Category Archives: Married life

Married life, Social comment

Facebook chain sermons about animal love

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Don’t get me wrong, I understand that a lot of folks find themselves deeply moved by some of these–and sometimes they even affect me.  Today I had a good rejoinder for one and was feeling self-promoting enough to share it, with the kind permission of Lisa, who gets props for being a great sport about it.  It accompanied a cartoon picture of a couple in bed, each perched on an edge, with several animals hogging the middle:

“IF I DIDN’T HAVE MY DOGS OR CATS:

  • I could walk around the yard barefoot in safety
  • My house could be carpeted instead of tiled and laminated
  • All flat surfaces, clothing, furniture and cars would be free of hair
  • When the doorbell rings, it wouldn’t sound like a kennel
  • When the doorbell rings, I could get to the door without wading through fuzzy bodies who got there before me
  • I could sit on the couch and bed the way I wanted without taking into consideration how much space several fur bodies would need to get comfortable.
  • I would have money and no guilt to go on a real vacation.
  • I would not be on a first-name basis with 6 veterinarians, as I put their yet unborn grandkids through college.
  • The most used words in my vocabulary would not be: out, sit, down, come, no, stay and leave it ALONE.
  • My house would not be cordoned off into zones with baby gates or barriers.
  • I would not talk ‘baby talk’. ‘Eat your din din’. ‘Yummy yummy for the tummy’…
  • My house would not look like a day care center, toys everywhere.
  • My pockets would not contain things like poop bags, treats and an extra leash.
  • I would no longer have to spell the words B-A-L-L, W-A-L-K, T-R-E-A-T, O-U-T, G-O, R-I-D-E, C-O-O-K-I-E.
  • I would not have as many leaves INSIDE my house as outside.
  • I would not look strangely at people who think having ONE dog/cat ties them down too much
  • I’d look forward to spring and the rainy season instead of dreading ‘mud’ season.
  • I would not have to answer the question ‘Why do you have so many animals?’ from people who will never have the joy in their lives of knowing they are loved unconditionally by someone as close to an ANGEL as they will ever get.”

How EMPTY my life would be!!!

[last known credit:  Wanda Jones]

I thought about it for a moment, then replied:

“Well, I’ll be able to go along with that the day an actual angel uses my basement as a celestial urinal, or lays a holy steamer next to my wife while she’s decorating our fake holiday tree, or throws up angel yack on my bedroom carpet causing naked me (coming in late and in the dark) to slip and fall on my bare ass in about six quarts of angel vomitus.”

No, I wasn’t making that up or exaggerating.  It happened about six years back.  We have a Labrador Retriever named Fabius.  I named him for Q. Fabius Maximus Verrocosus Cunctator, Dictator of Rome, for a number of reasons.  The chief one was that as a puppy (he was primarily ears and paws), Fabius would not come on his leash.  He delayed us frequently.  Fabius Maximus’ epithet ‘Cunctator’ means ‘the delayer’ or ‘the procrastinator,’ depending on whether you are admiring his tactics of wearing Hannibal down, or grousing that he doesn’t immediately win the war for Rome…’Fabian Tactics’ remain the term for this in military science to this day.  I finally had to drag him along until he got the idea, thus, ‘Fabius.’

Anyway, around 1:30 AM, I came in to go to bed, shucked my clothes in the pitch dark, and worked my way along the base of the bed with caution for the Thigh Hunters–the square bedpost capitals that seek out an author’s quadriceps if he is incautious in the dark, causing him to hiss a curse.  It did not occur to me that Fabius might have cut loose with a spectacular vomit on the carpet, nicely cooled down by now.  I stepped right in it, barefoot, slipped, and landed on my butt with a thud and a volley of pain-pumped swearing.  While I realize this is not what my lovely bride wants to wake her up at 1:30 AM, you try falling on your nalgas in dog puke at that hour (without advance warning, mind you) in silence.

Let me know how that went.

I didn’t take it out on Fabius.  While certainly one shouldn’t, I still think I deserve at least a minor commendation ribbon for not losing it.

