Flakes

Within the next 36-hours, life as we know it in Wisconsin is coming to an end. How could it not when we are currently under a Blizzard Warning issued by the National Weather Service. And not just any blizzard, a Gigantic Blizzard. According to one local station we are in for a “walloping” amount of snow.  Another station has adopted the National Security Alert colors to proclaim in RED, 11 Severe weather alerts and in ORANGE, 43 schools closed.  Most alarming is a report from the local paper of the problems this mega-storm will cause Packer fans trying to get to Dallas in time for the Super Bowl on Sunday.  I can only laugh watching the local news.  I don’t know who’s happier, the orgasmic weatherman or the orgasmic sports announcer reporting from Dallas.

As I watch the continuing scroll of closings I worry that our collective retreat into the warmth and safety of our homes portent the fall of civilization.  As a society can we survive the canceling of religious class, youth group, square dance lessons, the school of professional massage, dog club and the Germanfest cultural meeting? And thank goodness for the extra tips thrown into that news scroll at the bottom of my TV screen, because yes, I will now remember to wear my hat and mittens when I go out.

I live in Wisconsin. It snows every winter. A lot. This is a fact. Sometimes it even feels like the world as we know will be completely buried by the White Death. Yet we manage the wind chills, the blowing and drifting, and the challenges of driving while reveling in the joy of the occasional snow day. Predictably, when the spring comes, and it always does, we feel smug that we have once again survived another deadly season. I might miss this, but only just a little bit.

Packer Fever

Is there a Packer following in Key West?

Will there be people who understand the irrational Packer fan?

Will there be folks who will let me watch the Packers with them while my husband retreats into his Packer anxiety?

I love the Packers.

After spending the afternoon at a bar with Packer fans I need to think about how a move will affect my love of the Packers.

Are they truly everyman's team?

If I live in Florida will I be expected to love the Dolphins?  The Buccaneers?

NO, I'm a Packer Backer.  I admit it.  I'm GREEN and GOLD.

Go Pack GO!

That is not my dog

I don’t have a dog. I had a dog once—Katie—a 10-pound humane society poodle-type mutt that pooped on the driver’s seat of the car if we ever left her alone. A dog that jumped off the third floor of a friend’s office building and survived. But that was many, many years ago. I have no dogs. Dan has dogs. The dog-faced boys took the place of our real boys once they moved out, greeting Dan at the door every night like it’s Christmas morning. Attacking his mittens as he shovels snow. Waking him up at 6 every morning at the cottage for a long walk—waiting until the pot of coffee is ready before howling at the door. And the dog faced boys tolerate me in the house. They listen—sort of. They get out of my way—if I insist. They feel they run the house when Dan’s not around, and while I hate to admit it, they sometimes do.

A few months back one of the dog-faced boys decided the antique love seat wasn’t comfy enough. He dug at it, ripping a hole in the fabric and releasing a storm of feathers that covered a good portion of the living room. This may have been the same dog that chewed the wood trim on the love seat. It may also have been the same dog that clawed the decorative front off the antique “rolled paper” sofa and chewed one of the pillows to shreds. Or, it may have been the other dog. I know for certain it wasn’t my dog, it could only have been Dan’s dog.

The dog-faced boys are Otto and Ripley, two rescue Dobermans. The size of small ponies they run wild in the house. They have a “toy box” full of eviscerated stuffed animals and enough bones to reassemble a cow. They demand affection. Their one skill appears to be an ability to assist any vehicle with a siren by launching into an insane howling. 

I keep waiting for the big payoff, the reason for having giant dogs in the house. I thought dogs would be a deterrent to break-ins. Not so, as evidenced by the intruder who found his way into the house, helping himself to a few items and a hiding spot as police combed the neighborhood. And where were the dogs? At the cottage, with Hunter, frolicking in the lake and running wild in the woods. I’d like to think the dog-face boys would have barked him down the back stairs and out the door, but I’ll never know. In the meantime, they continue to consume a 40-pound bag of dog food every third week.

