During the winter season my cats choose to stay inside away from biting winds and frosty fields. They loll around on our furniture, scratch the couch, chase one another, meow for no reason whatsoever and grow fatter. Big Zekie has recently developed an insatiable curiosity with the closet that houses our stacked washer/dryer unit. About five, or six times a day he feels the urge to walk into the bathroom, paw open the closet door (which creaks like a prop in a haunted house), meow a few times, peer intently into the dark recesses of the closet and then waddle away. I have no idea why he does this. Cats are messed up animals. The good thing about their winter schedule for me is that I don't have to deal with the plethora of animals that they bring into the house during the other three seasons. No scurrying chipmunks, no panicking birds fluttering their wings helplessly against the ceiling and windows and best of all, no carcasses.
The other night I was making a 3 a.m. trip to the loo and out of the corner of my sleep filled, blurry eyeballs I saw a small brown mouse running across the floor.
"Oh Buddy," I said. "You picked the wrong house to break into." As if on cue, Mia came trotting into the bathroom causing the mouse to dart behind the toilet. I ran back to the safe haven of my bed, thinking may the force be with you, little mousie because I'm not in the mood for a search and rescue mission at this hour of the night.
The next next morning I tip toed into the bathroom and saw no sign of the mouse, dead or otherwise. I supposed that maybe he'd gone out the way he came in, therefore escaping a certain deadly ending. As I passed through the doorway into the living room I saw the mouse sitting next to the book case, with Miss Girl sitting NEXT to him and Marbles eyeing him greedily from across the room. The clock was ticking and I knew I had to act fast. Grabbing a red Solo cup (thank you Toby Keith for forever planting your song in my head) I swiftly scooped the mouse up and covered the top with a cd case. Remember I've been catching mice, moles, chipmunks, etc. for years now. I should host classes on this shit.
Opening the door, I felt a wave of guilt over putting the mouse out in the cold, but there was no alternative for him. He had to go out, or face the fangs and claws of four bored felines. I set the cup down, fully expecting the mouse to dart away, but instead he came part way out, stopped and repeatedly rubbed his mouth with his hands. And then he turned in circles to the right like a shopping cart with a sticky wheel. It was then that I noticed the small wound on the top of his head. One of the stupid cats had performed some kind of brain experiment on him. I could just imagine the conversation:
Mia: Hey Marbles, have you ever pierced the frontal lobe with one claw to see what would happen?
Marbles: No, but that's a brilliant idea! Let me go pick the furniture for a minute so my claws are good and sharp. Be right back.
Well, the damage was done and he didn't look to be suffering so I brought him a small hunk of cheddar and left him preening and circling in the red cup. Throughout the morning I checked on him several times. No real changes to report. Just hanging out in the cup, and he didn't touch the cheese. The cats had turned him into a mentally impaired mouse who needed to go have round the clock care at a mouse rehab center.
When it began to rain I decided that I would get the mouse and put him in some sort of container where he could attempt a fair recovery in the barn. Now I don't have all the facts, nor was there any forensic evidence to be recovered, but when I went up to get him the cheese was gone and so was the mouse. My two dogs stood behind me, both failing to make eye contact with me as I questioned them on what had happened in the last hour. I'll never know for sure, but I'd like to think that one of the dogs ate the cheese and spooked the mouse out of his catatonic (forgive the pun) state, enabling him to find the mental faculties that involved running the hell away from this House of Satan. That's my version of a Hollywood ending, rodent style.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Terrible Timing
I can't believe that our indoor ring roof is being re-shingled as I type. Our landlords are nice people, but I'm not sure what they were thinking by having this work done during the winter. Here are a few reasons as to why it's a bad idea:
1. It's cold
2. the roof is covered with thick frost every morning
3. we can't ride in the indoor while the workers are up there
4.we can't ride outside because it's freezing out and the ground is frozen
5. we can't ride until 4 p.m. when the workers leave for the day
6. who in the hell wants to start riding at 4 p.m. in the winter?
