Can You Hear This?

I don’t know what I was thinking last year when I wrote Puppy Power and boldly stated that Doggie would remain on the patio in his own house and not take up residence in mine. I should have known better……

Doggie has not only been given run of the first floor lately (he doesn’t seem to have any desire to go up the stairs, YET…….) he has his own special puppy pad to lounge on. While I do prefer this to his lounging on my good rug, it’s still an indicator of the preferential treatment he gets around here—-whether I like it or not.

As winter progressed, not that it was that cold here in central Virginia–balmy would be a better description, on the rare occasion that the temp dropped below 50 degrees, it was suddenly too cold for Doggie to remain in his custom log cabin (purchased for his benefit by Darlin’ Boy). He has to come into the house. In an effort to appease Doggie and protect my rug, Darlin’ Boy also purchased a special shear ling pad for Doggie’s indoor respites.

Once temperatures began to move upward and regularly topped out over 75 degrees, it was suddenly too warm for Doggie to remain outside through the heat of the day. Now he not only comes inside in the evenings to enjoy our company, he spends much of the day resting on his plush pad as well. He likes to have everyone in view. If I’m in the kitchen cooking, the pad is positioned there, if I move to the family room then dog and pad must be moved as well. Suffice to say I’ve been suckered once again—-at least this time it was only by the dog….

Since this is my first experience with a dog of my own, I’m still learning about the differences between dog behavior and cat behavior. Current cat behavior is that if doggie is on the first floor, kitty retires to the second floor, but that’s another story…

The next big change in Doggie’s life was his diet. Darlin’ Boy decided that Doggie was not getting proper nutrition. Since doggie is a very large but a senior citizen in dog years, Darlin’ boy felt that Doggie needed a custom meal plan. He is now served each morning and evening a special concoction, prepared fresh each occasion by Darlin’ Boy or myself. (I tried to let Beau play chef for him recently but that resulted in a visit from the fire department—details on that little adventure to come shortly!) Doggie’s acting chef prepares fried bacon, fatback or sausage with eggs and cheese mixed with a soft shredded dog food that’s supposed to look like hamburger. I must concede that Doggie’s coat looks more lustrous and his ribs no longer show and he seems a little more spry—despite his trouble with arthritis.

In fact, despite his arthritis and old age, Doggie is resurrected from near death to new puppy posture when Darlin’ Boy arrives wearing his favorite dog-walking ball cap. What had previously resembled a dog-shaped fur rug becomes an animated, frolicking bundle of pure puppy. Doggie’s exercise routine is as well-rounded as his diet now, too. He gets to walk/run up and down hills, around various trees and posts, which provide perfect watering opportunities for him. If he’s feeling in fine form, Darlin’ Boy has to carry not two, but three blue pooper-scooper bags. Doggie works hard to make sure the Darlin’ Boy gets plenty of exercise himself, by bending, gathering and then toting to the next available trash receptacle, Doggie’s droppings. Fortunately, the trash receptacles which host the blue bags are strategically placed around the neighborhood route but Darlin’ Boy can become extremely vexed if the receptacle dispenser of blue bags is empty. That’s sure to be the night that Doggie is feeling extra good and needs to make multiple deposits along his route. As he reaches the halfway point to circle back home, Doggie has a nice wade in the neighborhood pond to cool off and get a refreshing drink, and then Doggie finishes off his routine with a brief, yet apparently exhilarating, sinus clearing, as he tries to drink from the automatic lawn sprinkler heads he passes on the last leg of his excursion.

This is the dog’s life—breakfast and dinner prepared daily by personal chefs, climate controlled accommodations with both winter and summer homes, custom pad for sleeping and lounging, personal attendants for grooming/petting/poop scooping, personal trainers for regular daily exercise routines, and an array of toys for entertainment purposes.

Moral of this story, whenever you feel your life is not treating you in the manner you’d like, plan to come back next time as my dog—you’ll get the royal treatment, too!