Feel free to share your funniest pet disaster in the comments.

Adventures, Married life

The gift of the Lakota

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This was some years back, when Deb and I drove to Kansas to visit the tribe. (Not the Indians; my family.) We travel together very well, and this trip was no exception. On our way back, we crossed South Dakota and went to Mt. Rushmore and the Crazy Horse Memorial (a work in generational progress).

Mt. Rushmore itself didn’t really do much for me. Whatever upwelling of nationalism I was supposed to feel, I didn’t feel it. Paha Sapa (the Black Hills) were sacred ground for the Lakota (Sioux), and unfortunately, they contained gold. That they would be appropriated and exploited, in the 1800s, was foregone. That this place was chosen to carve sculptures of Great White Fathers, well, to me that’s just washing the Indians’ faces in it. It’s not like there aren’t other mountain ranges in the West suitable for sculpting, after all. Why choose this one, if not to hammer the nail deeper?

It bothered me, and I had come prepared.  Now, I am not an enrolled member of the Hiotna (Honky Injuns Of The New Age) tribe. (Credit to my bro John L. for the hilarious phrase, fairly typical of his main-gauche wit.) Their cultures are theirs, and mine is mine; my sliver of Indian heritage is the social norm for American whites today and signifies nothing. I did, however, desire to do a small observance, as a visitor to Paha Sapa. I had brought tobacco and cornmeal, offerings one might give to a holy man in some Indian cultures. And if they weren’t exactly right, I supposed that whatever called Paha Sapa an ancestral home, it would get my drift.

One tradition my bride and I share is the collection of heart-shaped rocks. Wherever we go together, we seek them out, and somehow we always manage to find one. We have dozens. Usually I do the looking and finding; it is a marital joy.  This autumn afternoon, we really weren’t thinking of that. We headed off down a side road, parked, and walked off into the woods together. I love remote forests and feel completely at ease there, the mirror image of the big-city denizen who feels at home walking on concrete, and who would quiver in terror at the mere possibility of wildlife. In their comfort zone, I would be as they are with a timber rattler, so I get that.

While I did my observance, Deb wandered off into the forest a bit. (Alaskan and Western, she is as much at home there as I.) She was at that short distance where I can see her, but not clearly, when she cried out: “Oh my god! Jonathan, come here!”

When you’re out in the woods and your wife hollers for you, you get the hell over there. I ran toward her. She was standing before a boulder, but not just any boulder.

It was about the size of a washing machine, sloped on top, in our direction. Atop the boulder, a piece was broken off, like the edge of a top layer crumbling. It was fine-grained, probably metamorphic, charcoal-colored, covered with lichens. The broken piece was very recent, to judge by the lack of lichens where it had snapped off.

This piece was a near-perfect heart shape. Except for the upper left corner being a little pointy–imagine a home plate shape with a perfectly located notch in the upper middle–it called to mind nothing so much as a heart. Much larger than our usual heart-shaped pebbles: maybe ten inches across and six inches thick.

I suppose it’s possible that we just happened to pick that particular road, just happened to wander into the woods at that particular (unremarkable) stopping spot, just happened to blunder into the forest at just the right spot, and it just happened to break off very recently, and we just happened to notice it. That level of coincidence is less credible to me than the alternate explanation, which is that we were meant to find it. Of course, I didn’t come expecting to take anything away with me. If you had asked me beforehand whether I was planning on grabbing a souvenir rock from the Black Hills, I’d have said “Hell, no.” But what else does one conclude? What would you conclude?

Seemed to me that, for whatever reason, Paha Sapa had a gift for us of the kind only Deb and I would find, notice and care about. I took it up with care, examining it; probably weighed eight pounds. I think I was too awed to say anything more profound than “thank you.” Much moved, we took it to the car with us and went on our way. (We had a safe and easy trip home, except of course for the bone fragment through a front tire sidewall just outside Butte.)

The stone resides on our mantel, with all the lichens still covering it. (Early on, Deb suggested I clean those off.  No way, I said. We keep it as we got it. She did not demur.) And every time I look at the gift of the Lakota, I feel like they are my friends. Whatever we did or did not do, something noticed, and we felt a token of welcome and camaraderie.  And if there’s an issue, and there’s a Lakota side to it, I admit to a bias their direction.

