Category Archives: family

My Uncle, My Friend

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Uncle Phil was not my uncle by blood or marriage. He was my friend, an honorary uncle. And now he’s gone. I just got word today.

Uncle Phil was a friend to me when I deeply needed one. I met him during my college years, a long time ago, but I’ve never forgotten what he has done for me. He helped me through one of the darkest times of my life, when I was bereft. He never understood exactly what his presence meant to me, but he lent it all the same.

Uncle Phil was a companion not just in sorrow, though he certainly was that. But he was also a friend in joy. He and his wife drove over 500 miles just to be at my wedding to Dan, and we drove over 500 miles to be at his to Meg.

Uncle Phil helped shape my musical taste. He played the guitar, specializing in old-timey music, with a group called Mole in the Ground. There were many times when he played for me—Fox on the Run or some old square dance tune, and “Star of the County Down,” which was the song he associated with his wife. He took me with him to his band’s performances and played for me on porches and in empty rooms.

I have memories. Good ones. Uncle Phil took me on picnics with peanut butter sandwiches on light rye at a local park. We played with a wandering puppy who would catch a ball and then run off with it. Uncle Phil called it a “Labrador De-triever.”

Uncle Phil taught me so many things. He taught me songs. He taught me to read Tarot cards. He taught me his unique interpretations of Bible stories. He taught me how to be strong. He taught me to appreciate Irish whiskey. He taught me how to grasp happiness from the midst of despair. He taught me that I could take care of someone else even when I needed taking care of myself.

Uncle Phil was a Friend as well, a member of the Society of Friends (Quakers), a beacon of the inner light. I attended meetings with him a few times and shared in the peace and fellowship. He lived his faith without retreating from the world that contained a troubled me.

Uncle Phil has left this world. I toasted him with Irish whiskey and Irish music. My grief is still raw. I am richer for having known him and the world is poorer for having lost him.

Buying the Past

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No, you read that right. It’s buying the past, not burying the past. (Unless you read it wrong, of course. But it’s still buying the past, not burying the past. But I digress.)

Dan and I went on a brief vacay to Gatlinburg this week, and commerce was committed. A wonderful time was had by all, particularly the local merchants. We only had a few days in town, so we had to really focus on where we wanted to shop and what we wanted to get.

Dan is something of a history buff and loves antiques. He collects old bottles and clocks in particular. Once he even brought a large clock (I’d say about two feet by 1 1/2 feet) home from England, packing it in his luggage with clothes wadded up around it. It made it home safely. (What was ironic about it, when we got home, he looked more closely and found that the clock was made in Massachusetts. Somehow, this poor wandering clock had made it from the States to England and back again. But I digress again.)

So, when we got to Gatlinburg, he was all fired up to visit the same antiques shop we went to the last time we were there. Alas, we weren’t staying in the same place, but a number of miles away. Even with GPS, I couldn’t reconstruct how to get back there. I couldn’t even remember the name, except that it had “antiques” in it. We did find another shop, though, and Dan happily puttered around it, coming away with a beautiful cobalt blue decanter set and an old, framed print of an iris. He was satisfied, and I was satisfied that he was satisfied.

Another shop we visited was one of my favorite kinds, a rock and gem shop. Dan likes them, too, but he mostly buys tumbled rocks and carved statues, while I go for semi-precious gemstone jewelry. Dan found a vase carved from diaspore and black onyx, and I got a set of earrings and a necklace made of tanzanite, a very pretty blue mineral, set in silver.

Anyway, Dan’s interest in the past is primarily in the last 100 years or so, while mine is in the millions of years. My tanzanite was formed 585 million years ago, at an estimate, and has been waiting ever since for me to dangle it from my neck and ears. I have plenty of jewelry of similar vintage.

Now that I think about it, so has the diaspore that Dan’s newest vase was carved from. (Been around millions of years, that is. A carved diaspore vase is heavy and would both give me kyphosis and rip my earlobes off. But I digress yet again.) (Kyphosis = widow’s hump. I was showing off.)

