Tag: homefront

Beautiful Swimmer

Maryland blue crabs. So much work for so little meat for so much reward.

I didn’t grow up eating Maryland crabs. This was very obvious to people who did.

Early in my career, I worked for an association. One of our members, Mary, invited me to speak at a chapter event. Since it was at the beach I said, “Yes!”

Ocean City, Md., has a boardwalk with a big ferris wheel that reveals then hides the shore as it circles. It has cotton candy and beach fries and whack-a-mole and t-shirts that say, “Don’t Bother Me, I’m Crabby.” But you don’t get crabs on the boardwalk.

Mary and her husband Chester were from Baltimore. They had a daughter my age, a son a few years older and two grandchildren, so far. They loved the beach and the Eastern Shore where the watermen delivered rockfish and oysters and crabs. There’s also amazing Eastern Shore chicken you can get at a fire house on the way to the ocean. But this isn’t about chicken.

My hosts spent many summers picking crabs (picking is how you eat crabs). They made no assumptions about me, though, and politely asked if I ate crabs. I thought I did, and it seemed like fun. They took me to a favorite spot. It was back over the bridge, heading away from the ocean across some marshy land. It was a crab house.

I knew how to order a beer, and Charlie asked how many crabs I could eat. I didn’t know. And, I really didn’t know. When the waitress brought the platter piled high with steaming crabs unevenly seasoned with red powder, I realized just how over my head I was. This wasn’t lobster. No. It was not lobster at all.

Charlie grabbed two of the crustaceans and dropped them next to his beer. He started pulling one apart and banging a piece with a hammer. I swigged my beer and, following Mary’s lead, I took a crab off the plate and placed it in front of me, on my newspaper tablecloth. I snuck a look at Mary and mimicked her by pulling off an appendage. I used a nutcracker to open it. The use of the tool on the oddly shaped claw did not come natural to me. I did, however, get some meat. And a little shell. The meat was quite good. The shell, not so much, but it did have the flavor of salt, celery, mustard, cayenne, and whatever seventy-three other spices are in the yellow can of Old Bay. Fortified, I repeated on the other side of my crab. Then, I was stuck.

I turned the body of the crab around. It was looking at me. I spun it away, but I couldn’t find a way in. Chester was on his fourth. Mary kindly asked if I had picked crabs before. She didn’t want to embarrass me, but I was obviously incompetent. Or, in her mind, untrained. I looked up, wide-eyed, and she schooched closer to me. Chester knocked back another crab. I could tell because the empty carcasses were piling up on his side of the table. He paused to eat his ear of corn. I think he powdered it with Old Bay before he ate it.

Mary showed me where I had missed some meat on the hinge part of the claw. She pointed at the legs and demonstrated where to pull them off and how to suck out the strings of meat. These were very big crabs, so it was worth the effort. She expertly flipped the crab on his back and lifted the tab on its belly as if she were unlocking a round red box. This exposed an opening at the top for her thumb to wrest it’s body apart.

I clumsily followed her demonstration and attempted on my own crab. I couldn’t get a good feel to separate the “lid” from the body. She helped me. I was now faced with the insides of an arachnid. That I was supposed to eat. But first I had to brush away the grayish gills. Not to be eaten. At this point I was starting to wonder what I could eat. It’s been all prep except for those claws I ate twenty minutes ago. Meanwhile, Chester ordered a second beer and was on his eighth crab. He was licking the salty seasoning off his very messy fingers. I think he smirked at me. Maybe it was a look of pity.

Now, I was supposed to take the body and crack it in half. The body was like a big honeycomb, only thin and fragile. Mary was eating from hers. Mine collapsed in my hands and I learned why it was called picking as I picked hunks and scraps of crab meat out of the debris of cartilage. There was one piece, though, that slid out intact from it’s chamber. It was moist and sweet and significant enough that it was more than one bite and more than two chews for each bite. And I knew, in that moment, that was why we were doing this.

Chester ordered another plate of crabs.

I struggled through another crab, but by the time I got to my third, all the lessons escaped from my head. I couldn’t find the tab. I ate my corn. I successfully extricated meat from the claws. I was dirtied by splashes of crab juice from my forehead through my elbows and, of course my hands. The backs as well as the front. There was blood coming from my thumb where I cut it on the shell as I was trying to find something to eat. I ate my coleslaw. It was good. It was cool. My beer was warm.

I pushed my crab around on my newspaper a bit. Mary started feeding me meat that she had picked, but after a few bites I decided that she should feed herself. I said that I was full. Chester lifted his eyebrows at Mary as he sucked the meat out of his twelfth crab.

Once I had declared my “fullness,” I could better enjoy my dinner companions. They teased each other with the bite of a long marriage but without bitterness. They finished each other’s sentences and interrupted when the one told the story wrong. I had an iced tea to round out my dinner. Chester ate the last of the crabs. He drove us back over the bay and back to our conference hotel. I did have a fun time and thanked them for the adventure.

The hotel was a step or two above a touristy, “family” oceanside motel from the 70s. The towels were very thin, but were more than sufficient to wash off the crab juice. When I had cleaned up and changed my shirt, I thought the coast was clear. I surreptitiously crossed the small lobby–it was more like a vestibule–and walked to my car. Up the strip was a drive through. I got the Number 1 hamburger meal. With a shake. I knew how to eat that.

After that lesson, when we’d eat crabs I’d sit next to somebody who liked picking crabs and let them feed me. Sometimes it was The Spouse. Many times it was someone else’s spouse. I wasn’t proud. Occasionally someone would give me a refresher lesson. I liked crab, just not enough to pick them. In other good news, crabs were usually part of a summer party with an accompanying barbecue. I could always have a hotdog after mooching crab.

