarled out of the wrapper and bit her. Noisily. She cried.

    Yipping, snarling, trash-eating, and ineptly clothed. That’s just how we roll here.

  • 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.

  • 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…