My husband has been in Italy for the last month traveling about to various cities and waking up with a mint on his pillow and a do not disturb sign dangling from his hotel room door. He asked me if there was anything that I would like for him to bring back to me. I told him to bring the do not disturb sign.
While he has been working in the fields under the Tuscan Sun soaking up the Chianti that was meant for me, I have been knee deep trekking through a winter blizzard catering to children and a dog and shoveling a 20 yard drive way. I have come to the conclusion that I absolutely hate snow. I think snow should stay atop the mountains where it feels most at home and at peace instead of my street where eventually it ends a mixture of slush and gravel on the side of the road.
My dog is starting to hate the snow. It is no longer a novice for him where he romps and chases snowflakes. Now it is a chore and he will fight to the end to Not go out in the cold. Charly and I are having wrestling matches and he waits until I pin him to get his leash on. He actually retreats to his doggie bed and curls up in fetal position in rebellion. I don’t blame him, I don’t want to go out into the white chasm that chills every hair on our heads.
I have found one saving grace though, something that helps with the winter nights and warms the cockles. Whatever cockles are. I think Charly is losing his cockles soon. I have turned to brandishing wine. Wasn’t this the survival mechanism of the early explorers. Didn’t that trusty St. Bernard carry that lovely Keg of Laphroaig Scotch twenty miles into the Rockies around his thick neck? I wonder if I could train Charly-dog to carry a stash for me when I’m out doing his nightly poo-poo walk. The walk that takes hours because he is so busy sniffing atop three feet of snow in order to locate his last leakage. The last potty stand that got buried under a glacier a week ago and is untraceable even to the most sensitive snoz.
If he could carry a flask of Grey goose around his puny neck accompanied by a saddle of green olives I could walk him all night in a snow storm. Work a plate of appetizers on his back and I have a traveling bar at my disposal. Maybe I could train him to retrieve an Andes Creme de Menthe and place it on my pillow with the dent in the middle.
My dog is no bigger than a bottle of scotch so maybe I’ll have to attach a few airline miniatures behind his ears. I have a few left over from when I grabbed a flight or two. Those days when I was free floating and had absolutely no responsibility , well, those were the days. I was a flight attendant at one time. A time when flying was fun and you actually got a meal. A time when you were thirty thousand feet above everyone else and miniatures came in a caseload and not in a Bichon Frise packed in some ones Louis Vitton.
I see nothing wrong with a nip or two especially during the chilly nights or when your hormones are bouncing higher than Michael Jordan’s slam dunks. It can get lonely when your husband is away for a long time, but the company of a dog toting a flask of Martini’s could sublimate any longing that may have entered your heart. There are a few things that can replace the warmth missing from the other side of the bed: A dry martini and a warm puppy. I believe that sums it up in a Dog shell.
Now, If he could accomplish the art of Shiatsu my husband need not return…………………
There are a few things in life that I have a low tolerance for:
One: My screaming dog running after cars and people passing by.
Two: Coin operated laundromats.
and Three: People that pretend to be something they are not, especially while doing their laundry at a coin-op.
I have visited a coin-op laundromat a total of three times in three different states all under duress. The first time was in Atlanta, Georgia. My roommates and I did not own a washer or dryer nor did we care to. We were foot loose and fancy free flight attendants with disposable clothing and inter -changeable uniforms.
I drew the short Mai-Tai straw that month and was elected to do the bulk items, like towels, sheets, and my high maintenance roommates collection of designer jeans. I spent over two hours sitting between machines having time to observe who walked through the one way sliding door carrying their lives in a Walmart basket.
I stuffed the laundry into the Big Mother Load and slammed the lid shut and dropped my coins into the allotted slot. I noticed a man glaring at me from behind a counter as I did this and slowly approached me laughing. I don’t like to be slowly approached.
He asked me if this was my “first time here”, and I reassured him it was and probably my last. He laughed again. He had a light airy accent from some Island in the Caribean. He asked me if my “clothes come out clean”. I responded that they do. He laughed again. I told him I was happy he found my laundry amusing and he laughed again and handed me a small box of detergent stating: “You need to add soap”.
” I know“, I said with my mind occupied with last nights frivolity. “Maybe my clothing has built in microbes that self clean when you just add water”.
We both laughed at my laundry foible. This man owned the Coin-op and was from Trinidad. That day he taught me how to professionally fold towels so they stack like layered cakes on the closet shelf.
I think it is important to try and learn something new every day and this crossed my mind when I returned home and smushed the pristine towels into the lower cabinet under the bathroom sink.
My second visit to the wash-n-wait society was twenty years later in Brooklyn, New York. I was married with one child and we lived in a building owned by the Camaretti brothers. Two well connected Italian boys. There were only two machines in their building which happened to brake down one morning and forced me to tote my laundry ,(which has now graduated to include baby diapers), to an eclectic laundromat down the block.
I tossed my laundry into the machines and sat and waited for my load to finish. It was during the rinse cycle, that I noticed a man enter the area wearing just his trousers and shoes and carried a crumpled New York Times that appeared to be dripping moisture. I looked around an noticed I was alone in this place and the attendant had quietly vanished out back to have a smoke.