One year, the Spouse was away for the neighborhood crab feast. He had the role of walking the boys through their crab consumption. This time, it was on me. But, I knew exactly what to do. I taught them where the meat was in the claws, to open and eat from the hinge side, to suck the juices from the legs, to pull the tab and separate the top, to remove the gills and crack the body. They were much better students than me, but over years of observation I had became a crab picker. So much that people started to think I grew up eating Maryland crabs.

Callinectes sapidus, the Maryland blue crab. It’s part of my language. Hey hon, Chester wouldn’t get all the crabs now.

Posted on by docthink 0

WWDD?

Here's a patriotic elephant, looking all U.S.A. And his friend, the patriotic donkey, also 'merica'd out.

My dad was a New Deal democrat. He had a spate as shop steward at his factory before me and my sibs were conscious. He filed a grievance after he was fired for taking the day–not the whole day–to bring my mom home from the hospital. She was in the hospital to have a baby. Me. He won. For the other guys, too.

I remember him saying that the union should negotiate for a new dental benefit–of which I begot my straight teeth–rather than incrementally higher wages. He thought he was paid well-enough and that the real value of organized labor was ensuring that his family had access to the tools of good health. He was also for the vision plan.

He worked at the forge plant. In Hamtramck. His toughest days were those days when he had to put out fires. Literally. He’d come home smelling of burning factory with a bit of ash on his cheek as he made his way to the shower. On days his relief didn’t show up, he had to stay at his post. He’d work a double. He couldn’t leave.

He’d get two days off in a row. Each week they would slide one day over so once in a while he’d have a “weekend” off. Weekends weren’t a big part of our family life since the school weekend rarely coincided with his work weekend.

Every fifth or sixth week–I don’t exactly remember but I had it down pat when I was negotiating hard to schedule a trip to Cedar Point–he’d have three consecutive days off. He worked every Christmas Day that I can remember, except one. The calendar dice didn’t roll that way. He did get double time for our troubles. Oh, and he was the only man at ballet class. Again, literally. The only. He took me every week. Sometimes twice a week.

My dad lied to get into the Navy. He said he was older. He was as much looking to sow oats, of the wild variety thank you very much, as he was to serve. He did both. With distinction. His tats displayed ports in Panama, Honolulu, Manila, Cairo and Cyprus. I never asked him if he sailed through the Suez Canal. I’m thinking about that scene when Lawrence of Arabia looks up from his dusty desert journey to see a ship floating out of the sand. I bet Dad rolled through those sandy straits on a U.S.N. boat. I betcha.

He didn’t talk about his service. I know he did a small stint on a sub, which he hated, and once, offhandedly, he said something that made me know that he knew what embalming fluid smelled like.

After the Big War and a stint stateside after he married and after his discharge, he joined the union.

My dad was also a Reagan Democrat. He had no love for a naval officer nor for a peanut farmer. He was frustrated by an awful economy. The auto companies were on life support. There was a steady exodus to the south for jobs. Jobs with less pay, no benefits and no security. He felt betrayed by his union, was adrift from their agenda. He was offered  a buyout deal to get rid of the guys with seniority. To replace them with lower-waged grunts without the same protections.

He took his decent pension. He took his terrific health benefits. He asked me to look at the agreement because he thought my mid-college educated opinion had value. Any value from that request accrued to me. I didn’t add anything to his thinking, since I agreed with him, but he catapulted me into a new part of my life that was grown and independent and validated. Because my Dad believed in me enough to ask my opinion on something important to his life. Jeez.

But, I digress.

Reagan spoke of resolve, of strength and of the promise that is America. My dad didn’t care about taxes. He did care about the U.S.S.R. He was susceptible to the racist dog whistles of busing and welfare queens with big TVs. He cared most about our future. He saw the solutions for that future through the lens of the past.

I railed against his wrong choice of candidate and party with the fervor of a young idealist at the beginning of life’s trail. He respected my disagreement, and we were never disagreeable.

He voted as Dad (R-MI) for Reagan and Bush 41. Then things got a little murky. I don’t know for sure when he started voting D again, but I know that he voted for John Kerry over George W. Bush. He was cagey about his vote for Al Gore, but based on his disgust over the hanging chads and the results, we think he pulled the D lever. And I know without any doubt at all that he thought that George W. Bush was an idiot. I have no doubt because he told me. More than once. Frequently using colorful language that would crack me up.

I would call home and he’d pick up the phone. We’d exchange a few pleasantries and then he would go full tilt into current events. Not conspiracy crap. Not anybody’s party line. Nope. He would read the newspaper (I don’t know how given he was mostly blind) and listen to the radio and watch multiple newscasts, including the Sunday morning public affairs shows. So he was always well informed. And he had a definite point of view.

I loved how he’d get riled up, and we’d get a good exchange going. Then, in the background, I’d hear my mother shouting, “SPOUSE! SPOUSE! What are you talking about? NOBODY cares about what you think.”

She was wrong. I cared very much. He kept me plugged in to where I was from and provided an analysis that I could agree or disagree with, but was an articulation of one American’s legit point of view.

She’d grab the phone away sometimes, just giving me and Dad enough time to share our I-love-yous as the receiver left his hands. But I’d get to talk with him next time, likely the next week, and we would continue. I would just say George Bush to him sometimes. It was my trigger to get him going. I was never disappointed.

