Thanksgiving Bounty

 

I am thankful for paper towels, because I have six animals, all of whom live inside and consider going outside to take care of their personal needs to be a savage exercise in cruelty.  They do it, of course, or they have to watch me go all white vinegar on their shedding hides and listen to lecture number 3,712 about what animals won’t get to do inside if they’re not trustworthy and responsible about going outside.  We all agree on that one, even though if you don’t think a Dachshund can roll her eyes, pull up a chair and watch the fun.

But I’m pretty sure all animals can empty the contents of their traitorous digestive systems onto the Karastan at will.  If an expensive area rug isn’t available, my tennis shoes, sewing basket, or the polished hardwoods in the living room will do just fine.

So when the weather gets cold, and your furry mafia comes in from the bracing chill of winter with a look of revenge in their eyes, do what I do.  Carpet your house in paper towels.

It will make for a Bounty-ful Thanksgiving.

9-1-1 Zumba!

This weekend, just because I was tired of the ordinary trauma that makes up my Saturday mornings, I decided to test the waters of the exercise craze called Zumba. Somehow in comparison, changing the litter boxes is no longer the extended torture that I thought. It was a good experience. After all, those lungs won’t explode themselves.

Zumba, which means “cardiac arrest,” in a language spoken in wheezing noises, is no more difficult than tap dancing through a crowd of snarling Weight Watchers dropouts wearing a bologna thong, scaling a mountain made of glass shards at high speed, or convincing a bride’s mother that hip-hop beer pong is the go-to game for shower parties in the church parlor.

It’s kind of a cross between auditioning as a rodeo clown and dancing a two-step over hot coals. But according to available demonstration videos, you do it wearing a midriff top, hiphugger pants, and a smile, and you do it to the charismatic beat of Latin music, which adds the same special flavor as a kick me sign taped to your crotch.

Since baring my belly would be akin to inviting navel whiplash and subjecting bystanders to sudden thrashing movements of my stomachs, I chose to wear a large T-Shirt. This also served as a container for sixteen gallons of sweat that collected in my cleavage and rained down on my bellies like a cloudburst in a rainforest.

The Zumba people urged me to “feel the beat and let loose.” I think I felt the beat, although that could have been the beginnings of spleen implosion, and upon thoughtful consideration, I felt that letting loose could result in a hefty cleaning bill for the upholstery, the living room Oriental, and possibly also for the dog.

Just as I got the hang of the thing, the draft caused by the up-tempo undulations of my love handles flailing against each other like a truck full of chickens on a downhill grade sent furballs and dustbunnies swirling together in a sort of mystic indoor whirlwind, and with with the sweat-laced currents from my thighs flapping together like an Ace of Spades in Lance Armstrong’s Tour de France bicycle spokes, I couldn’t help wonder if the weather alert people were going to slap a severe weather warning for my neighborhood on the Emergency Channel.

To be honest (I’m a coward), I started with a half hour of my usual workout, which involves rigorously snapping my fingers to the beat of my favorite Barry Manilow tunes. Then I finished up with fifteen minutes of Zumba from a video I found on You Tube.

I know now that fifteen minutes in Zumba time is equivalent to whichever era in world history killed all the dinosaurs. I’m reasonably sure that the dinosaurs died following an actual Zumba workout.

This one almost did.

Bread, Milk, and TP—The Roll Story

“I’ve got to get bread and milk. It’s snowing.”

I glared at Bill, who was selfishly refusing to leave the Panthers in a fourth-down-and-goal-to-go situation for an essential grocery store run during one of the fiercest storms we’d had in South Carolina all winter.

“Amy, you’ve seen three alleged snowflakes in the past half hour, two of which I believe to be fuzz on your glasses. I just don’t see the need to go to Defcon One over dryer lint.”

“OK, smart guy, what are we supposed to do for food?”

“Well, since you went grocery shopping yesterday, I suggest we take a quick trip to the big white box in the kitchen and stroll down the frozen food aisle.”

“Very funny. What if the power goes out?”

“What about th the gas grill? You know that thing doesn’t freeze up in the winter like that box of dry ice you call a car.”

I sighed and looked out the window. In minutes we would be blanketed in snow up to our shoetops and my husband was endangering our lives and caloric intake with his overly cautious attitude. Inspiration struck as suddenly as the snowflakes I’d been waiting for all winter.

“We’re out of toilet paper.”

“Well what are we waiting for? Put something on over those shorts and let’s hit the road.” Bill grabbed his hat and was backing the pickup down the driveway by the time I hit the screen door.

As we approached the grocery store, we noticed disruptions in the traffic patterns. News helicopters hovered overhead, radioing reports into hectic newsrooms. Cars filled the supermarket parking lot, and shoppers with upturned faces struggled to push overloaded buggies against the flow of traffic, people, and weather.

Rare items such as snowflakes big enough to see without bifocals and a decent bullpen for the Braves make the news in the South. Down here we don’t interrupt Wheel of Fortune every time a tornado sucks up a trailer.

