Cruising for (canine) companionship

(From my 2003 column in the Frederick area Gazette newspapers)

I come from a long line of people who forget about common sense when confronted with a wet nose and wagging tail. My grandmother shared breakfast daily with her fox terrier, Snooky. Every morning MeMa dunked her donut in coffee, offered Snooky a bite, and then took a bite herself. Dunk, bite, bite, until the donut was gone.

My husband, Jeff, who had the pleasure of meeting both MeMa and Snooky, should have realized that I couldn’t remain dogless for long after our cocker spaniel died. Instead, he was surprised and furious when I committed the ultimate crime: bringing home an unauthorized puppy.

I can’t really blame him for not understanding. The problem stems from a fundamental difference between Jeff’s relatives and mine. My side of the family believes animals belong seated at the dinner table. Jeff’s family believes animals should be presented on a plate, medium rare with gravy on the side.

Our conflict began when I secretly began cruising the Frederick Humane Society the way some people cruise singles bars.

Like most women, I didn¹t cruise alone. My friend, Mary, who was looking for Mr. Goodcat, accompanied me. After perusing the kitties, we rounded the corner to the doggy department and there she was, sixteen pounds of scrawny black and tan coonhound pup. Our eyes met, and I knew she could see deep into my soul.

"Look at those enormous paws -- this dog will be huge!" Mary exclaimed. "And your husband will freak," she reminded me. But it was too late.

For those unfamiliar with the breed, a black and tan coonhound is a large, energetic, floppy-eared dog used for hunting raccoons, deer and bear. Picture Mickey Mouse’s dog, Pluto, sporting a Doberman’s paint scheme. A sensible suburbanite would have left the building immediately, dog-free, but as I’ve mentioned, I am not a sensible person.

"Jeff will fall in love as soon as he sees her," I assured myself as I completed the adoption papers. If Jeff needed additional convincing, I theorized that a little bonus time in the marital bed would cure him.

The reality was somewhat different. Enraged, Jeff refused to even look at Sunny. He saw through my feminine ploys and stoically slept on the couch. Luckily, we love each other quite a bit, and four years later, he has almost reached the point of forgiving me for my transgression.

Despite her father’s antagonism, Sunny has grown into a good-natured 75-pound dog who loves everyone. At our house, burglars and escaped convicts would be greeted with the same joyous celebration as the president of MilkBone International.

I’ll admit I didn’t like Sunny much when she deposited a steamy, fragrant load in the back seat of my Honda Civic, or after she rolled in a rotting rabbit carcass. But overall, I’m looking forward to growing old with both Sunny and Jeff. And I’d share a donut with either one of them.

Desperately seeking solitude

(From my 2003 column in the Frederick area Gazette newspapers)

I am writing this column while locked in the powder room. Outside these four walls stands a perfectly nice house with several rooms better suited to writing, but if I open the door, they’ll find me. No, I’m not a dangerous fugitive on the FBI’s most wanted list. Even worse. I’m a Mom.

I have just one husband, one child and one dog, but together, they’ve conspired to rob me of every shred of privacy. If I were a criminal, I would have a shot at solitary confinement. Instead, I’m a law-abiding citizen who must resort to hiding in the loo to get a moment’s peace.

Under ordinary circumstances, even the bathroom isn’t off limits. Usually my economy-sized dog follows me, supervising every bodily function and pressing her cold, wet nose against my bare flesh.

Somehow I’ve also managed to slip in under the radar of my ten-year-old daughter, Caitlyn. If she finds me, she’ll commence firing a rapid volley of questions through the bathroom door -- without hesitation and seemingly without even breathing -- until she finally comes up with something that stumps me.

"When’s Daddy coming home what’s for dinner why do I have to go to church can I watch TV when my homeworks done what does gay mean why do you have hair in your nostrils?" she might inquire at top volume.

"Seven! Leftovers! Because I said so! Maybe! Ask your father! I don't know, and LEAVE ME ALONE!" I reply. Sometimes I’ll throw in an oddball response, like "rutabagas!" or "Outer Mongolia!" just to throw her off balance.

My husband could come home, slip into the LaZBoy and read War and Peace from cover to cover without hearing a peep.

I emerge from my hiding place, and the idyllic scene of domestic tranquility ends. My previously content family suddenly requires my full attention for dinner cooking, homework helping, clothes laundering, permission-slip signing, Scholastic book ordering, bill paying, doctor’s appointment making and dog walking.

Now, don’t get me wrong -- I love my family. I would slay a dragon for them. I would take a bullet for them. I would even go on Fear Factor for them. But I would give a case of Charmin for ten blissfully uninterrupted minutes alone.

I’m thinking of entering the Witness Protection Program, but that seems a little drastic. What I need is a better hiding place. With a lawn chair, some cheerful paint and a padlock, the walk-in closet might just do the trick!

In honor of our new deck!

In honor of the new deck my talented husband is building, I bring you a SPIN CYCLE column from the archives, entitled:

"When home repairs are needed, it’s GoFer Girl to the rescue!"

When something goes wrong with our house – a leaky faucet, a broken appliance, a rodent invasion -- I know I’m in trouble. The room begins to spin. Gone are my weekend dreams of napping, reading and sewing. I try to adjust the horizontal. I try to adjust the vertical. Alas, it is too late. I’ve been sucked into The Home Improvement Zone.

Some men prefer to have their wives call a repairman, thus resolving home repair issues with a wave of the credit card. For my husband, Jeff, this would be the ultimate insult.

At the slightest hint of household trouble, Jeff steps into a phone booth, whirls around, and is magically transformed into Do-It-Yourself Man. He’s quite a handsome spectacle with his tool belt tugging his pants down and his Home-Depot-orange cape fluttering in the breeze.

Naturally, Do-It-Yourself Man cannot work alone. He requires his trusty sidekick, GoFer Girl. Without so much as a costume change, I fetch screwdrivers, socket wrenches, sandwiches and beer. I shlep two-by-fours, shop-vacs and sledgehammers. I cheerfully fulfill my GoFer Girl duty until the moment I dread arrives.

“I need sixteen more of these,” Jeff says, holding up a mysterious metal object that I can only describe as a “thingamajig.” I hold my breath, waiting for the other work boot to drop. “I got them at 84 Lumber.”

Now don’t get me wrong, 84 Lumber is a fine establishment, but it is clearly no-woman’s land. Unlike a bustling home-improvement center, there are no perky employees to coach you, no helpful signs to guide you, no sponge painting seminars to inspire you. Instead, there’s a somewhat grumpy-looking guy named Joe. In fact, they’re all named Joe. Always.

I arrive at my destination, approach the counter and announce, in my most confident Gofer Girl voice, that I need sixteen more of these. A slight smile plays across Joe’s lips, and I can tell he lives for these moments.

“Well, what you have here is your basic hydraulic hydro-magnetic quasi-nuclear variable-speed widget agitator,” Joe utters. Although he does not call me “little lady,” I can see it in his eyes.

Joe pauses to scratch himself thoughtfully, and I know the moment of truth has arrived. “Do you need this in high density polycarbide or with a multi-density gold-plated steel shaft?” Naturally, I do not know, so like E.T., I must phone home.

Several phone calls later, I’m headed home with the proper widget agitators in hand. That’s one trip to the hardware store down, another nine or ten to go, and Do-It-Yourself Man’s project will be completed. And to think, he does it all by himself.