My father never had the experience of watching Barack Obama run against Hillary Clinton during the 2008 election. My last discussion of national polictics with him was in early June of 2007. I don’t know if he would have cast a vote for our first African-American president, but I really believe that he would. Because of how I know, I mean knew, him.

I’ve been thinking about my Dad a lot during this presidential campaign dirge. Mostly, I’m thinking WWDD? What would Dad do?

Would he be enraged and engaged with Trump? I don’t really see any of the other Rs inflaming his fancy, but there are some parts of Trump that might appeal to him. Would he settle on Hillary as a solid, but flawed, answer for the next four years? I can see him eyeballing Sanders, especially his fervor over Wall Street largesse, but it’s hard to project him as a Bernie Bro.

I use my Dad as a lens to understand good people that I may disagree with. It’s not really right, though, because I can’t stop seeing his depth of field colored by my own focus through my memories of him. My view of him limits how I can use his view. It’s like a hologram of Tupac singing with Snoop, you can literally see through the facade. Or maybe it was just all a dream, an interpretation.

I’ve been thinking about this for months. I’ve created scenarios and opinions that may not be supported by the historical evidence. Maybe me using him, how I contort him to be my representative of a smart, white, working class man, may be simply ridiculous.

And, if I’m perfectly honest, I just might have to say that I don’t actually know WWDD. But I bet it’d be interesting to find out. Damn. I wish I could find out.

Posted on by docthink 2

Chop & Pop

tomatoes, avocado, scrunchions, secret cukes and lemon mint dressing.

I rummaged to the bottom of the vegetable bin. There were some of those cute Persian cucumbers. I don’t know why a recipe calls for English versus Persian cukes. They taste the same. They’re cucumbers. Especially from the grocery store.

There are six of seven left in the package. They are pretty skinny. I toss the one that is mushy and discolored in the center. I take three, trim the ends and quarter them before I run the knife up to the top, chopping into fairly even pieces. Kelly Clarkson is singing Since U Been Gone.

I stir the bastardized ropa vieja that I have on the stove.

Next up are the green onions. The recipe wanted red onions. I have them, but the scallions are more fragile, and anyway I like the crunch of the green parts. Same trim drill, but the tops of the onions are different lengths. It would barely waste anything if I cut them straight along the top, but I am in no hurry. I nip the bits of brown at the top. Before I chop, Pharrell and Daft Punk challenge me to Get Lucky. Dance steps ensue.

I’m interrupted by a friend who needs to go out. He really had to go so there was little time elapsed. I came back into the kitchen to a roaring Dave Grohl. He supposedly said Prince’s cover of Best of You at the SuperBowl was better than their original. I can’t help but think of Prince singing in the rain with that head scarf protecting his mane. I readjust my clip to keep my bangs out of my eyes.

The water comes out of the faucet fast. I am not sure why it sometimes comes out in an single stream and other times like a shower head. It’s shower head today. I soap up my hands to get back to my knife and wooden board. This playlist skips all the cursing in Gold Digger. I sing those words anyway.

I piled the onions next to the cucumbers in the white bowl. As I grab the plastic clamshell with the little tomatoes Shakira totally distracts me. I salsa back and forth through my kitchen galley, telling only lies with my hips. I wouldn’t even care if the neighbors saw, but they moved last week, so they can’t.

The first grape tomato gets sliced in half. They are very small, but I think that they look better if they are closer to the size of the other vegetables so I slice the rest in thirds. I pop one in my mouth. I pull out small handfuls, slice them and place them in the bowl. I keep going until it fills the space with enough red to break up the green. I eat two more and then slice two more.

I pulled out the large half-avocado. It was in better shape than I thought it would be. Sexy Back comes on. I cut around the pit. Someone said that it keeps better if you leave the pit in. It may have. I had a small whole-avocado, too. I didn’t think it was necessary.

My knife slid through the fruit. It was like a hot knife in butter yet still produced distinct squares that I piled between the tomatoes and the onions. The bowl was filled as Teenage Dream played. What a dumb song. I know it seems unfair to pick on this song versus the rest, but I don’t get Katy Perry. And, I get less why that cut allowed explicit lyrics. I woulda let Kanye finish.

There is a silly technique where you take a big pinch of kosher salt between your fingers and from a foot above the food “rain” it down. Somehow this distributes it better. I end up stirring the food anyway so it’s really unnecessary. I do it because it’s dramatic, and I feel like a celebrity chef. So I rained some salt and twisted some pepper.

I opened the cabinet literally above my head. I have to stand on the tips of my toes and really stretch to reach the mini-stainless bowl that sits on the top shelf. This prep bowl is well used, but in an inconvenient place because I don’t have anywhere else to put it in this barely functional kitchen. Taylor is whining about how We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together. I’m unconvinced. This was on her last country album, even though most of it was pop.

I take the EVOO–it always cracks me up when I see that on a menu. I want to find the pretentious menu author and punch them in their pretentious author neck.

I pour the exact amount, in that it’s exactly the amount I poured, if only measured by my squinted right eye. I don’t have fresh lemon but a fairly fresh bottle of lemon juice. I squeeze about the right proportion to join the oil. I pick up my super cute baby-whisk. I ordered this whisk from either Crate and Barrel or Sur la Table. They came in a pair, which is good because I wore one of them out. Speaking of worn out, that Lumineers joint comes on. Hey! Ho!

The recipe, that I am not really following in any meaningful manner, wanted me to add fresh cilantro. I don’t have that or the dill they suggested to swap. I go through the spice jars twice. I even go to the way back of the cupboard where I have the extra bottles of valencia orange peel and smoked paprika that I bought by mistake. Nope. No dill anywhere. So I go for some dried mint. Seems like a fresh substitute. After I added it I remembered that I have some actually fresh mint on the back porch. Went too fast there.

