Project Christmas: Phase 1

In my household, the holiday season is fraught with memories. They run the gamut from magical to  disastrous, satisfying to downright frightening. We may touch on some of these different memories as I fill you in on the different phases of Christmas in my household.

Approximately 19 years ago, when my son was about five year old, we had a decidedly unhappy Christmas and I, for one, was ready to put it behind me. I started taking down the words "Happy Holidays" when my son put in his two cents worth.

"Why do we have to be happy just for the holidays," he asked. "Can't we be happy all year long? Please leave the happy up. I think we need it." As per my son's unrelenting logic, my wife and I decided that "Happy" would remain in place year long. "Holidays" comes out to join its counterpart only during the Christmas season.

As for the fluffing of the Christmas tree, this year I'm treating it like a job. I haven't told my wife, but I expect to be paid for my acquiescence, or rather lack of whining, complaining, and excuses I come up with as to why I can't, or shouldn't, haul the tree from the deep recesses of the basement to its spot in the house.

Right now, the "Happy" and "Holidays" have joined in holy matrimony. Through no small effort of my own, the tree is in place, fluffed and ready for the lights to be strung.

So far, my wife has given me no attention, no advice, no constructive criticism, no hard glares, no bribes, and no words of encouragement. This year may turn out to be one of the best Christmas seasons yet!

As of this writing, I'm moving on to Phase 2 - the Lighting of the Tree.

Slowing Pace Sparks Creativity

Roxy, my dog, and I have been downgraded. It seems the veterinarian, my real physician and my doctor/wife all concur that I need to cut back from running to walking.

What brought this about? I hurt my knee. As in, running was becoming extremely uncomfortable and painful. Some popping and grinding seem to be emanating from Roxy's hips and back legs. So, for now, we've slowed down.

One effect of this transition is that we are noticing a lot more around us. To date, we've seen chipmunks, bunnies (14 in one morning is our personal best), hawks, cats, a plethora of squirrels and birds, and a fox. We smelled a skunk once, but, sadly, did not see it.

Regardless, the slowing of our forward momentum has sparked some interesting creativity in me. Good or bad, I'm really not sure. I'll let you be the judge of that.

Here's part of my walk inspired song. For reference purpose, it's sung to the tune of George Thorogood's tune, "One Bourbon, One Scotch, One beer."

    One bunny, one chipmunk, one hawk.
    Ya know we ain't seen our animal friends since yesterday

    I wonder what they do when we go away

    But every morning when we take our walk

    We see one bunny, one chipmunk, one hawk!

    One bunny. One chipmunk. And one hawk...

I'll keep you posted of any further creative musings sparked by our morning walks!

Dessert Difficulties Simplified

 Around my house, we take food seriously.

We formulate menus for the week. We strategize and plan our grocery lists meticulously. I proofread both for any misspellings or other unwanted grammatical mistakes or food items. And our grocery trips? Carried out with the surgical precision of a US Navy S.E.A.L. team strike.

The one area we tend to falter over is dessert. Dessert is... Well, it's difficult, to put a word to it.

We have certain parameters that our desserts have to follow. I don't eat tree nuts, so that rules out anything with pecans, walnuts, pistachios and the like. My wife is gluten sensitive, so it also has to be gluten free. Her father can't eat it if it doesn't contain raisins. Not really. I just made that up.

Needless to say, I tend to make approximately 98.3 percent of the desserts we consume. The other 1.7 percent of the time, we are purchasing something that potentially all three of us can consume AND will like.

I love root beer and and root beer flavored stuff, like Oreo cookies, for example. My two home companions (the dog excluded), do not. The two humans I cohabitate with like fruits and things on and in their desserts.

The fact of the matter is that if it can be misconstrued as healthy, it ain't dessert!

So what do my wife and I do when faced with just such a dessert dilemma while grocery shopping?

Never fear! For all those with dessert woes, I have come up with a failproof system.

Now when faced with this previously dire situation, my wife and I channel our amazing S.E.A.L. team skills and fall back on what works:

When in doubt, chocolate out.

New Dog on the Blog

One hummingbird, one chipmunk, and one bunny was today's count. Always keeps a running tally of what we see. Don't know why. Just weird.

Except the squirrels. Never counts the squirrels. Perhaps he can't count that high. Whole lot of squirrels out there. They're evil. Evil squirrels. I bark at every one that I see. Every. Single. One. Hey, it's my job.

Roxy, the
Pomeranian

About five days ago, he counted 13 bunnies. Hey, he said, that's our PB as per our usual 2.5 mile jaunt. I wasn't sure if he was communicating or just stringing meaningless syllables together!

It's his job to walk me. I expect two walks every day -- a long morning and short evening walk. He fell down on the job yesterday. Refused the evening walk. Lazy bum said, it's raining. Whatever.

Talks nonstop to me during walks. When he's not counting bunnies, chipmunks, hawks, and hummingbirds. Talks about trucks. Talks about cars. Oh, hey, chipmunk number three! Talks about flowers. Talks about yards, distance, time, temperature.

Just don't get him started talking to neighbors! When he swipes or taps the thing on his arm, it's gonna be a long talk. Next time I have to wait like that, might give that exposed ankle a nip. No talk, just walk.

