Jonathan and I were lucky enough to be invited to a very dear friend's wedding that happened to be taking place in the Dominican Republic in the beginning of May. We accepted, of course, especially since Jonathan was asked to be the Best Man and we couldn't say no to a vacation destination like the DR. As the day of departure for this trip got closer, unfortunately my oldest, best kitty friend began to show signs of decline, due to old age. I was heartbroken, but this moment is inevitable when we're lucky enough to have pets in our lives. Miss Girl gave us the clear sign that she was on her way out of this world three days before we were set to leave. It was so sad, but she had a graceful exit (of course, she did, she was always graceful and very proper), and after having her live with us for 18 years I said my final goodbye to glorious 20 year old Miss Girl. May she R.I.P. I will always love this kitty the most, she was fuzzy, grey and white and very special. Demanding, gorgeous and a wonderful soul. She left behind her 16 yr. old big grey Tiger son, Zeke and we have two other kitties, Mia and Marbles, who didn't like Miss Girl much, but I'll overlook their taste in friends. Frankly, I think they were just jealous, because Miss G was very pretty and though I love Mia and Marbles, they aren't exactly oil paintings. Hey, we all can't be super models. I get it.
So back to the trip. It didn't start off all that well. I was still pretty broken up about saying goodbye to Miss Girl, but we were going to a tropical island after a wretched winter and a bleak spring so I couldn't complain and tried to dry up my tears. The flight to the DR was uneventful, direct from JFK to Punta Cana, DR. On the flight, we had two girls sitting behind us who filled the flight with inane conversation. They proved impossible to ignore. IMPOSSIBLE TO IGNORE. Beyond dumb. Mind numbing dumb. One of the girls had a panic attack before we landed. I heard her have this convo with a flight attendant:
Flight Attendant: What's going on? Are you okay?
Stupid Girl: I don't know. I feel dizzy.
F.A.: Did you take anything?
S.G.: Yes, I took a valium before we took off.
F.A.: Do you feel sick?
At this point, I want to reach back and slap the Stupid Girl and tell her to strap it on. She's made it this far and she needs to grow a pair. It's a plane flight, for God's sake. Flying is stressful and unnatural. Don't do it if you can't handle it!
S.G.: I feel sick and dizzy. Oh my God, I might be sick!
Now, I want to really slap the Stupid Girl, because I was afraid she was going to barf on me and I'd been listening to her stupid stories for THREE HOURS.
F.A.: You need to calm down. You'll be fine. Sip some water and relax.
Stupid Friend of Stupid Girl: I think you're having a panic attack. I had one once. It was terrible, but I was fine. The airport in the DR is so pretty. It's pink and has a thatched roof. ( really? this is what you tell your friend who is freaking out? But it works, so fuck it. )
Stupid Girl, giggles.
Giggles. Now, I really want to hit her. The Flight Attendant seems to feel the situation has been diffused and moves on as the plane begins it's descent. Well, long story short, we land, there isn't any barfing and we all get off the plane to sort out luggage, etc.
After much ado, Jonathan and I find our luggage, make it through customs and head to find a van that will take us to our hotel. Guess who is sitting in our van? The Two Stupid Girls!! I can't wrap my mind around the fact that we have these two idiots in our van, but I put on a brave face and get into the front seat next to the driver. Off we go. Really? What did I do to deserve this??
The Stupid Girls immediately begin to make conversation with two other idiot American's in the van. It's painful. Annoying. Horrible. I feel badly for Jonathan, who is sitting next to them, but I look out the window from the front seat, like I'm not even in the same car. LA LA LA LA. We drop off the other idiot passengers at their hotel after a 15 minute ride. Bye! Then we drive on. The Stupid Girls attempt to talk to the driver, who says that he doesn't speak English. For a moment, I think this is weird, but then I recall the conversation he's heard from them. It's insulting! These people are horrific. Hmmm. I begin to call upon my high school Spanish. I go through some conjugation, verbs, nouns, etc. So, we drop off the Stupid Girls 10 minutes later at another resort. Bam. Bye, idiots! And head off to our resort. Ahh, it's just Jonathan and I in the van. I get brave and ask the driver how far, in Spanish. The driver is awesome, he answers me very simply, 20 minutes! We chat, in simple Spanish for a few minutes, I feel very chuffed at my my bi-lingual prowess and we finally arrive at our resort, Excellence! To be continued...
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Monday, April 22, 2013
Reading Frenzy
I'm one of those rabid reader people. I start to jones when I'm getting near the end of a book that I'm enjoying. I'll read the thing like a woman possessed, but as the last chapters come into view I'll slow waaaayyy down to prolong the agony of being...finished. When I finally muster the courage to read the last chapter, I will savor each word in each sentence. After I read the last line, I'll place the book down on the table and try to imagine how I'm going to carry on. My body will feel like an empty husk, my wan expression will bear evidence of the sadness deep in my soul. It's over. It's the same feeling that I used to have as I went to bed on Christmas night when I was a little kid. Remember that? The build up for Christmas is so psycho-amazing when you're little. Between the cookie decorating, tree decorating, candles with colored light bulbs in each window, and the presents? Christmas is like a little kid crack party. And then it's all over. The next day is just another day. It's not special. It's Dec. 26. Big whoop. The decorations lose their sparkle, the tree looks limp. You get it. That's how I feel after I finish a really good book. Sad, like I'll never find a book to read that is that good again. It's a wonder that I'm not in therapy.
