Saturday, March 28, 2009

Marriage, Work and Remodeling

It destroys one’s nerves to be amiable every day to the same human being. It makes it harder when one is married to their business partner. Thrice as bad when you are remodeling. He screams: “We are out of money and I am sick of these guys! Do something!” His birthday (50th, but he only looks 30) is coming and he is suffering a major breakdown in personality, patience, and sense of humor.

We are ignoring the whole event and going to a business broker convention in San Francisco. He will hang out with the suits and pocket protector guys teaching them the nuances of escrow, I will explore thrift shops and restaurants in the Castro district.

House is a week (meaning a month) away from done. We are in the home stretch and I can see the light at the end of the tunnel without half the house in the driveway.

Do you want to know what color we painted our house? Look at our dog. He has linen white on his tail, burgundy on his withers, toasted pecan on his head, and barn red on his feet. As the painters spread the new colors -the dog rubs wags and bumps his way to being a calico.

When the house is done, what will I find to complain/write about? It is down to the kids and the husband.

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Wednesday, March 25, 2009

The Sound Of Children

We live across the street from an elementary school. I chose this house because of its proximity to the ocean shore (10 blocks) and the assured scheme that I would hear children laughing, screaming, and playing from dusk till dawn. I love the sound of children. The cacophony of the sounds of their interactions always brings joy to my heart. Plus the playground is a huge grassy “backyard” for my dogs to romp around every day. I sit mid morning and listen for the bell to ring. The children charge with delight out of their rooms and then the orchestra of fighting, playing, laughing, running and earsplitting joy that is children at play. I love every decibel . Besides the sounds of the waves on the shore, I’m sure there is no better sound.

When my children were little, I took them to the park every day. In the midst of motherhood/exhaustion/fear, I always felt I should be somewhere else. I should have been working or making them read the classics, or learning to play an instrument. I thought the park was a waste of time. I loathed chasing them thru the jungle gym and pushing them HIGHER on the swings. Now that they are grown, it is my one wish. That someone would ask me to the park, to run and tag them, to do an “under-doggie.”

I also miss bedtime stories. After I had read a book at thousand times, I would make up my own stories, staring my children as the brave prince or the damsel in distress. Every night they were different and ongoing. They loved it; I thought it a waste of time. Now I miss every second and long to have my husband take out his earplugs and beg me for a story.

I guess that is what Grand kids are all about. You finally slow down enough to witness joy.

Remodeling TOOOOOO Long

So the water heater committed appliance suicide and then a week later, the heater did the same. Gary took his first shower down stairs in the NEW bathroom and the water leaked out of the shower so bad, it ruined the new floor and moulding. When we replaced the glass doors with a new novelty shower curtain they (College Nincompoop) neglected to tell us that splash guards are required. Husband is now obsessive compulsive about every change, color and the fact we are running out of money. He is a joy to be around.

You know you’ve been remodeling too long when:

  • All my bookmarks are color swatches from endless trips to the paint store.

  • Everyone at Home Depot knows me by name.

  • I refuse a dinner invitation because all my shoes are in a garbage bag in the garage.

  • I become used to locking the bedroom door before I leave every day so the workers won’t find the Bong or prescription drugs.

  • I’ve grown fond of the brown paper covering the floor, and have come to accept it as my primary flooring.

  • I’m accepted that are no cupboard doors, you can see all the food and I like that.

  • The dog is excited for me to leave, because that means he has a crew of 5 men to beg from that will be here all day. He will be accidentally let out so he can roam the neighborhood getting in trash cans and eating cat shit at least twice.

  • I welcome the sound of men in my house at 6:30 AM and like the smell of paint.

  • I wish I was back living on the Sailboat.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Drunken Rain Musings

New musings from a twisted mind full of nachos and wine on a raining day by the beach.

I have a new philosophy- I’m only going to dread one day at a time.

Who, besides strippers, wears a Yellow Feather Boa to a Rotary event?

I would get pregnant again if I knew I would have puppies.

I have found if I really want something, it appears at a garage sale on Saturday. This week I wanted a new husband. Didn’t like what I found on the .25 cent table.

Kids only call to talk to you if they want money or food.

