Special Delivery

For a while, the Captain of our Kennel discovered he could waylay any latent longings for new experiences in motherhood I might display with the addition of a new pet. Pets aren’t less expensive than children, but in rare cases their obedience training is actually effective. I am now the Angelina Jolie of the animal world. Presently I have six animals representing various cultures lounging on the living room furniture, ringing for takeout.

The cats are no trouble. They thrive on indifference. And aloe plants. Aloe plants that you’ve pampered and promised roomy new pots to if only they will “Live, please, live just one more day!” Shortly after a feline gourmet vegetarian meal, you will discover that fillet of aloe plant makes them puke fancy green spearmint gum-type designs on the new living room plush.

I can also keep up with the Labradors. Chunk a ball down the driveway and they will knit themselves into a scarf trying to be the first to grab it up and chew it like Double Bubble. Big dogs are easy. They know they’re dogs (okay, they also know they’re people and feel entitled to at least half of your sandwich, but that’s another thing entirely.) The thing is, they EXPECT to chase a ball and to be invited outside of the house for personal chores, such as watering topiaries and chasing squirrels. They come in the house to sleep or to help with the vacuuming or to beg for potato chips.

It’s the Dachshund that gives me trouble.

So far she has successfully trained me to retrieve a toy, give her a treat, and dress appropriately for carrying her outside under the umbrella in inclement weather. I’m striving for more complex achievements, but if she thinks I’m good for agility training, she’s going to be disappointed. I’m 51 years old. I don’t always make it safely through the hallway obstacle course on my 2:00 a.m. bathroom expedition. For me, agility is the ability not to trip over shadows and to open the bottle of pain reliever without calling for the Jaws of Life.

Occasionally, I will look down by my chair to find the little darling gazing up at me with the kind of eyes that would make Ebenezer Scrooge sign up as a Salvation Army bell ringer, attempting to assimilate me into her thought processes. Usually I’m not adept at picking up other languages, but now I recognize Dachshund for “play,” “treat,” and “let’s send the big dogs to live with your brother.”

As an added embarrassment, she doesn’t care for clothes like the movie stars' dogs do. Oh, she’s up for sleeping on your new sweater or dragging your soiled underwear through the dining room to pad her bed when company is passing the sugar bowl for tea. But she turns surly if you present her with a set of twinkling reindeer antlers at Christmastime, and no matter how nicely you ask, she won't let you tie the chinstrap in a fetching bow.

She once shunned a beautiful sweater, knitted entirely by the hands of her loving auntie, to shield her from the winter wind. She pulled her head and paws in like a turtle so that trying to dress her was like stuffing a sausage. And I’m quite certain that the thoughts parading through her stubborn Dachshund brain were particularly unladylike. I informed her straightaway that I knew a little Pug that would love to have that sweater, and with one look she invited me to pack it up and send it along special delivery. And the Labradors along with it.

I think I’ll need a bigger box.

TravelLunacy.Eat

When the Captain and I travel, it’s more like a study of modern art than a road trip. Nothing on the map looks like it does in real life, and I’m so busy staring at the lady in the Hummer painting an extra eye on her face every time she hits a bump, I don’t notice that the route I’ve chosen to follow ends in an intricate sculpture composed of exit ramps, clover leafs, and left turns that lead directly down the Highway to How Did We Get Here?

Cap doesn’t understand the trouble I have with maps. To him the whole thing is as plain as the two noses on your face.

Another difference in our traveling styles involves pit stops. He doesn’t make them. I brake for anything with a handle, just in case. I once wheeled into a car repair shop because their sign said, “Flush for winter.” I thought I wouldn’t get another chance until July.

Floating past a slow moving Buick like Picasso’s paintbrush, he sighed contentedly and pondered aloud, “Which exit do we take?”

Flipping the map over in an effort to locate the northern hemisphere, I figure I can answer this question two ways: multiple choice or essay. Either way, I’m pretty sure I can see the end of the marriage superhighway looming in the distance.

It’s times like this I should whip a U-turn in my thought processes. But when my mouth goes into overdrive, somehow my brain always seems to yield to the traffic flow. My kids say it’s been parked in a tow away zone for years.

“Does it matter?”

He clutched the steering wheel until the bones of his knuckles broke through the skin. He looked like Wolverine.

“Not if we don’t care whether we end up at David’s house where we can have supper, or the Emerald City where we can choose between brains, courage, or little red shoes.”

Personally, I’ve always been partial to red shoes, but as usual eating wins out. Maybe my priorities are out of order, but given the choice, I’ll sing along with the Burger King instead of humming “If I only had a brain” any time.