Here’s my favorite part. The whisking. I get oddly excited by how quickly that little whisk emulsifies the oil and lemon juice. It seemed exceptionally fast tonight–like only three or four turns and it was like melted caramel.

I’m not ready to dress the salad yet, but worry that the avocado will discolor before The Spouse gets home. I shake a few drops of lemon juice over the concoction. I take the cookie sheet lined with discs of polenta out of the oven and flip them. Whoa, that oven is a little hot.

Lil Jon comes on. Seriously. Right then. Turn Down for What? In this case, turnt down to keep dinner from burning.

Posted on by docthink 0

Snooze

Yesterday I took a nap. Jesus, what a decadent indulgence.

I sat on the far side of the couch, stage left, and leaned closer to the pillows. One of the pillows is a vibrant red. The other pillow is plaid, with a gray green background striped by charcoal, black, some white and a few punctuations of a vibrant red. The reds almost match.

There are two blankets on the couch. One belongs to me and one belongs to The Beast. On GP (general principle for the uninitiated. This was one of my mother’s shorthands. I really like this one), I will NOT use the dog blanket. Not even to warm my feet.

The other blanket belongs to humans. It’s a heavy, knitted blanket that The Beast prefers, the rat bastard. So, to save it from dog-dom, I hang it stylishly over the back of the couch. The Beast does not have the wherewithal to make it his own.

Anyway, he already has his own. It’s fleecy and comfy and smells like dog. And I desperately want him to sleep on it if he insists on being on the couch. And he does insist. I especially want him to use his Beast-blanky if he’s been outside. In the rain. I do recognize that sometimes what I want just doesn’t make it to reality.

Anyway, I was leaning on the pillows and, like a teeter-totter, as one side of me went down, the other went up. I found my feet on the couch, just to my right. Fortunately I had kicked off my shoes. So clever.

As my feet came up, I sunk further into those pillows. My knees drew closer to my chest. I guess I must have been trying to be warm without grabbing the dog blanket. Even more fortunately, The Beast walked onto the couch. He can do that. He doesn’t jump up. He’s so big he just steps on the couch.

I’m glad that he joined me in that now my feet had a huge warm head on them. There was no more chill. I had already put on my house-hoodie (this is my version of Mr. Rogers’ sweater) so all I needed to do was place my feet under The Beast’s neck. His neck is big, and full of extra skin and super soft. His head and his shoulders are bony, but his neck? Like a baby blanket. Or a baby’s fur coat.

To be honest, I have no idea what happened next. This is the napping part. I assume that my eyes were closed. They may have fluttered a bit if I was dreaming, but I don’t remember a dream. I expect that my breathing became deeper and very regular. I think that I pushed my feet a bit further underneath The Beast. He didn’t really notice. He was napping, too.

So we napped at the same time. Together. When I lost track of time I could have been reading a book by the light of the window. (I wasn’t even pretending to read, that’s how good this nap was.) When I tossed my head back and opened my eyes, it was dark. Not yet time to brush my teeth, and enough time to watch a silly movie before bed.

In a life where there is always doing or thinking about doing, napping is the absolute anti-do. And dear Jesus, Joseph and Mary, it is fabulous.

Posted on by docthink 1

Body Arts

A crazy M. C. Escher print. Wow. The art is amazing!

The housing market fell apart as we were buying our second house. This was most excellent in that we underbid on the property and there were no other players. The poor owners were moving to Delaware, so they were stuck with our offer. It wasn’t really so bad for them, though. They made money on the house, just not as much as they hoped.

On the other hand, we were unable to get a buyer for our old house. We leveraged everything we had to make the new down payment, and then we became landlords.

The first house had been built in the 1880’s. The realtor on that house said it was a decent rental since nothing had knocked it up in more than a hundred years. Seemed right.

I was a bit busy. We closed on house #2 two weeks before The Big Guy was born. Had about enough time to unpack the dishes, set up the furniture and then have a baby.

We needed a signed the lease to buy the new house. Our first tenants were very nice people. Three young women who were “volunteers” for a Lutheran charity. The charity actually rented the house. The people were so nice, they gave the Big Guy a set of sweet books for his first birthday. They paid the rent on time. I was baby-addled so that was all I required.

When they moved out, our next tenants were a rock and roll band.

If you thought these lovely women were nice, you’d be very impressed with the band. The Spouse would go by the house with the Big Guy who would ask about the dwums and the gutaws. The bass player would take his axe out and let the kid touch it. Even as they were going to a show. They’d be late for the kid.

The band was excited that they had a release on vinyl. They were happy to sell CDs, but pined for the sound of diamond on plastic. I think I bought the LP, but we didn’t have a turntable setup. I wonder whatever happened to that record.

Although I was only six or seven years older than they were, we were the people with the baby that owned the house they rented. That made us old. I guess, relatively, they were right. We were parents. They had parents.

One day they came over to our house for something or another to sign. As always, they were generous with their affection to our boy. He had many questions.

Big Guy: Where are your instwuments? [please substitute the “w” sound for every “r.” Makes for a more realistic and cuter dialog.]

Singer: Awww, we left them at the house. Sorry.

Big Guy: That’s okay. [walking around to the bass player, climbing on his lap and tracing the colorful full sleeve on his right arm] Why you have dwawings on your awm?

Bass Player: These are tattoos. They tell stories. This is about where I’m from, this is a bird that flies to far away lands, and this part symbolizes my sister.

He looked up at me, a bit embarrassed.

Bass Player: Sorry.