I am trying to rearrange my life so I don't have to even be present.

Why at conventions (mass people events) the chicken always tastes like rubber and the fish is over cooked?

I hate name tags.

The uterus is a tracking device.

If a contractor says a job will take about two weeks, figure three months.

Is it morally wrong to let suckers keep their money?

(Should be across my husbands forehead) A sure sign of a nervous breakdown is thinking that your work is terribly important.

Why do writers write? Because it is there.

There is no thief like a bad book.

Do You Know Who I Almost Am?

Friday, March 20, 2009


I am abusively Facebooking, Twittering and Bloging. Each Morning, before I pee, I check four email addresses, Facebook, Twitter and see if I have any new comments on my blog on my Iphone. Then I get to the office and check it all on the computer over and over during the day. After work I am on my laptop until midnight, sitting in my chair, drinking wine where I make Facebook comments and misspell every other word. I think about Twitter more than Sex.

I'm obsessed. It could be a stupid and insipid waist of time, but I am digging it and the possibilities. What possibilities I'm not sure. I am searching for interesting, old pictures to make my point. I'm carrying a notebook and jotting down interesting events. I'm reading a book on comedy, to sharpen my sarcasm. My girlfriend Twittered that they had college classes on how to market businesses with Social Marketing.

People I have lived without for 20 years are now back in my life and I know their every move. Old boyfriends and unwelcome family members have found me. It is a transparent life, I'm not sure why I am doing it. I initially started, to jump start and promote my writing. Which it has, but I am so exhausted from writing on all the apps all day long, I'm not working as long on the real stuff (maybe this is the real stuff)!

My children make fun of me, my husband is irritated. Even the dog is pissed. At the beach last night, I Twittered instead of throwing sticks. But I know what Ryan Seacrest, Joss Whedon and the Redneck Mommy are doing at all times. This is valuable - right?!??

Funny Video-

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Color Crisis

I’m having a color crisis. We are down to the wire with the bottom half of the house; everything is done but two walls painted and the doors hung. I might even get my bathroom back this weekend.

We had two colors picked out for the hall walls. A Burgundy accent wall and a tan coming up the stairs. At 11:00 PM the other night, husband said the tan was to dark. That two of the stairway walls had to be lighter. We sifted threw color books for hours and came up with a green/gold. Got up at the crack of dawn and ran to the paint store to buy it (I never know when the painters will show up- sometimes is 7:30- sometimes not until after noon- they have seen me in my robe with coffee in hand more than my husband has.)

Brought it home, painted a test patch on the wall. It looks like baby poop. That special color that shows up in their diapers when they first start eating solid food. We tried it at dusk, under the chandelier light; it still looks like infant shit.

So up again when the birds are still nesting looking for a new color. This time we went with a sea blue. Husband painted a swatch. I hate it. Looks like a babies room. Not at all the warm atmosphere I’m going for.

You can’t take paint back. We had them add more black to the baby shit, so we could use it in the garage (now it is a camo flavor). The painters are supposed to finish today, I don’t want to hold them up, but I hate the blue. I don’t want to survive this entire remodel to have a color that makes my eyes bleed every time I see it.

Husband now refuses to deal with it; throwing a hissy fit, “I’m too busy to deal with paint, it must wait until tonight. He trusts me, make a decision", he barks. Fine, the colorblind girl will decide what color is best to stare at for the next 10 years!

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

My Favorite Ducks

It’s tough to know when it is spring in California. The weather is consistently 75 degrees with warm days (80-90) happening in January. It rains for only two weeks every year, sometimes gets windy, but other than an occasion fog bank, the weather is always the same. The vegetable fields have four yearly growing seasons; Farmers Markets are every week, all year. We only wear Uggs after being in the ocean (or your feet sweat offensively). Schools purchase mountains of ice to simulate snow for beach bum kids to playing for an hour until it melts for Christmas.

But at my Store, I have a sure sign of spring in two wild Mallard Ducks. For the past 8 years, they show up as my springtime revelation. They come for an hour everyday, flying in from marshes unknown. They announce their arrival by waddling in the store and quacking “ciao.” This event supersedes all work, clients, or appointments, for I must stop and smell the ducks. I love these ducks.