Tune most of it out. Listening for Good Job, Roxy, Good Girl, Roxy, and Proud of my Roxy Girl. He sometimes mentions treats. That usually gets my full attention.

Since he hasn't formally introduced me, I'm Roxy. The new fuzzy, blonde dog. The runner chick, he calls me. Ask me how much I hate that joke. Ask me.

Y'all might hear from me from time to time, when I can get a word in edgewise. 

Remember, always take time to smell the poo. 

Power Washer Ruins July 4th Fun

It started with the appearance of a most compact, simple device. And, yes, it has a name. It's called a power washer. Specifically, it's called a Greenworks Electric Pressure Washer. 

Actual photographic evidence
of the offending item.

I didn't purchase this pressure washer. If memory serves me correctly, this mechanical monstrosity came to me via my son. Having said that, it's possible that I did in fact purchase the pressure washer.

How does it work? I have no idea. What I do know is that it takes a small stream of water (from a garden hose, of course) and magically transforms it into a torrential, intense jet of water capable of stripping dirt and gunk from wood, bark from trees, paint from cars and fur from dogs and cats. The warning diagram on the paperwork shows a severed finger! Yikes!

I'm merely conjecturing. No dogs or cats have been harmed for the express purpose of this blogpost.

The warnings in the paperwork failed to mention other harmful side effects one may encounter by using this product. "This product may ruin vacations" was not listed as a danger.

I went to my parents quaint lake house for the Fourth of July. My plans included a few beers and a lot of fishing. My mother's plans, however, veered off in different direction.

"Why don't you bring your power washer," she suggested. She and my father thought it might be nice to clean up the boat dock "a little bit."

Like the good son I am, I pressure washed the dock. I was ready to settle into some beers and some serious fishing.

"You didn't do the steps," mom said.
"You didn't ask me to do the steps," I replied.
"The dock looks so good, it'd be a shame to not do the steps," she replied.
"Okay," I said. "The steps. Check. Then I'm relaxing and enjoying myself."

Approximately 3,200 steps, 4.5 miles of brick walkway, and 6,900 square feet of decking later, I finally managed to sit down with a beer in hand to relax and enjoy the Fourth.

I woke up some time later with an unopened beer in my hand.

"Hey hon," my wife said. "You get a good nap? You slept through the fireworks."

GPS vs. Men vs. Women

Global Positioning Systems sometime make mistakes. Men, also, make mistakes sometimes. I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest that women can make mistakes as well.

Please note the operative word "can." This is not to say that women make more or less mistakes than men or GPS units, or that they even make mistakes at all when it comes to driving and directions.

My wife and I were driving in the NC mountains recently. We absolutely love to incorporate the Blue Ridge Parkway into our driving route when we are in the mountains. As per our usual routine, I controlled the vehicle via the steering mechanism, but only under the careful eye of my wife.

"That car is braking in front of you," she likes to tell me. Often.

"What car?" is my usual reply. Have I ever mentioned how much she likes my humor?

Regardless, there were some detours off and back onto the Blue Ridge Parkway this past Thursday. The detour routes were not clearly marked. This, of course, led to some discussion at nearly every intersection.

GPS: Take a right at the next stop sign.

Me: There's no detour sign. No arrow. The Parkway is on the right. We should go straight.

Wife: Go left.

We went left. The GPS chimed in as we approached our  next unmarked intersection.

GPS: Go straight at the next stoplight.

Me: That probably makes sense. We'll go straight.

Wife: Go right.

I told her I think she sent us in the wrong direction. I suggested we turn around and just pop back on to the Parkway. She quietly noted my expert opinion on the matter. 

As we rounded the next corner, a giant orange with black lettering sign, replete with an arrow, directed us back to the Blue Ridge Parkway.

I turned to her. I desperately wanted to ask, but remained mute.

"You're welcome," she said. "Was just a hunch. Now keep your eyes on the road."

Relationship Revelations

I had a most startling revelation this morning. Living with me may sometimes be problematic, so to speak.

My wife and I were looking through "Milk Street," one of my absolute favorite cooking magazines. This, in and of itself, was a minor miracle. Apparently, "Oooh! That looks good," becomes somewhat annoying after the first three recipes in the magazine.

So, in a nutshell, here's how our morning went. It started with a sharp intake of air.

Her: They all look good. Don't even say it.
Me: I wasn't going to say anything. Really. A thought just popped in my head. That's all.
Her: Mmm hmm. This Stir Fry Pork with Sweet Peppers and Peanuts looks really good.
Me: We have peanuts! (We always have peanuts, but that's another story.)
Her: Do we have pork?
Me: Well... Ummm... No.
Her: Do we have scallions?
Me: If we do, they're dead and gone by now!
Her: Do we have chili-garlic sauce?
Me: What's that?
Her: But we have peanuts.
Me: Oh yes! Most definitely!
Her: Can we make the recipe?
Me: Ummm... Well... No. I suppose not.

She mumbled something about thank God for peanuts and seemed to question my sanity.

So here's the question. Do I try to adjust my less than stellar habits, or do I address her lack of tolerance for said habits?

Let's just chalk that question up as rhetoric for now.