There’s nothing wrong with new things. I have an e-reader and buy digital books all the time. I have a collection of plushies. I have souvenir mugs and shot glasses from wherever we visit. I have a Lego orchid that I’m still putting together. Dan has power tools and hand tools. He has kitchen gadgets like an egg cooker. He has modern glass and ceramics. We both have t-shirts that commemorate various people and events. (Our latest is a Jimmy Buffett and the Coral Reefers t-shirt.)

And we don’t forget about the future, either. The time we’ve spent at science fiction conventions has resulted in the acquisition of glass sculptures blown as we watched, prints such as the one of a cactus taking off into space, and posters of the covers of sf novels. NASA juice glasses (past and future for that).

But, in many ways, our hearts belong in the past. Not the rest of us, of course. Dan and I would both be functionally blind without glasses, and I would likely have been burned as a witch. Maybe Dan, too. Plus, there would be smallpox and bubonic plague to contend with. No, I think we’ll stay in the present and buy our pieces of the past. Safer that way.

It’s a Bargain!

Christmas, etc., family, funny things, holidays, humor, , , ,

It was the gorilla mask that did it. Sure, it was after Halloween and, sure, I’m sure he got it for a very good price. But I ask myself, as my husband obviously didn’t, Why do we need a gorilla mask?

The easy answer is, we don’t. We don’t go to Halloween parties and don’t even dress up to hand out Halloween candy. Dan has breathing problems and can’t wear a full face mask for more than a minute. I have no desire to wear a gorilla mask at all (or to hand out candy either, a chore I leave to Dan every year).

The thing is, Dan works at a big box store and is in proximity to lots of things that are on sale. And he can almost never resist. (He also has a problem resisting free things, like stuff that neighbors set out at the end of their driveways. I’ve trained him to pass them by. But he expects praise for doing so. But I digress.)

There are pet supplies (in addition to the absolutely necessary gushy food for Toby). We have three cat trees, one of which sees use as a side table facing the TV. Toby only uses one level of the big one and ignores the third. He also ignores the catnip mice (though not the catnip treats). And who wouldn’t ignore the dog toy shaped like a giant t-bone steak that Dan thought Toby might use as a pillow? (Toby. Toby did. Dan did buy a nice cat bed that Toby uses a lot, so he gets points for that.)

Some of his finds are more like presents. When a sweater or tunic in my size goes on sale, he’ll snap it up and bring it home like it’s some kind of hunting trophy. (I don’t think he ties it to the hood of his car, though.) They don’t always fit, of course, and he says he’ll take them back if they don’t, but he never does. I need a separate section in my closet for them.

He’s also fond of clearance china. He brings home large soup mugs with appropriate sayings on them, like “Official Cat Mom” or “Looney Tunes” or less appropriate ones like “Merry Christmoose.” He also likes platters and sandwich plates that don’t always go well with our china pattern. Sometimes they’re at least in the ballpark, or completely neutral white. (Yes, surprisingly, we do actually have a pattern—Pfaltzgraff Yorktowne. I chose the paint for our newly rebuilt kitchen—blue—to harmonize with it. This is something I never thought I’d ever do (have a pattern), though I never thought I’d ever get married either. Life is surprising. But I digress again.)

The bargain food tables are also irresistible. Not that he always knows what he’s getting. We’ve ended up with spices like togarashi and galangal (which I always thought were martial arts), plus pickled banana leaves. Our cooking repertoire runs to things like grilled chicken breasts and ground beef, seasoned with Mrs. Dash, garlic, and oregano. He also buys bargains that really aren’t. Olive tapenade in EVOO isn’t cheap, even at half price. We still have lots of odd culinary experiments just a-waiting for us to be brave or tipsy enough to try.

I can’t really complain, though. Last night he brought me Graeter’s black raspberry and chocolate chip ice cream, which was on sale for some unknown reason. It’s good to have someone watching out for me. I don’t even have to share (much) with him, since it’s not sugar-free. (My theory is he’s trying to keep me fat so other men don’t hit on me. My last digression for this week. I swear.)

