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June 27, 2006

DAD'S DAY, DOGGIE DOORS, AND PORK CHOPS RUN AMOK

Newfoundland dogs are good to save children from drowning, but you must have a pond of water handy and a child, or else there will be no profit in boarding a Newfoundland. - Josh Billings

Okay, we didn't have a pond, but there was a pool, and no human children were in attendance, but there certainly were some four-legged sons and daughters. And even though none of them were Newfoundlands, they were drooling, yapping, jumping, bucking, playing, running, tails-a-waggin', chase-me-chase-me, dog-paddling mutts. Four of them, all shapes and sizes, tormenting us and each other, whacking their mile-a-minute tails on sunburned legs, and generally wreaking havoc in the water, on the grass, and under picnic tables. Salsa was spilled, Tostitos went flying, and more margos were strewn across the cement than actually consumed. Well, almost. It was Cujo meets a rabid Old Yeller when Cowpoke Alley presents, "Father's Day Goes to the Dogs", starring "Boo" as the amiable Rin-Tin-Tin, "Jasper" as the fun-loving Benji, "Annie" as the giant blockheaded Hooch, and "Mack", as the adopted mutant love-child of Marmaduke and Scooby-Do.

Small boy's definition of Father's Day: It's just like Mother's Day only you don’t spend so much. - Unknown

Yes, it was Father's Day, and Cinderella and yours truly had completely taken leave of our senses. Under the influence of several cocktails a few days earlier, a brilliant plan had been hatched in our soggy heads, and all the eggshells of creativity laid down an idea of such fantastic proportion and wildly creative bubbles of inspiration, wonder and astonishment, all culminating in...oh, who am I kidding? We got sloshed one night and decided to throw a taco feast. There, I've said it. And where better to have food and frolic than at the Club 6019, where the refrigerator is stuffed to the gills, and the bar is well stocked. And even though the she was off gallivanting about on a cruise ship somewhere around Germany, we felt Margaret was there in spirit, scolding the animals and selecting appropriate dinnerware. Yes, the plates matched the wine goblets, the utensils were generally clean, and ALL the napkins were CLOTH. It was I who foolishly channeled Margaret's inner Martha Stewart, taking at least 3 hours and several libations to choose from the plethora of tablecloths and napkins hidden away in just one frickin' bureau. Plaids, pastels, florals, solids, stripes, paisleys, dots, spots, stars, gingham, and every single solitary holiday represented, from Easter to Elephant Appreciation Day. And I'm not even talking about the 97 OTHER stacks of aforementioned dining gear, stuffed away in the darkened hall closet shelves, where the light is dim, and the spiders are brave souls.

Fatherhood is pretending the present you love most is "soap-on-a-rope." - Bill Cosby

In hindsight, I suppose my dad probably had more exciting things to do that day, like washing his shoelaces, or surfing the mind-boggling array of programs on his DISH network, where the sheer number of stations seems to multiply like Mormons on a daily basis. But, with a bit of gentle prodding, and the promise of presents, he and Dot fearlessly arrived to join in the fun and frivolity. My elusive uncle was present, sporting has newly acquired Crocs and a Tahitian tan, while Jill merrily floated upon the water, perched perilously on a raft, attempting to keep a pair of kid-size Aqua Explorer fins from slipping off her toes. Unfortunately, I forgot my new camera once again (the dude rolls his eyes in exasperation), and missed that photo opportunity altogether, a picture undeniably worthy of Better Homes & Gardens, Backyard Magazine, or at least The Enquirer. After much diving, swimming and chlorine consumption, our famished crowd gathered in The Club's well-appointed kitchen, for what can only be described as enough taco fixin's to feed the entire cast of extras in a Cecil B. DeMille movie. Because even though she denies it within an ounce of her very being, Cinderella, much like her mother, is the queen of MORE. More beans! More meat! More tortillas! More lettuce, sour cream, tomatoes, olives, salsa, guac, and onions than Chevy's can produce in a single day. And let's not forget the cheese. CHEESE, CHEESE, AND MORE CHEESE. "Grate more cheese! Shred more cheese! Are we out of cheese? That's not enough cheese! Is that ALL the cheese? Stop eating the cheese! WE NEED MORE CHEESE!" Wow.