I knew that he was worried that the old landlady would disapprove of the tattoos and his sharing of his disreputable marks. He was concerned that I would think he was a bad influence on somebody who could not yet make the “R” sound.

Me: Sorry about the tattoos? They don’t bother me. My dad has them. Down both arms.

The Bass Player was quite surprised and not just a little impressed with my wickedness. The Big Guy slid off his lap, walked around to the other side of the table and sidled up next to the singer.

Big Guy: So, where’s your cawtoon? [translation= cartoon; also, his interpretation of the word tattoo]

Singer: [using his index finger to pull the V on his v-neck tee below his left pec] Right here. See this “V”? It’s my wife, Victoria’s initial. She is tattooed right over my heart.

The Big Guy nodded knowingly and approvingly in his three-year-old way. But actually, it was like he did understand.

The drummer was looking for attention.

Drummer: So, where’s my tattoo?

Big Guy: [emphatically, but kindly] You don’t have one.

The mates quickly exchanged looks. The Drummer especially was bemused. Everyone else was amused.

Drummer: Hmmmm. You’re right. I don’t.

I think that the smart Big Guy then gave everyone a hug and went to brush his teeth.

Posted on by docthink 0

Gardenia of Eden

Gardenias. Pretty, no?

Holidays–including the made up Hallmark ones–are different for each of us.

I, for example, do not care for either Halloween or New Year’s Eve. Dressing up like a hot dog or a bird or a sexy fill-in-the-blank has very low appeal to me. I don’t like to be scared. I have too active an imagination to participate in the paranormal without imperiling my ability to walk upstairs when it’s dark. Forget the basement.

As far as NYE goes, there’s always too much anticipation for too little payoff. It’s supposed to be a magical night, but it’s more like a worn card trick than disapparating at an electrified finger snap. Increasingly holding up through midnight is a challenge for my peer group. It’s yawn, clink, kiss and goodnight.

You can like those holidays if you want. There are others that I really like alot–Thanksgiving, Christmas and Fat Tuesday, for examples. You, of course, have your own feelings about those.

Mother’s Day is one that confounds me. It’s a holiday of expectations.

I remember going to see my Grandmother when I was little. I have memories of sometimes dutifully and other times ardently creating cards or noodle necklaces or tissue flowers for my own mother. There was my own first Mother’s Day and the yearly boon of my own either dutifully or ardently crafted gifts. There were flowers sent to my mother and the Spouse’s mother for a number of years until one, and then the other, left us.

Mother’s Day photos and wishes fill up my social media streams. As the middle-aged people take over The Facebook, I’m seeing pics of our mothers from when they were younger than we are now. Glamor shots from their high school yearbooks or square prints from your baby albums with you nestled in your 20-something mother’s arms or bouncing on her lap. I see your eyes, your smiles, your chins and your noses in your mother’s sepia or faded kodachrome face. I see generational shots with long lost greats next to your baby whose grown cap and gown picture you posted this past week.

I feel the losses that you are posting about not being able to call her, or about her looking down on you from heaven or simply a “miss you.”

Absent is the other feels of people who don’t have moms, who aren’t moms, who have lost their children, who hate their moms, who are estranged from their families. There’s waiting by moms to be acknowledged by their kids. The dawning recognition that this will be another year that your family fails to recognize this day–and a lurking envy of people you see with breakfasts in beds, brunches and bunches of dozens. It’s like bittersweet jam, this Mother’s Day thing.

Last year, Baby Bear and I went to see The Avengers: Age of Ultron for Mother’s Day. We bumped into one of his old classmates leaving the theater with his mother. They also saw The Avengers, because what else says Happy Mother’s Day like a super-hero movie? This year the Bear is almost two-thousand miles away.

Yesterday I picked up a gardenia plant at the grocery store. It was a pretty unusual find next to the blueberries. Gardenia’s were my mother’s favorite flower. She would tell of her dates buying her corsages, and, if it was a quality guy, he’d have a gardenia. One year, for Mother’s Day, we bought her a gardenia bush. The scent from the flowers was intoxicating. It only delivered two blooms, but they made me dizzy.

I smelled the gardenia before I saw it with its dark green leaves and bright white flowers. I breathed it in, got a little woozy and put in it my cart. It seemed to me that I was buying a gift for my mother. I bought myself some flowers, too.

Today I got up and watched the yelling shows. I padded around in my pajamas until the afternoon. I made a second pot of coffee. Before The Big Guy went to work, he asked me for a date. We’re going to see Captain America. Because what else says mother’s day like a super-hero movie?

Have a happy day, no matter your position on moms or this greeting card holiday. And, for us, it’s Team Cap, mom and apple pie all the way.

Posted on by docthink 1

Teddy Bears & Unicorns & Bellybuttons

My ancient Wayfarers. Same 'script for decades.

Sometimes I find myself overcome by a surprise rush of happiness. It’s like warm puppy kisses and a wave of lightheadedness like from champagne with tiny bubbles.

Sometimes I’m surprised by the proximate cause. Upon my analysis I think there may be something wrong with me. So be it. I thought I’d share just a few of the things that make me inexplicably happy.