Lest you think this all goes one way, I buy weird stuff for Dan, too, though I’m pretty much limited to shopping on the internet. One of my recent finds was a Mr. Natural Keep on Truckin’ t-shirt. I’ve also gotten him a Funko Pop Jerry Garcia. (Can you tell what era he grew up in?) We hardly ever save these surprises for Christmas. Instead, we give ourselves a treat. This year, we’re getting matching tattoos—one gift that I hope isn’t a slight irregular!

Seven Reasons I Hate The Bloggess

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jennymeFirst, let me say that I read The Bloggess’s (Jenny Lawson’s) blog all the time. I have her books and I read them all the time too. But secretly I hate her, and here’s why.

1. She had a weirder childhood than I did. She lived in a small Texas town full of farm critters and wild animals, and weird characters, including her father the taxidermist, and has interesting poverty stories, like the one about the bread-sack shoes. I lived in a nondescript middle-class suburb with a stay-at-home mom and a dad that went to work every day smelling of Vitalis and Aqua Velva, rather than deer blood.

(This was also the problem I had trying to write country songs. You can’t get very far with “I was born an industrial engineering technician’s daughter/in the Central Baptist Hospital of Lexington, KY.” But I digress.)

2. She had more interesting pets, with more interesting names than I did. She had a raccoon named Rambo that wore Jams and a delinquent turkey named Jenkins. Later she had a dog named Barnaby Jones Pickles and now has one named Dorothy Barker. Her cats are named Ferris Mewler and Hunter S. Thomcat. We had dogs named Blackie and Bootsie and rabbits named Christina and Mittens. Our recent dogs have been Karma and Bridget, and the only eccentric cat names we’ve bestowed have been Django and Dushenka.

(Ordinarily, I don’t like cat names like Baryshnikat and F. Cat Fitzgerald. I think cat names should be something you wouldn’t be embarrassed to yell out the door if one of them wanders off, like Louise or Garcia. I suppose the Bloggess’s neighbors are by now used to anything. But I digress again.)

3. She has more interesting disorders than I do. I have bad knees and bipolar disorder type 2 (and a blog about it, www.bipolarme.blog). The Bloggess has generalized anxiety disorder, anti-phospholipid syndrome, rheumatoid arthritis, depression, and, apparently, an obsession with chupacabras and vaginas. This gives her much more to write about. Although I do have two blogs. Two! In your face, Bloggess!

4. She’s less inhibited than I am. The Bloggess would have ended that last paragraph, “In your face, motherfucker!” I didn’t learn to cuss till I was in my 20s and no one I meet ever believes I swear until I do. Then they’re shocked. Also, I swear all the time, except in my blogs, where I’m afraid I’ll offend readers, all of whom I assume have tender sensibilities. The Bloggess knows her readers better than that.

5. She has way more readers than I do. And she’s published books and has another coming out. I have some followers, but I think most of them want to sell me books on how to publicize my blog. I should probably study a book like that, but I’d rather read ones about emerging viruses, cloud cities on Venus, and mostly true memoirs. On the other hand, I have the distinction of being the only writer ever to have articles in both Catechist and Black Belt magazines. So take that, moth . . . Bloggess!

6. She and her husband have more interesting arguments than my husband and I do. We never even talk quietly about whether Jesus was a zombie.

7. She has a stronger voice than I do. I mean her writing voice. I had no idea what her speaking voice was like until I saw a video clip of her on the web, talking about vaginas. But when I’m going to write in my blogs, I have to lay off reading her for a day or two, because her voice takes over my weak, tiny mind and it wants to sound like her. I wish I could write like that. Or at least as well as that.

But, like the Bloggess, I am a strangeling. And that’s a start.

Travels With Mom

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jan1 001“Oh, I could never travel with my mother!” I’ve heard this from many people when I tell them about the trips my Mom and I took together.

We traveled to Myrtle Beach.

We traveled to Wisconsin.

We traveled to Indianapolis.

We traveled to Ireland.

We traveled to Rio de Janeiro.

(I think the picture here is in Rio because I have cankles. Long flights give me cankles. Could be Ireland, though. I had cankles there too. But I digress.)

