Monthly Archives: March 2012

My mom used to buy me a special gift from the Orvis magazine every Christmas.  Slowly but surely she was building me a complete set.   It is fabulous.  No one I know has one.  And Orvis doesn’t make them anymore, so they have to be going gangbusters in value.  Not that I would ever ever ever sell them.  Man, now that I think about it, I probably ought to insure them.

Here they are:

They are the bottom halves of a duck family, just hanging out as they swim and feed…..on the ceiling.

I love the way people take a second look when they first spy it.

It never fails to make people laugh.  As it should.  As it is intended to.

I don’t know why Orvis stopped making them.  I would have bought more.

Maybe they could expand to other ceiling water feeders, like, …oh, I don’t know…..how about a moose head?  Wouldn’t that be cool?  His legs and feet could be dangling, and his head could be hanging down munching a piece of river grass.  How cool would that be?

I tell ya, I have a million ideas like these.  I don’t know why I’m not independently wealthy yet.

The guy with the “Sham Wow” not only made a heck of a fortune selling that stupid washcloth-on-steroids, but he is also famous.  He’s famous and rich, and here I am with all these ideas that are WAY better than that, and I can’t even afford to get my moustache lasered off.

There is no justice in this world.

If I knew how to be kind,

all of the time,

instead of sometimes going out of my mind,

I would do it for you.

If I could be cool,

when my buttons are pushed,

instead of being such a tool,

I would do it for you.

If I could stop and think,

when you make me angry,

instead of sending you to the brink,

I would do it for you.

But sometimes you drive me crazy,

and isn’t that better

than if I were just lazy?

Because a dull and colorless life

would be unbearable

if I were a quiet and dutiful wife.

So just remember, if you would

when I’m raking you over the coals

that you never had it so good.

A Poem by Mama Boe.

My less-than-masculine-male cat, Gracie, has a bizarre personality.  One minute he is soft and easy-going and very willing to be affectionate, the next he is biting me on the butt.

He prefers to do this when I am not expecting it.  Like when I am busy at the sink either doing dishes or cooking.  Or when I’m walking by.  Or when I’m sitting in my rocking chair in the family room, sewing.

And occasionally when I’m on the toilet.

You want to talk disconcerting.  Imagine THAT.

And he is totally stealth.  We’re talking ninja-like quiet attacks.  He goes all Navy Seal on me, complete with night vision goggles.

WHY?  Why would a cat do this?

Is he hungry?  Is he starved for affection?  Is he asking to go outside? Is he angry?

Nope.

He’s been trained.  By none other than My Captain.

When Gracie was a kitten, My Captain would play with him in such a way that Gracie learned to jump up and nip at his playmate.  They did this often enough that Gracie thought this was normal behavior.

And he started biting the rest of us.   Without warning.  At any point in the day.  No place or time is sacred or safe.

My Captain thinks it’s funny.  But I am here to tell you it HURTS.  And I have a BUNCH of wee little puncture marks on my behind.  HOW in the world will I explain THOSE scars the next time I have a doctor around there?  He’ll think I’m a freak.

And can you hear me?  “Oh, those?  Those are from my cat.”

Riiiiiiiggggghhhhht.

Well, My Captain didn’t take me to Alexanders this weekend to wash the taste of Growlers off my palate, but he did take me to a close second:  Dogfish Head Restaurant.

I love that man.

We went with our good friends Dutch and Leslie.  Actually, we went with Dutch, and waited for Leslie who was meeting us later. She was coming in from her jet-setting life as an RN, Cystic Fibrosis specialist.

So it was just the three of us walking into a PACKED house.  The wait was over 40 minutes for a table, so we took our little magic-dinner-homing-device from the hostess and sauntered over to the irish-like pub.  Well, ‘sauntered’ probably isn’t a good description, it’s more like we elbowed and shouldered our way in.  People were packed tighter than sardines in a can, man.

This is Dutch, doing his best to ruin any photo I try to take of him.  My Captain is laughing on the right, there.  You should know that Dutch is a professional photographer, so he delighted in foiling any attempt I made with my little amateur Kodak Easyshare.   What a butthead.

So I took this picture of him and am posting it for the world to see.

Love ya, man!

What we needed, besides libation, was a place to sit.  Mama Boe does not have knees that like to stand for long periods of time.  And there are few things more grating on a man’s nerves than a whiney Mama Boe.  My Captain was on the look out, giving the Stink-Eye to anyone who looked remotely like they might be leaving.