I have a Kindle, but after the first couple of months the novelty of reading a clinical paragraphs on a grey tablet the size of a large index card wore off. Call me old fashioned, but I'm a library book person. Our local library in Millbrook kinda sucks. The librarians are all prudish older women, with permanent parsimonious expressions stamped on their faces. They basically exude an air of disapproval. Of what? I don't know the answer, maybe it's just life in general, enjoyment, puppies and chocolate. There is one nerdy young dude who is now working at the library. He's just what you're picturing in your head. Tall, geeky, clunky dark framed glasses (of course!), wears tight sweaters and has a prominent adam's apple. I can see him at the guidance counselor's office as a junior in high school, tapping a pencil on his Battlestar Galactica trapper keeper saying in an excited high nasal voice, "I'm really interested in becoming a librarian!", while the guidance counselor suppresses a yawn and replies, "Of course you are, Steven."
Selecting a book at the library is like playing the lottery. I try to limit myself to three books at a time, four at the most. My standard method for selection is to read the title, open the jacket, read a bit of the blurb on the inside cover and scan the first page. For me it's either in, or out. I'm not into cheesy romances, or period pieces about war, or dragons, or women clad in corsets and bustles. I like real, fleshed out characters, good description and a story that will hook me in so deeply that while I'm reading it I'll forget that I have clothes that need folding in the dryer and nineteen other things that need doing while I'm sitting on my ass with my nose in a book.
This morning I finished what I considered to be a very excellent novel. It's called, "Truth in Advertising" by John Kenney, a first time novelist. The writing is as smooth as glass. The story is sweet and sad, but not schmaltzy. The main character was wry, smart and quick witted and you love him, feel sorry for him, want to take him out for a drink. I want more of him. I miss him already. When I read John Updike's "Rabbit, run" series of four novels about an ordinary man from PA named Harry Angstrom, nicknamed Rabbit, there was security that Harry would have some longevity. This was to be a long term relationship and by the end of the last book, "Rabbit at Rest", you were wistful, but ready to let him go. He'd run his course. Harry wasn't the best guy in the world for a multitude of reasons, but in the end you still like him and even though he smoked for years, drank too much and ate pounds of greasy food, you're still sad that he dies of a heart attack at the end.
I have one more book to read out of my current library stack of three. However, I need a few hours before I'm ready to start it. I'm not over the mourning period of finishing the last one. I need a little space. Some closure. Time for deep reflection. I may light some candles and chant. Don't worry, I'll find the strength to carry on and read again. I always do.
I have a Kindle, but after the first couple of months the novelty of reading a clinical paragraphs on a grey tablet the size of a large index card wore off. Call me old fashioned, but I'm a library book person. Our local library in Millbrook kinda sucks. The librarians are all prudish older women, with permanent parsimonious expressions stamped on their faces. They basically exude an air of disapproval. Of what? I don't know the answer, maybe it's just life in general, enjoyment, puppies and chocolate. There is one nerdy young dude who is now working at the library. He's just what you're picturing in your head. Tall, geeky, clunky dark framed glasses (of course!), wears tight sweaters and has a prominent adam's apple. I can see him at the guidance counselor's office as a junior in high school, tapping a pencil on his Battlestar Galactica trapper keeper saying in an excited high nasal voice, "I'm really interested in becoming a librarian!", while the guidance counselor suppresses a yawn and replies, "Of course you are, Steven."
Selecting a book at the library is like playing the lottery. I try to limit myself to three books at a time, four at the most. My standard method for selection is to read the title, open the jacket, read a bit of the blurb on the inside cover and scan the first page. For me it's either in, or out. I'm not into cheesy romances, or period pieces about war, or dragons, or women clad in corsets and bustles. I like real, fleshed out characters, good description and a story that will hook me in so deeply that while I'm reading it I'll forget that I have clothes that need folding in the dryer and nineteen other things that need doing while I'm sitting on my ass with my nose in a book.
This morning I finished what I considered to be a very excellent novel. It's called, "Truth in Advertising" by John Kenney, a first time novelist. The writing is as smooth as glass. The story is sweet and sad, but not schmaltzy. The main character was wry, smart and quick witted and you love him, feel sorry for him, want to take him out for a drink. I want more of him. I miss him already. When I read John Updike's "Rabbit, run" series of four novels about an ordinary man from PA named Harry Angstrom, nicknamed Rabbit, there was security that Harry would have some longevity. This was to be a long term relationship and by the end of the last book, "Rabbit at Rest", you were wistful, but ready to let him go. He'd run his course. Harry wasn't the best guy in the world for a multitude of reasons, but in the end you still like him and even though he smoked for years, drank too much and ate pounds of greasy food, you're still sad that he dies of a heart attack at the end.
I have one more book to read out of my current library stack of three. However, I need a few hours before I'm ready to start it. I'm not over the mourning period of finishing the last one. I need a little space. Some closure. Time for deep reflection. I may light some candles and chant. Don't worry, I'll find the strength to carry on and read again. I always do.
Friday, April 12, 2013
A robot vacuum, who knew??!!!
For his birthday this year, Jonathan's parents gave him a present that has revolutionized both of our lives. It's a robotic vacuum cleaner aptly named the "Neato". No bigger than the average bathroom scale, this clever little unit zooms around the house methodically clearing our floors of dog hair, cat hair, dirt, sticks and whatever other bits of detritus has accumulated over the course of the day. It has a memory so it knows where its been and it even knows when the battery is getting low and it returns itself to its port, which is based in our living room. This machine is amazing. First of all, it does a great job. Our rugs have never looked better. Second of all, it is very thorough and though it doesn't move the dining room chairs to get under the table perfectly, I'm not complaining. I haven't taken out the Dyson is two weeks, and the floors look like they could be eaten off of (though I wouldn't advise it in my house). Third of all, its programmed to vacuum every day while we're out in the barn so when we come back to the house it's like the Vacuum Fairy has been there. The damn thing cleans under our bed AND under the living room sofa. How many times have you gone to look for a lost shoe, sock etc. and gotten on your knees to take a peek under these two pieces of furniture and risen in disgust at the amount of "stuff" under there. Please tell me that its not just my house that has hosted giant dust bunny parties under the bed and sofa. I believe we've had entire dust bunny conventions in my house. Any time we've moved I've always shrieked in horror at the things that were hiding under the furniture, which hadn't been disturbed since it was last moved into position. I can happily say, that will never happen in my home again. I'll even push the sofa aside next time my mom comes to visit just so I can show off how pristine the carpet is under there.
