In the game of friendship the number one rule is to never poke fun at your friend’s children. Don’t joke about them, don’t make judging comments about them and certainly, by all means, don’t blog about them! But as Moses said when he dropped commandments 11-20, “sometimes rules are made to be broken.” So it is with permission and with a hearty measure of love that I write the following about a four-legged child I know…some names have been changed to protect the innocent-ish.
Today I went for a run with a group of friends. My good friend Nikki brought her dog Scooper with her. After our run and a dose of caffeine, I offered to take Scooper home with me as he loves to play with my dog, Styx. Okay, you got me, my dog’s name is Six, you figured that out already, but you have no idea who Nikki and Scooper are, so there…
Let’s have a moment of background info for those of you who don’t know Scooper (and since I have cleverly disguised his identity even those of you who know him, will never recognize him here). Nikki and her husband, Freddy got Scooper at the Humane Society a few years ago. A full-bred Walker Coon Hound, Scooper stole their heart with his combination of wholesome good looks, droopy brown eyes and saliva- filled jowls. No one knows what life was like for Scooper before that day, but it is safe to guess he was confined in some way and treated poorly. As a result he doesn’t like small spaces. Also, though I’m not a therapist I feel strongly that he has Sensory Integration Disorder, which is manifested in his phobia of loud noises and OCD which is manifested in his persistence to stick to one routine and his fastidious sorting of M&Ms by color (oh wait, the M&Ms thing is someone else I know).
So, why on Earth did I decide that it would be a good idea to drive almost 20 miles with such a large animal in my Prius? Especially since once, two years ago, I drove with him in my Prius, and that ride had to be followed up with some heavy duty tranquilizers-not for Scooper, but for me. I believe my offer this morning was a combination of love, amnesia and that annoying optimism that I am always spewing. Micki, ah, I mean Nikki, was a little hesitant, but I convinced her that I could handle a ride with Scooper. I know that he loves to have the windows down and the weather was perfect for that. I would remind him to stay in the backseat and it was only a twenty-five minute ride anyway, so what could go wrong?
I started with all four windows down, but he was attracted to the driver-side window, of course, which meant that he stood directly behind me (FYI Scooper never, ever sits for a car ride). I thought, Okay this is fine, as I braced myself to be drooled on, but instead of drool on my head, I felt a tightness around my neck as if being strangled by something. You see, in lieu of sticking his head over mine and out my window, he decided to rest his head on the shoulder strap of my seat belt and work his way out the window that way. The weight of his head caused the strap to constrict around my neck. Once I regained consciousness I closed the front windows, leaving the back for Scooper’s enjoyment.
As I drove, Scooper moved from side to side across the backseat of my tiny Prius, crying and panting the entire time. Occasionally, he would catch a glimpse of his handsome self in my rearview mirror and stop pacing, put his feet on the console between the driver seat and the passenger seat and just stare. It was probably in one of these moments that he realized there was nothing blocking his access to the passenger seat. This is when he added hopping into the front as part of his constant dance. So now he would move from left to right in the back and then bound onto the front seat.
Unfortunately for our sensory-sensitive friend, our passenger seat has a weight sensor so every time he landed on the seat a tiny alarm would sound reminding him to put on his seat belt. Well, this alarm scared him each and every time. It would beep, beep and he would startle and leap into the backseat crying. Then he’d try it again, adding a little bit of oomph to his bounce each time. Finally he jumped with such force into the front seat that he missed and hit his face on the front dash before falling in a crumpled ball to the floor. Well, his front half was crumpled his back legs were still on the seat as he is too big to fall down entirely.
At this point, which is about 2 miles into my ride, he decided to spend more and more time on the console, at first I thought it was a decision to avoid the seat belt sensor gods, but really it was just another step in perfecting his routine. Well, as I said Scooper is a Walker Coon Hound, which means he is very tall. His position on the console allowed him to unwittingly turn on all the overhead lights in the front seat with his head, while turning the back seat lights on with his butt. We also have this nifty little compartment above our dash that holds our sunglasses. You just need to tap it and the holder drops down allowing easy access to your shades. Unfortunately for Scooper, each time he got too close he would hit the compartment, the holder would drop down, bump him on the head and scare him to death, sending him cowering into the backseat. Once in the back he would pace left, right-sticking his head out of each window, jump up front, set off the seatbelt alarm, fly back, pace once more and then position himself on the console again. I don’t think Scooper is dumb, I just think his OCD prevents him from stopping this schedule once he has started.
