Pets - grace grits and gardening

Don’t Mess with Texas

February 24, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

Punxsutawney Phil may be all super important and reliable up North, but clearly, his power does not extend to Dallas. It’s high time we had our own prairie dog or badger. We need a critter more in touch with Texas extreme temperatures. With 80 degree temperatures this week, its Easter-like. I’ve resigned myself that we have been totally gypped out of even one bowl of yummy snow cream this winter. I may go ahead and break out the spring wreath, but I hate to jinx it.

Lucy and Annabelle have been taking me on extra long walks this week. On Wednesday it was even warm enough for a short sleeve Dallas Mavericks t-shirt (of which I have a large collection), even at 8 a.m. We strolled along the neighborhood, with the dogs straining on their leashes, optimistically trying to catch those pesty birds. As a fun bonus, every house in this neighborhood comes with a cat on each wrap around porch, whether wanted or not. They loll about on the sidewalks in front of their respective homes, stretching and cleaning themselves, just teasing and taunting two little Schnauzers. Overhead the trees are already budding out. Those elusive squirrels who live high above seem to realize they have stored way too much inventory this season as pecans coincidentally fall near us like heat seeking missiles as we walk. There is no sign of winter hidden anywhere in the neighborhood. We did, although, get a double dose last year, so it evens out I suppose. In the distance I heard the unmistakeable screech of brakes – that terrible sound signaling someone ran a stop sign and then slammed on the brakes mid-intersection with their arm no doubt extended across the passenger’s side, whether or not there is a passenger or a phantom bag of groceries in that seat. I waited for the crash but thankfully, there was not one.

John was rear-ended last week sitting at a red light on Live Oak in our neighborhood. He was on his way to an early morning dentist appointment before work. I’m sure in his mind he was already at work when the driver smashed into his bumper, jolting him back to reality. Fortunately, the driver produced insurance information and provided his name. In East Dallas, this is a favorable sign. A few days later, of course, John was informed by our insurance agent that this person does not exist, there is no such insurance and all the information provided was fraudulent. According to the Dallas Morning News, of the 17 million licensed drivers in Dallas, 25% are uninsured, making our roads extra-hazardous. And I’m certain 50% of the 25% pass through our neighborhood daily on the way to the border. It’s more than slightly annoying.

As we continued walking, I thought about doing some yard work later in the afternoon or maybe taking Lucy and Annabelle to the dog park… Just as we turned the corner, making our way back home, Annabelle spied something nestled in the thick grass between the sidewalk and the street. She stopped in her tracks like a Pointer with her nose down hot on the trail of something. Her friend Dora must have taught her this trick… The item that caught her eye was partially hidden but glistening in the overgrown grass – almost sparkling. I bent down to see it more closely. Oh very nice. It was a condom. Obviously used and totally disgusting. Fortunately, I quickly identified it before Annabelle could claim it for herself, smuggle it home and hide it behind the sofa pillow for John to discover later. Lucy once hid an entire package of frozen corn behind the pillow on the love seat….That was interesting, but finding a nasty used condom one night while lying on the couch watching Modern Family might be a bit too interesting. We aren’t that modern.

Nastiness! On such a glorious Ash Wednesday.

Who is having car sex in our neighborhood and being a litterbug at the same time? Now, I have nothing against a little something-something wherever/whenever, and kudos for wearing a raincoat, but I hate litterbugs. Maybe that non-existent person who smashed into John’s car was distracted because he had just had vehicular sex on the way to work, tossing the evidence out the window in our neighborhood. That could just be distracting enough to run a red light. On the bright side, at least someone in the hood was practicing safe sex which could potentially keep one future uninsured motorist off the Dallas streets in 16 years. But please, in the spirit of the boy scouts, leave no trace.

talya

Musical Pairings:

Eagles, “Victim of Love”
Bruce Springsteen, “Pink Cadillac”

Welcome to Jurassic Park.

February 5, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

This morning I found a tampon on the stairs. UNUSED, thank God! But still, a tampon on the stairs! It was open and lying midway up like a dead albino mouse, with the ‘tail’ dangling off the step. I have lost all control. The schnauzers are running the zoo.