They let me pet them (the girl more than the boy) and eat right from my hand. They stand in the door and quack until I produce food, so after their first visit, I always have a loaf of bread standing by. I have been feeding them the gourmet Italian bread from the bakery across the street since their first visit. I tried duck food purchased at Farm Supply, but they turned up their beaks and refused to eat it.

They splash, drink and play in the water bowl I have out for them. But they also shit all over the front of the store. A stopover requires at least four wash downs with the hose, to keep my customers from tracking it in the store. Duck poo is a slimmy version of seagull feces. It’s watery and messy and they drop copious amounts around and in the store. My husband hates this and has tried to discourage me claiming “A non-professional” environment. Fuck him and his suits, I love the ducks. He almost fired an assistant once for feeding them crackers from her desk. I put duck slime in his sandwich.

One year the girl duck came alone and then after a week brought two scraggly looking boy ducks that she wouldn’t let eat. She ended up with Bachelor #1 and 6 ducklings. They do stop traffic as they waddle across the street (and always in the cross walk). It is the joy of a diminutive city, to stop and enjoy the Ducks.

This year, I squealed with delight at their return, but only had pita bread fresh and homemade by a mastermind lady from Jordan. They didn’t like it, so I ran to the bakery to get a loaf of bread. The owner of the bakery was in the middle of the street talking to my car detailer (It is a small town and we spend a lot of time in the middle of the road gossiping) as I exited the bakery with the white bag in hand. They both knew it was for the Ducks and asked excitedly if they were back. Just then, the girl duck flew to meet me in the middle of the street, quacking an octave higher. I yelled at her to get outta of the street and ran towards the store so she would follow; she did, as did the boy. The Baker and Washer laughed at my trained duck act and came over to scatter crumbs for them.

In a couple of weeks, she will have hatchlings that follow her thru the bank parking lot (next door) to my store to bathe in my water and eat crumbs. All the business owners will watch the streets, slowing traffic so they will not get hit. They are the characterization of cute. All conversations surround the ducks. We talk about the adorable curlyq’s of the boys’ feathers and the weird lump on the girls’ front throat. We grow very fond of them and worry when they are an hour late. Then they all fly away and we miss every part of them except the duck slime on the ground.

As everyone who comes in the store wants to know:
Yes, they are the same ducks
Mallards live up to 30 years and mate for life
No, I haven’t named them
Yes, my husband hates them
No, I don’t care!

Sunday, March 15, 2009

No Water Heater! I'm scheduled for Implosion!

The world is a mess and I just need to rule it.

I woke up Sunday morning to the sound of water running downstairs. I was so excited that my husband had moved back into his bathroom (it is almost done) and was washing his balls and long tresses downstairs. But when I sauntered down the stairs, he was sitting at his desk, watching Internet porn and not bathing (or waxing).

We went to investigate the running water sound. We went out in the back yard and pouring from the hot water heater closet (which most importantly houses my husbands collection of every watercraft, and dirt bike magazine EVER MADE), was gushing hot water. The water heater had imploded, broke, and seemed destined to not exist. It was the rats fault. They chewed threw the bottom. We cursed the rodents, but really it was my husbands fault, because after both the cats died, he refused to get another. We saved the extraordinary magazines, but determined I would not be bathing at home, for a long while.

Sundays are the most expensive day to call a plumber, but we had no choice. $3300 later with three-week achievement estimation, we nodded our dirty heads in conformity. I am dirty, cold, and pissed. My husband suggested we go dirk bike riding, since I looked and smelled like a pig.

What better time for a trip to find an obelisk of a dirk bike track. We loaded the dog in the Geo and headed for dirt roads, sharp turns, and scary white guys with guns. With the motor head always comes the search for the perfect track. A well-seasoned track in the middle of nowhere with burms, jumps and whoopedees is paradise. We turned at the first dirt road – only to be chased off by a barking dog and gun totting toothless guy. Several turns and a bubbling radiator later, we got out and hiked. There was a fire pit; two old used condoms and a great vista, but no track.

We let the dog run into the tick-infested woods and I wondered why I follow this man anywhere.