“I always take that road that goes past the Japanese steakhouse that’s been there since we were dating, and then I go up and turn at the intersection that goes past the milk shake place. You know you’re on the right road when you pass the hot doughnut sign.”

Just thinking of Bavarian Cream gives me happy trails.

Cap travels using road signs. I go by major food group. I can’t read a map, but if I can find a route that covers everything from gooey to gourmet, I can find my way by smell.

On the other hand, he can track anything. If we’d ever had a child together it would be an Indian scout named Paula Deen.

He sighed. I’ve noticed that the longer we’re married, the more he sighs. In a couple more years it’s going to be like living in a wind tunnel.

“According to the map, where do we turn?”

“According to the map, we’re already two creases and a wrinkle past his house.”

“Let me see.”

“No. The last time I gave you the map while you were driving, it took us two hours to go half an inch.”

“That half an inch was a 150 mile path through a rock slide in the mountains.”

“So it’s my fault you didn’t get four wheel drive?”

“Those rocks were bigger than your. . .never mind. Just tell me when we pass the Jamestown exit.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because we passed the Jamestown exit when you were giving me the geology lecture.”

Before he could finish up his lesson plan a transfer truck packed from tail lights to tooter with gourmet ice cream blew past us headed toward the next exit.

Without a second thought, the Captain of my Dessert Cart winked at me and whipped in behind him.

We might not agree on the best way to get there, but sometimes the best part of the trip isn’t the easy way.

It’s the Rocky Road.

CSI Poinsettia Homocide

I love Christmas--known around my house as the Festival of Poinsettia Murder. It’s a ritual I indulge in every year. What says Merry Christmas better than a spray of bare, wilted stems and a blanket of cast-off red petals covering the floor in a crunchy carpet?

To my way of thinking it’s more manslaughter than murder anyway. It’s not like I plan the death like I plan the menu for Christmas dinner, which is an unsettling, but comforting, thought. My Christmas dinner, while not gourmet fare in scope or intent, might make for happy times and give the old stretchy pants a workout, but does not often leave bodies in its wake. My bent toward Poinsettiacide is a well-known, but lesser-appreciated talent.

So if it’s the rituals that make the holiday season important and cement the ties that bind into place, I owe it to my family to kill the holiday Poinsettia.

So this season will see all my familiar and comforting rituals: the manger scene whose assembled cast expands daily to include snowmen, stray wisemen and an occasional ox or ass from long lost nativity sets, and at least one zombie action figure; the Christmas tree decorated around the bottom with an assortment of bells and wind chimes to let me know when the kitties have staged a daring raid on the festive gift bags, and a crumpled Poinsettia that holds my hopes and dreams that this will be the year that Santa finally delivers a green thumb.

Because once the wrapping paper lies in mangled piles and Christmas lights wind themselves back into tangled knots, hope is what Christmas is all about.

Do Not Remove This Tag!

Becster tagged me for a "Five Interesting Things About Me" meme. There aren't five interesting things about me that I know of, but as an English major in college, I learned to answer discussion questions completely and in great detail, especially in cases where I didn't know the answer. So watch out. I might get carried away.

1. I’m like the Statue of Liberty for stray animals. I've got a flashing sign over my house that only homeless animals can see. "Give me your tired (wanting to sleep on my bed), your poor (looking to get on the Milk Bone payroll), your huddled (hanging around my back door with yowling and gnashing of fangs) masses, yearning to cough up hairballs in my living room." I presently have three cats, two Labradors, and a diva Dachshund who are enjoying the benefits of a permanent residence visa as they lay around on my furniture ringing for room service.

2. I'm convinced that everything in history happened at the same time. I'm one of those folks that can't visualize depth. To me, a timeline is straight for a reason.

3. Most people think I frosted my hair. I didn’t. I had toddlers. Now they’re teenagers. The hairdo was complimentary.

4. I could live happily on a planet made of macaroni and cheese and gourmet ice cream. I’ll know I made it to heaven when I’m in a place where fat content does not precipitate weight gain or coronary stress.

5. I believe in the serial comma and will fight for its right to exist in reading, writing, and bitter arguments about syntax.

6. My behind freezes over like Lake Michigan in winter. It stays cold from the autumn equinox until the ice cracks in the spring. . .my husband says it’s like someone put a Butterball turkey in the bed hoping it would thaw under the electric blanket. It doesn't.

7. I can't count. The five people I'm tagging are Blessed, Heiddi, ravenlea, and poor, dear Bill who may yet live through NaNo to update his blog. See, I told you I can't count!