Thirteen weeks and six days ago, I had a cleaning lady. I was gainfully employed at the bank dressed everyday in my favorite peep toe heels, pencil skirt and non-sports-team-related blouses. This allowed me a part-time house elf. Her name was Debbie. During these peep toe years, Debbie came twice a month and cleaned the house from top to bottom, whether needed or not.

It was needed.

She cleaned toilets and made the house sparkle. Debbie Day made the entire work day better. No matter how many irate customers I encountered or how much second hand smoke I inhaled during the day, being greeted by fabulous CLEAN in the evening made everything worthwhile. Clean, buffed floors and lemony furniture. A fresh, peaceful house that smelled of comet mixed with bleach. Never mind that it was an environmental chemical site. Even our old stained sink looked brand spanking new after Debbie Day.

Now I am trying to perform these household duties with two schnauzers under my laceless worn-out converse sneakers. And evidently not very well.

Annabelle. The Schnauzers are running the zoo…

I never much liked this plant
anyway.

Annabelle is still a puppy with recessive billy goat genes. Last Christmas (her first), she destroyed two vintage Shiny Brite ornaments while I frosted cupcakes. The ornaments, displayed in a bowl on the coffee table to keep them safe, were oh too shiny and sparkly with flecks of silver glitter. Near Annabelle’s eye level—they were a schnauzer siren song. She left behind tiny shards of glass scattered in front of the fireplace, along with the little rusty metal cap and hook that, up until that point, had survived sixty-plus years…. Annabelle does her best work in front of that warm fireplace.

A few weeks later, as I stored away my Christmas decorations, I noticed there was not a single trace of the decorative moss that had lain all around my manger scene, cradling baby Jesus. Did the camels and donkeys eat it? Or, the Christmas Schnauzer? My nativity was displayed on the small chest beside the loveseat, waaaaay on the far side of the room next to the window. A few days later, I discovered one of the wisemen under the buffet. (By process of elimination, I decided he was the myrrh-carrying wiseman.)

So now with the tampon incident, Annabelle can open cabinets?

She has further evolved from goat to velociraptor?

Does she have a sickle-shaped claw hidden somewhere in that curly matted coat, allowing her to open the bathroom cabinet and snag a Tampax?

Of course with no squeaker inside, she tired of it quickly, and abandoned it on the stairs. It was too plain for her… It laid there, beneath my wall of tastefully displayed black and white family photographs. Right below Nana’s portrait. WhatWouldNanaDo?

Nana would laugh, but in that moment I was horrified. A new high low. Was there nothing sacred?

Yes? You called for me?

In addition to munching family heirlooms, someone occasionally has accidents in the guest bedroom at the top of the stairs. I never catch anyone in the act, but when I discover the puddle, grumble and grab the cleaning supplies, both dogs stare at John like he is responsible. They look completely shocked. They are conniving. I drag out my new best friend – the self wringing twisty mop – to disinfect and eliminate the awful pee smell. Because our house is ancient and the floors are unlevel, the pee flows freely from one end of the room to the other, pooling underneath the bed, completely out of reach. This is not your regular, standing on your feet, normal-people mopping. This is on-your-knees, stuck-under-the-bed, pulling-a-hamstring, crazy-people mopping. With Annabelle licking my face.

If I’m not mistaken, by now shouldn’t we be living high above the city in a uber-cool sky pad apartment with push-button, space age conveniences? Hanna-Barbera promised as much on Saturday mornings forty years ago. My housekeeping should be seen to by Rosey. And, I’m pretty sure Astro never ate a tampon. Where is my futuristic utopia? The closest thing I have to a robot maid is Siri who lives in my smartphone and sometimes randomly speaks to me from deep inside my purse at the grocery store.

Siri is no Rosey.

While John is in Atlanta this week creating sprockets, I have four whole days to get this house in shape. But, I don’t want to start too soon as it will be a completely wasted effort and back to zoo-like conditions by Wednesday. Of course I could summon Siri to dial up Debbie. Maybe she could secretively squeeze us in. I’m sure she misses us. How could she not?

talya

Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

Musical Pairing:

Baha Men, Who Let The Dogs Out?

