Yule Logs and Jingle Balls, I Mean Bells

     Due to an unpleasant turn of events, my darling husband Jeff is now sporting the one "manly accessory" you'll never see in a GQ Magazine: a catheter. Nothing says Happy Holidays like a good case of Urinary Retention, eh? But guess what? Man up and be a brave soldier, because you're killing me with all this whining, Buster.

     Now, we of the feminine persuasion all know that the very fact of being Male leaves one with very little Reserves of Strength when it comes to sickness of any kind: come on, we've all experienced the Man Cold: Worse. Cold. Ever. Men cave quickly, and go down heavy, straight to bed with lots of tissues and sad eyes, wishing their Mommy was there instead of you. Women, meanwhile, suck it up and Soldier On; who among us hasn't picked up kids from school, made dinner, helped with homework, and thrown kids in bed, all with the flu and a 103 degree fever?  The "Weaker Sex" my ass.

     So back to my husband and his Yule Log.

     Unfortunately, Jeff is your classic "I'm not going to make it!" patient; imminent death or at the very least, lots of drama, are his go-to moves. It's exhausting. I keep telling him, he can't die and leave me here with the dachshund (who naturally has no trouble peeing at all, anywhere she damn well feels like it.)

     OK, OK, so you have to wear a catheter; I personally would find that extremely helpful, since I wouldn't have to stop to pee while cleaning, cooking, shopping, and decorating. (And drinking. Don't forget about drinking.) He makes it sound like having that Thing in his Thing (technical, medical words that you probably don't understand) is a bad Thing... HA!

     Tomorrow we go back to the urologist. ("There's money in pee" is how Jeff describes each trip.) If the Good Doctor tells us that Jeff has to keep this Thing in, let me tell you, it's not going to be pretty. There will be hand wringing and teeth gnashing, and that'll be just me: you mean I have to put up with his whining for another week? (Yes, Jeff calls me "Florence Nightmare" and sometimes... it's spot on.)

     So since it's almost Christmas, here's my plan: if the catheter stays in, let's hang a little tinsel on the tubing.

     After all, he's already got the balls.
   
 

How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?

One 5 pound, black and tan, female mini dachshund: $800.00

One off-white crate, plus trip to return first crate (gray) which really didn't look good in the kitchen: $42.99
One super soft, comfy crate pad, off-white, to match the new crate: $15.99
Three fleece blankets to replace the off-white crate pad when the Dog chewed it up the first night: $45.00

Five different chew toys that squeak, made in USA, not China, because you really don't know what they put in their squeak toys: $ 35.00
Four "bully sticks", the only chew sticks that don't become lodged in the Dog's smaller-than-your-pinky finger esophagus, purchased after reading that squeaker toys are NOT SAFE, no matter what their country of origin: $29.00

One 20 pound bag of dog food that the Breeder suggested: $50.00
One 5 pound bag of all-natural, Much Better Dog Food that the nice man in the over-priced pet store insisted was the only type to insure that the Dog, well, grows normally: also $50.00

Three different types of "training treats", peanut butter, liver, and duck, so that God forbid the Dog doesn't get bored during the training process: $34.99

Five books with titles similar to Dachshunds For Dummies, all of which state the following: "The dachshund, and especially the mini dachshund, is one of the hardest dogs to train. House breaking this dog will kill you." (Or words to that effect.) $69.99

One package of paper towels: $14.99
(Repeat as needed.)
One container of Nature's Miracle Odor Neutralizer with Handy Sprayer for those Hard-to-Reach Spaces, like under the sofa where the Dog likes to hide and pee: $35.00
One package of "Training Pads", a.k.a. "Piddle Pads", for the days that the Dog refuses to squat outside due to the following weather conditions: rain, sleet, snow, fog, high humidity, and fairly brisk winds: $15.99
One roll of duct tape to secure the Piddle Pad to the floor so that the Dog stops running around with it in her teeth: $3.99

One Vet visit, with first check-up and shots: $145.00
(FYI: The Stool Sample requested by the Vet was no problem, as a small shit rolled right off the Piddle Pad when the Dog was running around the kitchen with the Pad in her teeth.)