The trip to Rio was actually our first. I came over to my mom’s house one day and she said, “Guess where I’m going? Rio!”

“Rio, Brazil?” I asked.

“I guess so,” she said.

She wanted to take one of us girls with her and thought that, since my sister was older, she should get the first chance. My sister was unwilling to go through what she saw as the incredible hassle of acquiring a passport. I already had a passport, which was not that much trouble to get, so my sister ceded me the first opportunity. She took the next one.

After that, we took turns traveling with our mother. My sister accompanied her on domestic trips (including a cruise to Hawaii), and I went on the international ones, along with a few here in the States. Occasionally, Mom would take both of us on a short trip to a nearby state, but these were not nearly as much fun.

I understand why some people would not enjoy traveling with their mothers, but I had no such problem. I once had an awful trip to and from San Francisco with my mother-in-law, but that was because of canceled flights, rerouting, and lightning visible outside the plane window. It was the trip from hell. To hell. Changing in hell. With a layover in hell. None of that was due to my mother-in-law, however.

There were certain aspects of traveling with my mother that I found especially engaging. One was her willingness to try new things. New foods, new beverages, new means of travel, new destinations – new experiences in general. She didn’t always like them, but by God, she tried them. She took a sip of her caipirinha, made a face, and handed it to me. (So did several other ladies on the trip. I got soused, but not so much that I couldn’t translate their local money for them. There had been major inflation and three different issues of bills. But I digress again.)

Another was Mom’s sheer delight in whatever was happening. One time in Rio we had to get up early for a tour and didn’t have time to go to the buffet, so we ordered in breakfast. When it came, my mother started exclaiming over the tiny pots of jam and the carafe of hot chocolate – how cute and convenient they were.

“Mom, haven’t you ever had room service before?” I asked. She had not. I had traveled on business and was quite used to the service, but it was all new to her.

She also didn’t mind that I arranged things, and took over planning for some of our free time on the tours. Of course, I factored in her likes and dislikes and made sure to work in the scenic tours or landmarks she particularly wanted to see. But if I wanted to start a shopping expedition in the local gem shops or thought spending a few hours on the beach would be nice, that was fine with her.

We also had similar tastes in scheduling. Neither of us was able to fit in with the Brazilian custom of having dinner after 9 p.m. By that time, we were both ready to settle in for the evening and get ready for bed after a long day of running around and sightseeing. And if my activities proved too strenuous or lengthy for her, I would find a cafe where we could stop and have a cold drink, rest our feet, and relax until we were both ready to carry on. (Later on, when I was in San Francisco with my friend Kathy, she did the same for me. But I digress some more.)

I also liked the guided tours Mom booked through AAA. While they did allow some free time for individually chosen activities, for the most part, they provided a bus, a driver, a tour guide, scenic and historic destinations, and times and places to eat. I know this is considered a drawback by many people. But it was much easier on both of us to have these details already arranged. I was not ready to handle the details of renting a car, driving a car in an unfamiliar location, planning an itinerary, dealing with the luggage, making hotel or bed and breakfast reservations, and all the other details that the tour company took such good care of. Mom was adventuresome, but not a seasoned traveler, and I was more than willing to let someone else do the heavy lifting – literally (suitcases) and figuratively. It left more time and attention for enjoying ourselves.

Sometimes Mom’s innocence was touching. In Ireland, we stayed a couple of nights in a bed and breakfast. Mom never quite got the idea that, although we were staying in someone’s home, it was a business arrangement. When we left, she gave the proprietors the world’s ugliest hand-crocheted pillow, waved at them, and promised, “I’ll write!”

Even the domestic trips were fun. In Wisconsin, we bought assorted local cheeses and the bus driver had a cooler to pack them so the whole bus didn’t smell like garlic cheddar. In Myrtle Beach, Mom wanted to fish off the pier. She caught one fish, at most five inches long, but her smile was wide and her eyes were bright. She let another fisher on the pier have her prize catch – after I took a picture of her with it.

Eventually, Mom’s health declined and she wasn’t able to travel anymore. She told me once that when she was a little girl, she used to watch the planes fly over and think that she would never get to go on one to some exotic place.