  • Empty tupperware containers in the sink evidencing the enjoyment of leftovers when the Big Guy got home late last night.
  • Pulling my red raincoat out of the closet.
  • Every single time my friend posts anything about Mount Vernon on Facebook. He does it a lot, too.
  • Trout on a menu. I might not eat it every time but am oddly ecstatic that it’s there.
  • Wool socks that belonged to someone with big feet that shrunk to my size and because of the concentration of yarn have an extra deep layer of lamby, cushiony comfort.
  • The Beast bounding to the door then stopping  just before he reaches me to turn around to find a toy to present as tribute.
  • Grape potatoes.
  • Hearing a Muzaked version of a Red Hot Chili Peppers song. It should, but does not, offend me.
  • The strike of a match and smell of sulfur for the dinner candles.
  • Texts from Baby Bear rueing the current state of political affairs.
  • The fresh fish displayed on what looks like black marble in the case at The District Fishwife.
  • Pulling the threads to open up the pocket on a new jacket. The moment when you pull that long string and the pocket is fully freed? That.
  • Seeing the neighbor kid driving their folks’ car for the first time. Scary, too.
  • Honey in a comb, especially if it sits next to the tasty mustard on my artisan charcuterie plate.
  • The laser mouse for our TV. Every time I use it, I’m excited.
  • A fourth grader opening a book they’re carrying then shoving their face between the pages as soon as they find a place to sit.
  • Someone truly enjoying the music that I’m hearing from their headphones. Bonus if they’re singing–with or without sound. Quality of singing not a factor in my joy.
  • Dogs sniffing and spinning and positioning their rumps to take a crap.
  • The way the hinge rocks up and down on my ancient Wayfarers.
  • The spouse, haloed by the lamp, sitting on the couch doing a crossword puzzle.
  • People blindly walking down the street with their conference name tag. I well up in affection. Sometimes I suggest that they take it off. For safety’s sake.
  • Peeling a slightly dried out clementine. There is a pleasure in the way that it almosts pops like a bubble as you pull away the peel.
  • Someone flirting with me. I don’t care that his cologne is eau du piss and his bling is the jingle of coins in the cup he picked out of the trash. I’m still flattered.
  • Hitting publish on a post.

Well, that last one isn’t so inexplicable, but I don’t really have much explanation for the rest.

I hope that you, too, My Loyal Reader, have simple things that make you inexplicably happy. Do share.

Posted on by docthink 0

Doc & The Beast: Continuing Adventures

NOT a good boy. The Beast.

Finally, the morning fulfilled the promise that has been teased this spring. Sunshine bounced off the shrubbery and landed a soft, warm kiss on my nose. I clipped the collar around the cold, wet nose of my companion, and we headed out.

As per usual, he started off in his herky-jerk pull. First he jerked to the right. I yanked him toward me. He then herked straight ahead. I admonished him, sternly but ineffectively, but we were going that way anyhow. I halted him when we got to the gate. The bushes that bound our front yard have grown taller than me. Well, not that tall, but are big and thick enough that I can’t see if someone is coming.

It’s important for us all to be forewarned. First, pedestrians can be quite surprised if they walk into what strangers generally marvel at as a “big dog.” Then if the dog is surprised, that mutual surprise becomes a tangle of the neighbor tripping backwards saying, “whoa!” or sometimes, “holy shit! is that a DOG?” and the dog embracing the movement and shrieks as an opportunity to make a new friend who may, in a moment of shock, drop a sandwich.

This becomes a jump-jive lurch and a wrench of my shoulder. Really the wrench of the entire right side of my body from shoulder, to pectorals, to the 3 of my 6-pack that hides underneath middle-age and sometimes through my adductor longus. UNLESS, the person is coming from the other side, then it’s the pivot wrench in which the only thing planted is my left leg. Please pray for that knee. So I hang on to the leash for all that is good in the world and offer my profuse apologies for the unwelcome charge. And I can’t help to pick anything up since I need to redirect The Beast. I spin and swiftly walk away, with a weak wave, a grimacey smile and another cluster of sorries.

That didn’t happen this morning. It’s all about that strategic pause and being ever-vigilant. It’s also all about an empty sidewalk. Issue avoided.

I was ready for work and didn’t have any pockets. I clipped my house key to my sweater and stuffed a plastic bag with a few treats in the elastic at the top of my skirt. It was a a stunning morning indeed, and The Beast, after making sure that the Soviet exile kitty-cat was not hiding underneath the Mini, fell into my pace.

I didn’t have alot of time so we were taking the abbreviated route. There were many new spring smells, but he used the lead I gave him to maximize his sniffs and minimize his corrections. There were some sticks to chew through and napkins on the sidewalk that he was not allowed to investigate further.

We turned the corner and passed the bike share that was half-full of cherry red units. This turn directs us toward the tracks. As we approach the last third of the block, I need to be hyper-aware for approaching trains. I usually use a combination of cooing, bribes and two-handed leash reminders to make the next turn.

It was just as I was looking up ahead and as the beast was retrieving his pee-mail left by other canines on the trunk of the old tree that it happened. The smelling at the base of the tree changed to him rolling his head and neck on the ground. At first I thought he was having a seizure of sorts until I saw him place his shoulder and euphorically rub through that shoulder, neck, ear and nose in, in, in, something.

Oh, God!

So disgusting. I pulled him off it and did a super quick assessment. It didn’t seem to be a dead animal. But it was definitely a gross enough pile that I choked back a gag and dragged him from his holy place.

I cursed a fair amount the rest of the way home. I needed to clean him off enough so I could get to work. Which I did. He would get the full salon treatment this evening.

The Petco has dog-wash stations. For a Hamilton they supply all you need to wash your dog–aprons, shampoo, sprayers and big silver tubs.

Although The Beast was not obviously foul-smelling, I knew (mostly) what he had rolled in. He needed a full refresh.

We took a real walk, the better to wear him out before tonight’s new experience, and I coaxed him into the car. We insaned it to the pet store and were gifted with a parking spot exactly in front of the store. Good omen!

