Billie Bo-Beggins and the Bear

When Adam picked out an eight week old mini dachshund, a black and tan smooth coat, he thought only a German name would do.  Wilhelmina.  That quickly morphed into Willie.  This breed is notorious for mischief and since Willie, a two syllable name, sometimes took too long to say, her naughty name was shortened to  Bill!  (Get out of the garbage.)

Then Jennifer brought home an adorable mini dachshund of her own (because Willie was lonely and needed a friend, they come in collectable colors, AND, Mom,  it will be so fun).  Lola is a tan smooth coat with soft eyes and a sweet heart.  Lola was so stinking cute that her name quickly became Lola Bear.  When potty training proved difficult, Jennifer would say, “Where’s My Little Poopie Pants?”

Together, we have a pinto bean and a black bean. 

The little beans. The little beanie weenies.

One day the black bean had to be rushed to the hospital.  She couldn’t eat and she couldn’t poop and her sausage body was dragging on the floor.   She had a bowel obstruction.  X-rays showed a cute little thing stuck in her intestines that looked like a mouse with a long tail.  It turned out to be a $3,000  tampon.  From that day on, she was called “The Black Rat.”

The Black Rat has since perfected the art of sitting pretty.  For hours.  For As Long As It Takes to break all human resistance.  As soon as the fridge opens, a bag is rattled, or she smells anything, up she goes like a miniature T-Rex waving those little hands.   Her stage name is Billy Bo-Beggins.

Lola da Bear has been spotted recently in Chicago playdating with a young gent twice her size who sports a curly coat and a healthy appetite for humping legs.  Go, Polo, go.  You just go ahead and tire your bad self out.  That’s right, try and keep your tongue in your mouth.  Do you need a cigarette old boy?

There really are no bad dogs.  The best ones can be naughty and entertaining and frustrating and hilarious and goofy and totally endearing all at the same time.  The smartest ones answer to any name you call them within earshot of a cellophane wrapper being twisted but feign utter deafness when a squirrel cuts loose and they give chase.

In the end, we nickname these rats to save face–to justify our continuing to love such cute, naughty little devils who are only too happy to humiliate us in public.

Hold on, I hear my dog.  Hey, Remi!  Get out of that toilet bowl.  Rem-Tard!!!!!

I said  S T O P   D R I N K I N G   O U T   O F   T H E   T O I L E T.

Oh, wait, Daddy’s home…you go give daddy kisses–lots of wet doggie kisses.

We love daddy.

OCD

I’ve been falsely accused of fixating on things and then collecting them.  My adult children are stone cold meanies every time the subject comes up.  They forget that I’m the one who made them hot chocolate and Mickey Mouse pancakes.  It was me who kissed their boo-boos and foreheads goodnight.  Admittedly, my antique marble collection did get a little out of hand, but they are so shiny and pretty and I needed to build up my positive feedbacks on ebay.   These orbs were traded in the school yards  of yesteryear.   So what if I have two tackle boxes that weigh about 75 pounds each and several multi-level displays.  They are my marbles and no one is getting my aces, bloodies, or ringers.

Once I gave in to having a single compulsive collection, the kids had a field day accusing me of other hidden collections that only they know about because I keep them in drawers, away from my husband.

My motto:   He is on a need to know basis, and he doesn’t need to know.

Playing cards is one of my favorite things to do so collecting every vintage Ace of Spade card is only natural.   One time, in band camp on ebay, I ran across old canceled stock certificates from the Pennsylvania Rail Road, B & O Railroad and other Monoply properties and was captivated by the fine artwork that old certificates had.  Now my collection is about 150 certificates, all alphabetized and they proudly represent Americana.

Hey, that’s 150 positive feedbacks.  Cha-ching.

Then there’s the vintage food crate labels for oranges, apples, blueberries and other fruit and vegetables.  I had the idea once to wallpaper an entire room with them and so started my massive collection.  Now I just flip through them and admire the colors, subjects, and simplicity that represents a time, long ago.  Don’t get me started on Smoky the Bear. 

My collecting has morphed into NOT having to actually have the physical thing I adore, but a picture of the thing that attracts me.  This week I’m spending time on the Internet collecting historical Michigan logging photos and pictures of woodpeckers in a folder.  Woodpeckers are my favorite bird.  I saw my first pileated woodpecker this year and almost pooped my pants.

The bottom line that I tell my children antagonists is,

“You should hope to grow up like me. 

I go exploring every day!”

FrankenFoot Follies

Pain has a way of twisting your every thought in its direction.  It sucks the freedom and life from your brain and lungs.  Living moment to moment on narcotics, snapping out of the haze long enough to figure out if it has been 6 hours so you can swallow down some more pills, is the only way to survive the intense and constant blowtorch heat, set on high, and aimed at the inside and outside of the foot.  The swelling hurts as the skin almost bursts.

Five weeks have passed since going under the knife to correct my feet.   All this improving would be encouraging if the results still didn’t look like a red, mismatched angry club.  “Whose toes are those?”  Yucka-munga.