As I clung to the handle of the car over the bumps and sharp edges of the track, I asked my self:

Why do people set out 15 signs directing you to a house for a sale, only to have the owner point a gun and have dogs charge with canines displayed?

Why does the plumbing always break on a Sunday when its time and a half?

Why when a computer/I Phone is crashing, it shows the manufactures logo? (Shouldn’t they be showing the competition in a crash?)

Why do they never have “full bars” when you really need them?

Why do dogs roll in any rotting shit pile of decaying animal?

Why do people only invite you to come and party with them only after they have been drinking?

Why can’t you get out of Costco without spending $100.00?

Why do contractors always take three times longer and five times more expensive then they proposed?

Why do tourists wonder aimlessly thru strange beach streets?

Why do you have to go Start to turn off the computer?

Sorry, I’m dirty (leaning on seasoned) and angry. My house is still unfinished, filled with boxes, half-painted walls, no hot water, and no end in sight. The cash flow is killing me!

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Put A Cap On It!!

I’m many things but I am not a cap person. The minute I unfasten something with a lid, it goes missing. I mean --nano seconds after it breaths its first taste on plastic-free air, its gone. Like little gnomes follow me around stealing tops off stuff. Toothpaste, hair spray, water bottles, vitamin bottles, wine corks, and bread ties, all vanished. I wonder around with things open and spilling, leaking and leaving stains. I try, but they just bounce out of my hands and go the way of that sock in the dryer.

My husband is not this way. He has the cap on hairspray he bought 8 months ago. Water bottles that he refills with our filtered water, that go back on repeatedly. He is a Folder too. I can’t fold a towel to save my life. He folds fitted sheets. Perfectly, with no wrinkles.

I don’t know if this is a genetic trait, done with training or just fear from childhood. His mother was scary; in that kind of way that sends people to therapy for years. Mine was scary but in the way of jumping out from behind a door with ratted hair and screaming scary. She was fun, but unpredictable. I think his intimidating mom is where he learned his cap keeping, towel-folding skills.

With the remodel (yes, it is still going on) we are sharing a bathroom. His stuff is large in quantity, but very neat and has all the caps. My toothpaste oozes, my shampoo leaks and my deodorant is all over the place, caps are all gone. I used his hairspray today and tried to put the cap back on and it lept out of my hand. I wrangled it from behind the toilet and placed it back, only to have it jump suicidal into the toilet pool. I fished it out and washed it off.

I teased him about the cap thing. Then he saw the price tags on the bottom of my shampoo (I loose the caps, but cannot pry a price tag off to save my life) and he fainted. “$100.00 for shampoo? Who pays that for soap on hair? What is it laced with gold? 'Splain lady”.

I have thick hair, like a horse’s tail hair. Its red, its curly and left to its on devices would resemble a dead possum on my head. It needs organic shampoo so it doesn’t strike up like a rats nest. It needs to be tamed. Daily. Or I look like I just crawled thru the jungle. This takes good hair products and good hair products cost BUNCHES of money. He wants me to look nice, right? I’m only doing it for him?

“For that price, you could at least keep the cap on it!” Thus, the genetics conversation began.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Gluttony and Heaven- The Cass House

Okay- so one of my jobs is writing about restaurants, finding new adjectives’ for delicious, and wonderful and fresh. I have to do it every week; some times, I have to eat at three shitty restaurants to get one good one to recommend to my readers. But some restaurants are SO FUCKING GOOD- that in my spare time I can’t NOT write about the meal. Plus in my papers, I can’t say FUCK and it feels good just to type it.

I had the most amazing meal last night at the Cass House in Cayucos. I have eaten there many times, reviewed them twice, blogged about them and worshipped them. Last night they out did even my expectations. It is hard to describe the food (except for this is what heaven must taste like) as it is complicated, yet simple. In season and yet influences from all over the world. You can taste every element of the dishes, even if it is a two-pronged sprig of mustard greens. I have reviewed restaurants all over the world and found none better.