Sometimes we happen to be inside the house on a break while the Neato is working its magic. The Neato has sensors on it so it doesn't ever bump into us, or the cats, or dogs if any of us are in the way of its path. I was a little concerned when I saw it hurtling across the carpet towards my very deaf cat, Miss Girl, but it politely veered away from her allowing her to continue on with her bath, undisturbed. My boy cat, Zeke (who is very bored this time of year since he's been waiting for spring to come so he can get out of the house and eat moles again) has taken it upon himself to challenge the Neato. He likes to walk by it while it's working and give it cold stare and puff his body up, while he cruises by on his tippy toes, like Fred Flintsone at the bowling alley. Jonathan noticed him doing this threatening drive by last week, and I've seen it a couple of times. Cats are so ridiculous, especially Big Zekie. He's such a badass. The Neato gives him a respectable berth when it goes by and I think Zeke feels he's gotten the requisite respect he deserves from it. Win/win. The only member of our household who really doesn't enjoy the Neato, is our big merle Aussie, Remy. He's a sensitive sort and has never been fond of the vacuum, or the blower we use to clean the aisle in the barn. He doesn't care for electronic beeps that come from the TV when we're picking a show from Netflix. And now a motorized moving, humming robot that seems to go everywhere in the house, therefore making no where safe. Poor Remy. He seeks solace, laying by my feet, eyes wary as the robot passes through the room. I tell him it's okay, but I know he doesn't trust this vacuuming robot freak. It's unnatural. And it is. Unnatural. I like to think it's supernatural! It means we always have clean floors. I will never again wince when I have to bring someone up to our house, thinking "Oh my heavens, the floors are SO dirty!", because they aren't dirty. They are fabulously clean!! Happy Birthday Jonathan!
Sometimes we happen to be inside the house on a break while the Neato is working its magic. The Neato has sensors on it so it doesn't ever bump into us, or the cats, or dogs if any of us are in the way of its path. I was a little concerned when I saw it hurtling across the carpet towards my very deaf cat, Miss Girl, but it politely veered away from her allowing her to continue on with her bath, undisturbed. My boy cat, Zeke (who is very bored this time of year since he's been waiting for spring to come so he can get out of the house and eat moles again) has taken it upon himself to challenge the Neato. He likes to walk by it while it's working and give it cold stare and puff his body up, while he cruises by on his tippy toes, like Fred Flintsone at the bowling alley. Jonathan noticed him doing this threatening drive by last week, and I've seen it a couple of times. Cats are so ridiculous, especially Big Zekie. He's such a badass. The Neato gives him a respectable berth when it goes by and I think Zeke feels he's gotten the requisite respect he deserves from it. Win/win. The only member of our household who really doesn't enjoy the Neato, is our big merle Aussie, Remy. He's a sensitive sort and has never been fond of the vacuum, or the blower we use to clean the aisle in the barn. He doesn't care for electronic beeps that come from the TV when we're picking a show from Netflix. And now a motorized moving, humming robot that seems to go everywhere in the house, therefore making no where safe. Poor Remy. He seeks solace, laying by my feet, eyes wary as the robot passes through the room. I tell him it's okay, but I know he doesn't trust this vacuuming robot freak. It's unnatural. And it is. Unnatural. I like to think it's supernatural! It means we always have clean floors. I will never again wince when I have to bring someone up to our house, thinking "Oh my heavens, the floors are SO dirty!", because they aren't dirty. They are fabulously clean!! Happy Birthday Jonathan!
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Working it Out!!
I just realized that I've skipped blogging for the entire month of March. Why? Because March was HORRIBLE! Cold, windy, grey and basically an extension of winter 2013, which is unfair to say the least. I'm going to stop my whining right here. March is over and done and despite the fact that April hasn't started out much better, the upcoming forecasted temperatures look acceptable for this time of year. I can live with any day over 50 degrees. My expectations have been lowered and a sunny day, with no wind, over 50 will do just fine. Okay, weather bitching is now officially done.
Now onto the meat of this blog, which is that I've started going to a gym to workout. It's the first time in my life that I've been compelled to exercise beyond my daily mucking stalls, throwing hay bales, lifting grain bags, wrangling horses and riding. That might sound like a fair amount of physical daily exercise to most folks, but considering I've done this job for the last 20+ years my body is a virtual robot and I can do these chores with one arm tied behind my back, albeit my very sore, aching, seized up back. I realized around mid-February that I was getting up out of a chair bent over like a 80 year old grandma, and my middle resembled the Pillsbury Dough Boy. I have thin legs, so during the winter of wearing ten layers, no one ever thinks I look pudgy, but the mirror doesn't lie and my stomach was in sad shape. We're going to a wedding in the Dominican Republic in the beginning of May, and I was starting to panic at the thought of exposing my lilly white, whale belly in a bikini. It became time to DO something about my decrepit, chubby state. So, off to the gym I skipped, or rather limped like quasi-modo. The gym I chose is a tad run down, but it has all the requisite machines and weight equipment. And it was cheap as hell to join. Perfect. The manager is kind of creepy, but I don't care. He spends most of his time on his cell phone, sitting around in a tacky, leather Yankees jacket, with a "lid" on his head and reeks of cigarettes. I always give him a cheerful "Good Morning" as I scan my card and leave it at that. I decided early on that I was going to abandon my gregarious nature when I was doing my workouts. No eye contact, no smiles, I would be The Terminator in the gym, a workout zombie. I'm sticking to it. I'm a workout beyotch. Every day I put in my earbuds attached to the iPod, set it on some groovy tunes and set forth to work up a sweat by torturing myself on the elliptical machine, treadmill, weights, etc. I mix it up and I'm learning as I go what works best for my body and how far I need to push myself without making myself horribly crippled. The scary thing is that I really f'ing like it!! My back has never felt better, no joke. For the first time in years I don't feel like the Tin Man in need of a good dose of oil. This was a welcome side effect that I wasn't anticipating. My core has a ways to go, but already after one month, my stomach muscles are visibly tighter and I'm getting in shape. I have a waist! And the muffin top is smaller! Hallelujah!! I just may be able to brave the beach in the D.R. without sucking it in so hard that I pass out taking my first sip of a rum punch.