7. the roof is huge and this company sends a mere two laborer's per day, who spend a lot of time chatting and listening to really, really bad music on their crackly radio
After two long weeks the guys got one half of the roof done. Then they took the entire week off between Christmas and New Years, which if you remember was a very mild, lovely week. Well, the truck just rolled into the driveway on this below freezing morning and I bet those men are just de-lighted to be scampering up the frosty ladder to start ripping shingles in the frigid Millbrook wind. To make matters worse, they started on the side of the ring that is always exposed to the sun. Now they are working on the "dark side", which never gets a single ray of light. So if you're thinking that you have a crappy job just imagine being a roofer stuck on a slippery, humungous, shaded indoor ring roof in January. Oh, and Billy Squier is belting out "Stroke Me" on the radio ( a song that no one should EVER have to hear after 1986). Puts things in a little perspective, doesn't it?
1. It's cold
2. the roof is covered with thick frost every morning
3. we can't ride in the indoor while the workers are up there
4.we can't ride outside because it's freezing out and the ground is frozen
5. we can't ride until 4 p.m. when the workers leave for the day
6. who in the hell wants to start riding at 4 p.m. in the winter?
7. the roof is huge and this company sends a mere two laborer's per day, who spend a lot of time chatting and listening to really, really bad music on their crackly radio
After two long weeks the guys got one half of the roof done. Then they took the entire week off between Christmas and New Years, which if you remember was a very mild, lovely week. Well, the truck just rolled into the driveway on this below freezing morning and I bet those men are just de-lighted to be scampering up the frosty ladder to start ripping shingles in the frigid Millbrook wind. To make matters worse, they started on the side of the ring that is always exposed to the sun. Now they are working on the "dark side", which never gets a single ray of light. So if you're thinking that you have a crappy job just imagine being a roofer stuck on a slippery, humungous, shaded indoor ring roof in January. Oh, and Billy Squier is belting out "Stroke Me" on the radio ( a song that no one should EVER have to hear after 1986). Puts things in a little perspective, doesn't it?
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Ring it out, Ring it in
It's the first day of January in the year 2012! "Happy New Year", I've been saying to everyone that I talk to over the last few days. Last night was low key here in our household. Early to bed, with a midnight wake up kiss from Jonathan, and I was back to sleep before my head hit the pillow. I did look at the clock precisely at 12:00, so thanks to Jonathan I was officially "there" for the New Year's first minute.
Yesterday as I was trail riding a brown mare through the fields, I started reminiscing about New Year's eve's from the past. As a kid I remember always thinking that night was such a big deal. My Mom and Dad would get dressed up to go to a party. Dad would be in his hunter green polyester leisure suit, with his sideburns combed just right. Mom would have on a swanky polyester dress, usually multi-colored, with her shag hairdo coiffed to perfection and a fresh pack of Tareyton 100's in her clutch (she gave up smoking early on in my childhood-fyi). I would be set up with root beer floats to concoct, a sundae smorgasbord and movies to watch, usually with a friend over to keep me company. We'd stay up to watch the ball drop in Times Square, before we'd fade off to sleep in our Holly Hobby sleeping bags.
As a young adult NYE took on a different meaning. It was supposed to be THE NIGHT of the year to par-tay. Expectations were high and lots of planning went into making sure it was a night to remember. Most of the time it was a night to forget, or at least I forgot most of it along the way. I remember leaving a perfectly fun party at my in-law's house in CT to pile a bunch of us into a Volkswagen Jetta and head to another party in NYC. Somehow we got stuck on the highway and ended up ringing in the New Year en route. Everyone in the car was fighting, my brother in law's girlfriend was crying and by the time we actually made it to the party I immediately found a horizontal position on a bed and fell asleep. That was really my last attempt at making NYE some kind of fantastical, magic night. I learned that you don't have to get all dressed up, you don't have to drink till you drop, you don't even have to leave your house to have a good time on the last night of the year. Meanwhile, I do have high expectations for 2012. The first day of the new year is a perfect day to take charge of your life and confront what you want to change. It's all about opportunities in life and whether you choose to take them, or create them, or let them pass you by is up to you. I'm brimming with optimism about the upcoming year and I can't wait to see where it takes us. Cheers to 2012!