We took our friend and Master Tress Architect, Robert. He has been wanting to join us in this culinary adventure since we started waxing poetically about this restaurant. The waiter Daniel- a master wine expert and nicest guy in the world suggested we should try everything on the menu, so we did. Everything except the soup and one salad--- and all with wine parings. We rolled out of there full and so happy, I was sure I was going to burst. At the end of the meal, we were talking wine and I showed Daniel my picture of the $700 bottle of wine and he said he would cut off a pinky for a taste of that wine-- wrong on that call (see earlier post).

We started with a bubble treat of a Spanish Cuvee, with an amuse bush (for those not foodies, it means a first “one bite treat” so loaded with flavor it opens up your tastes buds). A puff pastry filled with Spanish blue cheese, smoked duck breast, and a sprig of micro greens. This was an explosion of flavor and would open up even a smoker’s palette. Next, we had six Humboldt Bay Kumamoto Oysters, freshly plucked from the sea and oozing with flavor. So delectable that I cut my lip sucking them out of the shell. We put ponzo granita and a Satsuma mignonette on them. The sauce was so succulent the Boys kept it for bread dip.

Next dish was Veal Marrow and Toast- Yeah--just the big leg bone from a cow with the marrow inside cooked down to a consistence of gravy, spread on a hard toast with three different kinds of salt. A black salt from Maui, a red salt from Kona and a Polynesian white sea salt. The sprinkling of the salt did make a difference in the flavor and it was so good the Boys were sucking the marrow out of the bones to get every morsel. Next was a dish of braised pig trotters. The superior taste resembled the best pulled pork, only richer. We had a platter of four different cheeses, all mouth plummeting worthy of the Tempornilla that paired with them.
Next, Baranof Island troll caught King Salmon
Chicken Cordon Bleu
Portuguese Fisherman’s stew with chorizo, clams, mussels, and lingcod
Colorado Lamb Loin (done with a West Indian flavor)
Kobe Beef tamarind glazed shoulder
Seared prime strip loins with pomme puree (fancy mashed potatoes) with wild truffles
And Foie Gras and Sonoma Moulard duck.

We ate every bite, drank every pairing, and reveled in the gluttony of it all. We were the happiest diners on the planet. Then he brought desert.
Apple bourbon cake
Butterscotch toffee
Chocolate stout milk shake
Mocha pot de crème
Angel food ginger bread pudding with Clementine ice cream
And…… angel food cake with strawberry sorbet, and crème fraiche.

We ate for over 4 hours. The setting was serene, the staff fantastic, the food, none better in the world, I would take any bet on that. It was heaven; I don’t want to ever eat again for fear of cheating on this amazing chef. Nothing was made anywhere else. Everything that came out of the kitchen was prepared there. All the sauces, dishes, even desserts were done on premise. He must not sleep and prep 24/7.

If you live on the Central Coast, you owe it yourself to try the Cass House. Robert agreed and we walked down the pier to stave off undulating home. The crash of the waves and the full moon sealed the point that we had just experienced heaven.
Here’s the thing, the price point is not that high. One of the local specials was $35 for three amazing dishes. You can afford it.

Rant done. Bottom line, it was so F* %^&%^&%^$(##$%^%&*^*() good, my fingers would not write about anything else today.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

Writers Love Lust for Joss Whedon

If I could meet and have lunch with anyone in Hollywood, it would be Joss Whedon. I am awed by him, fascinated by him, want to be him, and especially want to jump inside his head and see how it works. I met Brad Pitt and was not fazed, (he is truly beautiful), but for Joss- I would sell my children. He is the genius behind Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Firefly, Dollhouse, and my new favorite- Dr. Horrible's Musical Blog. He also wrote Toy Story, Alien Resurrection, episodes of Roseanne, The Office, and The Tick. He has a new twisted movie coming out that is a Horror/comedy called A Cabin in the Woods. I own every episode of Buffy, Angel and Firefly. They are the material I study when I am have trouble with dialog. Even though his emphasis is on Sci Fi, Joss's writing is brilliant, fully realized and inspiring.

This guy can twist a phrase and plot a scene better than anyone. He is our modern day Shakespeare. If you are not a Buffy fan, you have never witnessed the genius of his writing. Start with Firefly- Netflix "The Firefly" series and then the movie.