After Darlin’ Boy and I had such a lovely time on Chincoteague Island on the Eastern shore of Virginia recently, the parental units decided, since they, while well-traveled, had never been to that area either, to make a trip over. From Richmond, there are only two ways to reach the Eastern shore of Virginia by car. You can travel east and take the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel over or you can drive north to Maryland cross and drive down through the Maryland section. For some unknown reason, the folks set off this past Tuesday driving North to Maryland, evidently intending to “make a loop” and return via the bridge.

Visions of vacation mishaps from my youth were brought to the forefront of my memory once they returned and I heard about their adventure. For reasons known only to them, they failed to do two things that I don’t leave home without—a reservation and a weather report.

Since my brother and I have been out of school for many moons now, they also failed to consider that this is the first week of summer break during which teenagers and young twenty-somethings head for the beach en masse. In addition to the large numbers of youngsters flocking to the shore, our first tropical storm/hurricane of the season, Alberto, is marching up the coast and significant area rainfall is predicted.

They drove their “travel” vehicle, a mini van, and made their way north through Virginia into Maryland, stopping along the way any place that piqued their interest. They arrived at a late hour in Ocean City, Maryland. It was described to me as being “covered-up with kids” on summer break. And, where they found, of course, no vacancies in any of the hotels.

Tired but tenacious, they continued south through a number of the very small towns/communities and found no accommodations available. After some time, they happened on a place that my mama exclaimed, “had I seen it in daylight first, I never would have considered a stay there.” After a fitful night in the unacceptable accommodations, they continued south. I should note that apparently just 2 short miles further south the night before they would have happened on two very nice hotels that were fairly new looking but, by then, it was too late.

Did I mention the rain? In Richmond, it was a solid downpour that lasted all day long. On the coast it was apparently a solid downpour, with a pretty stiff wind to go with it. They did stop in Chincoteague and looked around but didn’t enjoy it in a downpour and their original plans to go out to the beach in such weather were quickly put aside.

They decided to cut their sight-seeing short and head home since the rain was not apparently going to subside anytime soon. Since their homeward bound trip was going to take them across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel, let me give you a few facts about it.

For those that have not traveled in these parts, the Bay Bridge Tunnel was designated “One of Seven Engineering Wonders of the Modern World” in 1965 after it’s completion in 1964. It is 20 miles long and consists of 12 miles of low-level tresses, 2 one-mile long tunnels, 2 bridges, 4 man-made islands and 5.5 miles of approach road. It’s four lanes and has a gift shop/restaurant located on it. Once you get on, you’re on until you get to the other end.

Well, typical for the folks, they decided they would just have to stop and check out the gift shop/restaurant on the bridge since it is an unusual feature compared to other bridges. That’s when the trip, now referred to by my dear ole Dad as “the two day trip from Hell”, really went downhill. As my Mama, who was driving, attempted to exit the roadway on to the gift shop/restaurant access lane, the steering wheel would no longer turn in either direction. She managed to avoid a collision with either the sides of the access ramp or another vehicle but they were definitely stranded. “In the middle of the creek, with no paddles,” so to speak.

This next part just kills me but it’s oh so typical of the folks. With the wind blowing mightily, the rain falling steadily and a tow truck standing by, my father proceeds to spend four hours attempting to re-fit the belt that came off the vehicle. There was another broken part too but the belt getting back on was the immediate need. The tow truck driver offered a tarp to hold over him while he tried to replace the belt but, apparently, between the wind and the four or five inches of water that he was standing in, it didn’t do much to keep him dry.

Bless his heart, my Daddy is a mechanical genius who can design, maintain and repair almost anything you can think of that has an engine. Despite his prowess, however, he does require basic tools when performing mechanical miracles—none of which he had with him at this particular time. (I can remember trips as a kid where the toolbox got packed before clothes to ensure we were prepared for any and all mechanical difficulties. And, of course, there was always some type of mechanical difficulty.)