Yesterday as I was trail riding a brown mare through the fields, I started reminiscing about New Year's eve's from the past. As a kid I remember always thinking that night was such a big deal. My Mom and Dad would get dressed up to go to a party. Dad would be in his hunter green polyester leisure suit, with his sideburns combed just right. Mom would have on a swanky polyester dress, usually multi-colored, with her shag hairdo coiffed to perfection and a fresh pack of Tareyton 100's in her clutch (she gave up smoking early on in my childhood-fyi). I would be set up with root beer floats to concoct, a sundae smorgasbord and movies to watch, usually with a friend over to keep me company. We'd stay up to watch the ball drop in Times Square, before we'd fade off to sleep in our Holly Hobby sleeping bags.
As a young adult NYE took on a different meaning. It was supposed to be THE NIGHT of the year to par-tay. Expectations were high and lots of planning went into making sure it was a night to remember. Most of the time it was a night to forget, or at least I forgot most of it along the way. I remember leaving a perfectly fun party at my in-law's house in CT to pile a bunch of us into a Volkswagen Jetta and head to another party in NYC. Somehow we got stuck on the highway and ended up ringing in the New Year en route. Everyone in the car was fighting, my brother in law's girlfriend was crying and by the time we actually made it to the party I immediately found a horizontal position on a bed and fell asleep. That was really my last attempt at making NYE some kind of fantastical, magic night. I learned that you don't have to get all dressed up, you don't have to drink till you drop, you don't even have to leave your house to have a good time on the last night of the year. Meanwhile, I do have high expectations for 2012. The first day of the new year is a perfect day to take charge of your life and confront what you want to change. It's all about opportunities in life and whether you choose to take them, or create them, or let them pass you by is up to you. I'm brimming with optimism about the upcoming year and I can't wait to see where it takes us. Cheers to 2012!
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Be still my heart
This Christmas we received a most fabulous gift. An espresso machine!! It's made by Nespresso and it's simple to use, delicious to drink, and I'm worried about adding another addiction to my life. Seriously, it's so damned good. I've always been a big fan of strong coffee, but truth be told I'd never tried espresso. I always figured I didn't have the chops to handle the boldness of the flavor. I've heard people at Starbucks ordering lattes with skim, or half caff and cappuccinos with foam, etc., but I never got past ordering a plain ole coffee, which I would carefully doctor with half/half and sugar with the precision of a mad scientist. Coffee is so taste specific. I can't drink my husband's version of coffee. Too much sugar, not enough cream. Yet, if I get him a coffee and add two drops too many of cream, he will not drink it and deems it "disgusting". I always think the next line after he waves away the ruined brew will be, "Off with her head". It seems that serious of an offense to mess with a person's cuppa coffee.
But I digress (which I can blame wholeheartedly on the amount of caffeine racing through my bloodstream). Back to the espresso, oh heavenly dark nectar, blessed magic, foamy brew. I learned on the first morning we had the machine that doing a back to back cup for a novice drinker was a BIG mistake. Rather like when you drink your first alcoholic beverage and think to yourself, "Heck, I don't even feel it. May as well have another." And so you do. And then you feel it. After downing my second cup with a satisfying smack of my lips, I began to feel an inner vibration. It started in my chest, wrapped around my heart and went up to my eyeballs. My eyeballs began to spasm in their sockets. I lost all ability to concentrate. Paranoia set in due to my lack of ability to concentrate, and I was suddenly the most ADD person on the planet with ideas and worries playing a ping pong match in my cracked out brain. Espresso, I learned that fateful morning is not only delicious, but it's serious shit. I had tons of stuff that I'd wanted to get done that morning and guess what I got done? Nothing. Unless you want to count checking Facebook every ten minutes. Touche, espresso. I'm a big girl and learned my lesson. As with most things in life that are almost TOO enjoyable to be true, moderation is the key with espresso drinking. At least until you get some practice under your belt, which I aim to do one luscious, heart stopping cup at a time.