Still, I had high hopes that when I hit the highway the allure of the open road would keep him in the backseat with his head out the window. He did like to stick his head out for a longer duration, but he also liked to come visit me via his regular routine. At one point I made the mistake of actually saying something out loud, I think it was a simple “Seriously, Scooper?” Simple to me, but to him it was an invitation to get even closer. At this point our Clifford-sized friend defied the laws of nature by getting all fours onto the console while turning in circles. This was unfortunate for me, as all I could see in front of me was tail (and not the kind you would see if you were cruising the beach). I swatted at his tail so he turned and put a paw on the wheel, scaring me senseless and crushing my ego. Even the dog drives better than I do! His paw was there for maybe a second and he never tried that move again, but his tail was back a few times, and frankly his tongue got pretty close, too.
About five miles from home, for no apparent reason Scooper went into the backseat, stuck his head out the window and stood quietly for at least 3 minutes, which to me seemed like an eternity. Just as I exhaled thinking that he was finally settled, I heard some heavy panting coming from my lower left. I looked and saw Scooper trying to wedge his head between my seat and the driver side door. I was really afraid that he was going to get stuck there, but I didn’t know how to help him. Would I have to call the fire department and have them remove the entire left side of my door? Whether it was on his own accord, or whether it was divine intervention, I’ll never know, but just as I thought he was really stuck, Scooper pulled his head out and went back to pacing.
When we pulled into my neighborhood he must have recognized the area because he started quietly yipping with excitement. By the time we were two houses away from home he was just three barks shy of a full-fledged hound-dog-howl. Before I could even shut the car off, my children and my dog were at my door. “We knew it! We thought we heard Scooper!” They let Scooper out of the car,opened the gate to our yard and they were all off and running.
Sure it was a rough ride, but it was worth seeing two happy kids and two carefree dogs. Really, at this point, I’ve almost forgotten about the entire incident. I only hope the next time I offer to take him in my Prius, Nikki will gently, but firmly slap some sense into me or at least give me a couple of tranquilizers for the road.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
A Little Lost
I really like living in the Pacific Northwest. I have fantastic friends and a great house. It's so beautiful here. We have everything from mountains, to oceans, to canyons, to rainforests. The young folk tell me we even have vampires-had we had those in Massachusetts I could have explained away some mysterious marks on my neck my senior year of high school! "Oh gee Dad it was just that shy vampire kid from my chemistry class, he forgot to bring a lunch to school and he was really hungry. I was just helping a friend." Too bad I was in Malden not Forks, huh?
Vampires aside, Mike and the kids love it here, and me, well, like I said I really like it. Especially in the summer when the skies are blue, Mount Rainier is in sight and the temps are warm, but not scorching. I love to explore different trails, to walk or run on the waterfront, to camp (umm okay, love is a strong word, like to camp), to sit on my back deck and enjoy the lake, to kayak, to take the ferry to get an ice cream, to wander around Seattle, to spot whales, to take road trips to and through crazy and beautiful places. The dark and dreary winter is not really my cup of tea, but that's why there is a Starbucks on every corner in this state. They'll serve you your cup of tea or a latte, play some Dave Matthews Band, and send you on your way feeling like there is hope in caffeine. Who needs sunshine when you can order a venti anything?!
Some people feel strongly that this is the best place on Earth and while I see it, really, I do, I'm not sure this is home for me. The beauty of being a military spouse is that we get to sample a lot of places before we finally pick one. The hard part is time does not stand still; parents, siblings, cousins, grandparents, nieces, nephews all grow older in a different part of the country. You miss birthday parties, weddings, baby showers, births, graduations and more importantly all the little moments in between. At the same time you get to see new places, meet amazing people and perfect your guilt trip on all friends and family members that have yet to visit. (you know who you are).