Musical Pairings:
Katy Perry, “I Kissed a Girl”
Baha Men, “Who Let the Dogs Out”

Channeling Thomas Tate

January 31, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

I slowly try to push through the fog and cobwebs to a state of semi-consciousness. My scratchy, sticky eyes will not open quite yet. I hear rain in the distance. Once my still sleepy brain clears a bit, I recognize the rain is not rain at all – it’s actually the bathroom shower. Slowly the day begins to come into focus. Ready or not, John has an early morning flight to Pittsburgh.

I try to roll over but Annabelle has pinned my leg. It is numb. Carefully extricating myself, I shift to the other side, re-establishing blood flow to that dying limb. Without warning, I am jolted wide awake with one whiff of my pungent pillowcase. Ugh! Eau de Schnauzer! During the day, if Annabelle is not up to some type of puppy shenanigan, she can be found recharging on my pillow. It is 4:30 a.m.

John flips on the television and overhead lights, and begins to open and close drawers. He is packing. He packs the morning of his trip, no matter how early the flight. I feign sleep and dare not breathe so that Lucy and Annabelle do not decide to begin their day as well. I shall not walk dogs at 4:30 a.m. I am quiet and still. I listen to the sounds of this morning.

The news reporters apparently have misplaced their script. Or perhaps the early bird newscast is just a time for improvisation practice while reporting on North Texas fluff? Who watches at 4:30 anyhow? Joe Biden will be in town today – yippee! A man in Plano was caught “cloning” Walmart gift cards. Now I’m no scientist, but doesn’t cloning involve genes and DNA and tissue and embryonic cells and biological stuff? Interesting word choice for a piece of hard plastic used to buy toilet paper. Other breaking news: Kim Kardashian was spotted at the Galleria with Khloe. I will never understand the world’s fascination with the Kardashian Klan. I cannot fathom it. Who cares if Kris is in Miami? Or if Khloe was adopted? It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to learn the whole gaggle of sisters had been cloned. Nor would I care. And who knew there were two younger daughters, Kylie and Kendall? (I didn’t until I googled them, no doubt adding to their popularity.) No one keeps up with poor Kylie and Kendall because their last name is Jenner. There is just no alliteration there. Bor–r-r-ring.

John plops t-shirts on the window seat cushion, somehow managing to make this sound noisy. He stacks and re-stacks these shirts as if arranging a display table at The Gap. I am very familiar with his packing routine. Although I do not open my eyes – I can feel Annabelle staring at me – I know John is contemplating what to take with him. He checks his iPad for the weather in Pittsburgh. He is talking to himself. He opens the drawer in the nightstand right beside my head which startles me a bit. He doesn’t visit that drawer very often – it is home to his winter things, rarely needed in Dallas. The hardwood floors creaked under his heavy steps. Is he stomping on purpose or has he decided to wear his heavy Halloween Frankenstein shoes today? Not the best shoes for airport security. And, isn’t he only staying 2 days! From my spot in bed, it sounded as if he was packing for Europe. Would he go to Europe without me!? Or, did he pick this very moment in time to organize his drawers? As he walks back into his closet again, it hits me – he is like my dad. He’s up – we should all be up….? He was channeling Thomas Tate!

So it’s true. Girls turn into their mothers and marry someone just like their fathers. We resist it, we deny it, but then suddenly it has happened. Just like that. There were a few similarities: work hard, provide well, grumble a bit, take care of business and family, vacation when forced, avoid doctors:)

Today would have been my dad’s 75th birthday, but he died of colon cancer when he was only 57. So Incredibly Young. Daddy was a farmer. He awoke before the chickens no matter the season/weather and blasted us all out of bed to the melodic tunes of Willie Nelson. In a 1970s renovation, my clever, hip mother installed groovy stereo speakers in all the rooms throughout the house. In the ceiling, above the beds. He wrote the check for them, but the Tate girls paid the price every single morning.

Although I was blasted out of bed this morning by doggie smelling salts, the television and harsh overhead lights, I think I heard “Good Hearted Woman” in the back of my head. As soon as he returns from Europe, I’m going to make sure John gets a colonoscopy. But first I am going to wash my sheets.