Two extra-wide dog gates to confine the Dog in the kitchen: $210.00
A variety of suitcases, stools, and random pieces of wood to block off sections of both new gates, when it becomes instantly apparent that the Dog is small enough to squeeze between the bars of the new dog gates: free

One furtive, exploratory search on Google for Divorce Lawyers due to husband not helping enough: free

One case of wine, which will be helping me much, much more: priceless.

Stupid Stuff I Really Don't Get

     There are some things in this world that I really love. The fact that my 93 year old Aunt Babe got an XOXO tattoo on her wrist, that's one; that my 97 year old Aunt Lal (her sister), can still beat the pants off me in Scrabble, that's two. And, natch, there are things I absolutely hate, but I have neither the time nor the inclination to tackle them now; too depressing, and I'll watch the News if I want to be depressed. (Ebola Crisis, my ass: isn't it amazing that we Americans are all up in arms about Ebola only now, after it has flown across The Big Water, and landed deep in the heart of Texas? Why weren't we in crisis mode when it started killing people in Africa? I have this mental picture of Lady Liberty in a hazmat suit, holding a disclaimer instead of her tablet:

 "Yeah, you can still give me your tired and your poor, your huddled masses; just no 'bola, please."  

     But the really strange things in the world, the stupid stuff that makes no sense to me, are the things that make me cock my head to the side and rapidly blink: Why, I ask? What's THAT about?

     It's somewhat akin to my darling new dachshund, watching me work the $27.99 Pooper Scooper, picking up what she just lovingly deposited on the ground, and all the while I'm smiling and nodding and saying in a maniacal, Frankie Valli falsetto, "Good Girl to go out, YES, we go out, we're a good girl, yes we are, yes, yes!!!". She cocks her head. She Just. Doesn't. Get it. And so I've written a very short list of Stupid Stuff I Really Don't Get. Here it is. Feel free to cock your head to the side as you read:

    1. Soft Close Drawers. Why did someone take the time to invent this?  I would be personally very sorry if I no longer felt the great satisfaction that comes with a good drawer slam when I'm annoyed at someone I'm married to. You just don't get the drama with a soft close.
   
     2. Nostril Piercing. I'm sure this is the height of Cool, but why would someone subject their poor nostril to that? I actually can't look at that situation without tears forming in my eyes, in sympathy for the nostril. And how the hell does a person blow their nose without tears forming in their own eyes? Doesn't their tissue get all jammed up on the ring/jewel/beady thing? I know mine would, and I'd have a tiny piece of tissue hanging on the side of my nostril all day, and no one would tell me, and it'd be embarrassing, not Cool.
   
    3. Short-Sleeved Jackets. This phenomenon only occurs in women's clothes. Think about it: would you ever see a man's suit jacket with short sleeves? If you need to wear a jacket, ladies, it means you're chilly. Why would you buy one with only half a sleeve? It makes no sense.

     4. Extravagant Sides on Eyeglasses. There are glasses with loops and twirls, jewels, and even the designer's name in gold cursive: why would someone want to call that much attention to their temples? Remember: your temple's next-door neighbor is your crow's feet.

     5. Fake Vomit and Fake Poop. Seriously, I have never, ever, seen the humor here. But more than that, why would anyone want to pay good money for something fake, that every mother in the world gets to deal with every day-- for free?