Mike and I have lived in five states since we met. We have been in the Pacific Northwest for exactly four years and this has been by far the hardest adjustment for me. I still feel homesick and it comes out of nowhere, it could be as simple as hearing an Aerosmith song on the radio or seeing someone wearing a Red Sox cap. Technology has made it both better and worse, sometimes Facebook or texting hit the spot, but sometimes it just reminds me of what I am missing. I can go weeks and weeks without feeling homesick and then quite suddenly it will hit me. Mike might say "I think we could put a beach in here by the lake," and I will think Oh that's too long term for me! and start to panic. Another day he could say the same thing and I'd think Oh that sounds perfect!
When we traveled the Oregon Coast two weeks ago I texted my friend Kate. She is a native of Eugene, Oregon, but now lives in Jersey. We talked about how beautiful Oregon is, and she mentioned how she'd like to get back to the West Coast. I mentioned how I'd like to eventually head back East. For both Kate and I, our desires to get to our homelands are one thing, but our kids are the number one priority--when should we move them? What is a good age to go? How will they adjust? (Amazing the depth of conversation possible via text).
Sometimes when I really get rolling I think of other things like What if I'm the only one of the four of us who really wants to leave?-or just as scary-What if in two years I don't want to go after all? How heartbroken will my family be if we stay? What if we go back to the EC and regret it? What if we don't fit it anymore? Shouldn't we do one more away tour someplace really different like Hawaii or Puerto Rico before moving back to New England? How heartbroken would my family be then? What if we move back and then the kids turn around and choose a West Coast college? Do we follow them? What about Mike's family? Should we do a few years in Colorado and if so, would I ever be able to breathe walking up a flight of stairs again?
Having said all of this, I'm not unhappy here. Like I inferred earlier, it gets harder emotionally in the winter when the sky is a bleak gray almost everyday. Still I never hate it and sometimes I love it. I'm just not used to getting into these little funks, these pangs of homesickness. Sometimes I feel just a little lost and can't quite find my way home, because I'm not terribly sure where home really is.
There's this saying that I have seen hanging on various plaques in many Coastie homes "Home is where the Coast Guard sends you"... and of course, though a little syrupy and goofy for my taste, it is a fact. (umm any of my followers who have that plaque please disregard the above statement about goofy and syrupy. I never said it). Of course, home is where Mike and the kids are, I do believe it. We could be living in (gasp) Alabama, but as long as we're together it's okay. So yeah, home is with my family, but honestly geography matters. Max and Maddee have said a few times that they wish we could pick up Washington and stick it next to Massachusetts. Pure genius if you ask me, but New York would probably put up quite a stink about being displaced. Of course, they can look at it as a good deed--just a few moments in New York's old spot could improve Washington's pizza situation immensely.
Unlike the common cold, there's really no easy fix to homesickness. A bowl of chicken soup will just remind me of my Nana and I'll want to hop on the next plane to Boston just to give her a hug. It's not helpful to get bogged down in the whole Should I stay or Should I go thing (I always thought my first Clash reference would be to a lesser known, but cooler Clash song-oh well). Mike has two more years here for sure and what happens after that is a mystery. I don't know what the future may hold, but right now I do have a very cozy bed, in a very spacious bedroom, in a pretty little house, in a beautiful state and it is calling my name. I'm just going to throw on my garlic necklace and head up to bed. Good night.
Vampires aside, Mike and the kids love it here, and me, well, like I said I really like it. Especially in the summer when the skies are blue, Mount Rainier is in sight and the temps are warm, but not scorching. I love to explore different trails, to walk or run on the waterfront, to camp (umm okay, love is a strong word, like to camp), to sit on my back deck and enjoy the lake, to kayak, to take the ferry to get an ice cream, to wander around Seattle, to spot whales, to take road trips to and through crazy and beautiful places. The dark and dreary winter is not really my cup of tea, but that's why there is a Starbucks on every corner in this state. They'll serve you your cup of tea or a latte, play some Dave Matthews Band, and send you on your way feeling like there is hope in caffeine. Who needs sunshine when you can order a venti anything?!
Some people feel strongly that this is the best place on Earth and while I see it, really, I do, I'm not sure this is home for me. The beauty of being a military spouse is that we get to sample a lot of places before we finally pick one. The hard part is time does not stand still; parents, siblings, cousins, grandparents, nieces, nephews all grow older in a different part of the country. You miss birthday parties, weddings, baby showers, births, graduations and more importantly all the little moments in between. At the same time you get to see new places, meet amazing people and perfect your guilt trip on all friends and family members that have yet to visit. (you know who you are).