I LOVE Dr. Horrible’s Musical Blog. It was written and produced during the writer strike, so it must stay as a blog. Starring Neil Patrick Harris (Doogie Houser) and Nathan Fillion it is a musical, superhero, comic, blog that is bizarre and wonderful. I love Joss Whedon (Platonic love...not crush love, I'll save crush love for Neil Patrick Harris and Nathan Fillion). Dr. Horrible is fun. It's outside the box. It's quirky and adorable and several more synonyms for zany. Here's how my friend (who's never heard of Whedon) described it "Cute...but than kinda depressing."

The man has never done wrong by me, never made anything that was even slightly sub-par. Few of my favorite writers/directors can claim that (In fact...I think Joss is the only writer/director I have not been disappointed by even once!)

Here’s what he does. He invents a universe and all the rules of said universe. Then he makes his main characters with all their traits, quirks, goals. He knows what they eat for breakfast, what they would do in a fight, what drives them, how they feel about their mothers', even what kind of underwear they sport. From this he lets the characters draw him. His turn of a phrase is perfection. All who have worked with him adore him. This man can write a full season plan with plot twists and character arcs that rival Hitchcock.

I want to be him. I want to write with an open spirit and be damned the laws of the universe. First I would like to meet him.

Period Post (not for the sqeemish).

Little doe eyed wenches dressed in green standing out side the grocery store trying to ruin my life.
I caved in, bought three boxes and ate a whole box of Thin Mints in the car! Body prepare for a breakdown. I am going to be sick and it is the Girl Scouts fault.
Who taught these little tarts to solicit outside a store? Doesn’t this behavior lead to a life of prostitution, dancing on bars or drug sales? Pushing their wares on unsuspecting dieters and allergens, Little Bitches!!

Maybe it’s the period talking. After over 30 years of monthly bleeding, it still takes over my life. I’m bloated, grumpy, hungry, and bleeding. I have 15 kinds of pads and tampons in my cupboard, yet none of them does what the commercial promises. They do not make my life happier; they don’t keep my sheets clean at night or my underwear safe. AND THEY ARE NOT COMFORTABLE!!

I going back to the cookies, take a pain pill, drink a bottle of wine, soak in the tub, and then watch movies that make me cry.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Bad Singers Ruin A Good Day

Puppy Shopping!!

Every week we go to Saturday Farmer’s Market. We see friends, artist, and customers and buy our produce for the week. The highlight is the farmers, they are all so helpful, and we get advice on how to cook their wares. It is a joy and we always say if we were traveling and found a market like this, we would talk about it for decades.

We buy a couple of freshly made tamales (Husband gets the one with Molé), fresh made chips, and pico de gallo. We buy a bottle of Coke that is bottled in Mexico, so it is loaded with sugar and tastes completely different from American version. For desert, we eat a basket of freshly picked strawberries. We sit on a bench and eat our treasures, surrounded by artwork, puppies, and people getting outdoor massages. It is heaven. Until it starts.

The Music. It is a guy with the synthesizer, a drum machine and a microphone and no rhythm. He is also tone death- but that doesn’t stop him from belting out old pop songs, mellow rock songs and classic country. Today he was destroying Green Day. He always covers Charlie Rich and Jimmy Buffett. Each reverberation is like a cat getting a bath. Everyone jokes about how bad he is, yet each week, the organizer of the market hands him a check. I want this job. To be horrible at your work and still be paid? I thought that was just for government workers.

Were are all the American Idol contestants? A loud radio would be better or a string quartet. Dogs howling, children screaming, anything would be easier on our ears.

We left and went to try a new BBQ joint in town. As we pulled up to park, a loud screeching sound came from the front of the restaurant. They had hired a “Blues” musician to play out front. AND HE WAS TERRIBLE. Doesn’t anyone audition these guys? We drove away never to try the BBQ.

If the writing thing doesn’t pan out I am buying a guitar and a sound system and I am going on the circuit playing nothing buy Carpenter’s and John Denver.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

God and His Sense Of Humor

Bad day, queen-of-the-fucking-universe bad day. My manager called in sick, then my son became ensconced in the circle jerk they call the Justice System. I cried at my desk, blew my nose on people’s faxes, and washed all my Bare Minerals from my face with tears.