We parked in the overflow lot and caught the next available tram to the door. Once inside, I reached to take the last shopping cart, but a white-haired woman in a powder blue overcoat rapped my knuckles sharply with a flowered umbrella, grabbed the cart, and hurtled away toward the wine coolers.

“You get the bread, I’ll do some reconnaissance work in paper products,” Bill shouted over his shoulder as he sprinted past a crowd of people battling over a small pile of fireplace kindling. “Meet me on aisle six in half an hour.”

I muscled my way through the crowd until I came to a knot of people trying to force its way down the bread aisle like an armada of plastic boats in the bathtub drain. Caught up in a sudden current, I was swept down the length of the bread aisle and deposited neatly at the other end between the ice cream cooler, which was empty, and the frozen vegetable case, which was packed full. Apparently dependence on the food pyramid isn’t an issue during times of weather crisis.

I began to see a trend. I also saw my husband, wrestling with a small boy over the rights to a battered roll of Scott Tissue. I motioned frantically just as the boy administered a sharp kick to the shin. Bill limped toward me, muttering under his breath.

“Five more minutes and that kid would’ve hit the dirt,” he grumbled. “The Surgeon General should post a warning at the entrance to this store.”

Honestly, if that man would keep his attitude right, he’d have a much better outlook on life.

“Have you noticed a similarity between shopping today and the Saturday before the Super Bowl?” I screamed conspiratorially over the din of crashing shopping carts.

“Hey you’re right. All the important stuff is gone. Jerky strips, string cheese, beer...”

“And milk, bread, and toilet paper,” I finished, smartly plucking a pack of Charmin from the top of a passing cart.

Some time later, we set our sights on the flashing light over register seven and headed toward the front, with Bill bravely pulling our overloaded cart like an Iditarod sled dog. I mushed from behind, our buggy loaded with representatives from all major food groups: salt, sugar, crunchy, orange, and meat by-products.

Looking back at my fellow shoppers, I realized that in the sunny South, where breathing in summer humidity is like snorting boiled cotton balls, winter snow isn’t just a handful of frozen water.

It’s another reason to party.

One Foot-Long to Go

What is that?” Bill was incredulous. He lifted a tiny ear and held out a tail the size of a Q-Tip.
“It’s a puppy. Her mama was a purebred Dachshund.” I stroked her velvet muzzle.
“What was her Daddy? A Slinky?”
Bill thinks he's the class clown of the animal world. In reality he wouldn't take first place in a school of fish.
Longer than she was tall, when Lucy arrived at our house she had approximately the height to ground ratio of a caterpillar on Cocoon Eve. I wanted a charming house dog, a pleasant companion, an unconditional friend for my son. I got a sponge with legs. How was I to know that tiny package was full of dog concentrate? Just add water. Clean up water. Repeat.
“Looks like something Dr. Seuss would draw,” Bill snorted.
Lucy's rear feet are small and dainty. Way up in front of an impressive cargo section, her front feet are webbed with long hairy fingers. One foot points forward, the other at angle reminiscent of a starlet showing off new shoes on the red carpet. Paris could take some style tips from this girl.
Lucy’s shorter and heftier than most Dachshunds, but longer and more streamlined than other dogs. Sort of like a sausage on steroids. She's not a big fan of physical activity unless there is a reward involving sauteed chicken or Kung Pao beef. Sometimes when the weather is bad, i.e. not 68 degrees Farenheit with a northwesterly breeze at 5-7 knots, I scoop her over my shoulder for a stroll down the driveway, alert at all times for predators in the form of butterflies, ladybugs, and low-flying gnats.
Lucy considers playing fetch something in the realm of performing a personal favor. She will consent to go and retrieve the ball if you insist, but thinks it unwise to return it to you since you proved irresponsible from the beginning. She will race back to within a few feet of the waiting tosser and collapse with great exhaustion, holding the ball like a prize between her paws and regarding you with a wise look to see if you have learned to maintain control of your possessions.
She holds similar views concerning other inexplicable demands. She sits when asked politely, but expects compensation for it and doesn’t like to be ordered around just for fun. She’s never seen the point of being asked to “Stay,” her opinion being that if you want her out of the way for an extended length of time, she would rather go nap on your pillow which solves the problem of entanglement for both parties.
She is picky in regards to diet, limiting herself to whatever any of us happen to be eating at the time. She is not prejudiced toward the food of any nationality and consumes fajitas or stir fry with the same gusto as burgers and French fries. Through trial and error, the children have discovered that Lucy also enjoys many vegetables, including fresh corn and potatoes, as well as seasonal fresh fruits such as blackberries (although she doesn’t care for the seeds between her teeth). She prefers ice cream for dessert, but will accept Jell-O, especially if Cool Whip is involved.
Bill has long since given up shaking his head at Lucy’s privileged life. He no longer spouts sarcastic remarks when he finds her curled up in the covers on our bed or waiting expectantly for a ride in the front seat of the car.
“But if she wants something from the drive through,” he growled as we pulled into the restaurant parking lot. “She can order it herself.”