Mike and I have lived in five states since we met. We have been in the Pacific Northwest for exactly four years and this has been by far the hardest adjustment for me. I still feel homesick and it comes out of nowhere, it could be as simple as hearing an Aerosmith song on the radio or seeing someone wearing a Red Sox cap. Technology has made it both better and worse, sometimes Facebook or texting hit the spot, but sometimes it just reminds me of what I am missing. I can go weeks and weeks without feeling homesick and then quite suddenly it will hit me. Mike might say "I think we could put a beach in here by the lake," and I will think Oh that's too long term for me! and start to panic. Another day he could say the same thing and I'd think Oh that sounds perfect!
When we traveled the Oregon Coast two weeks ago I texted my friend Kate. She is a native of Eugene, Oregon, but now lives in Jersey. We talked about how beautiful Oregon is, and she mentioned how she'd like to get back to the West Coast. I mentioned how I'd like to eventually head back East. For both Kate and I, our desires to get to our homelands are one thing, but our kids are the number one priority--when should we move them? What is a good age to go? How will they adjust? (Amazing the depth of conversation possible via text).
Sometimes when I really get rolling I think of other things like What if I'm the only one of the four of us who really wants to leave?-or just as scary-What if in two years I don't want to go after all? How heartbroken will my family be if we stay? What if we go back to the EC and regret it? What if we don't fit it anymore? Shouldn't we do one more away tour someplace really different like Hawaii or Puerto Rico before moving back to New England? How heartbroken would my family be then? What if we move back and then the kids turn around and choose a West Coast college? Do we follow them? What about Mike's family? Should we do a few years in Colorado and if so, would I ever be able to breathe walking up a flight of stairs again?
Having said all of this, I'm not unhappy here. Like I inferred earlier, it gets harder emotionally in the winter when the sky is a bleak gray almost everyday. Still I never hate it and sometimes I love it. I'm just not used to getting into these little funks, these pangs of homesickness. Sometimes I feel just a little lost and can't quite find my way home, because I'm not terribly sure where home really is.
There's this saying that I have seen hanging on various plaques in many Coastie homes "Home is where the Coast Guard sends you"... and of course, though a little syrupy and goofy for my taste, it is a fact. (umm any of my followers who have that plaque please disregard the above statement about goofy and syrupy. I never said it). Of course, home is where Mike and the kids are, I do believe it. We could be living in (gasp) Alabama, but as long as we're together it's okay. So yeah, home is with my family, but honestly geography matters. Max and Maddee have said a few times that they wish we could pick up Washington and stick it next to Massachusetts. Pure genius if you ask me, but New York would probably put up quite a stink about being displaced. Of course, they can look at it as a good deed--just a few moments in New York's old spot could improve Washington's pizza situation immensely.
Unlike the common cold, there's really no easy fix to homesickness. A bowl of chicken soup will just remind me of my Nana and I'll want to hop on the next plane to Boston just to give her a hug. It's not helpful to get bogged down in the whole Should I stay or Should I go thing (I always thought my first Clash reference would be to a lesser known, but cooler Clash song-oh well). Mike has two more years here for sure and what happens after that is a mystery. I don't know what the future may hold, but right now I do have a very cozy bed, in a very spacious bedroom, in a pretty little house, in a beautiful state and it is calling my name. I'm just going to throw on my garlic necklace and head up to bed. Good night.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
It Had to Happen Sometime...
If it hasn't happened to you yet, it will. You and I will be somewhere, perhaps a party, perhaps the grocery store parking lot, maybe a lazy day stroll, or a marathon shopping trip, possibly it will be in my own home lingering over a glass of white wine. I can't tell you when or where, but it will happen. There we will be engaged in conversation when somehow you will bring it up. It will likely be innocent, possibly playful, never vicious, no matter though, there it will be.You'll see the change in my eyes, my mannerisms; you won't quite know how to read me, what's happening to Aimee. Her eyes are as round as saucers, her face is turning so red. I'll try to practice self control, as we experts do, but finally, I won't be able to hold back my knowledge and my opinions.