My husband took note and escorted me to the beach. The best thing about living here is when times gets tough, we go to the shore and let the waves wash our cares away. The beach is two blocks from my retail jail, so I have no excuse not to go there everyday. Hell --people travel for hours for this, I get it everyday.

Wallowing in my pity party, a bushy tail up in the ice plants caught my eye. It was a Malamute and she looked exactly like my dear departed Takoda. I blink my tears, ask if my husband saw it too and we held our breath as this beautiful creature looped over to us. Angus (he was a boy) let us love him up, pet his soft-as-satin ears, rub his belly, and marvel at the size of his paws. No one could be sad in the presence of such a wonderful animal. He wagged my sorrow away. His owner came over to chat and we shared stories of Malamutes. Angus dug in the sand and filled my shoes with errant beach particles. Moreover, he wagged, and rubbed and loved me- the way only a Northern Breed could (that is if they choose too). It was almost like God saying lighten up, it will be okay. Angus sealed the deal that we would be getting a Malamute puppy.

Feeling better, we went back to my store.
In a small town, people don’t feel the need to lock their cars or even turn them off when going to the ATM. Our friend (The Listener) Lexus was running just outside my store and he was nowhere to be seen. My Husband decided to scare him. This is a regular occurrence and The Listener has not figured out that Gary will not stop fucking with his unattended car. So Gary hopped inside the SUV.
I went into the store to find The Listener shipping something. I helped and held in my giggle. Which was funnier, that the man was about to shit himself as Gary jumped up from his back seat or that Gary the busiest man on the universe was sticking to his joke, no matter how long it took?

The Listener went on his way; I walked him to the car, anticipating his hysteria. But he saw Gary’s car and asked where he was. I lied and said the bank. So The Listener went looking for him in the bank. Meanwhile all my employees are in on the joke and watching out the window, while The Listener walks away. Gary calls the store from his cell phone in the car. “Where is he?”

The Listener leaves the bank and we all duck behind the curtains so our eavesdropping doesn’t destroy the surprise.
He goes to his car, pauses, and then comes again in to my store. I am having a hard time keeping a straight face knowing that Gary is cramped in the front passenger seat up under the dashboard, now going on 15 minutes.
The Listener hands me a poster and asks about the up-coming music festival. I yeah, yeah, yeah him and hang up the poster.
The Listener leaves, heads for his car, just as Gary calls again, I scream “He’s coming,” and hang up.
The Listener walks passed his car and strolls down the street. We are laughing so hard in the office; no one can get anything done until this joke plays out. Gary calls again and says he has moved to the back seat, he was loosing all feeling in his legs under the dash. He tells me to find him.

I call The Listener’s wife to tell her what is happening, after she checks that his life insurance policy is current, she says proceed. But she wants to talk to The Listener, he doesn’t have his phone and she has an urgent need to talk to him. The Listener strolls again past his car and goes across the street and I yell that I have his wife on the phone and that she needs to talk to him. He gives me an Italian salute and enters the Mortgage Company.
Gary calls the store for an update and moves to the back of the car to stretch out and take a nap. When The Listener comes out of the office, I give him my phone so the wife can take a swipe at his brain. He hands me the phone and heads towards his car.
We have given up hiding at this point and are sitting on the swing in front of my store.
The Listener opens the car door, gets inside, puts on his seatbelt, starts the car, and adjusts the mirror (that Gary has knocked with his head) and then “RAAAAWWWWWW”!!!!! Gary jumps from the back seat and grabs The Listener’s head. I must say that he screamed like a girl. I nearly wet my pants.

Gary jumped out of the back seat and The Listener came after him. After a cacophony of screaming, laughing, and yelling, he hears that Gary has been hiding in the car for over 30 minutes. I don’t know which is funnier, the busiest man in the world taking 30 minutes out of prime selling time to scare the shit out of his friend or The Listener’s scream that is seared in my brain.

Back in the store and reflecting how God (and Gary) was trying to make my sorrow lighter by these two events, I get a call from my boy and there was a mistake and he is not in the hands of the Justice System. I’m relieved and amazed. Not such a bad day after all. Giggled until my stomach hurt.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Poking The Tiger

I was stood-up, forgotten, passed on again by my clown (husband) who feels that clients are much more important than promises to his wife. This is the fourth week that we had set a date to make up for our VD dinner at The Cass House. At the last minute, he cancelled sighting an emergency meeting with a client. Four times!! Is this man stupid or just poking the tiger?