     6. Hideously Horrible Halloween Costumes & Decor: I'll end this list with a nod toward the upcoming (so-called) holiday, Halloween, which I think (being a former teacher myself, so I can say it) was actually started by teachers long, long ago: the excitement and gaiety of September's Back To School Fun had already faded, and they, realizing that this was yet another year filled with the same old nonsense they put up with every year, thought up a day in October where they could wear crazy costumes and eat candy. Nowadays, however, it's not so much fun. Little Susie is dressed as a "dead cheerleader", and Mom takes the day off from work to come into school and help her put her "make-up" on, which mostly involves lots of fake blood. ( FYI, of course that means Mom can't take the day off next week to attend the Parent-Teacher Conferences...but we all have our priorities.)

     Lastly, (which is a fun word to write, almost as fun as the "neither/ nor" thing I had going in the first paragraph) why do some people decorate their homes with such pure sicko gruesomeness? The grisly front-porch scenes are so horrific, that real criminals can be seen sneaking right past. They're actually too afraid to break in, and these are real criminals, probably even Hardened Criminals.

     And I'll bet that as they cleverly side-step the fake poop, those real, hardened criminals will cock their heads to the side and blink rapidly because they, too, Just. Don't. Get it.

We're Havin' a Baby!

     No, not a real baby, silly: what the hell are you thinking? I'm 66 years old, and as maybe I've mentioned, one of my Edicts is  "Sex is For The Young." We're havin' a dog baby: a puppy, a mini dachshund puppy to be exact.

     Now, once upon a time, before I was married for the 2nd go-round, I'd made another Edict: "No More Men, No More Dogs." Then I met Jeffrey, and he swept me off my feet; or, as he likes to tell it, I flew by on my broom and he hopped on. (I knew there was a broom involved.) But after our last two dachshunds went to Doggie Heaven, (where they are, I'm sure, happily peeing and shitting on the floor, just like here on Earth) I held firm to a Partial Edict: "No More Dogs." That lasted about a month.

     I started looking at people with dogs like I look at supermodels: with undisguised jealousy, bordering on an eye-narrowing hatred. I really missed the snuggly, warm little body close to mine in bed (No, not Jeff; see Edict #1.) I did realize that we used a lot less paper towels, and the house smelled better. But we were missing something. A pooch. A hound. A weiner dog.

     Because for us, there is no other kind of dog.

     Oh, yeah, other dogs have all the great adjectives going for them: cute, protective, sweet, regal even. And if truth be told, lots of dogs are much more intelligent than a dachshund. But there is no other dog in the world that is funnier than a dachshund; no other dog will make you laugh as much. And that's just by standing still.

     So we read the books (Dog Training For Dummies was highly recommended by several people who know us well). We bought the crate, the food, and the outfits. (Oh come on; you didn't think there was going to be a mini dachshund without a skirt and matching hat, did you?) We'll get her in a few weeks: anticipation is running almost as high as when our grandchildren were born. (I said almost.) And yes, the puppy is a girl... her name will be Schotzie, which means "little treasure" in German.

     Hopefully we'll house-train this dog more successfully than the last two, who liked to leave "little treasures" on the rugs. (One of my dear aunts suggested that we go to "Dog Parenting Classes", so we don't "spoil" this dog. Wait: what?? How can we spend our money on Parenting Classes, when we're saving up for her piano lessons?)

     Not to mention how expensive a good Halloween Costume is these days at PetSmart.

     

   



   

   

Didn't Wanna Do Disney

     I can safely say I am not a Traveler. My niece Mailin is a Traveler; that kid thinks nothing of jumping on a plane, meeting two connecting planes, and arriving in places that have no indoor plumbing. She's awesome in her fearlessness and sense of adventure. Me? Not so much. Driving across a bridge is enough of an adventure for me.

     So when my daughter, her husband and two kids suggested I meet them in Disney for 4 days this August, I did not feel the Magic. I couldn't even picture myself in the Philadelphia airport, finding the right plane, and boarding it without throwing up. (It wasn't Root Canal Dread, but it was close.)