But I digress (which I can blame wholeheartedly on the amount of caffeine racing through my bloodstream). Back to the espresso, oh heavenly dark nectar, blessed magic, foamy brew. I learned on the first morning we had the machine that doing a back to back cup for a novice drinker was a BIG mistake. Rather like when you drink your first alcoholic beverage and think to yourself, "Heck, I don't even feel it. May as well have another." And so you do. And then you feel it. After downing my second cup with a satisfying smack of my lips, I began to feel an inner vibration. It started in my chest, wrapped around my heart and went up to my eyeballs. My eyeballs began to spasm in their sockets. I lost all ability to concentrate. Paranoia set in due to my lack of ability to concentrate, and I was suddenly the most ADD person on the planet with ideas and worries playing a ping pong match in my cracked out brain. Espresso, I learned that fateful morning is not only delicious, but it's serious shit. I had tons of stuff that I'd wanted to get done that morning and guess what I got done? Nothing. Unless you want to count checking Facebook every ten minutes. Touche, espresso. I'm a big girl and learned my lesson. As with most things in life that are almost TOO enjoyable to be true, moderation is the key with espresso drinking. At least until you get some practice under your belt, which I aim to do one luscious, heart stopping cup at a time.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Holiday Spirits
Now it's always fun to get into the holiday spirit, but when you combine that with holiday spirits (read:booze) things can get a little tricky. We hosted a low key holiday party this past weekend, just a few friends, casual dinner, drinks by the Christmas tree, etc. For some reason, the day of the party I woke up feeling exhausted. All day I dragged myself from one chore to the next, shoving the vacuum across the floor, swishing a rag splashed with Pledge over the furniture, throwing together a large vat of Provencal Vegetable soup and numerous other details that had to be attended to. Before the guests arrived I mixed myself a martini (my usual cocktail of choice) and sat down to catch my breath. In the nick of time the vodka began to weave its way through my veins, giving me a renewed vigor and voila, it was time to greet the first guests. And I was ready!
All was going smoothly (as smoothly as my second martini was going down), and the guests were happily chatting, drinking and snacking on appetizers. It was around that time when I started to get a little fuzzy in the brain department. We set out the dinner and I sat down to eat a large bowl of beef bourguignon, which I supplemented with a few big pieces of bread & butter (helps to soak up the poison in theory). Don't get me wrong, I'm no amateur when it comes to handling my liquor, but vodka is a sneaky little fellow. You can be fine one minute then WHAM, you're wasted. This my friends, is what happened to me. I became the Sloppy Drunken Hostess. I'm reporting this with great remorse, not pride. I'm pretty sure that I didn't say anything too stupid, or make too much of an ass out of myself, except for the moment after dinner when I attempted to sit on a heavily Pledged wooden chair, slid off the side and hit the floor. Yup. At that moment, my pal Hot Shame came over to join me. His presence made my cheeks go red and fill me two new feelings-embarrassment and humiliation. Two of my good friends were sitting with me and witnessed my "bobble", but as I recall neither of them reacted. That means we all drink enough to know that someone is going to get sloppy at some point and they were glad the lottery skipped them, or they were too drunk themselves to actually stand up to help me. What I do know is that the minute Hot Shame joined me I became sober. Well, not totally sober but I gathered my wits and pulled my wasted self together before I had more to regret than a bruised backside. The rest of the party carried on without incident, except for a dropped glass platter on our front walk that totally shattered. As I was kneeling down to pick up glass shards, I realized my theory of it's not a great party till someone falls down, or breaks something had to come to fruition. I just wish I hadn't been the one to fall down. I wished that over and over again in the middle of the night. But I did. I guess we've all had a turn at being the Sloppy Drunken Hostess at one point or another. There should be a S.D.H. Barbie. She can have smeared makeup and a martini glass clutched in her plastic fingers. I'm going to write to Mattel now. Cheers to Christmastime everyone!