"What was that?" I might start, "You say you've never tasted anything better than a Margarita Pizza from the California Pizza Kitchen? Did I hear that right?" If other people are around, people who are privy to my paramount pizza palette, they will start to inch slowly out of the room. You might notice it, but it won't register until it's a little too late. Now I'm the one doing the inching, inching closer to you, so close you feel the air in the room growing thin. I'll edge closer still, my teeth clenched in a very polite New England smile. "I'm sorry, would you just repeat that? Did you just suggest we order Domino's?" Don't fret, that's not anger you are seeing in my eyes, oh no, it's sheer pity. Poor ignorant fool, it's likely you have never been East of Pittsburgh. (A quick and loving note to my Chicago friends the deep-dish is a fantastic invention to be discussed at another time-apples and oranges).
See "back East" we enjoy something called REAL PIZZA! And it has become this girl's quest, some might say obsession, to find it. Here's the thing, I had no idea that good pizza was a regional gig. It's just not something we talked about in our family. Sure, mom and dad claimed to be open--ask me anything they'd say, but when it came to warning me about the pizza deprivation I might face, well their lips were sealed. I understand, there are some things that parents just can't prepare their child for and bad pizza is one of them. Still, I should have known, all the signs were there. Let's rewind about 14 years, I was visiting my now in-laws in Colorado. They ordered pizza one night, but I just thought we got a bum pizza. I didn't know this was the standard fare. Then the next visit the same thing. Over the years I developed a false belief that my in-laws had stock in some second-rate pizza company and that is why we never got a real ,piping hot, quality pizza. I feel so guilty for thinking such things, but really I was so naive then. I didn't even catch on when I once heard my father-in-law telling the story about his first visit to Boston. He was walking around the North End and all these people were eating huge slices of pizza. He noticed they were all folding their slices so he did it, too. He was pretty passionate, calling the whole experience, "fascinating". I should have known at that moment that I had something special going tucked up in the Northeast. I just never put two and two together. That is until I moved to Washington.
Now before you get your umbrellas in a bunch, I am not dissing Washington. This state has a lot of bragging rights, but alas, pizza isn't one of them. Of course, there are pockets of good pizza places, but you shouldn't have to try so hard to find one. If my calculations are correct, and you know they are, there is 1 good pizza place for every 17.2 mediocre pizza places and 38 bad places.* Tonight I wanted good pizza, so I drove 20 minutes one way to pick up a pizza from Tony's in Bremerton. Tony's makes me happy, they get the crust almost perfect, there are bubbles in the pizza, the cheese/sauce ratio is usually right, when it's hot everything starts to slide right off (yes this is a good sign my friends) and the slices are perfect folding size. Tonight the pizza was a little greasier than I would like, but my word, that's why there are paper napkins out there people--a little dab will do ya!
You have to eat a lot of bad pizza to find a gem. And sometimes the gems are in the most unexpected places.Yesterday, on our road trip, we stopped at Cape Disappointment State Park on the Washington coast. As we swung the family truckster into the parking lot we noticed a little pizza stand on wheels called Serious Pizza. Mike and I were just oozing with feelings of pity for the campers gathered round that pizza stand. Heck, we just had McDonald's in Asotria and these poor folks were stuck here at Serious Pizza. No wonder they call this place Cape Disappointment. Then we caught a better look. There was a real wood oven! My eyes darted over to the pizza as it passed from cook to camper--it looked perfect! I could taste it from my seat. If I hadn't just eaten, or let's face it, if no one knew I had just eaten, I would have pulled a Yogi Bear and snatched that pizza out from under those campers' noses. We decided then and there that we will be vacationing there next summer. Didn't even get a glimpse at the beach or the campsites. But the truth is, who needs high quality amenities when you have good pizza. You say Cape Disappointment, I say Cape Delicious.
On the topic of pizza I could go on and on, and I will, I promise you. Just because you've read this blog doesn't get you off the hook. Sure, it will buy you some time, but we're not through here. You might try to outsmart me by writing it down on your list of things never to discuss with Aimee (I'd like to see that list by the way and I am going to go ahead and suggest you add adverbs to it if you haven't yet), but there will come a day when you slip up. And when you say the "P" word, get ready for me to unleash my wisdom East Coast Style.