And this brings me to the care and maintenance of these creatures. For the most part it’s “never my turn”. Dan runs them, picks-up after them and feeds them.  Feeding requires trips to the pet shop for “high-protein, low output” food, low output being a critical factor when the dog can build a turd big enough to trip the unwary. Fortunately we are able to participate in a frequent buyer program. With the purchase of each bag the store makes a note on an index card.  Buy ten bags and the next bag is free!

Again, Dan buys the food. It’s something I insist on after the name change. Dan had grown frustrated with the 5-minute search through all the Johnson’s for the our index card. Having purchased a tenth bag he decided it was time to make things easier. Weeks later I stopped to pick up the food and had a moment of absolute embarrassment when asked for my name. There I stood with a blank look on my face. Finally I said “I don’t know—my husband changed it.” The clerk stared at me, then laughed and said “you must be Mrs. Zzyvox!” Yes...of course I am.

Two dog morning.

The dog-faced boys and I do have one thing in common. On weekend mornings they wake Dan for a quick trip outside. Once back in the house they race up the stairs. I let them settle in on the bed for a good snuggle and some serious sleep. Now these are MY dogs. 

Do it yourself, Atomic Boy!

Never let it be said that after 32+ years of marriage there are no surprises. The title “Do it yourself, Atomic Boy!” denotes at least 3 things. “Atomic boy” - no matter what haircuts our children had over the summer, before school we would give them a clipper and allow them to cut it off themselves. This usually resulted in random tufts of hair reminiscent of those poor souls who had endured overdoses of radiation, thus “atomic boy”. The “do it yourself” alludes to the children cutting off their own hair. It also reflects the fact that it cost us nothing to do. This starts my story.

Prior to our last vacation at Fantasy Fest in Key West I had a critical area of my anatomy “cleaned-up”. This involved making an appointment, showing up for the appointment, and actually having the waxing procedure completed. At 53, I’m old school, so this was a surprise for Dan. I thought it might be fun if he undergo the same procedure, after witnessing the results first hand on a clothing optional cruise during Fantasy Fest 2010 in Key West. I suggested the same spa and trained professional, which would result in a $50 expense, including tip.

We were invited to a party for New Years Eve by a fun couple we met at Fantasy Fest. After many hours of laughter, wine and Jaeger, we found ourselves naked, in the hot-tub. While we had a wonderful “vanilla-teaser”* time, it was clear that Dan was different from the other two guys in the tub. And not just because they were sporting Anacondas. When we got home I again suggested that before next year’s Fantasy Fest Dan accompany me to the spa. I didn’t expect anything until the leaves began to turn next fall…little did I know that branches would be stripped far sooner…

Tonight, walking to spontaneous Thursday night at Hectors, I noticed that Dan seemed to be limping more than he should have after a 3 mile run. I chose not to say anything, thinking he was perhaps tired after a long day at the office. But as we walked through the doors he confessed he would need help finishing an “oh so special project”.

Dan had purchased the “Extra Strength Brazilian Bikini Waxing & Shaping Kit”. It included a scissors, mirror, some bamboo sticks, a tub of wax and some soothing gel. "Natural Botanicals help relax & soften hair at the root for easy, complete removal."

Throughout dinner I could only drink my Margaritas and wonder what damage had been done. It was only on the walk home that Dan showed me the burn he had suffered on his arm. This is when I initially peed my pants. I will be channeling Dan from here:

"The instructions said to microwave the Brazilian Bikini Wax for 30 seconds. After 30 seconds there was no effect on the wax. The instructions were specific—do not microwave it for more than 60 seconds. The Brazilians clearly have no concept of time. After 90 seconds the wax was still “rock hard”. Standing naked in my kitchen I grew frustrated. I took the jar of wax from the microwave and stabbed it with the bamboo stick. It exploded, silently, splashing boiling hot wax all over my right hand and arm.