I go to the gym around 8-9 a.m. and though I don't engage in conversation with the other patrons, don't kid yourself, I watch EVERYTHING. It's all done on the sly, because staring at the gym is a total no-no. One of the rooms has a solid wall of mirrors and it's tempting to get stuck looking at other people (especially for a serial voyeur, like myself). Getting busted staring is the kiss of death. I learned the hard way and now I've devised some quick glances that go unnoticed, just fast peeks then back to making it look like I'm training for a marathon, like a serious athlete (ha ha ha ha ha!). I'll never run a marathon, in fact if I run for 15 minutes on the treadmill, I look like a bleary eyed co-ed who just woke up from a two day bender. It helps that most of the other gym folks that I see are in the 60+ age group. I give these guys and gals a lot of credit. A few of them could potentially kick my ass. One guy does weights like no one I've ever seen. He's a total freak. Covered in sweat, he goes from machine to machine, huffing and puffing, lifting and groaning. He's an animal! Another older dude gets on the elliptical machine and pumps so hard that I fear the thing will take flight. I swear this gym must have 911 on speed dial, but these folks are there almost every day and I haven't seen an ambulance, yet. I take a day off every fifth day, since I do have a business to run and I have to attend to certain duties beyond my own vanity. I know, boring, but it's true. So that's what I've been up to for the last month. Getting older doesn't have to suck, or mean that we have to surrender to letting ourselves go. Vain jackasses, like me, can pay to punish themselves on a daily basis. Whoo hoo! Off to mix myself a martini now...I don't want you to think I've TOTALLY lost my mind, or that this blog has been hijacked by some kind of health nut. No, it's still me, the martini floozy, just in a bit better shape, getting down with her bad self, while she secretly watches old folks swing their flab. Hey, don't judge, I could be spending the hour I work out stalking people on FB while eating pancakes!
Now onto the meat of this blog, which is that I've started going to a gym to workout. It's the first time in my life that I've been compelled to exercise beyond my daily mucking stalls, throwing hay bales, lifting grain bags, wrangling horses and riding. That might sound like a fair amount of physical daily exercise to most folks, but considering I've done this job for the last 20+ years my body is a virtual robot and I can do these chores with one arm tied behind my back, albeit my very sore, aching, seized up back. I realized around mid-February that I was getting up out of a chair bent over like a 80 year old grandma, and my middle resembled the Pillsbury Dough Boy. I have thin legs, so during the winter of wearing ten layers, no one ever thinks I look pudgy, but the mirror doesn't lie and my stomach was in sad shape. We're going to a wedding in the Dominican Republic in the beginning of May, and I was starting to panic at the thought of exposing my lilly white, whale belly in a bikini. It became time to DO something about my decrepit, chubby state. So, off to the gym I skipped, or rather limped like quasi-modo. The gym I chose is a tad run down, but it has all the requisite machines and weight equipment. And it was cheap as hell to join. Perfect. The manager is kind of creepy, but I don't care. He spends most of his time on his cell phone, sitting around in a tacky, leather Yankees jacket, with a "lid" on his head and reeks of cigarettes. I always give him a cheerful "Good Morning" as I scan my card and leave it at that. I decided early on that I was going to abandon my gregarious nature when I was doing my workouts. No eye contact, no smiles, I would be The Terminator in the gym, a workout zombie. I'm sticking to it. I'm a workout beyotch. Every day I put in my earbuds attached to the iPod, set it on some groovy tunes and set forth to work up a sweat by torturing myself on the elliptical machine, treadmill, weights, etc. I mix it up and I'm learning as I go what works best for my body and how far I need to push myself without making myself horribly crippled. The scary thing is that I really f'ing like it!! My back has never felt better, no joke. For the first time in years I don't feel like the Tin Man in need of a good dose of oil. This was a welcome side effect that I wasn't anticipating. My core has a ways to go, but already after one month, my stomach muscles are visibly tighter and I'm getting in shape. I have a waist! And the muffin top is smaller! Hallelujah!! I just may be able to brave the beach in the D.R. without sucking it in so hard that I pass out taking my first sip of a rum punch.