I think I’m going to leave him. OR BETTER YET, I think I will stay and be a raving bitch! Maybe a more sinister plan is to become a passive aggressive hag. I will wash his white shirts with my red towels. I will scrub the toilet with his toothbrush and then but it back in the holder. I will burn his tator-tots. I will give the dog diarrhea (which translates into a DISASTER in the backyard). I will talk in my sleep about other men. I will make Quiche every night for dinner.

Normally it wouldn’t bother me, but the faithful Jag would not start, so I had two choices:
1. Stay home with the painting/carpentry gang and try to write while they blasted rap/reggae music all with the tap, tap, tap of their hammering.
2. Have an employee pick me up and be a retail hostage all day.

I went for retail, spent the day wrestling software, arguing with little old ladies about the price their returns to QVC was going to cost and finding the biggest potato bug in history the back of a cupboard as I pulled out a ream of paper. When they restarted my heart, I had to notarize two divorces. These are always bad. Someone is forever pissed. One man cried as he signed every paper. The other let the children obliterate my store while the Plaintiff and him threw insults at each other.

I got a ride home at 6:30 hungry for this menu:

Bistro salad
Fried green tomatoes, frisee, baby radicchio, Nueske bacon lardons, green garlic dijon vinaigrette, farm egg

Maine lobster pot pie
Arborio rice, market vegetables, herb puff pastry

Chicken leg confit
Balsamic roasted spring onions, pomme puree, sherry jus

Angel food ginger bread pudding with clementine ice cream, sesame brittle

What I ate was sliced cheese and crackers. I did treat myself to a bottle of Foxen Syrah, to lessen the pain.

One of the newly single guys asked me out on a date after the ink had dried on his divorce papers, if I don’t get my rendezvous at the Cass House soon; I’m taking him up on it.

Monday, March 2, 2009

Garage Sales Tell A Lot About A Person

You learn a lot about a person when you scrooge through their scrap. In my quest for matching bond books this weekend for a commercial, I am shooting on Thursday; I visited over 30 people’s driveways, lawns, and garages. I found that the stuff they were bequeathing to us treasure hunters told volumes about their past and presents lives.

Where else do you find a grown man Winnie The Pooh Costume?

At a sale where the woman used to be a seamstress.
Tell Tale Signs:
Born again Christians were throwing away all their old romance novels, wine decanters and ashtrays.
Newly married people had newly emptied out photo books, tons short skirts, and all the old mismatching dishes. The regeristing concept clearly works.
Mommies with three children screaming while circling the items on display yelling “Mine!” were selling all the baby items, hoping that they would never catch this horrible human condition again.
People who were moving into their first home were selling everything. With a fresh house comes fresh credit cards, and that old stuff was not making into the new abode.
People who were downsizing threw away everything of their grown children.
If a woman had a garage full of tools, toys and cars, she had clearly thrown the husband out.
If the man had candles, decorative pillows and many copies of “Mars and Venus,” he had thrown her out.
Crack heads with no teeth who sat under dark glasses even in the over cast conditions were selling everything that was not nailed down. When asked about the items they would say it was their roommate who was away at work.
College kids sold IKEA furniture so they could eat a good meal, happy to sit on the beanbag chairs and use concrete blocks and pressed wood for a table. They also had a ton of schoolbooks (which I got them to donate to my Boaters For Books charity).

The expedition was a blast and I was successful. I found two volumes of encyclopedia’s that the people were more than happy to GIVE me. Plants, Book shelves and frames to decorate the set, and a few guilty pleasures of my own. I look for books, movies, and interesting house wares. I found a couple of first editions that are slated to go on EBay once I recover from my last bout of on-line nonsense. I found over 10 DVD’s that are classic and hard to find (Best in Show, original Ocean’s 11 and Ally McBeal) and a stunning Moreno Glass Vase that was worth around $500 and I paid $2.00.
It was a good pirate day.