Happy Halloween, '70s Style

In honor of the day, Nadine over at In Blue Ink is compiling an assortment of links to the costumed. My contributions include these shots of SodaBoy and I with our respective siblings.

Me and Sis

E, B and SodaBoy

The costumes are dubious at best. SodaBoy is Underdog, but I only know that because he told me. The rest of us... who knows?

Similar in Regards To

I have thus far managed to resist the cell phone craze, despite having several of them foisted on me by well-meaning relatives. [Don’t worry: I still have them. Should anyone want theirs returned, they are on a shelf in my basement.] And I know I shouldn’t imply that cell phones are a passing fad; clearly they are as deeply entrenched in our popular culture as television or the internets. The day will likely come when I will be forced to succumb to modernity, but I'm really not looking forward to it. The problem is, I despise all things phone.

This extends to the wretched answering machine. I acquired the thing through another foisting, actually, when I was working for the Woodland Agency. My boss worked from an office two and half hours away, and was frustrated by not being able to leave me messages at home, so when she got a new fancy-pants model, the old one came to me. I didn’t feel like saying no was much of an option, but when I moved back east… the thing went into deep storage. We went many years without using it, and only plugged it in recently to aid in the job search. Email, people!

Luckily, SodaBoy shares my distaste for all things phone. Discussing the issue after resurrecting the fool thing, we discovered that we both hate the way our voices sound on tape. We both think we sound nasally and high-pitched. I confessed that just hearing that whiny not-me gets me all paranoid. If that’s what I really sound like, I probably say “like” all the time, too. [See look: twice in the last sentence alone! I’m doomed.]

SodaBoy was kind enough to reassure me: he doesn’t think I use the word excessively. Of course, during the subsequent conversation, we peppered our dialogue with it: like this, like that, like whatever. It turns out that even when trying to misuse the word, we aren’t very good at it. We kept accidentally using it correctly, as a simile, and not as a mere interjection. So then we switched the game up a bit and substituted “similar in regards to” whenever like was to be used. What fun that is!

OK, so we’re big dorks. But, really… you should try it. It’s similar in regards to, totally awesome.

Raking

Today was sunny, the first golden light and blue sky to come our way in what seemed like an eternity. I decided to take advantage of the day and rake the leaves that have been piling up. We have a big Norway maple out front, and the next door neighbor’s red maple had made some contributions as well. The leaves were pretty thick out there. I’d been waiting to rake, putting it off and putting it off. Partially because the weather has been so cold and wet and miserable, and partially because even though the leaves were ankle deep, the Norway’s not close to done yet: it’s still holding onto half its leaves.

I couldn’t resist the call of the vitamin D though, so I tackled that lawn with a vengeance. We don’t normally go in for the whole suburban lawn one-upmanship, eschewing the lawn services and chemicals and even mowing whenever possible. But I raked the shit out of that lawn: it looks like it’s been vacuumed. There is a veritable wall of leaves at the curb.

The obvious, visible progress makes raking a rather satisfying chore, at least when the weather cooperates like this. I was way overdressed, having prepared for the indoor temperature of 55 degrees with long johns under my cords, a thermal shirt under the turtleneck sweater, and a fleece vest. The temperature outside was a few degrees cooler, but I was kicking ass, so kept having to peel off layers and hang them on the mailbox. [Back inside, I’ve reapplied all layers, and added one more sweater on top of it all.]

Now I just have to wait for the rest of the leaves to fall, and I can go do it all over again.

The Inevitable Poop Post

During Arlo’s recent visit, I discovered that the two large trash receptacles at the north end of the local city park have been removed for the season. I’d made a habit of routing all dog walks past that corner. The walks are a little less pleasant now that I have to lug steaming bags of turds for the whole duration of the walk. And for the record, insulating them with fallen leaves doesn’t seem to help reduce the stench waves; I’d actually thought there might be a blocking effect, but no such luck.

I am curious about the whole phenomena of picking up after one’s dog. It is not something I remember from my childhood. My earliest years were spent out in the country, where there were no close neighbors. It wasn’t remotely an issue there. But we moved to a subdivision eventually, and brought the five dogs along. We never once followed them around with plastic bags, and we weren’t neighborhood pariahs or anything. Well, not for that reason, anyway: none of the neighbors picked up after their dogs either. It did get pretty nasty, especially in the spring when the snow first melted. I remember going around the yard with a wheelbarrow and shovel.