I’m so glad I was with her when she finally did.

Sir Boinks-a-Lot

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All our cats have nicknames. Some more than one.

Louise was The Queen of Everything.

Garcia was Mr. Underfoot.

Dushenka is Ms. Crazy Eyes.

(Everyone was Baby-Cat except Louise. Other memorable cats have been Matches (Badness, Checkers), Chelsea (Chips), Shaker (What-a-Pie), Maggie (Gelfling, Gertzie-Girl), Laurel (Keet), Joliet (The Silly Pet), and Bijou (Angel Kitty). But I digress.)

Then there was Django. (He was named after guitarist Django Reinhardt. I figured if Dan could have a cat named after a guitarist, so could I. But I digress again.) A robust gray-and-white male, he was the one we called Sir Boinks-a-Lot.

Would you like to guess how he got his name? Hint: It wasn’t because he boinked a lot.

No, he just tried to boink a lot.

Gender didn’t matter. He would go after either boy-cats or girl-cats – neither with any degree of success. He was neutered. His intended didn’t even have to be another cat. Or even animate. We once caught him trying to mount a feather duster.

But the escapade that earned him his nickname was when he tried to have carnal knowledge of my husband’s elbow. Never mind that there was no orifice. Sir Boinks-a-Lot was determined to make one. He kept drilling and drilling, but he never struck pussy (so to speak).

Dan’s theory was that when he worked on his computer, his forearm resembled the shape of an aroused female cat. His hand and wrist were the head, his arm the body, and his raised elbow the…er…target zone. Or it could be that Django was near-sighted with no sense of smell.

My theory was just that he was a horny bastard. (Django, I mean. We will not discuss how pets come to resemble their owners. But I digress yet again.)

He was also camera shy, which is why there’s a stand-in for him here, but then again, who wants their sexual peculiarities displayed all over the Internet? No, wait. Don’t answer that.

Alas, Sir Boinks-a-Lot is no longer with us, though he proved as determined about fighting cancer as he was about finding someone or something that welcomed his advances. We still miss him terribly.

I think even Dan’s elbow misses him a little. Although it’s tough to tell with an elbow.

A Marriage Made in the Kitchen

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Flour, eggs and LoveI think it all started with the naked Julia Child impressions. We were newly married and everything was fun. We weren’t entirely naked while cooking, of course – aprons were a requirement and oven mitts (worn strategically) were allowed. There were other rules, too – no deep-frying, for example, for obvious reasons. Using plummy, authoritative voices we would do a fictitious play-by-play of dinner preparation: “Place the turkey in the oven for 350 minutes at 120 degrees. Oopsie! [take slug of wine].”

Of course, at that stage it wasn’t really a turkey. We were the newly married poor and subsisted on mac-n-cheese, frozen burritos, and anything else that cost $.27 or less. Cooking was simple, fun, and entertaining. Not that we could afford to entertain. All of our friends should be grateful for that.

We didn’t get serious about cooking until years later when friends of ours came up with a recipe they called “Experimental Chicken.” It was wonderful and was wonderfully different every time they cooked it. “By God,” I said, “if Tom and Leslie can cook, so can we!”

At the time, we weren’t foodies. Either they didn’t exist yet or hadn’t made their presence known to the likes of us. Our early attempts at cooking were really “modifying” existing products. We’d take Hamburger Helper “Beef Stroganoff,” substitute stew meat for hamburger, and use real sour cream instead of the packaged powder that was supposed to morph somehow into a sauce. It may not have been actual cooking, but it was an improvement over the boxed version. We also improved mac-n-cheese by adding tuna and peas to it. Protein and veggies! What a great idea!

Then we branched out into original one-pot meals. (We still prefer one-pot meals. Both of us hate to do dishes.) “Cowboy beans” was one of our specialties: ground beef, pork-n-beans, and cheese. Call it minimalist cooking if you want to be kind. As we became more adventurous we began to add ingredients like refried beans, tomatoes, chiles, green peppers, onions, and assorted spices, then serve them with tortillas and salsa for do-it-yourself burritos. We never went back to the $.27 frozen ones.