Oddly enough, he was traveling with a spare of the other part that broke, although I’m sure I don’t know why and, as the tale was being told to me, I wasn’t about to ask. After four hours, working in the pouring rain with no tools and failing to get the belt re-fitted on the van, my Daddy accepted defeat and succumbed to being towed off the bridge and to the nearest Pep Boys. Once there, with the assistance of some borrowed tools, a new belt and the other spare part already in hand, he managed to fix the van. It took about 5 hours according to Mama who is not the most patient individual on the planet, so it could be a slight exaggeration, but Daddy prevailed in the end and got the van road-ready once more.

Bleakly, they made their way home arrived late and I did not hear of these adventures until the next afternoon. Daddy was sporting some ugly scrapes, bruising and swelling on his hands and arms from trying to complete the repair sans tools.

After all was said and done, apparently some of the locals had attempted to convince them to stay another day which turned out to be clear, bright, warm and sunny. But, no, they came home with much the same feelings as I had returning from my first visit to the Eastern shore, see previous post, Shore Shenanigans for details.

I just had to recommend to my Mama, the part-time travel agent, next time she might want to first consider making a reservation, at the very least. Tuning in to the weather channel probably wouldn’t be a bad idea either…..;)

My Mama, Bless her heart, just can’t resist sending me various email jokes, funny stories, etc. and sent me the one below. To this day, I’ll never understand how the woman who can’t operate the DVD/VCR I gave her for Christmas, and doesn’t know the difference between a flash drive and a flash light, has managed to master email, but she does.

Whoever wrote this was definitely thinking “outside the box”, and I must say, it’s pretty funny, even if it isn’t necessarily “politically correct”. Cheers to the author!

A Win Win Win Situation

Everyone concentrates on the problems we’re having in this country lately. Illegal immigration, hurricane recovery, wild animals attacking humans in Florida. Not me. I concentrate on solutions to problems. The result is a win-win-win situation:

* Dig a moat the length of the Mexican border

* Use the dirt to raise the levies in New Orleans

* Put the Florida alligators in the moat.

Any other problems you would like for me to solve today?

My wonderful Darlin’ Boy recently took me to the Eastern shore of Virginia for a weekend to see the ponies and enjoy a little peace and quiet. It was just beautiful and we had a wonderful time. It did, however, spark the memory of the only other time I have been in that area of Virginia.

From the annals of Stupid Husband stories

A number of years ago, when I was still somewhat married to Beau’s father, he decided he would plan a weekend getaway for us. He has a penchant for seafood and had read somewhere about the abundance of fresh seafood on the island of Tangier which is in the Chesapeake Bay. Tangier, founded in the 1600s, was touted as being a quaint village with locals that still speak Elizabethan English due to their general isolation—you can only get there by boat or plane.

This was in late July or early August, if memory serves, and it was supposed to be “romantic”. The trip turned out to be everything but romantic which pretty much sums up my entire relationship with the ex—but that’s another story for another day.

Our trip began with the long drive from the western part of the state to the ferry dock on the bay—I don’t care for long car trips for starters. When we arrived at the Marina that hosted the ferry, we were directed to park the car, mine to be specific, over by some dilapidated boats. As the breeze wafted the scent of rotting fish to my nose I saw the ferry approaching.

We made our way on board and took the hour or so ride on the vessel which looked as if this might be it’s last voyage altogether. Since we had left home in the wee hours in order to make the long drive, we had not eaten in some time and, of course, the ex didn’t believe in stopping when driving for fear some other car on the highway might “lap him”. (Everything is a competition with the ex, don’t cha’ know!)

When I mentioned the late hour and my growing hunger, I was regaled with descriptions of the sumptuous seafood feast we would have once we arrived on the island. My hopes of enjoying such a repast were completely dashed upon our arrival and my first view of our destination.

The dock was, quite literally, falling apart. The shanties on the pier were decrepit. And, most obvious, was the appearance this island apparently had no plan for trash removal or a local dump, so people just dumped garbage wherever they found convenient. The populace believed that everywhere was convenient.