I want to go back to Paha Sapa in the future, just to say hello. It now feels like a place I am not such an interloper. Not a native, of course, but at the very least, someone with a visa to visit, a safe conduct. I wonder how it will feel.

Homeownership, Married life

I am Become Hedgehog, Slayer of Yellowjackets

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No, this isn’t about Ron Jeremy.  Out trimming the hedge and other overgrown stuff in preparation for the pouring of a new driveway, and since I could definitely stand to lose weight, the title seemed to fit.  For some reason I like doing work outside when it’s in the nineties and up–I feel like I get more out of it from an exercise standpoint.  Of course, there is probably a study posted somewhere with the headline:  “Working in high heat or cold actually burns less calories” because of the ‘everything that seems to make good sense can be proven wrong by some study’ principle.  Don’t care, I’m doing it anyway.

It doesn’t come without some excitement.  It seems that yellowjackets build their paper nests in my hedge; I’ve already uncovered two tangerine-sized nests, and I think there’s another.  The yellowjackets naturally did not appreciate the construction work going on near their homes.  Were it up to me alone, I would not molest them, but it isn’t just my decision.  My wife is apiphobic, meaning she has a morbid fear of bees, and if I left the nests alone she would phone a pest control service and have them soak the entire property in toxins.  Thus, selective hosing of the nests with bee killer is the lesser of the two evils.

Protip, by the way:  if you ever get stung, get baking soda and make a paste with it using water, and rub that on the sting.  I was at my cousin Roger’s in Wichita some years back and got stung.  Well, Rog was the chief chemist for a refinery, so when he says to do something with chemistry, I pay attention.  “Ah reckon their poison’s based on formic acid,” he said, “so this ought to take care of it.”  I don’t know if all bee sting venom is acid-based, but if it is, a base (such as baking soda) should neutralize it.  It certainly did for my own sting.

When the people around you ask you where you figured this out, blow their minds by telling them you got it from an editor.

Adventures, Married life

Selkirk Loop

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Deb and I have decided to go up North for our anniversary this year.  Taking full advantage of having a live-in housesitter (our nephew can be tasked with this, and little enough is asked of him), we are going to get the heck out of here for a long weekend when the time comes.  We treat our anniversary as a pretty special holiday each year, truly celebrating it, looking back, sharing.  We drink champagne from Mullingar pewter goblets that were wedding gifts from my dear friend Domi, get each other special presents, and generally put effort into it.  This will be #13, which is important because before long, we will surpass the number she had with her ex-husband.

The Selkirk Loop circles from Newport, WA up through Metaline Falls to Salmo, BC, up to a ferry crossing at Balfour, BC over Kootenay Lake, then south to Creston, BC, Bonners Ferry, ID, Sandpoint, ID and back to Newport.  It goes through some very scenic terrain with great side trips and places to visit.  We are stoked:  Deb is an avid camera nut and we have good friends in the region who want to take us for the kind of scenic drive only locals know about.  Best of all, neither of us has been–I have been to Sandpoint, but only briefly, and I was on a mission. (No, not that kind of mission. I’m not LDS.)

If anyone has been up to this region, we’d love to hear your suggestions!

Married life, Social comment

What not to do to heavily bearded people

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This is a public service announcement from an owner of considerable facial shag (not that kind, jeez).

It is okay to stare at a heavy beard.  We are basically used to that.  Your kids will gawk up at us and even hide from us.  We’re used to that, too.

It’s not so okay to reach up and start playing with it without permission.  I have empathy for what pregnant women go through, with everyone rubbing the belly without leave.

It is okay to say you want to braid it.  However, it’s usually not very appealing when actually done.  And if you want to kill the chances of getting to braid it, don’t say ‘it would be so cuuuuuuute!’  Cuuuuuuute really isn’t the look bearded guys are going after.