At last the Food Network came into our lives. Stuck at the time in severe depression, I watched the shows endlessly for the calm voices and helpful tips. I finally learned the term “flavor profiles.” Our cooking life was revitalized. I became the chef and my husband was the sous-chef.

We seldom used recipes. The experimental nature of the original chicken inspiration had stuck with us. We belonged to the look-in-the-fridge-and-pantry-and-go from-there school. “Cut that chicken into bite-sized pieces,” I would say. “No, my bite-sized, not yours. Now pass me the paprika, please. The smoky paprika. Now, everyone into the pool! Mixy-mixy!” We developed our food repertoire to include a killer ratatouille and something that resembled a quiche.

Then came a bigger change – my back wouldn’t allow me to stand at the stove and the tremor in my hands made me dangerous with a knife. So Dan took over as head chef, and I became the food consultant. His first attempts were a little sad. “A casserole needs some moisture in it – milk, stock, or something – to hold it together, especially if there’s rice or noodles involved,” I would gently suggest.

Gradually Dan came into his own. I only had to answer questions about whether I wanted my fish baked or broiled, or whether sage or lemon pepper was needed. Once I explained them, he instantly caught on to shepherd’s pie and frittata. They’re now his signature dishes, so lovely that we could post pictures on the Internet if we were into food porn, and tastier than many a restaurant meal.

I still fondly remember those days of naked Julia Child impressions, though I have no particular desire to recreate them. But since then, our cooking partnership has evolved just as our marriage has – for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, with laughter and spice, and a willingness to let each other take the lead at different times. All in all, a tasty recipe for two.

The Ultimate Fashionista – Not Me!

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I guess you’d call me a victim of fashion. Or actually, a victim of no fashion. No fashion sense, at least. Fashion nonsensical, maybe.

I’ve always been this way. Being the second child, I always had hand-me-downs, which is probably why I never learned to pick out my own clothes. Also, my mother chose my clothes, which I was okay with until junior high, when I was mortified to see myself on videotape wearing saddle shoes and anklet socks. Quel faux pas!

It was at about that time that people started taking me in hand and trying to fix me up, sartorially at least. (Apparently, the other kind of fixing up was not even an option until I was properly decked out.) My first fashion consultant was a friend who told me that the main thing I should invest in was a pleated plaid skirt with a large gold safety pin. I did not, and thereby missed my chance to be stylish.

When I did develop my own sense of style, it was based entirely around Banana Republic. Khaki and olive drab were my color palette. I lived for the day each month when the new catalog came out with all its exotic descriptions of the clothes and tidbits of travel writing.

Only once did I ever shop in an actual Banana Republic store, in La Jolla. I hyperventilated, which is something I ordinarily do only when shopping for amber jewelry. I made several purchases and used the leopard print wrapping paper as a background on my bulletin board at work. (A co-worker once brought me an empty Banana Republic bag as a gift. “Won’t she be offended?” someone asked her. “She’ll love it,” Marie replied.  And I did. But I digress.)

Later I learned that Banana Republic had an outlet store about 45 miles from my house. Of course, I had to go. This was before outlet malls became a Thing. The BR outlet was in Erlanger, KY, a few miles from the Cincinnati airport (which is in Kentucky, for some reason). Keeping with either the travel theme or the airport theme, the outlet store was housed in a large, hangar-like warehouse, where I could make a proper expedition of shopping. I was crushed when BR stopped publishing their catalogs and again when they were bought out by The Gap. The outlet store was just no fun anymore.

Still, I wore my khaki and O.D., with occasional accents of camouflage. (This was also before camo became a Thing for anyone other than soldiers and hunters.) My mother, perhaps in atonement for all the hand-me-downs, sewed me spiffy camo vests and scarves. Once she even found some camo flannel and made me a floor-length granny-style camo nightgown, which I adored. (She also made me a forest green cape and Robin Hood hat, which I wore to my college archery classes. But I digress again.)