I go to the gym around 8-9 a.m. and though I don't engage in conversation with the other patrons, don't kid yourself, I watch EVERYTHING. It's all done on the sly, because staring at the gym is a total no-no. One of the rooms has a solid wall of mirrors and it's tempting to get stuck looking at other people (especially for a serial voyeur, like myself). Getting busted staring is the kiss of death. I learned the hard way and now I've devised some quick glances that go unnoticed, just fast peeks then back to making it look like I'm training for a marathon, like a serious athlete (ha ha ha ha ha!). I'll never run a marathon, in fact if I run for 15 minutes on the treadmill, I look like a bleary eyed co-ed who just woke up from a two day bender. It helps that most of the other gym folks that I see are in the 60+ age group. I give these guys and gals a lot of credit. A few of them could potentially kick my ass. One guy does weights like no one I've ever seen. He's a total freak. Covered in sweat, he goes from machine to machine, huffing and puffing, lifting and groaning. He's an animal! Another older dude gets on the elliptical machine and pumps so hard that I fear the thing will take flight. I swear this gym must have 911 on speed dial, but these folks are there almost every day and I haven't seen an ambulance, yet. I take a day off every fifth day, since I do have a business to run and I have to attend to certain duties beyond my own vanity. I know, boring, but it's true. So that's what I've been up to for the last month. Getting older doesn't have to suck, or mean that we have to surrender to letting ourselves go. Vain jackasses, like me, can pay to punish themselves on a daily basis. Whoo hoo! Off to mix myself a martini now...I don't want you to think I've TOTALLY lost my mind, or that this blog has been hijacked by some kind of health nut. No, it's still me, the martini floozy, just in a bit better shape, getting down with her bad self, while she secretly watches old folks swing their flab. Hey, don't judge, I could be spending the hour I work out stalking people on FB while eating pancakes!
Monday, February 18, 2013
Out to Lunch
While I don't mind going out to dinner, if I'm given a choice I'd rather go out to lunch and stay home for a light supper. Going out to dinner requires slightly fancier clothing and then there's the "how much should I drink" question. Having a cocktail out at a restaurant costs nearly as much as a trip to the Bahamas. If you have two cocktails, be prepared to leave your car as a down payment on the check. It's ridiculous. And then there's the whole designated driver issue and no one wants to get pulled over, breathalyzed, yadda, yadda, yadda. Solution? Go out to lunch. It's cheaper, just as much fun and no booze makes for safer travel.
Today Jonathan and I went to the local French bistro in town for lunch. We found a gift certificate that we'd been given a long time ago, so it seemed like a good thing to do on a cold Monday afternoon. When we got into the middle of the village I realized it was crowded because of President's Day. Scores of city folks clad in their country attire were parading up and down the sidewalks. Quilted parkas and rabbit fur lined caps for the men and long down coats and goggle sized sunglasses for the women. Millbrook is a destination spot for New Yorker's who are desperate for fresh air, beautiful country views and an escape from the hustle and bustle of the city. What they don't realize is that they BRING their own form of hustle and bustle to our quiet little town. Oh well, we decided to persevere with our lunch plan and parked the car.
When we opened the door to the restaurant we were greeted by a melange of tantalizing aromas. We were also greeted by the sound of conversations. Lots of conversations. This isn't a big space and the tables are nestled into two separate dining areas, both of which appeared to be bursting at the seams. No matter, we wanted to have a good lunch and this place always serves amazing, authentic French fare. The hostess escorted us to a table in the far corner, which was nearly on top of the neighboring table occupied by a couple. I slithered into my seat trying to avoid putting my ass in the face of the gentleman next to me. I'm not going to lie and tell you that I don't like to check out fellow diners. It's not a good habit and even worse is to be busted peering at their faces as they chewed, swallowed and sipped. The couple next to us proved to be an odd match, and I knew I had to be careful in how I checked them out. Once Jonathan and I placed our orders for iced teas, I set about my surreptitious glancing. The young woman, who was facing me appeared to be much younger than her male companion. She was Korean, quite pretty, with carefully applied makeup and long, flowing black locks, which she gathered up in both hands behind her head and then dramatically allowed to cascade back down in a suggestive manner. Good Lord, I think she'd watched too many cheap porno movies. The man was a thick set Italian type, probably in his mid to late 40's. He was hairy to the point of apeish, yet the hair on his head was beginning to bald in a most unattractive manner. Thick patch in the front and back and thinning swirls on the crown, giving it a mange like effect. Jonathan and I smiled at each and chatted quietly, amidst my stolen glances. A table of raucous folks were behind me, laughing in sporadic, deafening, hyena-esque cackles. I lamented that I hadn't sat in Jonathan's seat so I could watch them, too, but it was probably for the best since I had my hands full with our neighbor's antics.
As we tucked into our entree's, our neighbors conversation was stilted and awkward. "What's crepe suzette?" the ape man asked in a thick NY accent. "What makes you think I know about French food?" little missy replied giggling. "You seem to know about French stuff," he said as he reached over and stroked her forearm, causing me to choke down an ill timed mouthful of tuna nicioise. Oh gross, I thought, they aren't just friends, but more likely...lovers. What is wrong with this young girl? Why is she with Guido the pimp? Is she a hooker? A thousand questions and images swirled through my mind, all of them inappropriate and nausea inducing. I went back to focusing on Jonathan, who has long since given up on trying to keep me from my voyeuristic ways, and we finished up our meals and then ordered a post lunch coffee. As luck would have it, we were ready to leave at the same time as the folks next to us. Standing up to put on my coat, I watched the young woman don a large, floppy felt hat. She had on a short, tartan red skirt and tall, high heeled black boots, just like a naughty school girl outfit. The man, who was all of 5 ft tall, leered over at me as I was busted checking out his "girlfriend". Shamed, I ducked my head and fumbled in my pockets until they turned to leave.
"Well, that was different," I said to Jonathan as we walked through the cold wind to our car.
"Yup," he replied. "I'm pretty sure he was looking at naked pictures of her on his phone during their dessert."
We giggled about our "lunch dates" all the way home. Looks like I've turned Jonathan into just as much of a voyeur as I am. Have I mentioned how much I love going out to lunch?