     But thanks to the magic of dramamine, I made it through the flight without too much drama, except for the guy standing in the boarding line, who, during a casual conversation about the ridiculousness of the security check-point, informed me he had the right to "bear arms".  Since he was wearing a very inappropriate (for his Body Type) muscle shirt, I naturally thought he meant "bare arms", and laughed politely. Apparently he was not kidding, and he informed me in that haughty/scary way people who like guns like to talk, and I smiled, looked away, and prayed that my seat was far, far away from him and his stupid biceps.

     DisneyDisneyDisneyDisney. Since my daughter Sam had expertly booked, scheduled, and orchestrated the entire trip, I just had to hold someone's little hand and follow along: it was pretty great. Oh, yeah, there were times I felt like I was walking the streets of Calcutta; that was because of the cheek-to-cheek crowds, not the ambiance. There were times I felt like I was walking in the Sahara Desert; again, not the ambiance, but the god-awful heat. And there were times when I was having a blast. The Disney people should really open a Training School for the world: those people really know how to do NICE, and they should run a facility where people who don't work at Disney could learn a thing or three. (I wouldn't last a day there; my sarcasm and snarky nature would get me expelled.)

     Sure, there was lots of walking and my feet hurt so much I was kind of crying, and some of the rides made me much, much woozier than I would've liked without a vodka tonic, but when my 9 year old granddaughter looked up at me and said "I'm having a super time, aren't you, Oma?" I had to answer "Absolutely!" And when we went on my favorite ride, "It's a Small World After All" , and my 5 year old grandson looked at me and said "Why does your neck jiggle like that?" ...well, that made it all worthwhile.

     It was a great adventure. And let's face it: inside plumbing is pretty magical, after all.

   

   

Cooking: Highly Overrated

    I've never been a good cook. A good cook always seems to A.) have interesting, even edible leftovers in the refrig, and B.) says things like "Cooking relaxes me." Cooking make me nervous, blindingly nervous; I am always out of some herb, which leads to needing a substitute herb, which leads to looking stuff up about herbs online. A tuna casserole could take me an hour and a half to put together.  And the only thing semi-interesting I have in my refrig is Portuguese white wine. (Thank God for that.) There's also some 1% milk, and some tired, pathetic asparagus I bought a week ago when I saw a recipe in a magazine, then forgot both the magazine it was in and the asparagus. I also have a couple of Paul Newman's salad dressings from 2010.

    Ina Garten: she probably has lots of cool leftovers she can haul out of her refrig, reheat and serve up as a supper for her fabulously wealthy husband, Jeffrey. I'm assuming he's fabulously wealthy because in all of her shows, Jeffrey drives home "from the city" on the weekends, and she has a wonderful roast chicken for him, and a "really fabulous blueberry crumble" for dessert. My husband (also named Jeff, but not Jeffrey; sometimes I call him Just Jeff, to annoy him) would drop dead if he walked in the door and the chicken wasn't a rotisserie chicken from the Shop Rite. And what the heck's a crumble? Of course, maybe I'd be happier about cooking if my husband only drove home only on weekends, and he was driving a BMW. I doubt it: I'd still be a terrible cook. But I'm pretty sure I'd be happier...

    Last night I tried to make a recipe called "Crustless Quiche". It called for evaporated milk; I bought condensed milk. I actually bought 4 cans of condensed milk, because at the Shop Rite, I didn't know that I only needed a half a cup for Crustless Quiche. (Who knew?) This mistake led me to the computer, where I spent an hour Googling evaporated vs. condensed milk, and learned a lot about this funny little milk that comes in the cute little cans, but decided in the end, what the hell, just use the 1% milk in the fridge. I also spent a great deal of time wiping off the baby bella mushrooms with a damp paper towel, because apparently mushrooms don't like to get all wet (which I can relate to, so I really didn't mind.) The frozen spinach was supposed to be thawed; I'd forgotten that, so I "quick-thawed" it by holding it under hot water, then squeezing the semi-frozen block of spinach dry (I swear the recipe called for that; why would I make that up?)