A door is what a dog is perpetually on the wrong side of. - Ogden Nash

So we stuffed our faces and loosened our belts, content in the knowledge that a Cold Stone Creamery cake was just a few spoonfuls away. Wandering down the hallway to the back bathroom door, I begin to hear the scratch-scratch-scratching of the Mack dog, trying frantically to gain entrance inside, where he was absolutely certain Jill was missing him. "Let me in! Or I'll huff and I'll puff"...well, you know the story. Thus begins the Call of the Wild portion of our tale, where there actually was no huffing and puffing, but whining, clawing, and head-butting were the specials of the day. And in the 1.47 minutes it took me to carry dessert from the patio freezer to the kitchen, I heard what sounded like a raging, T-Rex-sized buffalo attempting to level the house. Curiously, and almost reluctantly, I scampered back to the bathroom, whereupon I discovered what appeared to be a HUGE doggie dental imprint in the door. One gigantic snout-shaped hole right through the wood, shards of splintered prefab timber everywhere, and one dopey dog with toothpicks in his teeth. Um, okay. Not wanting to spoil the impending Dad's Day gift giving, I kept this relatively staggering piece of information to myself. I hesitantly envisioned the verbal rampage, the fur-flying carnage, and one dopey dog sucking up to mom.

A father is a banker provided by nature. - French Proverb

Later, after disclosing my destructive discovery, there was a mad dash to the scene of the crime, where much yelling and screaming and OH MY GAWD-ings took place. In the end, the dopey dog survived, the inexpensive door could be replaced, and no lives were lost. Even Jeff remained amazingly calm...I'm bestowing much credit to the tequila. Thank goodness we had dad there, who calmed everyone's sweaty nerves, assessed the situation, and announced that everything would be fine. Offering his door buying, door hanging, and door painting services, he once again proved to be the Helpful Hardware Man. So as the evening drew to a close, our guests left sated and fairly happy, while Cinderella and myself remained to assess the damage. The party table was stripped, the dishwasher was loaded, and 97 vats of Tupperware were filled to the brim with leftover cheese. However, as we waved from the backyard gate to bid our company good night, my brain-cell-deprived roommate, literally, let the dogs out.

There are only two rules. One is E. M. Forster's guide to Alexandria; the best way to know Alexandria is to wander aimlessly. The second is from the Psalms; grin like a dog and run about through the city.
- Jan Morris

To my horror, Jasper "the pork chop" dog, bolted from the gate and sped across the street at a blinding pace, smack onto one of Fresno's busiest street corners. I stared in disbelief at the complete and utter bliss on his pudgy mug, as he darted about car fenders, his flagpole of a tail in the air, ears flying, and total ignorance of any danger about him. Meanwhile, the adrenaline level of two blondes kicked in, and we found ourselves romping about the intersection in our swimsuits, dodging hood ornaments and screaming like banshees, with threatening promises of Choke Chains and Electric Fences. Crikey. The little monster was finally halted when an SUV stopped, and Jasper tried to peek in the passenger window as if to say, "Hey, where are you goin'? Can I go with you?" I was tempted to pitch him head first into their car and say, "Here, TAKE the little bastard!" Luckily, we managed to snag the brat by his collar, drag him into the yard, and try to slow down the pounding of our chests. After a couple shots of Jose and the ability to speak again, we finally took the quick drive home, where we collapsed in a crumpled heap. Boy, being a dog-mom is hard work. But in all probability, not nearly as hard as being a dad with three daughters. Hey, at least we never played in the traffic.