The waters surround the docks were filled with tires, old lawn mowers, spare parts to various types of equipment, grocery store shopping carts, bicycles, etc. Upon disembarking from the ferry, I nervously queried where we were supposed to go, where we were staying and where all the fabulous seafood restaurants were.

We were directed down a road to what could loosely be called a main thoroughfare to a row of old houses that looked once upon a time to be Victorian in style but architecturally obscured by the various “slap on” additions that had been made to them over the years. We arrived at the island’s “crown jewel”, an acclaimed B&B which was supposed to offer quaint comfort and seafood feasts.

In a language that was far from “Elizabethan” English, we were told that, no, OUR accommodations would be across the street. So across the street we went and up on to the only part of the structure that was air-conditioned, the pseudo-florida room front porch. There we found a group of weary guests that had been marooned on the island since the previous day.

At this point, I’m checking the ferry schedule to determine what time I need to be at the dock to leave that evening. These folks have been waiting for our ferry to arrive so that they can escape. One of these guests was a reporter from Baltimore, sent by her manager, to do a story on this “quaint hamlet” in the middle of the Chesapeake. She is quite verbal about the fact that this place is hot, humid, and infested with the most voracious mosquitoes found on the east coast. Miserable and itchy, she has no intention of writing a “glowing” recommendation of this place as great weekend retreat for Baltimore’s urban dwellers. The other couple, older and married, kindly asked us if we’d been married long. We said only a year or two and they promptly recommended if didn’t want to be filing for divorce in the morning that we should be on the ferry going home that evening.

If only I’d followed the advice, left on the ferry and gone ahead and filed for divorce the next day, I could have saved myself so much aggravation and misery, but, I didn’t. Looking back, “the handwriting was on the wall” by then but, alas, I failed to read it for several years thereafter.

Oh, well, such is life. Eventually, we learn our lessons.

Back to the trip from hell, we found our room which did sport a ceiling fan and two double beds. We came back downstairs only to be encouraged again by the old couple to leave while we had the chance as they headed toward the dock. The ex, however, was bouncing around like a new puppy, anxious to “explore” the island. Me, I’m still looking for some food and, by then, I wanted about a six-pack of cold beer to go with it.

That’s when I got the next bit of good news—it’s a DRY island. Meaning, they don’t sell or serve alcohol ANYWHERE on the island. If you don’t bring it with you, you suffer through your visit sober.

Going back to the main establishment across the street, the ex inquires where we might find something “light” to eat and drink to hold us until time for our fabulous “all you can eat” seafood dinner there at the B&B. We were directed to the crab shack back down at the dock. The term “shack” was generous. The menu consisted of a soft shell crab sandwich, a crab cake sandwich, and a fish sandwich. All served on white bread, not buns, sans condiments, with chips and on paper plates.

From here, the ex determines that we will rent bicycles and explore the island until dinner. Dinner is still a few hours away. The island is 6.5 miles long and about 1.5 miles at its widest point. Even by bike, it doesn’t take long to “see all there is to see.”

As I mentioned, it was hot, muggy and every inlet and tributary we pasted over was filled with the locals’ castoffs. I saw more bicycles in the “dumping” ground than I saw at the rental shop. We eventually wandered back to our accommodations to prepare for the dinner that the ex was anticipating with such glee.

At the exact time the meal was scheduled to begin, we were present at a table with 3 or 4 other tourists, who were likewise trapped, as dinner was served “family style”. The table was covered with an array of dishes, ranging from green beans to corn. There was a huge platter of ham slices and fried chicken. No seafood was to be seen.

About ten minutes after we sat down, a family of four arrived from Baltimore. Since the ferry had left and would not return until morning, it was presumed they arrived by private boat. They had actually flown in a small plane from DC area, expecting to make a quick stopover for a seafood dinner before making their way further south to their destination. Their young children, obviously hungry too, had begun to reach for a basket of rolls when one of the staff came out of the kitchen and discovered the newcomers. She brusquely announced the cost of the meal and the mother instantly reached out grabbing the hands of the children on either side of her.