Another friend took me in hand and tried to eliminate the jungle look from my wardrobe. She introduced me to colors outside the neutral spectrum and accompanied me on shopping trips where she picked out my clothes and dressed me up like a Barbie doll. Well, not like a Barbie, really. I didn’t have the figure for it and my feet aren’t permanently shaped for heels. At least I looked respectable enough for work and dressy enough for social occasions, which for some reason I hardly ever got invited to. When she was no longer able to go shopping with me, she thoughtfully kept me supplied with more hand-me-downs from her own extensive and colorful wardrobe.

Gradually, I developed enough color sense to boss my husband around. (“Let me try on the teal jacket. No, the teal jacket! Not the navy blue! Lady, can you show him which is the teal jacket?” “Of course I can’t wear the knit sweater that I wore to the last business meeting! It’s long-sleeved and it’s August. Oh, and it’s not white; it’s cream. Which goes nicely with the coffee stain on it.”)

Now, of course, I’ve abandoned all attempts at fashion. I work at home in my pajamas and keep a year-round wardrobe of nightwear ranging from sleep shorts to men’s flannel pajamas. I buy them on sale out of season. This nabs me cutesy designs (“Feline Sleepy” “It’s Meow or Never”) and nightshirts that look like hospital johnnies. But no one except my husband sees me anyway, so it hardly matters.

And if I do have to go outside, I’ve developed my own special signature collection of clothing in my own style. I call it “Retro Boho Hobo,” and it suits me fine.

Oh, Boy! Day Off!

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Days off are great! Most people get two days off a week and fill them up with a number of things, from picnics in the park to errands they couldn’t take care of during the week. Mostly, that occurs on weekends, which are eagerly awaited and finished with reluctance.

My husband and I have different attitudes regarding days off. This was recently brought home to me when we each had a chance to explore what days off meant to us.

Dan actually had five days off in a row. Before you gasp in amazement, he didn’t actually take five days off work. He took three vacation days and smushed them together with his normal two days off to make a solid week.

I had one day off this week. I do project-based work rather than a regular 9-to-5. When my previous project was over, I scheduled one day off before I started my next one. (I’m not a total masochist. Since I don’t work 9-to-5, I can fill up those hours however I like. I generally work for a few hours in the morning and longer in the afternoon. In between, besides lunch, I make phone calls and deal with bills, banking, appointments, and other “housekeeping” issues. (Non-housekeeping housekeeping, if you get my drift.) But I digress.)

So, what did we do with our respective days off? Dan slaved. I relaxed.

Dan had been anticipating his days off for literally months. He did have to request them off at work since they were technically vacation days. But most of the planning consisted of ordering plants from online nurseries, staking out local nurseries for sales, and scheduling deliveries of literal truckloads of compost and mulch.

So, Dan spent a lot of his time off planting everything that had been delivered and a few more of the plants he picked up locally. He decorated his garden bed with large rocks. He watered and rototilled nearly every day. (I once knew a man who rototilled naked. He was very brave. (The first Saturday in May is Naked Gardening Day, in case you didn’t know. Dan does not celebrate it, much to our neighbors’ relief.) But I digress again.)

After five days of this, what did Dan have at the end of it? A lovely, large flowerbed (with no thistles) and a flourishing vegetable garden. And a ton more plans that would require even more truckloads of mulch and compost, pounds of micro clover seeds, and still more flowers, shrubs, and trees. And probably more big rocks. All of which – except, presumably, the rocks – will cost hundreds of dollars more than he spent last week.

In addition to that, he had serious muscular pains, grubby everything, and a severe case of Gardener’s Butt Burn. (That happens when his shirt rides up as he’s planting and exposes to the blazing sun a strip of flesh between his shirt and pants. Fortunately, it’s hidden when he goes back to regular work and wears his uniform shirt. Yet more digression.)

And what did I do on my one day off? I was much less ambitious. I checked my email and timeline, as usual. Generally farted around on the computer. Petted the cats. Watched a little food competition TV, as usual. Then came the time when I usually start my work, and I was at a loss.