*I am working feverishly on an official equation and once I own the rights to said equation I will publish it right here on the Squeaky Voice. :)
"What was that?" I might start, "You say you've never tasted anything better than a Margarita Pizza from the California Pizza Kitchen? Did I hear that right?" If other people are around, people who are privy to my paramount pizza palette, they will start to inch slowly out of the room. You might notice it, but it won't register until it's a little too late. Now I'm the one doing the inching, inching closer to you, so close you feel the air in the room growing thin. I'll edge closer still, my teeth clenched in a very polite New England smile. "I'm sorry, would you just repeat that? Did you just suggest we order Domino's?" Don't fret, that's not anger you are seeing in my eyes, oh no, it's sheer pity. Poor ignorant fool, it's likely you have never been East of Pittsburgh. (A quick and loving note to my Chicago friends the deep-dish is a fantastic invention to be discussed at another time-apples and oranges).
See "back East" we enjoy something called REAL PIZZA! And it has become this girl's quest, some might say obsession, to find it. Here's the thing, I had no idea that good pizza was a regional gig. It's just not something we talked about in our family. Sure, mom and dad claimed to be open--ask me anything they'd say, but when it came to warning me about the pizza deprivation I might face, well their lips were sealed. I understand, there are some things that parents just can't prepare their child for and bad pizza is one of them. Still, I should have known, all the signs were there. Let's rewind about 14 years, I was visiting my now in-laws in Colorado. They ordered pizza one night, but I just thought we got a bum pizza. I didn't know this was the standard fare. Then the next visit the same thing. Over the years I developed a false belief that my in-laws had stock in some second-rate pizza company and that is why we never got a real ,piping hot, quality pizza. I feel so guilty for thinking such things, but really I was so naive then. I didn't even catch on when I once heard my father-in-law telling the story about his first visit to Boston. He was walking around the North End and all these people were eating huge slices of pizza. He noticed they were all folding their slices so he did it, too. He was pretty passionate, calling the whole experience, "fascinating". I should have known at that moment that I had something special going tucked up in the Northeast. I just never put two and two together. That is until I moved to Washington.
Now before you get your umbrellas in a bunch, I am not dissing Washington. This state has a lot of bragging rights, but alas, pizza isn't one of them. Of course, there are pockets of good pizza places, but you shouldn't have to try so hard to find one. If my calculations are correct, and you know they are, there is 1 good pizza place for every 17.2 mediocre pizza places and 38 bad places.* Tonight I wanted good pizza, so I drove 20 minutes one way to pick up a pizza from Tony's in Bremerton. Tony's makes me happy, they get the crust almost perfect, there are bubbles in the pizza, the cheese/sauce ratio is usually right, when it's hot everything starts to slide right off (yes this is a good sign my friends) and the slices are perfect folding size. Tonight the pizza was a little greasier than I would like, but my word, that's why there are paper napkins out there people--a little dab will do ya!
You have to eat a lot of bad pizza to find a gem. And sometimes the gems are in the most unexpected places.Yesterday, on our road trip, we stopped at Cape Disappointment State Park on the Washington coast. As we swung the family truckster into the parking lot we noticed a little pizza stand on wheels called Serious Pizza. Mike and I were just oozing with feelings of pity for the campers gathered round that pizza stand. Heck, we just had McDonald's in Asotria and these poor folks were stuck here at Serious Pizza. No wonder they call this place Cape Disappointment. Then we caught a better look. There was a real wood oven! My eyes darted over to the pizza as it passed from cook to camper--it looked perfect! I could taste it from my seat. If I hadn't just eaten, or let's face it, if no one knew I had just eaten, I would have pulled a Yogi Bear and snatched that pizza out from under those campers' noses. We decided then and there that we will be vacationing there next summer. Didn't even get a glimpse at the beach or the campsites. But the truth is, who needs high quality amenities when you have good pizza. You say Cape Disappointment, I say Cape Delicious.
On the topic of pizza I could go on and on, and I will, I promise you. Just because you've read this blog doesn't get you off the hook. Sure, it will buy you some time, but we're not through here. You might try to outsmart me by writing it down on your list of things never to discuss with Aimee (I'd like to see that list by the way and I am going to go ahead and suggest you add adverbs to it if you haven't yet), but there will come a day when you slip up. And when you say the "P" word, get ready for me to unleash my wisdom East Coast Style.
*I am working feverishly on an official equation and once I own the rights to said equation I will publish it right here on the Squeaky Voice. :)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)