You ask of my companions. Hills, sir, and the sundown, and a dog as large as myself that my father bought me. They are better than human beings, because they know but do not tell - Emily Dickinson

Posted by Wendy at 11:47 AM | Comments (0)

June 4, 2006

BOATS, BEERS, AND BIMBOS

Everything in life is somewhere else, and you get there in a car. - E. B. White, One Man's Meat

Well it's that time of year again, when the dusty brethren of Red Bluff break out the tank tops and high heels, tattoos and mullets, slap on some extra Raid, and assemble for the great Nitro National boat races. Or as my grammatically challenged ex used to say about questionable members of America's population, "the great unwashed" have come out to play. Red Bluff, by all accounts, is a sleepy mountain town just a stone's throw from Redding, where the women grow big and strong like the oak trees, and bench press their common-law husbands just for fun. Against my better judgment, I acquiesced to my sister Jill's pleading and took the lengthy drive up to Redding, where the road stretches out a like a big piece of flattened black licorice, and the scenery is pretty much non-existent.

It is impossible to travel faster than the speed of light, and certainly not desirable, as one's hat keeps blowing off.
- Woody Allen

And so with Jill at the wheel, her boyfriend Jeff riding shotgun, and yours truly white-knuckling it in the backseat, we set out this past Memorial Day weekend with 97,000 other antsy travelers. Now, I don't want to imply that Jill drives like Mario Andretti, or that her lead foot sends cell phones hurtling at the windshield, or that she freakishly enjoys playing bumper cars with unsuspecting motorists, or that she screams and yells obscenities at any other vehicle not breaking the sound barrier at Mach speed. Let's just say, she's a bit...ummm, intolerant. Time is of the essence. Get the hell outta the way. This is a non-stop thrill rollercoaster, and you must be THIS tall to ride. Anyone who's heard Jill impatiently bellow out, "BEER ME!", knows exactly what I'm talking about; if an ice cold Coors Lite is NOT in her grubby mitts within 20 seconds, it's going to get downright ugly.

Thanks to the Interstate Highway System, it is now possible to travel from coast to coast without seeing anything.
- Charles Kuralt

Now I don't know about you, but I'm not the most well traveled person. And even though I've made the dreaded drive from Fresno to Redding about a kajillion times, I don't ever recall, on any of those occasions, seeing a
Flying J "fuel stop". Of course Jeff knows all about them, since he hauls cars up and down the highways and byways of California, feasting on junk food fare, and listening to bad A.M. talk radio. This was no big thing for him. I, on the other hand, was quite overwhelmed. Who knew that you could refuel your gas-guzzling SUV, wash the Airstream, take a shower, buy electronics, go Christmas shopping, play the Lottery, snag some cash, have a meal, get a haircut, and dump your nasty RV tank, all in ONE gigantic stop! Wow! Truly, amazing.

Jeff was brave enough to try the in house pizza establishment, where the fare was laid out like shellacked sushi underneath grimy plastic sneeze guards. I would have joined him, but was put off by the glistening, lime-green-like-Jell-O tray of broccoli that stared me in the face. Bleah. I opted for snacks and Mountain Dew, with all the caffeine you ever wanted in a beverage, and probably the reason for my unending barrage of questions; "Are we there yet? What's the temperature? What time is it? Can I pee? Is there A/C back here? Where's my water? How much longer? Hey, WHO farted?" After Jill dragged me away from the Flying J and it's cheesey tchotchkes, jam jars, wooden carvings, monogrammed zipper pulls, and American flags, we resumed our tedious trip on wheels.

Everything on a boat has a different name than it would have if it weren't on a boat. Either this is ancient seafaring tradition or it's how people who mess around with boats try to impress the rest of us who actually finished college. - P.J. O'Rourke (1989), Holidays in hell.

Five and a half never-ending hours later, we landed in Redding on the doorstep of our pals Suzie and Lauren, where they and their menagerie of critters welcomed us into their well-appointed dwelling. I barely had enough time to slam a couple cocktails, when Miss Katie May showed up and it was time to schlep on over to downtown Red Bluff and witness the much-hyped, eagerly anticipated, "Streets of Fire/Show and Shine". Here's the scoop; all the crazily painted, bad-ass, built-for-speed, faster-than-a-whole-herd-of-cranky-bats-out-of-Hell boats are lined up nosing the curbs, while obsessed pit crew members buff and caress them like they're some sort of goddesses. You'd think Paris Hilton was going to show up, plant her bony ass in the cockpit, whip out a Whopper, and use her Community Chest as some sort of shammy. Geez.

