Satan would be a vacuum cleaner.
Devil, I have seen thee and thy name is EUREKA SPIN DUSTER!
Day: December 12, 2004
At 1:30 a.m. this morning, I decided to go to bed. As is customary, I let the dogs out.
Let me interrupt myself. We live across the street from some very elderly people, who are kind-hearted in their own way, putting out cat food for stray cats. I am not a stray cat fan (Well, I do like me some Brian Setzer, but that’s different), mostly because our dogs think Stray Cat Poop is the BEST TREAT EVER. And it makes them stink something hideous, to the point James & I gag when they come back & breathe on us.
So one of these cats is hanging out across the street, and my dog Polly sees it, and is literally bounding up and down so enthusiastically her ears are going straight up. Normally, these dogs of ours are classified as “very well trained” & under total voice command, but not at 1:30 in the morning when a Stray Cat is Right THERE because if those “treats” taste so good on the ground, then maybe we can catch & bring this cat inside & have our own TREAT MACHINE at the ready. And off they went. Completely disappeared into the night. Suzy obeyed me and came back immediately, but not my Polly! She is like a teenager, and has been exhibiting all sorts of “I Am Independent Doggie” and “You Ain’t The Boss Of Me” rebellion of late. And so, that is how I found myself at 1:30 in the morning, shivering & driving around our neighborhood, looking for her, only to circle back home & find Miss Polly in our driveway, reeking of “cat treats”. Because apparently the Stray led her to the Mother Lode of Cat Poopatorium, and it was Feast Night at the Apollo.
There will be no doggy kisses today, and Polly is sporting the e-collar, which makes her extra-incredibly obedient with no action required on my part. Pavlov, you da man. And I know, there are no bad dogs, only bad dog owners, and she could have been hit by a car or stolen and I would never, ever have forgiven myself, not to mention I would be an emotional wreck. So this means she will be wearing her collar a lot more, rather than less, in the future. We chose to have dogs instead of kids, for many reasons, and we try to be the best dog parents we can be. We’re happy with that choice, based on who we are & what we want out of life, despite how many times we’re told, “You’d be such great parents! Are you sure you don’t want kids?” Sometimes I wonder what life would be like, if I’ve missed out or I’ll regret not having children. It’s fleeting, and I know the choice is right for me. For now, I’m still content with raising dogs & we’ve even talked about breeding dogs in a few years. You can’t crate train children, and you can’t put e-collars on them, or leave them in the car when you go shopping.
I will say this, I can see one definite upside to kids over dogs:
To the best of my knowledge, kids don’t eat cat poop.
I spent 12 hours today with one of my best friends: Shelley. Most of the time was spent working on our respective knitting projects, but we did go out and grab breakfast, and I puttered around the house part of the time, working on other list items….. I made hamburger soup, which is nothing special, it’s just browning burger & creating soup around it – onions, canned veggies, tomatoes, bouillion. I threw in half a bag of cheese tortellini to make it a little less white-trash stovetop soup. It was yummeh.
But the best part? Not having to ask your best friend if she likes corn, or beans, or peas, or onion, or tomatoes. Because you know. And it’s different when it’s your friend, versus your husband. I think because you’re expected to know if you’re married, and for whatever reason, soup is a big issue in our house. I absolutely hate cream of mushroom soup, because I was raised in the upper midwest, where cream-based soups are merely flavored glue, to be used in “hot dish”, or what the rest of the world calls “casserole”. James keeps trying to serve it to me as an entree, and his feelings get hurt when I point out, for the 10th time, I DO NOT EAT CREAM OF MUSHROOM SOUP like that. In any event, Shelley’s one of those friends I’m completely relaxed around, enough so that she can see my house in a total pigsty state and I don’t worry she’s going to leave and raise her inner eyebrows.
Talking about good girlfriends, I miss Sheila, and Rebs, my dear ol’ college buddies, because I still feel like they’re my best friends – they’ve known me so long, and even when months or years skip by, and we don’t talk, or get a chance to see each other, we still love each other, and I believe we always will. They knew me when I wore Chuck Taylor high tops and spiked my hair because I was SO New Wave and patiently listened to me proclaim my deep, unwavering love for David Bowie. And Joe Jackson. And later – I can’t believe I’m admitting this – Richard Grieco. WHERE ARE YOU NOW, RICHARD?
I can fast-forward through the microfiche of my memories, seeing breath-stopping stupidity, moments I skip by in a blur, heart-breaking moments in my life, but I am also comforted to know that they were there, an undercurrent of constance, the faith & security that never broke or was used against me to further divide my heart and mind. They handed me glue to heal. I see people in my life now, who will be there in ten years, when I do the same retrospection, and I know that I am lucky now & will be grateful for them down the road.
So let’s talk about soup, once more. It’s funny, I promise.
Shelley made us soup a few years ago on Christmas eve. She made two kinds of soups: one was a creamy cheesey cauliflower, and the other was matzoh ball. We started with the matzoh ball. I had about three matzoh balls in my bowl, and I took a spoonful of broth & a chunk of matzoh. Hm. First reaction from my tastebuds told me: “Salty!” and “Not Very Flavorful.” I paused. I tried a smaller spoonful. I looked across the table at our friend Meredith, who had not tried hers yet. I looked to my right at the man I didn’t even know I would end up marrying. He was eating his soup, not looking up. So I tried a third taste, and Shelley said, “Is it ok?”
I said, “Well………… it’s a little salty.”
– pause-
“Did you use chicken broth in this?”
And then it was like fourteen things happened at once. Meredith didn’t even get her spoon out of her bowl. James surfaced from his end of the table, looking at us, as he shriveled & dehydrated in front of my eyes. Shelley was up and out of her chair into the kitchen to get the box of soup to investigate. I realized in the midst of the commotion that what we were eating was not actually Matzoh Ball Soup, but Just Matzohs, in Brine. Because that’s how you make matzoh balls, on their own – you cook ’em in salt water. And if you’ve never made the soup from a mix, and just got matzoh ball mix, you might not realize that you need chicken broth (unsalted!) to float the cooked matzoh balls in. Did I mention none of us are Jewish? And then Shelley was grabbing our bowls in HostessShock, apologizing and laughing and James was beseeching her for lots of water, and my heart melted a bit more that day because James is nothing if not accommodating, and a perfect guest, who will eat matzoh balls in brine, quietly, because it’s not polite to say bad things about soup, or a meal in general, and maybe, just maybe, I won’t be such a harpy next time about the cream of mushroom soup, because I married a man who would never want to hurt the cook’s feelings. And I have an awesome friend who still lets me laugh about her soup.
And in Iowa City, and in Seattle, and in Minneapolis, Chicago & Kansas City, I have the greatest friends. I hope when we’re all old & doddering, we move into the same retirement village together. We’ll reminisce about the good old days & eat lots of soup. And knit. Who knows? It could be like college all over again, without the painful mistakes. Except instead of drinking, we’ll all be swapping our arthritis medicine and comparing bunions. It’s gonna be awesome.