This man seemed indifferent as to whether anyone was around him or not as he unrolled his package to be placed in the washer. I raised my head higher to get a glimpse of what his delicate load consisted of and I saw him flop a shirt stained in blood into the machine. He then added his soap (with bleach?), slammed the lid down, popped four coins in and then gently turned around and looked at me. I looked back giving him a smile to insinuate that I know I could be his next victim featured on the front page of the Times, and bolted through the Exit, leaving my laundry for a future garage sale.
My Third, but inevitably not my last, visit to the coin-op happened in Delaware. My puppy peed on both my sons and daughters comforters on the same day. I found a laundry facility located in an upscale neighborhood that catered to people that looked as though they suffered from job transition, divorce, or living the Bohemian life in the City.
I was next in line for the Mega-Machine and patiently sat and read a Doggie magazine to bide my time. Shortly after I arrived, a tall slender man entered wearing a tailored Brooks Brothers suit assisted by a designer oxford shirt and a Bulgari Tie scuffling in his Bruno Magli loafers. He daunted ahead of me as if it were his privilege and entitlement to nab my machine.
The attendant kindly informed him that I was next in line.
He waltzed in my direction and towered over me with his tortoiseshell rims laying half mast on his nose and uttered “Oh?”, as if he had stumbled upon a pile of smelly laundry.
He decided to downsize and opt for another washer that was readily available. We both threw our items into our designated washers and stood quietly next to each other until he started to mutter comments regarding his surroundings. Utter-ings that carried an undertone as if his being there is an after thought and he dare not be spotted by anyone from his Polo Lounge. Sheer rubbish.
That opened the proverbial dryer door for me to crash through and devour this DuPont wannabe.
We engaged in some small talk that lead him to continue his bragging rights of a non confirmed Blue Blood. I listened intently as he boasted about his designer attire and lavish eateries where he “parties” with friends at the ripe age of 56. He carried on about his divorce (during the drying cycle) and waxed and waned about the up -coming yachting season.
I had to ask. “What line of work are you in?”.
His head lowered and he half formed the words; “Car Finance, for a locally advertised used car lot”; escaped his exhausted lips.
A giant cheshire grin came over my menopausal face……he actually was trying to impress me with his hyperboles of life, just like when I was a young and inexperienced Ingenue who never fell for that stuff….ever…..well once maybe.
My Dog has more character than this character will ever have.
I didn’t know that laundromats were the new meat market. I have been married too long. I can’t imagine how this guy thinks a person could possibly be interested in a dinner date after witnessing his intimate monogrammed whitey -tighty’s being thrashed about by a Whirlpool.
Besides…….. I’m a woman who prefers Boxers….they’re well bred.
Looks like someone needs to Heir their dirty laundry…..
spread the humor.
Dear Faithful Bloggers,
Due to the fact that I am inept at setting archives to my Blog site, I am going to burden you with some of my earlier work. I started this Blog after adopting a mongrel and wrote about my frustrations with Puppy-dom. Add Menopause, Motherhood, atypical Mayhem, and a touch of Merlot, I showered this blog with fact bearing sheer nonsense, in which I hope you will comment and: spread the humor….’Sincerely, CW.
The snow is melting and leaving spots on my yard looking like a patchwork quilt. I think the storms are fading and Spring is trying to hone in where it should have been weeks ago.
My puppy is fluent in making storm stools. I was worried how the winter would affect his potty rituals but Charly-dog came through like a trooper. A pooper trooper. I think he is a little too proficient in relieving himself in the winter, because he now treats the now effacing green blemishes as if they are Poison Ivy patches.He now goes directly to the nearest snow pimple to drop his excess baggage. Maybe the ice on his fanny cools the burning sensation of those tough days of constipation when he swallowed everything lying loose on the floor. Maybe Charly has a case of Hemorrhoids and the snow acts like Preparation H.(hiney).
Whatever the case, he seems to have a hard time figuring out the changes on this planet. He’s only eight months and hasn’t experienced all four seasons to their fullest. Maybe I’ll have to keep a patch of white ongoing throughout the Spring in order to ease his transition. I could sculpt a make shift potty and keep it in the freezer and pull it out in the summer months.
Charly-dog has decided to mark his territory all over the lawn. This is something new to us and takes a lot of time. He likes to cover the entire acre and a half lifting his back leg onto specified areas. Areas that only HE can dick-tate. Charly will encompass the entire yard and stop every so often to spill a little content on his chosen spot. Not like the old days where he would pee for minutes and head home.
I think he actually enjoys this self empowerment because his tail wags frivolously and he smiles with his eyes squinting as he looks upward. I can almost hear his brain talking as he does his potty dance: “look what I can do..Look what I can do”.
I don’t mind this ritual now since the weather is getting warmer, but he started this practice during the height of subzero temperatures. I think he enjoyed imitating an arctic nomad wrapped in his own pelt fighting the frost. I think he believed he was the Yukon King sniffing out Dirty Dan some where in Canada.