I immediately ran the burns under cold water. The wax turned to cement. I should have paid more attention because the instructions were very clear about removing the wax before it got ROCK HARD!

The instructions also noted that the maximum area that wax should be applied was 2” X 2”. I was in a rush, and now that the wax had stopped boiling, I needed to move quickly. I covered a good third of Dan Territory with a thick coating of warm, sweet smelling goo. I awaited the magic.  Moments later it was time. I grabbed the edge of the rapidly solidifying wax and pulled. jesus fucking christ, pain, so much pain. I counted to 3 and on the count of 3 I counted to 3. Eventually, I tore the alien from my loins. It had 500 legs! A patch of Dan that last saw the light of day in the third grade looked up at me and asked ‘why? why?’. I put the bamboo paddle back in the bucket, deciding that a smaller patch might work better.

As many of you may know, our son is a huge fan of Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Toward the end of that book Ford Prefect meets the designer of Earth One, and all of those beautiful Fjords. ‘All of the little crinkly edges.’ Having never looked closely at my own scrotum, in hindsight, smearing hot adhesive into the tiny crevices of the most tender spot of my own body was ill advised. While I debated (she’ll never notice) leaving the last hunks of rock-hard goo stuck to my privates I said a silent prayer and, John Wayne-like, yanked them from my body. The sight of blood made my hands shake, and I retreated to the safety of the gym and treadmill."

Ahem.

We arrived home from Hectors, me with wet pants, Dan in a state of tenderness. I assessed the damage and explained again why I had suggested a trip to the spa. His response? “That was almost eleven dollars!” I’m off now to assist in some repair work, then a quick kiss goodnight as Dan needs time to recover.

*Subject of future post – say tuned.

Dirt

Years ago while taking an anthropology of religion class I was introduced to a concept made famous by Mary Douglas. Douglas writes, in Purity and Danger (1966)*, "Dirt is matter out of place”. She interprets this to mean that things are not considered dirty (or unacceptable) in and of themselves, but because of where they fit in a system of categories. The boundaries, where things may or may not fit, are thought provoking and potentially dangerous places.

I mention this because I heard the phrase once, during a lecture, and it has just stuck with me (or too me). It fits my world view and explains so much about the way I approach life and events. From a very simplistic and Paula centered view, my system of categories allows for an orderly and defined way of managing the world – anything else is unacceptable and therefore “dirt”.

I have always tried to clean-house, literally and figuratively at the beginning of the New Year.  At work I use the days between the Christmas and New Years holidays to shovel out, clearing away all the files that have accumulated on my desk, in my cabinets and even on my computer. At home I use the month of January to close out the year and get the financial paperwork in order. Personally, I make commitments to physical challenges for the year, signing up for a round of runs, bike rides and triathlons. Mental health clean-up involves an examination of the prior year and serious thinking about what I can do differently for the next year. As a result, I try to start the New Year with a clear idea of where I want to go, who I want to join me on the journey and what I hope to accomplish overall.

Of course, life intrudes on the best laid plans and introduces more dirt. Sometimes I can remove it quickly from my physical or mental environment; other times I end up packing it in my life’s baggage, absorbing the extra weight and continuing on.  This past year I had more than a few opportunities for quick clean-up as well as the stowing of more dirt in the suitcases. On reflection I’m especially surprised by my reaction to the terminal illness of my brother. I got a tattoo, something at my boundary of acceptable, and my wonderful sister Krissy signed up to get the same tattoo in the same place at the same time. For me it was a moment of bonding over a sibling in distress.

I start the New Year with my system of categories adjusted by pivotal events of the past year. I’m curious to see how this will affect my reaction to what is acceptable or unacceptable. 2010 altered my categories to allow for more porous boundaries and I hope a braver Paula. OK, 2011 bring it on.

* In an effort to keep this blog from going too far down an academic rat hole “Google” the name and book title if you’d like more information.

Music that resonates:

Judy Garland/Wizard of Oz – Somewhere Over The Rainbow