The Beast likes the dogstore. He sniffs around for treats, pokes at the toys and occassionally leaves with one. And cookies. He always gets a cookie.

The cashier looked at us and asked if we were going to the tubs. I’m wondering how she knew. I told her it was my first time. She nodded and asked if we could wait while she took care of the man buying something special for his cute brown moppet dog who began leaping in place at our entrance. That leaping in place was quite a talent.

The attendant walked me to the back of the store where a woman was shampooing her sweet moppet dog in one of the three tubs. Guess moppet dogs are in. There were no other eighty-pound Bambi dogs.

We stood at the wash station. I surveyed the area. Rubber mats on the ground and the bottom of the tubs. Good, neither of us would slip. There was a water spray and cleats on the side. There were some shampoo leashes hanging. I guess the cleats were to hitch the leash.

I took a breath and looked at The Beast. He may have seen a flash of my apprehension. I gave him a treat and moved him toward the bath. He looked at the stainless steel tub and eyed the open door. He looked at me and as much as said, “Seriously, Doc? What the hell do you think is going to happen here?”

He wouldn’t get in. I lifted his front legs in, like we do with the car. The idea was to get the front part in and then I’d lift the rear. This was NOT his idea. He splayed not only his legs out, but grabbed onto the edge of the tub with his paws. He dug in. I couldn’t get behind him in time. He brought his legs back to terra firma.

The attendant asked if we wanted to use a lower tub on the other side of the “salon.” Sounded good to me. I tried to walk him the nine steps to the other tub. He pulled back like a Jeep with a winch. I was on the other end of the rope. He was working to reel me in. I produced another treat and some soothing words. I had to coax him to take the goodie. This was not a good omen.

I out-winched him and pulled him to the other tub. The woman bathing her sweet moppet dog was judging me. I know. I felt it.

I lifted his front paws into this lower tub. He had clearly used the first tub experience as his rehearsal for a true protest. He would not be moved. I hopped up into the tub myself, thinking that I could get him to loosen his resolve if he saw how easy it was. There I am standing in the dog tub and the dog immobile outside of it. Another couple came in with their dog.

The guy looked at me standing in the tub with The Beast doing his sit down strike. He said that his dog would be just like The Beast. I’m looking at him and then his dog. I wonder aloud if the dog was twenty-five pounds. The woman offered, “Sixteen.” Sure, just like my dog. They lifted her up with one friggin’ hand and murmured sweet pleas for forgiveness as they did their washing. Meanwhile, the moppet dog woman was still secretly judging me. I caught the shade.

I got out of the tub since that was not working and pulled another treat out of my pocket. I was running out. It didn’t matter, though. The Beast refused to turn his head toward me. I told him there’s a cookie, and while I got a recognition via one raised eyebrow (yes, he has eyebrows, I’ll show you sometime) he did not turn. I was standing between him and the stainless steel tub. He would not deign to look toward that hated stainless steel tub. I stepped to his other side, and he looked at me away from the stainless steel tub. I gave him the treat. And I gave up.

I was beyond the judgement of my washmates. Beyond the judgement of the attendant who asked me what I was going to do as I left the wash station.

I needed a solution. I asked for dry shampoo. The Beast put his head in a box of toys. I paid the $20 for the dry shampoo and left. But no cookie for The Beast this time. Nope. No cookie. Not this time. Not a toy either.

Posted on by docthink 1

Precious Cargo

Oklahoma City National Memorial at night. All lit up. Remembering those who were lost.

The day that the Murrah Building was bombed, I was in Kansas City.

I was staying at either the Hyatt Regency Crown Center or at the Westin Crown Center. They were the same. One was darker than the other, but they were the same. The hotels were linked by a pedestrian bridge that intersected a Hallmark building. Hallmark being a big deal in Kansas City.

You could walk by and watch the artists making Shoebox Cards–the funny cards–through a big window. Sometimes there’d be nobody at the desks. I guess they were on break.

When I went by that window, I was pushing a stroller that was full of a big fat baby Baby Bear. He was my traveling companion that first year of his life. He went from Boston at 10 weeks to Palm Springs at 10 months. There were two trips to Kansas City in between and maybe one after. There were likely six or eight other cities, too.

I took a new job when he was in my belly. I started on April Fools’ Day and he was born in the heat of August. My first foray into business travel with an infant was to Copley Place–I think it was a Marriott. There was some kind of pedestrian walkway there, too. My best mother-in-law ever joined me on that trip. She’d watch the Baby Bear when I was at the conference. I would ply her with the breakfast that I’d walk back from the Au Bon Pain–this was the olden days when their French roast was brewed strong and sweet, they had real cream and their bagels did not insult my New York MIL. We tried room service the first day and it was costly and crappy. Fresh coffee and bagels on the other hand, need I say more?

My assistant was in charge of shipping my breast pump. It was the size and weight of a significant car battery. My company paid the FedEx back and forth. It was cheap for all the work I was doing. Seriously. I carried the stroller on the plane. It came in handy when Grandma pushed him as she strolled downtown Boston.

We met my Bestest in Cambridge. We took the Green Line and transferred at one point to some old trolley car. We carried the stroller up the stairs of the old fashioned car, having to pause once or twice for an outburst of giggles or maybe it was hysterical cackles. This wasn’t the subway she knew in Manhattan and environs. It also bore no resemblance to the D.C. version of train that I knew. My Bestest was happy that we were city people and were up for the misadventure. My favorite part of the evening was strolling among the shops after dinner and finding the red telescope that The Big Guy wanted. MIL asked me if she could buy it for him for Christmas. I still have it.