You Might Be a Redneck...If you think the last words to the Star Spangled Banner are "Gentlemen, start your engines!" - Jeff Foxworthy

As the sun began to set, and gallons of Coors and Bud Lite were still being consumed, the water monsters' engines were "lit" up, and they spit and growled and belched out one of the most hideous substances known to man; nitromethane. Yeesh. I've said it before and I’'ll say it again, it's disgusting, hideous, eye-watering, throat-burning, wretch-inducing crap. It must destroy any viable brain cells, which may explain the demeanor of fans and drivers alike. What else would compel seemingly normal people to bring along small children and even smaller animals to an event that’s guaranteed to ruin their hearing for life? I guess they just want to start the ear canal destruction early. "C'mon Jenny Lou, grab little Jethro's stroller and Odie's water bowl, we're a goin' downtown! Never mind them damn earplugs, we're late!"

You're not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on. - Dean Martin

Of course the most interesting, eye-popping spectacle at such a gathering, has got to be the bimbos. Well, and the locals. Not a shy breed, they can easily be identified by walking their pitt bulls around on a plastic rope, bumming Camels, and hoping their crank-high lasts the whole evening. The bimbos are the well-endowed, perfectly coiffed, lip-glossed, stiletto-heeled, flat-ironed, French-manicured, sleeveless-tight-knit-shirt-wearin', mini-skirted babes, torturing said locals, and slamming back Jaegemeister with Corona chasers. So while Jill, Katie and myself thoroughly enjoyed this mind-boggling event, sipping our beverages, drooling over cowboys, and stocking up on "Race Chic" apparel, I believe the following honorable mentions really made the whole experience completely worthwhile:

1) All the aforementioned bimbos freezing their tanned, baby-got-back butts off, as the wind whipped up in an Arctic frenzy around their naked legs, and the sky pelted down gigantic drops of rain. Sometimes, there really is a God.
2) The drunker-than-Courtney-Love-at-a-college-kegger chick at the pizza place, who should have given more thought to her footwear apparel. Trying to skitter about on 3-inch heels after consuming your body weight in alcohol is NEVER a good idea. Take it from an expert.
3) Forrest Gump was right; "Stupid is as stupid does". Pounding down mass quantities of malt liquor, combined with hurling idiotic insults at someone who could pummel you sideways, is almost as mind-numbingly dumb as donning 3-inch heels in the rain. Yup, Security was called.
4) If I hadn't witnessed it myself, I wouldn't have believed it. A line. A LONG line. And not just a long line, a long line to THE MENS ROOM!!! It was tantamount to seeing Bigfoot or the Abominable Snowman; it just doesn't exist. But there it was, in the hallway of the Palomino Club in downtown Red Bluff. No, I didn't have my camera, and yes, my butt is still sore from where I've been kicking it.

Laugh and the world laughs with you, snore and you sleep alone. - Anthony Burgess

I never did attend the actual boat races, but rather spent a glorious 2 days basking in the sun with Suzie, tormenting ourselves over crossword puzzles, sipping margos, and tracking the movements of several red-tailed hawks. In the evenings, the walls of Suzie and Lauren's casa would shudder and groan, and generally creak in agony over the ear-splitting, cranium-cracking snoring that racked the night. Everyone was guilty, and nobody was safe. The resident animals may require some serious therapy.

Our Memorial Day trip home was fairly uneventful, if you don't count the swearing, the whiplash, or the badly upholstered footstool sliding down the frenzied freeway. I dunno, it just was. Of course, no journey is worth a spit unless you learn something. Something of great importance, something mysterious, something the great minds on earth have pondered over for many moons. Did I learn the secrets of the universe? Did I explore the depths of time? Did I actually think Jill driving was a good idea? Well, no. What I DID learn, is that the well-promoted product, "Beano", can, in fact, work the complete and total OPPOSITE on some people. The first time someone utters the words, "when EXACTLY does the Beano kick in?", you know you're in for some serious trouble. And I thought the Nitro was bad.

I have found out that there ain't no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them. - Mark Twain

Posted by Wendy at 4:23 PM | Comments (0)