Up my Alley

Last week I had the pleasure of going to listen to David Sedaris read from some of his latest short stories. It was an impromptu arrangement, over dinner with friends his book tour came up.
"Do you have any interest in seeing David Sedaris?" our dinner guest said.

I nearly dropped the large bowl of potato salad I was carrying when I heard this question being posed to my husband. Flying around the corner of the living room, I stifled a squeal and instead replied in a calm, erudite manner, "Of course we'll go. That would be fabulous." As fate would have it, my husband fell ill with a dreadful flu on the day of the big event. All day I kept asking him if he thought he'd feel well enough to come with us. Through clenched teeth he finally told me that he felt so sick that his eyeballs hurt. I took that as a no and our friends made arrangements to give his ticket to someone, who had fully operative, pain-free eyeballs.

The theater was packed with an ecclectic mix of people, older, younger, goth-y, preppy, grungy. You name it. It really showed me that David Sedaris has an extremely broad audience who admire his quirky wit and wisdom. He's a lucky son of a bitch. When he took the stage, I noted that he has the physical appeal of a brown paper bag. Truly. He's small, slight, with pale skin. light brown hair and a somewhat shy speaking voice that stuttered just enough at the beginning to make me a little nervous for him. However, soon enough his sentences blended together into whacky tales, with just the right amount of curses which caused you to think of this modest, delicate man as a demi-god of comic intelligence. The dry delivery is his calling card. He will say the most offensive thing, but in such a calm, unaffected tone so even your grandma would be comfortable hearing it. She might even giggle.

When I returned home that evening, my husband was in much better spirits. His plague had released it's grip over his body and eyeballs. Of course, he wanted me to recap the evening's entertainment. I tried to recant some of the funnier stories, but somehow in my excitable, jumbled voice the humor was nearly untraceable. David Sedaris is blessed with a gift. A disturbing imagination + bland appearing, yet subtly eloquent style = Major Success. Only people with an oddball aspect to their character appreciate this particular style. I feel lucky to fall into that category, because if you can't laugh about a female Irish Setter, who is 1/8th Spaniel and has a penchant for salty language, what can you laugh about?

An Experiment Gone Wrong

Last week while browsing the crunchy cat food section at Tractor Supply (or Tractor Town, as I like to call it), I found an interesting new type of cat food. It's based on a natural approach to feeding cats, as if they wanted the same diet as large cats ie: cougars, pumas, etc. My interest was piqued so I did my first pre-purchase criteria check, price. It was affordable. Second check, read the ingredients. Contains venison, smoked salmon, sweet potato (big cats want sweet potato?), greens, and the big clincher-NO GRAINS. It sounded so good that Jonathan and I might want to set a bowl of kibble out at a party for snacking, like a healthy version of Chex Mix. Anyone who has put effort into buying a "healthy" food for their pet knows that the pet food pro's all poo poo foods with grains. They deem it filler, no nutritional value, blah, blah, blah. I admit that I've been brainwashed by these food gurus, so like a zombie I am always scouting out a better food for the animals that won't force me to go into debt. This food seemed like the best of both worlds, so I dashed off to the cash register and gleefully purchased it.

Jonathan's reaction to my excited description of this food was a classic Jonathan speech. Let me try to convey it: "You're feeding the cat's deer meat? These are house cat's, Michele. They eat Fancy Feast and an occasional mouse. Marble's isn't watching the local deer herd go by, dreaming of sinking her fangs into their flesh. The cats aren't pumas, Michele. I could understand putting rabbit into a cat food, but venison? For real? What is so bad about feeding them grains? We feed the horse's grain, right? What is this company thinking? The whole pet food industry is a scam. I should make a new cat food. Lion's Pride. Get it? Lions PRIDE, double entendre there. It will have gazelle and antelope marrow. And it will cost $150 dollars a bag. We'll be rich! Do what you want, but this sounds crazy to me."

Upon hearing this speech, I did reflect that it might be a tad odd to feed house cat's deer meat fortified food, but I had bought it, so stubbornly I would feed it.