My first post-op visit was a few weeks ago.  The soft spoken surgeon came into the room and made the mistake of asking me (a south-side girl from Chicago) how it was going.  “Well, Doc.  This thing is a real Bastard.”   A little daunted, he replied, “Well, I’m glad I didn’t call you the first week you were home.”   My reply?  “Damn straight.  I might have called you a Bastard, too.”  We both laughed (as I sat there wanting to stab his eyes out with a steak knife.)

Bunion surgery is not for sissies.   Wait too long, and you get the added pleasure of having so much damage done to your foot that they have to break a couple of toes, shorten them, and plate the base of your foot.  Five screws, a rod, a plate and seven more weeks of crutches until I get to have the other foot “repaired”.

The thing I hate most is talking about it…like old people coffee-klatching at McDonald’s at 6 a.m. with nothing better to do than discuss their bowel movements, joint pain, and hemorrhoid medications.  Forgive me, my brain has been hijacked.

Salmon Pursuit

GO BIG OR GO HOME;  We Are In It To Win It

My son, Adam, will be featured on six episodes of Pursuit TV next year, participating in salmon fishing tournaments in the Great Lakes region where the stakes are high, 12′ waves are real, and men smell like onion armpit after a day of battle on the water.  Captain Adam will have a camera crew on board to film all the action on his boat, “The Pole Dancer”, a 32 foot Boston Whaler.  There will be close ups and monologues and lots of fishing frenzy as he fights harder to survive the competition than the fish.   Mother Nature will be up to her old tricks, there will be mechanical conundrums to solve, and 300′ lines to track where the unexpected is expected.   He is already growing a nasty beard so he can be a real shrimpin’ boat capt’n.  Damn you, Duck Dynasty!

We upped the fear factor by trading our old, red Ford F-350 pick up truck for a dual axle F-350 4X4 Diesel King Ranch with all the trimmings.  First impressions are everything and the thing is obnoxious.  When this tricked out baby rolls into the marina to dump his boat, the other fisherman should hit their knees and pray or  just throw their gear overboard and call it a day.  Some may pee their pants.  That’s the goal, anyway.

Keep your fingers crossed that the fish are biting, the skies are calm, and everyone in the tournaments gets lucky a time or two…on or off the water!

Scooter

I knew better than to show my hot rod to the boys.  Unfortunately someone had to assemble it so I was in a sticky position.  My foot is broken and reconstructed…so I need a knee scooter.  I’m totally dependent for the next 12 weeks on these clowns and they took advantage of me by suggesting all the ways they were going to “trick my ride”.   These were threats, really.

Bryce wants to get a customized license plate for the back that reads:  CLARISSE  and put hand lotion in my basket.   Adam wanted to switch the handle bars to “ape arms” so I could ride chopper style.

Then they had to take it for a TEST DRIVE around my kitchen.  OMG     Bryce tried popping wheelies and Adam was cornering on two wheels. Both broke the speed limit.   I was informed that when I was done with it, THEY were going to break it in right on the farm.   Am I going to Hell if my thought was, “Good.  Maybe one of them will break a leg?”

My doctor called me a week after surgery to apologize for not calling sooner.  He asked how the foot was doing.  I told him that it was a real bastard and he is lucky he didn’t call earlier because I would have called him a bastard too.  We both laughed.  (As I secretly wanted to stab his eyes out with a steak knife.)

If the truth be told, these two “clowns” have taken amazing care of me as much as it kills me to admit it.  Bryce has done all the farm chores every morning without a complaint. He even went to the grocery store and came out with lots of good surprises!   Of course, this year the barn water is frozen so he has to hoof it all the way to my kitchen sink to retrieve water for the chickens and goats.  It doesn’t help that we have been hovering around zero degrees.   On the big day, Adam was nominated to take me to surgery and wait for hours and then take his “in the bag” mother home.  I was drooling and practically comatose.  He fetched me all my needs the first few weeks.

I’m lucky to be surrounded by such wonderful men but don’t think for a minute that I am going to let on.

Kupiec Farms

The Clean Up Crew

After summer’s bloom is gone and maple trees have bled out,  Jack Frost stops by (he’s quite the guy) and  spreads some crystal cheer.    It is when the leaves are brown and down and ice buckles under my boot that I let my little goaties out for nibbles, treats, and loot.  They are my clean up crew.  Chewing at the forest’s edge, stripping pine needles and grapevine, they keep a slanted eye on me.   Ruby and Stella  are addicts when it comes to licking off the last pink flowers on my knock out rose bushes.  From sun up to sun down, they spend the day manicuring my landscaping.  Once the job is done, carrots are their reward!

Q:  Why did the ram run over the cliff?

A:  He didn’t see the ewe turn.

Q:  Why is it hard to carry on a conversation with a goat?

A:  They are always butting in.

Q:  What do you call an unemployed goat?

A:  Billy Idol

Q:  How do you keep a goat from charging?

A:  You take his credit card away.