It is dumb to ask ‘how long have you been growing that?’ Think about it.  Most of us eventually trim them off at the ends (may have done so for twenty years), so the question is pointless (and the first one everyone asks).  I’ve had mine thirteen years.  ‘How long does it take to get that long?’ is an intelligent question, use that one instead.

It is okay to ask if we play Santa at Christmas, especially if (like me) we look very much like a young Santa.

It is very helpful, at dining, to point out if something has gotten lodged in it.  Most of us want to keep our beards very clean.  It is, however, pretty dumb to ask ‘saving that for later?’ No, I really don’t want to slurp stale or decaying food scraps out of my beard.  I’m already embarrassed enough, like most people would be if they got marinara sauce on their white blouse’s cleavage.  If you let me know, I can go to the men’s room and straighten things out, and it was good of you.

It isn’t very polite to frankly remark, ‘I think you’d look better without the beard, I can’t stand beards on men.’  We would not generally say to you:  ‘You really need to put a lot more makeup on, your natural face looks pasty and old.’ I’m not trying to edit your face; be nice if you’d avoid offering editing guidance on mine.

It is okay to ask fairly thinking questions about it.  ‘Does it cause problems using power tools?’ Yep.  Have to be very careful.  ‘What’s the worst beard disaster you ever had?’  Got Gorilla Glue in it, had to cut a chunk out.

It is not okay to yank on it.  Surprising we have to mention this, but kids especially do it.  Please don’t let your child do this.

It’s a little intrusive to ask if it’s religious, though I don’t think it’s intrusive to ask the general question about why we grow it.  In my case it’s simple:  I dislike shaving, always did.

If you like it, it’s okay to tell us so.  If you don’t like the way we wear it, it’s not very polite to tell us what we should do to it to please you.  Not unless you’d be okay with us telling you that those jeans make your posterior look pudgy and you should get different ones.

Married life

Philopogon

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Julian II, a.k.a. Julian Augustus, Emperor of Rome, better known as Julian the Apostate and my personal folk hero, was the last pagan Roman Emperor.  He also had a beard.  After enough people gave him guff for it, he wrote Misopogon (‘Beard-hater’), a diatribe against the Antiochenes.  (Short version:  he’d expected the hardcore Christians of Antioch to embrace him.  Like most of his Empire, they didn’t.  He was pissed.)

Okay, fine.  Like Julian, I am bearded.  What is interesting is that to the young, it registers me elder.  This evening I was at a going-away party for an education executive leaving to take up a higher position.  He was a Coug.  For those who do not know Washington colleges, that means Washington State University, rival of the University of Washington, my much-loved alma mater.  His daughter had seen the light and was attending UW.  She and I exchanged old times/new times stuff for a while (and I’m glad her father wanted better things for her; speaks volumes about him).

(Seriously, my host was a fine gentleman and a very bright fellow whose guests were fun, funny and intelligent.  He offered great food and drink, prominently featuring cheeses from the WSU Creamery.  A salute to him and to delicious dining, and full respect to the value of land grant educational institutions that make foodieism possible.  Any city slicker dumb enough to make fun of food production, while savoring gourmet this and artisan that, is effete and idiotic at once. )

The question arose as to Deb’s age, and the young lady guessed many years low.  In my case, she guessed three years high.  I’m not sensitive about how I look, which is a wise stance in 50ish fat, balding, salt-and-pepper old guys.  When I laughed, she said:  “The beard makes you look wise.” (Tell my nephew that; maybe he’ll pay attention to me.)

Interesting observation.  I would like to hear from readers, especially women, since the beard is a fairly defining masculine aspect.  Does a heavy, silvery beard make a man seem wise? When you see a heavy beard on a man, what does it evoke?

Adventures, Married life

Attending ye Renaissance Faire

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Deb and I like to go to whatever events are happening around what one Portland sophisticate termed “the famously dull Tri-Cities.”  The logic is simple.  If your community doesn’t supply a vast surplus of toys for you to play with, when it does, one had best play with them, lest said community cease to supply any toys.  What is more, at least in the Tri-Cities, whatever the event is, it’s not a struggle.  It might be smaller than the big city version, but it’s doable and affordable and safe.  There will be parking, it won’t be horribly expensive, and the crowds won’t be too big a battle.  We don’t have enough people to create that large a crowd anywhere.