The first night I put a small portion in the three bowls, along with a teaspoon of Fancy Feast and sat back to watch my cat's health bloom before my eyes. They aren't known to be terribly picky eaters, but I did notice a slight hesitation before each bite of the new stuff. Probably, just trying to figure out the great new flavor, I told myself. The next morning's feeding went similarly. Marble's leapt away from her bowl, leaving almost half of the kibble. Mia picked at her portion half heartedly. Only Big Zekie kept chugging away until his bowl was empty (he isn't called Big Zekie for no reason). Maybe the food is so good for them that they don't need to eat much of it before they feel full, I reasoned as I washed their bowls out.
That evening (feeding #3 of new fantasy food), the two girl cats gave me a look of disgust as I set their bowls down before them. They did pick at the food, but they weren't happy, this was clear. They left more than half of the kibble before stalking off, tails slashing irritably through the air. Big Z visibly took a deep breath and like a fat kid at a hotdog eating contest he dug into the bowl of natural goodness like a trooper. Fifteen minutes after Z finished his dinner, Jonathan yelled to me, "Michele, get some paper towel. Big Zekie just threw up his deer meat in the living room!" I have had Zekie since he was born and I have never seen him throw up. I cleaned up the barf, consoled Big Z, who seemed no worse for the wear and thought no more of it. Well, the next morning was an instant replay of the previous night. The girl cats picked at their food, like anorexic super models. Big Zekie gallantly ate his portion and then fifteen minutes later, he waltzed into the living room and barfed it up. Now I was a little nervous. "Maybe he has stomach cancer?" I said to Jonathan.
"The cat pukes twice and he's suddenly dying? Maybe it's that crappy food. Cat's shouldn't eat deer meat, Michele. It's not right!"

That afternoon, I acquiesced and bought a bag of grain-filled, McDonald's version cat food. The cats purred in a collective chorus at dinnertime, it was a proverbial cats "Happy Meal", sans toys. The girl cats got rid of their murderous glares, finished their food and Big Zekie didn't throw up. Lesson learned. House cats shouldn't eat deer meat. I had to admit that I had been cleverly duped by the company's fancy packaging and claims. And Jonathan got to be right. It was a good night.

Pre-primavera

Winter is starting to lose it's icey grip on our little chunk of real estate in Dutchess County. There are some distinct signs of spring's impending arrival that are stereotypical and then there are some "locale specific" signs that only a shrewd resident, such as myself, notices. The most obvious sign is the arrival of mud. Our driveway is dirt, which turns to mud and mucky puddles once the temperatures start warming up the earth. Dog paw prints become the latest rage for kitchen flooring in our home. I try to pretend that its a new trend and only the cool people are bold enough to sport this pattern. With the addition of Becks in our house, the pawprints are scattered in a dizzying array, he's like a Pollock of paw printing. I tend to look at the mop and sigh a lot during mud season.
Another big sign of spring is the return of the songbirds. I have a new friend, who serenades me with melodious bird songs each morning if I happen to be sitting at my desk. He's a dashing red finch and if I didn't know better I would say that he's flirting with me. Our front yard is filled with ancient oak trees, and yet, this bird chooses to perch on a limb directly outside my office window so I can admire him while he gives his concert. You know how those male birds are, all flashy colors and big voices. Meanwhile, their drab, demure housewives are building nests and getting ready for the egg laying process. Makes me damn glad that I'm not a bird.
So, there are two preliminary spring signs of the natural variety. I'm here to report that I have just had the first official sighting of "The Idiots who Ride Loud Motorcycles at Reckless Speeds on Country Roads". There is a whole posse of jackasses around here who feel compelled to get on their brightly colored crotch rockets and blaze across our gentile back roads, careening around blind corners, and reaching speeds of mach 1 on the straightaways. So far, in the span of one hour I have counted 9 of these fools that most likely have been staring at their beloved bikes all winter, drooling over the prospect of rippin' it full throttle ala Evel Knieval through the hills of Millbrook. I imagine them stopping at a bar for a beer and high fiving each other with comments like, "Dude, I'm so glad you missed that jumbo farm tractor!" and "whatever man, that lady didn't look like she should be riding a horse anyway. I'm sure she got back on and was fine." To say I dislike them is putting it mildly. They are dangerous and annoying. Period.
Last but not least, a sure sign that spring is a'coming to Millbrook is the return of the slurry truck, making it's seemingly endless runs by our house. We live a few miles from a lovely dairy farm, stocked with beautiful Guernsey cows. The farmers own a substantial amount of acreage behind where we live and they plant it with tightly packed rows of cow corn and alfalfa. Unfortunately for us, they use their liquified cow poo to fertilize these fields in the spring and let me tell you, the aroma can be pretty rank. The slurry truck is old, smelly and I can hear her coming from a mile away. I saw her yesterday for the first time this year and that means soon I won't be able to open my back door without triggering my gag reflex. To be honest, after the horrors of cold, snow and ice that we had this year I say bring on the mud, bird gigolos, motorcycle races and shit storm of cow dung. I am relishing each sign of the changing seasons, no matter how noisy, messy, or malodorous. Bring it on.