Today Jonathan and I went to the local French bistro in town for lunch. We found a gift certificate that we'd been given a long time ago, so it seemed like a good thing to do on a cold Monday afternoon. When we got into the middle of the village I realized it was crowded because of President's Day. Scores of city folks clad in their country attire were parading up and down the sidewalks. Quilted parkas and rabbit fur lined caps for the men and long down coats and goggle sized sunglasses for the women. Millbrook is a destination spot for New Yorker's who are desperate for fresh air, beautiful country views and an escape from the hustle and bustle of the city. What they don't realize is that they BRING their own form of hustle and bustle to our quiet little town. Oh well, we decided to persevere with our lunch plan and parked the car.
When we opened the door to the restaurant we were greeted by a melange of tantalizing aromas. We were also greeted by the sound of conversations. Lots of conversations. This isn't a big space and the tables are nestled into two separate dining areas, both of which appeared to be bursting at the seams. No matter, we wanted to have a good lunch and this place always serves amazing, authentic French fare. The hostess escorted us to a table in the far corner, which was nearly on top of the neighboring table occupied by a couple. I slithered into my seat trying to avoid putting my ass in the face of the gentleman next to me. I'm not going to lie and tell you that I don't like to check out fellow diners. It's not a good habit and even worse is to be busted peering at their faces as they chewed, swallowed and sipped. The couple next to us proved to be an odd match, and I knew I had to be careful in how I checked them out. Once Jonathan and I placed our orders for iced teas, I set about my surreptitious glancing. The young woman, who was facing me appeared to be much younger than her male companion. She was Korean, quite pretty, with carefully applied makeup and long, flowing black locks, which she gathered up in both hands behind her head and then dramatically allowed to cascade back down in a suggestive manner. Good Lord, I think she'd watched too many cheap porno movies. The man was a thick set Italian type, probably in his mid to late 40's. He was hairy to the point of apeish, yet the hair on his head was beginning to bald in a most unattractive manner. Thick patch in the front and back and thinning swirls on the crown, giving it a mange like effect. Jonathan and I smiled at each and chatted quietly, amidst my stolen glances. A table of raucous folks were behind me, laughing in sporadic, deafening, hyena-esque cackles. I lamented that I hadn't sat in Jonathan's seat so I could watch them, too, but it was probably for the best since I had my hands full with our neighbor's antics.
As we tucked into our entree's, our neighbors conversation was stilted and awkward. "What's crepe suzette?" the ape man asked in a thick NY accent. "What makes you think I know about French food?" little missy replied giggling. "You seem to know about French stuff," he said as he reached over and stroked her forearm, causing me to choke down an ill timed mouthful of tuna nicioise. Oh gross, I thought, they aren't just friends, but more likely...lovers. What is wrong with this young girl? Why is she with Guido the pimp? Is she a hooker? A thousand questions and images swirled through my mind, all of them inappropriate and nausea inducing. I went back to focusing on Jonathan, who has long since given up on trying to keep me from my voyeuristic ways, and we finished up our meals and then ordered a post lunch coffee. As luck would have it, we were ready to leave at the same time as the folks next to us. Standing up to put on my coat, I watched the young woman don a large, floppy felt hat. She had on a short, tartan red skirt and tall, high heeled black boots, just like a naughty school girl outfit. The man, who was all of 5 ft tall, leered over at me as I was busted checking out his "girlfriend". Shamed, I ducked my head and fumbled in my pockets until they turned to leave.
"Well, that was different," I said to Jonathan as we walked through the cold wind to our car.
"Yup," he replied. "I'm pretty sure he was looking at naked pictures of her on his phone during their dessert."
We giggled about our "lunch dates" all the way home. Looks like I've turned Jonathan into just as much of a voyeur as I am. Have I mentioned how much I love going out to lunch?
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
One step at a time...
The time has come in my life where I'm not as nimble as I once was in my youth. My back is stiff, my shoulders are stiff, my neck is stiff, and I bruised my chest plate a year and half ago, which is still plaguing me to some extent. I feel like a fossil. A piece of ancient rock, with the flexibility of an iron rod. Yet, I soldier on, day by day, mucking stalls, throwing around hay bales and riding horses, like I always have, but I've decided that at my age I need to be in better shape. And working through pain is B.S. Last week I set up an appointment with a personal trainer and today was the day that we met. I could feel her assessing me when I walked in. I decided a black workout outfit was a good choice. Black stretch pants, slight flare and a black t-shirt, not too tight. At first glance, I look like a strong, fit, 40+ yr. old, with Popeye arms and strong thighs from wrapping them around young warmbloods day in and day out (get your minds out of the gutter folks, I'm talking about horses here!). She asked me a bunch of questions, I filled out some forms, which included an emergency number (good lord!) and then we got down to brass tacks. Exercise and stretching.
The first few exercises were tolerable. I could feel my tiny abs (deeply ensconced in a layer of belly fat, to protect them from being cold, it's what I tell myself, Shut up!), straining, but it was a good strain. My legs did their duty. In my case that means they took some of the brunt of the exercise to keep the poor petite abs from working too hard. Twenty minutes into the exercises I could smell that my deodorant was beginning to fail me.
"Damn you, Old Spice!! C'mon," I said under my breath.
I could hear that whistling from the vintage Old Spice commercials and see the brawny man, chopping wood with a smile on his manly, 70's mustachioed face. He didn't stink. But I was getting riper by the minute. Ugh. More exercises, more leg lifts. Help me, God. Then we moved into a laying down position on a mat. Much more my style. Prone. However, my trainer asked me slowly bring my body up, with my arms reaching forward. I actually chuckled when she asked me to do this move.
"This could be interesting," I giggled. She didn't giggle. I struggled upwards, like a quivering mass of jello, swaying from side to side as if a stiff wind was blowing through the exercise studio, whipping my aching body to and fro.
"Okay," the lithe, young trainer said. "Let's make it easier by bending your legs."