So we went, to ye land of ye guys fighting and ye minstrels and ye blacksmiths.  I always love to watch the latter because there is a strong attraction in the combination:  scent of burning coal and iron, sight of hammered metal and fiery glow, and the ring of the hammer.  I like splitting obstinate pieces of wood just to swing the sledge from the end, and to hear it ring on the wedge.  It’s almost as musical hearing someone else pound away.

While it’s hard to see myself deeply attracted to medievalism, there’s a lot to like about it.  People make stuff.  They make yarn, they make cloth, they make clothes.  Candles.  Daggers.  Beads.  Beverages.  They work damn hard at this stuff, and a lot of it is pretty impressive.  It suggests a self-sufficiency that resonates.  What if all the electricity went out? Some people, at least, wouldn’t be utterly lost.  What is more, the majority are really quite pleasant folk, ready and eager to hold forth on their fields of expertise, or help the mundanes (that would be us).  It’s not like golf, where the visitor or newbie deals with impatient scowls and haughty disdain.  (Do golfers not understand that this is killing their sport? I swear, the only athlete more shortsighted than a pitcher toeing the rubber is a seasoned golfer.)

It also makes me realize, from an editing perspective, how much esoteric vocabulary got left behind in the Middle Ages. Just all the parts of a suit of armor, or of a castle, or terms for long-faded occupations and tools have caused thousands of words to slip into disuse. A medieval fair is heaven for places who know or want to learn all those.

When I go to these events with Deb, I don’t really take in most of the event because her sort of random wandering style and my systematic canvassing don’t really harmonize that well.  I usually yield to hers unless the event is something in which I have deep and specific interest, with the result that I don’t really see or take in most of what is going on, and that’s fine.  It’s more about just being out and about as a couple, doing what there is locally to do and enjoy.

Plus, there was a male belly dancer.  He was actually pretty good, rocking it.  I respected him.  And as Deb pointed out to me (as if to a slow child), he was flirting with me.  Ha!  I always attract the bear lovers.

Just call me Yogi.

Adventures, Married life

Whitewater rafting

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I haven’t done this in so long, but a WWR trip is one of my presents to my bride for her 50th birthday (at which time, in April, it was a little cold for that most places).  We’re going to take along a couple of dear friends.

Currently we’re deciding between the Methow (north central WA), the Deschutes (central OR) and someplace else.  If anyone has any recommendations within 4-5 hours of Tri-Cities, WA, by all means please advise.

Married life

Learning manhood

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My nephew lives with us while he plays juco baseball.  Naturally he has high hopes of playing at the next level, and just as naturally, I remind him unceasingly that while baseball isn’t a sure thing, academics are–and that there is no reasonable excuse for him not to hang a 3.5 on the scholastic side of things.  He is also here, in part, so that his aunt and uncle can help him acclimate to adult life:  teach him to refrain from doing really unwise things, and what will be expected of him in life.  (I think my brother-in-law should have interviewed me far more carefully for my track record in such matters, personally, but I appreciate his confidence nonetheless.)

His girlfriend, a pleasant and athletic young first basewoman on the softball team, took a ball to the face today.  Broke her nose, just about swelled her eye shut, broke a bone in her eye orbital, and filled up her nasal cavity with blood.  Ended her season, sadly, just before the playoffs.  Our nephew advised us that he wouldn’t be home tonight–he intends to look after her.

I see he’s learning.

Married life

Fugitive from the menu police

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Is anyone else in this boat? It’s almost foreordained.  Any time I decide I like a menu item at a restaurant, within weeks (sometimes days) the item comes off the menu.  Discontinued.  It almost never fails.  It is as though the menu police tail me from restaurant to restaurant, carefully noting any dish I seem to enjoy–the Dining Volkspolizei.

Someone else please assuage my paranoia and tell me it’s not the Dining Vopos, that it happens to them too?