A Marley & Me moment

I confess that I watched the movie Marley & Me when it came out on cable. I knew it was sappy, I knew it would make me cry, but I watched it anyway. You know what? I kinda liked it. Then I caught Jonathan watching a snippet of it a few days later on HBO. We are both big time pet people and if you can get past Jennifer Aniston's lousy acting the movie/story line are okay. Marley is a super horrible yellow Lab, with no manners and no regard for anything except whatever random thought pops into his raisin sized brain. Basically, he's an out of control pain in the ass for his entire life, then he gets old and dies. The End. I met a dead ringer for Marley this past week. This nightmare dog is owned by a woman that I know from the barn where I keep my horse. Sue is a lovely person, very kind and gentle, but she should have a maltese, or a yorkie. An exuberant, strong Lab is a bad choice for someone unwilling to enforce the laws of good doggie behavior.
Case in point:

I decided to walk my two dogs on Thurs. at noontime, so I get in the car and drive up the street to the Land Conservancy where we generally walk. To my surprise, Sue is pulling into the driveway at the same time. We both stop our cars and I roll down my window and ask if I can join she and her dog on their walk, figuring it will be fun for the dogs to play together. She reply's and enthusiastic, "yes!" and then hops out of her car to let her dog out so it can run the rest of the way to the parking spot. I find this to be a strange idea, but I go with the flow. The idiot dog is no sooner out of the car when she spies my car and my dogs in the back seat, runs over and proceeds to maul the back door and window with her rapier-esque claws. I am horrified, but I sit still and try to maintain a calm exterior while Sue struggles to grab the dog's collar and pull her away from my poor vehicle. Sue gets the dog away and then she does something very strange. She let's it go again. Of course, this Tasmanian monster gallops back to my car and goes right back to attacking the door with even more vigor than the first attack. Now my dogs are getting a little freaked out at this point. Becks is only five months old and he's finding this behavior quite bizarre. I begin to yell at my dogs to relax and try to keep from screaming the F word at Sue's dog. Sue is no match for this crazed animal and it runs away from her as she approaches and attacks the other side of the car. I am staring straight ahead trying to not to picture what the doors are going to look like after this dog is done engraving them with her nails. After one more mauling session, Sue finally gets the dog, at which point I roll my window down and in a strained voice I say, "I think I'll just go home now." I leave out the part where I want to go punch a wall and scream for five minutes straight. Sue looks at me helplessly. I resist the urge to ram my car into her flailing dog and go home. Needless to say, my car doors are quite scratched. I don't have a super fancy car, but it's black so the scratches really stand out. I know Sue feels badly about the incident. In fact, she left me a message full of apologies and offered to pay for fixing the scratches. I have two words for her...Cesar Milan. She needs the Dog Whisperer in a big way. I'd be happy to assist with some training tips, but I don't think she would agree with my, ahem, tactics, which would namely involve a size 8 to its backside. I have no tolerance for stupid, ill behaved animals, or people. Marley & Me was amusing to watch on TV, but meeting a real life Marley was not enjoyable at all. Maybe if it had been Owen Wilson trying to get the dog off my car I might have felt differently. Maybe, but I doubt it.