I settled in my comfy chair and picked up a book. Ordinarily, I only get to read for about a half hour when I go to bed. This was special. With a cold drink on my little table and an actual paperback novel in my hand, I dove in. I read until I couldn’t anymore – that is, until I got sleepy. Then I retired for a three-hour nap. (I have a third-degree black belt in napping.) When I awoke, I went back to my book, and by the time I was done reading, I had finished half the book. (It’s proving somewhat interesting, except the characters’ names got on my nerves. Maximus Bluster. Solless Cinderheart. Snidely Krewler. Jo Naberly. I mean, this was a middle-grade book (I think), but honestly!)

Then, in the evening, I did some actual housekeeping. Except for that, it was a beautiful, relaxing day. At the end of it, what did I have? A day much like my usual, except for not doing all the writing. A marginally cleaner study. But, oh, the nap and the reading! They fed my head, rested my body, and soothed my soul. That’s my idea of a day off!

Frankly, though, I don’t know if I could do it five days in a row. But early next month, if I work a little harder now, I’ll have the chance to find out!

Terms of Endearment

cats, etc., family, funny things, humor, language, , ,

“What’s for dinner, Ler?”

“I don’t know, Doodle. See what’s in the freezer.”

Conversations like those are what keep our marriage strong.

Back when my husband and I were dating, we had a reputation for inspiring a need for insulin in everyone around us. To say we were sickening would be an understatement. We addressed each other with a plethora of cutesie names and endearments. I don’t remember if we ever actually said “kissy-lamb,” but you get the idea. “Sugar,” “Sweetheart,” “Darling,” and other standards were definitely within our repertoire.

Since we’ve been married, not so much. I suppose it’s because no one can keep up that level of goo and drivel for too long. Oh, we still call each other by affectionate names, but they’re more likely to be odd ones.

First, I must admit that, aside from that dating phase, I never had a lot of experience with terms of endearment. My father’s favorite thing to call my mother was “Old Squaw,” which would now be objectionable for any number of reasons. My mother never objected to it, though, so I don’t see why anyone else should get a vote.

Dan and I started out along the same lines. One of his favorite names for me was “Old Boot.” (No, I have no idea of how that started. I suppose it sort of made some kind of sense at the time. And I didn’t mind, so again with the no one else getting a vote. But I digress.)

Over time, our endearments got even stranger. We took to calling each other “Doodle,” “Cake,” “Bug,” and “Ler” (no, I have no idea what that means either). Dan calls me “Rabbit,” “Bunny,” and sometimes “Rabbi.” (“Where’s the Torah, Rabbi?” he’ll say. We also have a scrap of dialogue that goes like this: “Friend.” “Thing.” “Friendly Thing.” And yes, I sometimes do say, “Thank you, Thing.” But I digress. Again.)

We mostly skip old standards like “Honey,” except in compounds: “Honey-Lover,” or “My Own Sweet Honey-Lover,” which is still pretty icky, now that I think about it.

Recently, we tried out “Bae” and “Boo.” (I’m Bae. He’s Boo.) But I’m not sure it will ever really catch on with us. It must be out of date anyway, now that we’re saying it. Along those lines, one endearment I don’t like is “Baby.” It raises my hackles. I’m not a baby. Of course, it’s different when combined with something else – “Baby-Bunny,” “Baby-Cake,” “Baby-Bug.” Don’t ask me why. I couldn’t tell you.

The truth is, I’m really bad at terms of endearment, other than the occasional “Honey” and the silly ones. I prefer to call Dan “Dan.” (And for some reason, he can call me “Jannie,” but I can’t call him “Danny.” I think he’s afraid I’ll burst into a chorus of “Oh, Danny Boy,” although I sing like a bird. An off-key bird. I do, however, occasionally call him “Fuzzer-Bear.” But I digress yet again.)

Of course, we do know people that stick with the sticky, as it were. One couple of our acquaintance call each other “Wifey” and “Hubby,” though they’ve been married for quite a number of years.

Just don’t get me started on the terms of endearment we have for our cats. Toto-boo-boo-baby (Toby) is a bit icky even for me, though I have been heard to say it. Toby doesn’t mind, and I don’t see why anyone else gets a vote.

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