Sergeant Preston of the Yukon was one of the many TV shows my mother planted my pre-school ass in front of instead of helping me form Play-Doh letters. I loved watching the rugged adventures of a weathered Mountie and his dog and horse surviving the wilderness solving all the problems of the Northwest Territory. All by themselves. All Sergeant Preston had was a smart Malamute dog and a horse named REX.
One episode had the Sergeant solving a murder and the only witness was a dog. Can you imagine that? Out in the vast frozen Yukon at the turn of the century and all he can attract is an abandoned dog? His malamute must have been in heat. More like Yukon Queen. I wonder if I were ever trapped somewhere if my puppy would try to rescue me as I yelled for help into his bobble head ears. Or would he respond much like he does to everything by running over to sniff whatever it is to pieces and then turn to chase a fleet of leaves.
I think the only thing Charly has in common with the Sergeant’s Malamute is the mute part. Anytime I call the dog it just falls on floppy deaf ears.I think Charly-dog hears me when I call and I think he chooses to ignore me. He likes to play tricks on me. He likes to curl up in a corner sunspot and lie there without making a sound watching me look for him throughout the entire house. He’s the same size and color of my son’s black & white back-pack which curls up in the same corner untouched for an entire weekend.
Menopause does strange things to your mind. Those missing hormones can play hide and seek with the optical department in your brain. I figured that out one time when my son asked me why I was offering a dog chew to his back-pack.
Spring is in the air and I think I’ll dye Charly’s fur to match the budding roses……..I highly doubt my son will tote a pink back pack….
spread the humor.
One day I went to the Giant Conglomerate Corner the Market Pet Store to return a Doggie item. Two days prior I entered the store in search of a Pet Gate to ward off my puppy displaying the evil eye to Christmas Trees methodically placed throughout the house. I walked into this huge warehouse filled with dog merchandise in hope of getting assistance with a purchase. Three times I approached a logo appareled employee and three times I was shunned and told: “someone will be ri-i-ight with you in aisle 300″.
I waited ten minutes until a woman wearing a famous brand of puppy chow T-shirt saw me stranded and asked if I needed help. I explained my need and she seemed enthralled with my being a new puppy owner. She completely bypassed the fact that I needed a gate and started her pitch about; “what kind of food am I feeding my newbie?”. Then she preceded to load me up with coupons from her company and stated that she didn’t work for the store, BUT, she did know where the gates were located and handed me a blue print of the store.
I asked another Pet Smartie personnel for assistance and was again told to: “wait, and someone will be ri-i-i-ght with me”.
At that point I gave up. I tried to find my way back to the entrance of the store and got lost, thank God for the trail of doggie treat coupons I dropped along the way that were blowing out the door….
On my return trip I was greeted again by the Science Chow Lady balancing a tray of cookies. I was starving after being shuffled around the store and grabbed the big one with the white frosting and sprinkles shaped in a Paw print. She could see that I had a long face probably due to the many people dogging my needs.I’m sure It had nothing to do with my gagging on the cookie that was specially baked for Dogs.(they looked so realistic…)
I must have looked lame and overwhelmed standing in the center…..alone…..with no dog to guide me. I do not do well in giant stores. They are too big and cold. Not just the attitude but the temperature as well. I felt so alone and on my own. I felt as though I will have to make the decisions by myself on what items to get my puppy. I do not have enough experience to do that. I am codependent when it comes to my puppy. I need guidance and expertise and be lead by the nose for my purchases. I need constant attentive care from an expert because I am clueless in Doggie conscientiousness. I like someone to get to know me and my pet on a first paw basis. I don’t like standing out (?) in the cold warehouse knee deep in doggie-stuff.
This Science Smart Lady had expertise. She asked if I found the right gate. (she must have recognized me from the cookie crumbs on my blouse). I told her “no”. I had given up on the scandalous gate expedition and ventured out to the doggie-treat aisle hidden behind a life size cut-out of the Dog Whisperer holding his latest Edition.
I did ask her about doggie chews. I desperately needed a tougher chew for my pups budding canines that seem to be navigating away from squishy toys and headed directly for coffee table legs. She kindly walked me over to the Raw Hide section that held 100 different varieties of chews. The titles on the packages brought back memories of childhood TV shows. One packet of Rollem’ might Get along with my little doggie…..
The chow woman pointed out a package of rawhide rings. Bacon flavored. She told me that these are the best chews for dogs and that other raw hides are not good for pups because pieces break off and they choke. I asked about the Heimlich disclosure on the back of the package. She just smiled and stared at me like a broken traffic light. One gentleman overheard our conversation and verified her statement. He said “His new puppy just ado-o-ores these rings”.
Oh, well, then , how could I possibly go wrong. It had the Pet Smart Public seal of approval. I asked the Chow Specialist what these rawhide rings are made of? She grinned: “Bull Testicles”.
Bull testicles. My 7th month old puppy is going to snack on bull testes. Well, here’s waving a red flag in my face. Right. Ole! El Torro! Areeeba! Let’s feed our little darlings a catastrophic castration to sink their teeth into. Let’s recycle those balls of glory to do some good in this recession. I wonder if the Bull gets a cut in this New Raw(hide) Deal. BULLY!
Just put it on my CHARGE..