Old Man Winter, you are a Bastard

We have just endured two days of incredibly low temperatures and I thank God that we are on our way out of this deep freeze. When I say low temperatures, I mean it didn't hit 20 degrees, even by mid afternoon. The mornings were in the below zero category. That is truly horrific in my book. There is no way I can entertain the thought of riding our horses in these temperatures. Even with an indoor ring at my disposal, the thought of removing the horses blankets, putting tack on them, then forcing them to poison their lungs with the nearly frozen air molecules is just cruel. No, I chose to take a break from work. Was it easy? Well, the first day (Friday) didn't seem so bad. I baked muffins for the first time in my life. Dried cranberry and orange zest muffins. Just what my expanding middle needs right now, but what the hell, no one can see my bulging mid drift through six layers of clothing. For our evening meal I prepared a pot roast, cooked with red wine, beef broth and a complicated bouquet garni, recipe a compilation courtesy of my good friend, Liz and the one and only, Julia Child. It simmered away in the oven for four hours and it was a sublime New England meal for a sub zero night. Before dinner was ready the dogs and I were restless, so after delivering a few carrots to my horse we headed over to the fields across the street and set out on what was meant to be a delightful interlude of fresh air and exercise. Needless to say, the whipping winds stole each breath of air as it was about to enter my lungs leaving me struggling for oxygen and feeling desperate and panicky after about 20 minutes. The dogs were oblivious to my plight, cavorting happily, barking and leaping ahead of me. I knew they wouldn't notice if I fell behind and succumbed to the elements (they are not Rin Tin Tin types), so gasping and choking, I pressed on. Did I remember my cell phone for this outing? Of course not. It was up to me to make it back and I felt as though I had conquered Kilamanjaro by the time I got back to the car. I didn't dare complain to Jonathan when I returned, because I knew I would get a speech laden with I told you so's, you're sick, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. Though I coughed a little more throughout the evening, I was happy that the day was over and I had hopes that perhaps Saturday would be a bit more hospitable in the temperature department. Long story short, it was worse, which left me at odds with what to do for the day. I could write, I told myself. Just looking at my work so far left me feeling like I was looking into a snake pit, so weakly I chose to avoid it. I certainly couldn't bake another tempting treat for me to pad my postier, nor did we need an elaborate dinner since we had tons of pot roast leftovers in the fridge. Then I remembered that we needed new sheets and a toaster! That's it, we could go to the Mall! To my surprise Jonathan agreed that this was a good idea, too. When we left our driveway at noontime, the car told us it was 7 degrees. Single digits and still windy. The Mall beckoned and we listened to its siren like call, driving into Poughkeepsie like icey zombies. Our shopping was well planned and we did quite well with the current sales. I accepted that there was some satisfaction to be had by indulging in retail therapy on occasion.
Thinking of lightly crisped toast as I nestled into my freshly made bed, all shiny and soft with the new sheets, I slept blissfully. Until 4 a.m., when I awoke feeling anxious and useless after two days of not working, spending money and not writing a single new word on my story. I fell back into fitfull moments of slumber, chock full of non-sensical, disturbing dreams and finally gave up at 6:30 (to the animal's delight) to get up, start coffee, feed pets and get back to work. But it was only -1 degree outside. Stifling sobs, I ignored the temperature, wrote a few halting sentences and after three cups of coffee it had gradually worked its way up to the mid teens by 11 a.m. Jonathan headed off to teach a few hardy souls in Lakeville and I trekked to the barn up the hill, anxious to touch a horse and DO something, anything that involved my chosen vocation.
Well, if you've made it this far into this sorry diatribe of my last two days of agony, then you are a far more brave soul than I had anticipated. Looking back it wasn't really THAT bad. Think of the poor folks in Haiti. Jeez, I am a wuss. Stupid, spoiled, well fed and clothed. And I have new sheets and a brand new stainless steel toaster. Enough complaining. I think it's out of my system. Now about my cough? I sense a doctor's appointment in my future, but as long as I can keep riding, walking the dogs and cooking somehow I'll make it through the winter. Take those things away from me and hello padded room and strait jacket.

Make My Day

I'm in the midst of a small battle. At this point, it's more of a confrontation, but it could escalate to something more serious, so I'm not taking it lightly. Better to be prepared, is the theory that I'm adopting. I can't see my foe, which makes every move I make important, at least up to this point. I've got to focus on strategy, since that's how I will come out ahead.
My fight is with a germ that has wound its way around my larynx. For three days it has settled there, not moving, just a heavy weight, creating discomfort. "Do something", I dare it. It just sits there, not getting any worse, but not going away. My weapons are oranges, hot tea and vodka, taken throughout the course of a day in that order. All three cause relief from the discomfort, and even though it's only temporary, I'll take it. I've had times when I thought it was gone, but a swallow, or two later makes me realize it's still there, taunting me. I must keep warm, eat properly and stay hydrated. Those are my best defenses against this miserable scum. My neck feels like it's as thick as an Olympic wrestler's, but when I put my hands around it, it's the same size as always. A clever deception played out by the germ to trick me into thinking that it's got me. I'm not willing to wave the white flag, yet. Carefully, I will forge ahead and footstep, by footstep I will keep up my attempt to defend my throat from this funk. I know that one moment of false bravado will leave me open and vulnerable, so I'm playing it cool. I hesitate to ask it, "Is this all you've got?", because I know from experience that in just a few hours the funk can take my vocal cords hostage and spray my throat down with battery acid (or at least that's what it feels like). This is a true stand-off. I need to go all Dirty Harry on this thing, I know it, but part of me is just too yellow. Guess I need to ask myself one question, do I feel lucky?

The Man from 41

There is a man, who lives on 41, between Sharon and Lakeville. I catch glimpses of him as we drive by and I am perpetually intrigued by him. I want to know his story. I can't explain why I'm so interested in him. I just am and I have been since I moved to the area seven years ago. I've seen him walking the roads on the hottest days of summer, and the coldest days of winter. Despite the fact that he's got some age on him, he's not letting that slow him down and he has the athletic build to prove it. His hair is snow white and he wears it quite long, accompanied by a thick beard. I think he lives alone. Is he a widow? Or a lifelong bachelor? There are two cars side by side in the open brick garage. One is an older model, avocado green, maybe a Vega. Could it have been his wife's car? The other car is a bland contemporary Ford sedan of some sort. I've never seen him drive either one. He also has an 60's model pick up truck parked in another bay. The two story house is made of brick, largely unadorned, except for a few geraniums, planted in a small garden close to the house each spring. There are a few sparse bushes in the front, a clothesline sits behind it. It's a big house for one person. I wonder if he's lonely, or if I'm just foolish wondering all of these things about him. One day, I hope to find out.