Well, that helped a little. Also, the two large cracks from my protesting spine made the exercise more plausible. Okay, 40 minutes into the workout. I was still alive. I must say, this trainer was so patient, very attentive and didn't push me to the point of near death. We did a full hour of stretching and exercises that paid special attention to my weak points, but kept clear of hurting my old injuries. At one point, my ab muscles were trembling while holding a pose intended to work on my lower back and abs. Try as I might, I couldn't make the trembling stop. I felt so pathetic. My lack of muscle tone in my core had reached the brink. I realized that I'd failed to impress the trainer with my preternatural ability to fight through muscle fatigue, so I just gave in to the quivering muscles and hoped she couldn't feel the studio floor moving as the earthquake in my gut reached Richter scale proportions. I grimaced, shut my eyes and kept going.
Trying not to look at the clock on the wall, I refrained from asking for a "High Five" when the hour was up. Sarah was a total professional as we went over the next step in my new fitness routine. However, she showed her first sign of a sense of humor when a smile slipped over her lips and she said, "Well, you look a lot stronger than you really are. I was surprised those exercises were that hard for you." I refrained from saying, "I told you so, Bitch! That's why I'm here! I'm an aging, out of shape, on my way to battle axedom woman!" Instead I told her that I'd be in touch for a follow up session. I'm determined to get in better shape. Tonight, thanks to Advil I can still move. I did stalls, body clipped a horse and various other barn chores when I got home this afternoon. My core is sore, but my determination is intact. An acupuncture appointment on Fri. will help my creaky bod get back on track so I can go back for more punishment. This is going to be a slow process. One step at a time. One slow, small, painful step at a time...
The first few exercises were tolerable. I could feel my tiny abs (deeply ensconced in a layer of belly fat, to protect them from being cold, it's what I tell myself, Shut up!), straining, but it was a good strain. My legs did their duty. In my case that means they took some of the brunt of the exercise to keep the poor petite abs from working too hard. Twenty minutes into the exercises I could smell that my deodorant was beginning to fail me.
"Damn you, Old Spice!! C'mon," I said under my breath.
I could hear that whistling from the vintage Old Spice commercials and see the brawny man, chopping wood with a smile on his manly, 70's mustachioed face. He didn't stink. But I was getting riper by the minute. Ugh. More exercises, more leg lifts. Help me, God. Then we moved into a laying down position on a mat. Much more my style. Prone. However, my trainer asked me slowly bring my body up, with my arms reaching forward. I actually chuckled when she asked me to do this move.
"This could be interesting," I giggled. She didn't giggle. I struggled upwards, like a quivering mass of jello, swaying from side to side as if a stiff wind was blowing through the exercise studio, whipping my aching body to and fro.
"Okay," the lithe, young trainer said. "Let's make it easier by bending your legs."
Well, that helped a little. Also, the two large cracks from my protesting spine made the exercise more plausible. Okay, 40 minutes into the workout. I was still alive. I must say, this trainer was so patient, very attentive and didn't push me to the point of near death. We did a full hour of stretching and exercises that paid special attention to my weak points, but kept clear of hurting my old injuries. At one point, my ab muscles were trembling while holding a pose intended to work on my lower back and abs. Try as I might, I couldn't make the trembling stop. I felt so pathetic. My lack of muscle tone in my core had reached the brink. I realized that I'd failed to impress the trainer with my preternatural ability to fight through muscle fatigue, so I just gave in to the quivering muscles and hoped she couldn't feel the studio floor moving as the earthquake in my gut reached Richter scale proportions. I grimaced, shut my eyes and kept going.
Trying not to look at the clock on the wall, I refrained from asking for a "High Five" when the hour was up. Sarah was a total professional as we went over the next step in my new fitness routine. However, she showed her first sign of a sense of humor when a smile slipped over her lips and she said, "Well, you look a lot stronger than you really are. I was surprised those exercises were that hard for you." I refrained from saying, "I told you so, Bitch! That's why I'm here! I'm an aging, out of shape, on my way to battle axedom woman!" Instead I told her that I'd be in touch for a follow up session. I'm determined to get in better shape. Tonight, thanks to Advil I can still move. I did stalls, body clipped a horse and various other barn chores when I got home this afternoon. My core is sore, but my determination is intact. An acupuncture appointment on Fri. will help my creaky bod get back on track so I can go back for more punishment. This is going to be a slow process. One step at a time. One slow, small, painful step at a time...
Friday, February 1, 2013
Grody to the MAXIMUM!!!
I think my animals are having a contest this week. It's called, "Who can gross out Michele the most". Becks, the Aussie was in the lead after his beautifully executed rat assassination in the barn aisle the other night. I applauded the kill, but not the fact that I had to pick up the wretched dead thing in a pitchfork and escort it to the manure dumpster. Super gross. The thing was enormous. I think Becks killed the rat equivalent of a latter years Marlon Brando. The rat group in my barn just lost a major player. A head honcho. They must be in mourning, because I haven't seen one since that night. Becks seems disappointed, but I admit that I'm not. Those fuckers are creepy s.o.b.'s. And I thought that was bad...
This morning I was sitting at my desk, sipping a cup of coffee and playing around on the computer (read:wasting time on Facebook). Zeke, our large teenage tiger cat who was born in our tack room16 years ago, moseyed into the room and went into the litter box that lives behind the door to take care of some business. I payed no attention as he scratched around in the box, but as he was exiting he paused, and then he began the inimitable "cat retching maneuver". Anyone who has had cats knows what I'm talking about here. No cat can just quietly puke. They have to draw it out, just to make sure we know they're puking. After four, or five good retches, he managed to expel the majority of his morning feast of very expensive Wellness moist cat food, shook his head and politely left the scene.