{Not everyone saw me miss the chair, but one guy did and he poked Jonathan and said, "Hey, your wife just fell off her chair". Jonathan told me that he replied, "Oh don't worry, she does that all the time". God, I love that man. }
All was going smoothly (as smoothly as my second martini was going down), and the guests were happily chatting, drinking and snacking on appetizers. It was around that time when I started to get a little fuzzy in the brain department. We set out the dinner and I sat down to eat a large bowl of beef bourguignon, which I supplemented with a few big pieces of bread & butter (helps to soak up the poison in theory). Don't get me wrong, I'm no amateur when it comes to handling my liquor, but vodka is a sneaky little fellow. You can be fine one minute then WHAM, you're wasted. This my friends, is what happened to me. I became the Sloppy Drunken Hostess. I'm reporting this with great remorse, not pride. I'm pretty sure that I didn't say anything too stupid, or make too much of an ass out of myself, except for the moment after dinner when I attempted to sit on a heavily Pledged wooden chair, slid off the side and hit the floor. Yup. At that moment, my pal Hot Shame came over to join me. His presence made my cheeks go red and fill me two new feelings-embarrassment and humiliation. Two of my good friends were sitting with me and witnessed my "bobble", but as I recall neither of them reacted. That means we all drink enough to know that someone is going to get sloppy at some point and they were glad the lottery skipped them, or they were too drunk themselves to actually stand up to help me. What I do know is that the minute Hot Shame joined me I became sober. Well, not totally sober but I gathered my wits and pulled my wasted self together before I had more to regret than a bruised backside. The rest of the party carried on without incident, except for a dropped glass platter on our front walk that totally shattered. As I was kneeling down to pick up glass shards, I realized my theory of it's not a great party till someone falls down, or breaks something had to come to fruition. I just wish I hadn't been the one to fall down. I wished that over and over again in the middle of the night. But I did. I guess we've all had a turn at being the Sloppy Drunken Hostess at one point or another. There should be a S.D.H. Barbie. She can have smeared makeup and a martini glass clutched in her plastic fingers. I'm going to write to Mattel now. Cheers to Christmastime everyone!
{Not everyone saw me miss the chair, but one guy did and he poked Jonathan and said, "Hey, your wife just fell off her chair". Jonathan told me that he replied, "Oh don't worry, she does that all the time". God, I love that man. }
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
A Gradual Descent
Each week I look ahead for the upcoming forecast. A few weeks ago the presence of a 60 degree day in the weekly roster would make my heart soar. With the exception of mud and continuous blanket changes for the horses that is a blessed temperature for this time of year. Then I let my expectations drop to a more realistic number, mid-50's would be just fine, even low 50's, totally acceptable. Yesterday I was outside hanging up Christmas decorations in the crisp 45 degree sunshine, with no gloves on and strangely enough it felt tolerable. Now I'm no rube when it comes to northeastern winters, so I know it's going to get ugly at some point. There will be bitter cold, winds that feel like a dish towel snapping at your face, snowstorms, power outages, etc. It's all coming. But for now 44 is the new 74 around these parts.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Sick Musings
I'm really, really curious about something. Is there any reason why the folks who make cough syrup can't make it taste any less toxic? And who came up with the brilliant combo of "cherry menthol"? Why not "earthworm dung peppermint"? Or "rotting leaves bubble gum"? The stuff is just disgusting and the flavor actually lingers forever in your mouth. It envelops the tongue with its poisonous goo, which allows small amounts to seep down the throat with each swallow. Maybe that's the goal to help quell the coughing, but I'm feeling like I'd rather cough than endure this heinous assault of my taste buds. The taste also induces immediate nausea. I'd like to talk to these cough medicine developers and give them a piece of my mind. If we're sick, then why kick us when we're down? We need to feel better when we take the medicine, not worse. I'm of the opinion that the folks behind the Tussin flavor department are sadistic bastards. I remember taking a green liquid cough medicine as a kid and that was no better than this cherry garbage. In thirty years they can't improve upon that flavor? I'm not buying it. They don't WANT to make it taste better. They chuckle amongst themselves in their little white coats, delighted with the prospect of grossing out millions of poor, coughing victims. I bet they did come up with a nicely flavored cough medicine, but then chose not to market it. Instead they keep those private batches for themselves, or to give out to special friends and family as Christmas gifts. It's all a conspiracy against the coughing public. So in addition to body aches, stuffy head, sneezing, coughing, and blowing my nose, I now have a vile flavor in my mouth that even a cup of strong Irish tea is having trouble erasing. Four words...I want my Mommy.
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