With those memories in mind, I’ve always been grateful as an adult to those dog owners courteous enough to clean up after their pets. No one wants to step on dog shit in their front lawn, an experience that’s particularly bitter when you don’t even own a dog. I wish our current next door neighbors could keep a better control over their charming golden retriever’s eliminations. Mowing the lawn invariably detonates at least one shit bomb. So I definitely recognize the value of doggie hygiene.

However, appreciation doesn’t necessarily translate into eagerness. The first time we dogsat for Arlo when Dad & D were out of town, back at the old apartment, I asked them, “I don’t have to pick up his crap, do I?” Dad told me I had to watch the neighbors. If they picked up the poos, I had to, too. And that was that, I knew I was doomed. Everyone does it now, everyone who walks their dogs at least. Those who just open the door and let doggy run free seem to be exempt.

So what happened? Don’t get me wrong. Not having my lawn covered with fecal matter is a good thing. But, when did scooping poop become the norm? What precipitated this cultural shift? How did it go from something peculiar to the expectation?

The Goods

Well, this tidy bit of commerce has been completed: last night saw the exchange of one loopy little dog for one highly anticipated clay jack-o-lantern. Dad is already scheming about how to get more of these things, complicated plans involving pallets and half-full semis.

Photo by SodaBoy
Amazingly enough, one rinky-dink tea light candle provided all the necessary glow, which is mighty convenient since I have about a gazillion of them. I think we'll keep it on top of the curio cabinet until I figure out how to set it up in front of a window for Halloween night. Which could be a little tricky, since I can't think just what table would do the job, but I certainly can't put it outside and risk a smashing after such an epic journey.

Bringing Home the Goods

My Dad & stepmother stopped by last night around 7:30 pm to drop off their dog for the weekend. Arlo always stays with us when they’re out of town. Our hospitality services are already reserved up for a trip planned for next July, but this venture was a little more spur of the moment. They were debarking on an 18 hour drive to a southern state, where Dad’s brother lives, and planning on returning Monday, which seems to leave very little room for sleeping. And all this for pumpkins!

Well, jack-o-lanterns, to be more precise. Apparently on a previous visit with my uncle, perhaps 25 years ago, or more, Dad bought a couple of these ceramic jack-o-lanterns for my sister and I. Sometime over the years, perhaps during a move, they either got lost or broken; no one knows exactly where they went, but the bottom line is no one can find them. I only have the faintest memory of them to start with, so I have a feeling they’ve been missing for a while.

After all these years, Dad was evidently still carrying a torch for these jack-o-lanterns. He had his brother buy dozens of the things for a program at work. But ceramic jack-o-lanterns are pretty heavy, and shipping turned into a nightmare. So they’re doing the only logical thing: driving down to get them. I guess there wouldn’t be room in the vehicle for two people, umpteen ceramic pumpkins, and one small Australian shepherd, so Arlo’s hanging out with us for the weekend. File this one under People Do the Strangest Things.

I bet I get a new jack-o-lantern as part of this deal.

A Bit Early for This

Every winter I turn into a dragon. My skin becomes terribly dry. My hands will crack and bleed; knees and elbows turn to leather; large scaly patches develop in strange, unexpected places like the backs of my arms, or my sides. Out of absolute necessity I might get out the moisturizer every few days, but I am not dedicated enough to apply it very frequently. Part of my problem is I detest the slimy feel of the stuff. My first instinct after using lotion of any kind is to run and wash my hands. Most fragrances also irritate me (quite literally).

I’ve always attributed this dryness to heat. Furnaces seems to crank out excessively dry air, and it would explain why I don’t suffer the same malady in the summer months. So what is my problem now? The early signs have started: my hands are already roughening up. However, we haven’t turned the heat on yet. Oh, there was temptation. It was 54 degrees in the house when we got back from the wedding Sunday night. But we persevered. There are goals to be reached, after all, standards to be upheld. It's been years since we've turned on the heat before November 1st.

I did go up in the attic and bring the space heater down for SodaBoy the other day. He loves that foolish thing. I haven’t spent much time in the immediate vicinity, though. Why should my hands be dry already? Why, internets, why?