"I know how you feel, Big Zekie," I called after him. "The litter box has that effect on me sometimes, too."
Now since I was busy catching up on all my FB friends business I didn't jump right up to pick up the barf. Then a smell wafted over to my quadrant of the office, which I tried to ignore, but it was too powerful, too fresh, too disgusting. One might think that was the gross part. It wasn't. I grabbed a giant spool of paper towels from the kitchen and steeled myself for a moist, still warm, cat barf pick up. Never a good moment, but I've done it before. I love cats, but they do puke, shit, piss and kill small animals and birds in my house. Good Heavens. Most people would probably look away from the pile of barf they're about to pick up, but I'm a sick bitch and I chose to look right at it. Holy shit, the barf was moving!!! Amidst the expensive, recently expelled vomit was a VERY LARGE tapeworm!!!! EWWWWWWWWWWW!!!! With a shudder, I carefully layed down the paper towels over the pile and backed away. I just couldn't pick it up. Not right away. It was f'ing MOVING! A GIANT TAPEWORM!!! A huge, writhing, long white worm!!! Like your worst nightmare, or the grossest horror movie. I can see the title, "The Giant Tapeworm Who Reared Up and Ate Your Face". Good Lord. I knew I couldn't ask Jonathan to help (he always says the cats are my animals, though he does love them-secretly, but whatever, I catch him patting them all the time and Marbles, the calico has a huge crush on him).
After much teeth gnashing, pacing and another cup of coffee, I managed to pick up the disgusting pile of MOVING barf. I just went to my happy place. La la la la, I'm not picking up a giant disgusting worm, la la la la. Gahhhh!! Eww, into the trash it went and then out to the garbage dumpster. My life is ridiculous and macabre. Fortunately, I have a fabulous small animal vet who dispensed cat wormer pills with no trouble. She cackled when I told her what I had to deal with this morning. I love this woman. Honestly, she's the best small animal vet I've ever used. She gave me careful instructions about giving the pills to avoid being bitten, which I took seriously. She's good. I know this. I ended up coating Big Zekie's pills in butter and wouldn't you know the little devil gobbled them up like candy! Of course! He's had a tape worm that's a mile long living in his body! He's starving!!! So ironic and gross at the same time. It's Big Zekie's fault, because he likes to supplement his diet with small rodents, moles to be exact. They carry this disgusting parasite, so alls fair. Serves him right, but I'm scarred beyond belief. Thanks, oh mighty hunter.
So, phew let's hope this little contest is over. I cant take much more. Really, I can't. Did you hear that animals?? I can't!!
This morning I was sitting at my desk, sipping a cup of coffee and playing around on the computer (read:wasting time on Facebook). Zeke, our large teenage tiger cat who was born in our tack room16 years ago, moseyed into the room and went into the litter box that lives behind the door to take care of some business. I payed no attention as he scratched around in the box, but as he was exiting he paused, and then he began the inimitable "cat retching maneuver". Anyone who has had cats knows what I'm talking about here. No cat can just quietly puke. They have to draw it out, just to make sure we know they're puking. After four, or five good retches, he managed to expel the majority of his morning feast of very expensive Wellness moist cat food, shook his head and politely left the scene.
"I know how you feel, Big Zekie," I called after him. "The litter box has that effect on me sometimes, too."
Now since I was busy catching up on all my FB friends business I didn't jump right up to pick up the barf. Then a smell wafted over to my quadrant of the office, which I tried to ignore, but it was too powerful, too fresh, too disgusting. One might think that was the gross part. It wasn't. I grabbed a giant spool of paper towels from the kitchen and steeled myself for a moist, still warm, cat barf pick up. Never a good moment, but I've done it before. I love cats, but they do puke, shit, piss and kill small animals and birds in my house. Good Heavens. Most people would probably look away from the pile of barf they're about to pick up, but I'm a sick bitch and I chose to look right at it. Holy shit, the barf was moving!!! Amidst the expensive, recently expelled vomit was a VERY LARGE tapeworm!!!! EWWWWWWWWWWW!!!! With a shudder, I carefully layed down the paper towels over the pile and backed away. I just couldn't pick it up. Not right away. It was f'ing MOVING! A GIANT TAPEWORM!!! A huge, writhing, long white worm!!! Like your worst nightmare, or the grossest horror movie. I can see the title, "The Giant Tapeworm Who Reared Up and Ate Your Face". Good Lord. I knew I couldn't ask Jonathan to help (he always says the cats are my animals, though he does love them-secretly, but whatever, I catch him patting them all the time and Marbles, the calico has a huge crush on him).
After much teeth gnashing, pacing and another cup of coffee, I managed to pick up the disgusting pile of MOVING barf. I just went to my happy place. La la la la, I'm not picking up a giant disgusting worm, la la la la. Gahhhh!! Eww, into the trash it went and then out to the garbage dumpster. My life is ridiculous and macabre. Fortunately, I have a fabulous small animal vet who dispensed cat wormer pills with no trouble. She cackled when I told her what I had to deal with this morning. I love this woman. Honestly, she's the best small animal vet I've ever used. She gave me careful instructions about giving the pills to avoid being bitten, which I took seriously. She's good. I know this. I ended up coating Big Zekie's pills in butter and wouldn't you know the little devil gobbled them up like candy! Of course! He's had a tape worm that's a mile long living in his body! He's starving!!! So ironic and gross at the same time. It's Big Zekie's fault, because he likes to supplement his diet with small rodents, moles to be exact. They carry this disgusting parasite, so alls fair. Serves him right, but I'm scarred beyond belief. Thanks, oh mighty hunter.
So, phew let's hope this little contest is over. I cant take much more. Really, I can't. Did you hear that animals?? I can't!!
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