    Physically, my hands were now freezing, and mentally, I was extremely uncomfortable about the cleanliness of my baby bellas; how many deer feet had meandered over these fungi in the forest? Did raccoons touch them with their dirty, albeit adorable raccoon paws...or a body part much less adorable?

    As I was drinking quite a bit of wine by now, I decided to pour a little--oh, fine, a lot of wine, but my hands were basically frozen and the bottle slipped a little-- into the pan with the bellas and the spinach. I figured a little alcohol would take care of any forest contamination, and probably thaw any still-frozen chunks of spinach. Let me just add, it was now about 9 o'clock at night, and my husband, seeing that I was winging it pretty heavily, went out to get the paper, and after driving back home in his Ford Focus, asked:
 "Need a hand, Hon?"
    
    Hell no: I need Bobby Flay, more wine, and probably Take Out Chinese.

    Relaxed I was not. Pertinent questions raced through my mind:
Why didn't I just buy the damn rotisserie chicken and be done with it?
What the living hell was I going to do with 4 cans of condensed milk?
And wouldn't condensed milk, by definition, be milk that liquid has evaporated from, thereby making them one and the same?

    No matter. Wait till Jeff sees the fabulous dessert I've planned: Weight Watchers Mini Fudge Bars, 45 calories each.

    Take that, Ina.

    Messed up your dessert then called it a "crumble", huh? Can't fool me, sister.

The Fourth

     A startling thing happened to me on this past Fourth of July. I became a patriot. I was not snarky for even one single minute: it was miraculous. I had fun, damn it, and lots of it. It was a red, white and blue miracle, and, please, let me explain why this was so unusual for me...

     You see, past Fourth of Julys have not been as pride producing, as flag waving, or as non-snarky. Long, long ago, I was part owner of a motel in a shore town that shall remain nameless, but it is the actual Webster Definition of the word "tacky": seriously, look up the word tacky, you'll see the name of the town.  Our motel was a small but clean motel, but as the economy tanked, the clientele got less and less clean. They started drinking at about noon, after waking up on a pool chair from their previous night's bender, and by 3 o'clock in the afternoon they liked to draw signs in chalk on the sidewalk in front of our motel:

                                 YO!!   Go To Room 214 for a grate time!!!"

     (Their spelling, not mine. I have spell check.) And that was just the young ladies; the young gentlemen were checking their weapons in case someone undesirable came to Room 214, and by undesirable I mean they didn't have the prerequisite money or drugs. So The Fourth of July, like Labor Day, Memorial Weekend (and I still can't talk about Memorial Weekend without a facial tic) were especially horrific. Heinous Holidays.

    But that was then, and this is now. This year on the Fourth of July, for the first time in a really long time, I went to see the fireworks. The whole family went. While we waited for "dusk", I tried to explain what "dusk" meant to the 5 year old, and we sat on the ground on reusable plastic shopping bags because we forgot blankets and they were the only things in the car. The kids danced to the music (positively blaring from the speakers, but that didn't even bother me, which is really unusual...that's when I knew I must be experiencing a Patriotic High).  Next to us, to the great embarrassment of his children, one very tall white man tried to moonwalk on the grass, in sneakers.
It. Was. Delightful.

     The fireworks started: they were as loud and aah-inspiring as they were supposed to be, and even the musical accompaniment--everything from Kate Smith (God Bless America) to Katy Perry (Baby, You're a Firework)--was great. (I actually teared up a little during God Bless America, until my daughter leaned over and asked me if that was me singing. Smart-Ass Kid.) There was blue cotton candy, the kids got some stuck in their hair, and after the long walk back to the car, they fell asleep on the ride home. Perfect. A Perfect Holiday. We all agreed that we'll have to do it again sometime: how 'bout next year?  Maybe next year we'll remember the blankets. Meh... maybe not. As long as you've got Kate Smith, you don't need no stinkin' blankets.

     GBA, Kate. We had a grate time.