By the time I arrived in KC, I had done a few solo gigs. My job took me to nice hotels and I’d find a sitter via the concierge. I bet I didn’t tip her well enough–but I also bet I mentally excused myself since I couldn’t expense this big expense. I’d go to sessions, give some presentations and build business during the day. I’d usually skip the socials. I didn’t need a glass of wine. Baby Bear was hungry. And I was mostly exhausted.

Did I tell you what a great traveler he was? People would see me get on the plane with a laptop on one shoulder and a fat baby and bright blue diaper bag on the other. Usually their faces would fall. Especially when they saw me edge toward their seat. The Bear didn’t cry. He didn’t fuss. He’d have his meal and read books with me, except when he was making friends with the person in the seat behind us. My neck muscles elongated like a ballerina’s as I looked over my shoulder at him and his newest friend(s).

The day there was “weather” in Dallas and we were diverted to San Antonio, we sat on the tarmac for three hours. After the first hour, the flight attendants let us all loose. They brought out those little bottles filled with fire water and dug out the remaining cold burritos to keep us happy. Other passengers were shocked that there was a baby on this hell-flight. Frankly, he was having a great time. Better than the ansty adults who entertained themselves by passing him around.

But on that day in April, we were in Kansas City. I didn’t know anything about big federal buildings and the regional fed hubs. That morning, I ordered room service and put on the TV. I didn’t have anyplace to be. I held Baby Bear close to me and sobbed. And sobbed. Downtown Kansas City was uneasy. There are plenty of federal buildings and nobody knew if their would be more attacks.

I put the sweet Bear in his stroller and we walked from one of the hotels, across the link and past the Hallmark artists and through the mall to the other hotel. I don’t know if we started or ended at the W-hotel or the H-hotel. But we went back and forth more than once. We stopped and looked through the glass wall surrounding the bridge. We saw very very wide and very very empty roads below us. I wasn’t scared, but I thought about it. Being scared, that is.

Mostly, though, I thought about those babies who would never grow up. But I couldn’t think about their parents. I still can’t. I don’t know if I could get myself out if I did. My Baby Bear is a young man. I weep for the parents who never got to know their babies as kids and tweens and teens and young adults.

Fuck Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols. Bastards.

But I can’t end on that thought. No. They aren’t the story.

I will thank the amazing first responders who walked into that horror. To the people of Oklahoma City who were almost all touched by this tragedy, I’m awed by your resilience. And to the families who lost so much, I am so sorry. Those who you loved so well are still remembered.

And a grateful hug to my Baby Bear. I am counting my blessings through a reprise of tears.

Posted on by docthink 2

Rule Breaking

non-branded junk food, like fries a cheeseburger and a soda. Not even I diet soda!

I’ve been feeling hungry most of the afternoon. I want to clarify that this is a completely unrighteous hunger. I ate cereal for breakfast, a muffin top for elevensies, then had a proper lunch with two sides.

Unrighteous is truth. I tried to keep this phantom hunger at bay, first by working, then by drinking tea with fake sweetener and then by watching cute puppies on the internet. No good. I started gnawing at the inside of my cheek. I looked up and the clock said quitting time. I was out the door, looking forward to a healthy and satiating dinner. Then, it hit me.

The Beast needs food.

I punched myself in the head for blowing the task off this weekend. Punching made me less hungry for a second. Anyway, I literally drove by the dogfood store on Sunday after the dog park, but found no convenient parking. I couldn’t imagine success in trying to balance the insane 78 pound dog on one arm and a 35 pound bag of kibble in the other. I drove home. Now I am very sorry. Very sorry. And not less hungry. Maybe more hungry. I swallow reflexively.

My desperate mind races to the bottom of the food storage container. Even if I could scrape a scant dinner from the depths of his echoing bin, there would be nothing for tomorrow morning. That’s it. I have to buy dog food. I am without another choice.

I am feeling even more hungry. My stomach is eating itself. Not really, but the unrighteous hunger is unrelenting as I try to push it aside. Instead of going home and digging up some dinner, I need to hop in the car and drive to the store.

Now I’m thinking about what I can eat in the way to the dog food store. I don’t want to wait. I want to have something salty or sweet, or sweet and salty. I’m thinking of burger toppings. I’m thinking of filling up at a drive-thru.

Arrggh! I remember that it’s not food if arrives in the window of your car.  And I’d be breaking a bunch of other food rules, like only eating junk food that I make and only eating at a table. My steering wheel is not a table. And I already said muffin-top in the third sentence here, that’s as close as I want to be.

I start thinking about responsibilities. I call up those days–usually a sunny and warm day–when I get in my car and feel like I just want to drive. And drive. Drive right out of town. Maybe to the beach.

I want to roll down the windows and turn up the radio and sing as loud as I can. So loud that other motorists turn to see where the caterwauling is from. And I just laugh and sing even louder and with even more “feeling.” I don’t know where I’d go, but I’d go.

I’m at the train station. I walk out of the car to the platform. It’s sunny, but end of the day sunny with long shadows suggesting not much sun left. I’m wearing a coat and pull it a bit closer. It’s not that warm, either. I ride down the escalator and amble to the turnstile. I flash my pass and the gates open in front of me.

I’m not that hungry. I bet that The Beast is way hungrier than me. I near the house and see the car on the street. I can be back with the goods in a quick twenty minutes. A business walk and then just a few more minutes to get my plate on. I can hold out. And I can feel righteous in my choices.

My real dinner. Not junk. And Satisfying.
My real dinner. Not junk. And Satisfying.

 

Posted on by docthink 0