I’ve eaten in 5 star restaurants serving the finest haute cuisine and it not cost as much as the price quoted to this couple. Apparently, this divine meal we were about to receive was included in the price of our overnight accommodations (over-priced too, considering) but, the meal alone sans a bed for the night was exorbitant. The newcomers mumbled something about a pressing engagement elsewhere, offered a swift apology for the inconvenience, raced back to their plane and took flight.

By this time, another staff member had appeared from the back of the house with a tray of dark brown golf balls. She carefully went around the table depositing exactly two of these “delicacies” on each plate and then retreated. The other server explained that this was the seafood portion of the feast. Two golf ball size crab cakes. That was limit of the seafood and no additional crab cakes would be offered but we were free to eat as much as we wanted of the other dishes on the table.

While edible, the meal was hardly worth a ferry ride and an overnight stay in this hovel. It was certainly no feast and didn’t include seafood, save the golf ball crab cakes which were heavy on the cake as it turns out. Undaunted by this, the ex inquires what fun activities we might enjoy after the meal. The server’s reply, “you can go down and watch the crabs molt.”

Thinking it was an attempt at humor, the erstwhile hubby says, “No really, what is there to do on the island.” She says in the same bland fashion, “You can go down and watch the crabs molt.” For the uninitiated, molting is the process whereby the crab sheds its shell, and has a soft membrane covering, hence the term soft-shell crab, until the covering hardens once again.

After leaving the dinner table, the ex pleaded with me to ride around the island on the bikes again. I preferred to go look for a boat captain as desperate for money as I was to leave and hire him to take me back to the shore and my car. The ex then proclaims that the “charming” place we’re staying will provide for such a romantic evening and the breakfast the next morning was bound to be better, since it was after all a Bed and Breakfast!

He apparently failed to realize the extent of my displeasure and discomfort but the possibilities of his experiencing any “romance” with me that night were about as good as finding an ocean in the middle of the Sahara. We made our way back to the limited coolness of the florida room/porch at our temporary digs to discover two of the other intrepid travelers had had the forethought to pack a bottle of booze.

To this day I don’t remember what it was—bourbon, scotch, corn liquor or white lightening and I really didn’t care. They were gracious enough to share, bless their hearts, and considering the limited amount of food I’d consumed that day, it didn’t take much to put me into a blissful state of numbness. Once there, I determinedly walked up the stairs, readied myself for bed and dug out my book. The ex appeared and was unbelievably surprised to discover he was sleeping in the other bed.

I finally drifted off, sustained by the thoughts of my departure in the early morn on the ferry. The night passed fitfully but finally it was light and I quickly prepared for my departure. As I was dressing, I observed the source of my discomfort the night before. I looked like I had the measles. I was covered in bites. Thinking initially it was mosquitoes, I took a close look at the room and the window but they were firmly covered by appropriate screens. Then I looked at the bed. There I discovered the problem—fleas, hundreds of them! That was it, the straw that broke the camel’s back.

I wanted off that island and preferably sans hubby. I marched downstairs to confirm the arrival of the first ferry and the time of its departure and finalized my plans to be on it. My plans were quickly dashed, however, when I found out on this day the schedule was exactly opposite of the day before and I would have to wait for the afternoon ferry to get back to the dock where my car was located. Another eight hours in this nightmare—-would I ever wake up???

Feeling homicidal, but still having a tiny bit of control, I settled myself in the chair closest to the AC on the porch and proceeded to loose myself in my book. The appointed hour was announced by the sound of the fog horn on the ferry from the dock. I raced to the boat, almost ready to swear I would never set foot off terra firma again if I could ever get back to shore.

The conclusion to this mis-adventure is totally in keeping with the rest of the story. We arrived back at the marina only to discover that the previous night while I was being eaten alive, it caught fire and burned almost completely to the ground. The gods smiled on me, thankfully, and spared my little compact car. But as I climbed in, started the engine and began to maneuver through the burned wreckage to go home, I almost drove right off the pier into the water when the ex suggested a short side-trip to a little place he had read was “just off the beaten path, but picturesque…..”