We never got a seat at the pub.  ***sigh***  So much for his stink-eye.

When our magic wand finally vibrated and lit up, and I won’t tell you where it was when it did so, we proudly walked to our very own table, as if we’d won some kind of lottery.  People were jealous.  Ha.

“You Da Man!”

“No! YOU da Man!”

This is Tim, HE was totally the Man.  The one who kept bringing us delicious goodness after delicious goodness.  We love Tim.

And he didn’t bat an eye when the guys kept referring to him as “man-servant”.  Had I been their server, I would have spit in their drinks before I served them.  And now that I think about it, I am not entirely sure that Tim didn’t do exactly that.

Alright, it’s time to talk food.  All you skinny people, you will not understand the absolute holiness of the rest of this post, and might as well move on.  And eat a sandwich while you’re at it, please. Thank you.

Here is the appetizer menu…or, at least the part that I cared about:

See that bit about the Andouille Cajun Egg Roll?  THAT, my friends, is the nectar of the Gods.  I’m not kidding.  I. am. not. kidding.  Crunchy goodness on the outside, with spicy pork and peppers and all kinds of naughty bits on the juicy inside.  OH MY GOODNESS.

But be advised…. you have to guard it.  It came to me like this:

I looked away to reset my camera, and then it looked like this:

And Dutch was chewing as inconspicuously as possible.    Nrrrrrr.

My Captain always…ALWAYS gets the Crab soup when we go to Dogfish.  It’s got ale in it.  Say no more:

Wanna see something funny?  Dutch ordered a Chesapeake Burger.  Tim, hesitated, glanced at Dutch’s empty beer snifter, and then gently said, “We, uh, don’t have a Chesapeake Burger.  We have a Chesapeake Pizza.”

To which Dutch replied, “Yes.  I’ll have that, and I’ll take it medium-rare, please.”

Tim didn’t bat an eye, bowed slightly as any good man-servant would do, and hustled back to the kitchen to make fun of us.  And possibly spit in our food.

The Chesapeake Pizza:

And here is the AMAZING meal that My Captain got.   Remember the Shepherd’s Pie he got last Friday at that horrendous restaurant called Growlers?  Remember how that disappointed us so?  Here is the picture of it if you can’t remember:

(Dry bread, Smooshie taters, way over-cooked frozen veggies in the meat sauce underneath.)

Well, for only two dollars more at Dogfish Head Restaurant, we got this:

Oh. My. Lord.

Huge chunks of fresh veggies.  Fresh Mushrooms.  Ale in the gravy.  BIG chunks of beef.  Tater’s mashed chunky with their beautiful red skins still on.

*** Sigh***

We finished it all.  I drank wonderful chocolate martinis, Dutch and My Captain drank Dogfish Head’s own “Heaven and Hell” (a layering of their famous 120 IPA, and their World Wide Stout ), and the “Noble Rot”, which is a blur between beer and wine.  Don’t ask me to explain it, other than they ordered it, they drank it, and they were happy.  Happy! Happy!!!

Finally, FINALLY, Dutch’s saint of a wife, Leslie, the most unflappable woman I know (I lovingly call her Nurse Ratchet, but that’s another story that involves a fully clothed her and a naked me in the shower post surgery last year) came.  Dutch gave her a sloppy, happy-like-a-drunk-puppy-dog greeting:

It’s ok, don’t worry, she did the driving…..

Dogfish Head Restaurant….give it a try!  But, er, don’t tell ’em we sent ya.  That might not end well.

I spent all of yesterday at home, in pink sweatpants, a grey thermal shirt with green fabric glitter paint permanently adhered to one of the cuffs ( I still can’t remember what particular craft caused that), tan Thorlo socks, Phyllis Diller hair, and my favorite, completely-stretched-out-to-the-point-that-one-would-ask-why-I-even-wear-it bra.  It was heaven.

I had nowhere to go.  I had nowhere to be. I had no one to answer to but my cats and my fish.  The cats could care less what I do, and the fish still isn’t speaking to me.

In the early evening, a couple of friends stopped by to pick up something, and I almost felt guilty for looking so…well….relaxed. (read: slovenly).  They were polite and didn’t say anything about my ‘look’.  I think that is the hallmark a good friend.

The hallmark of a great friend would be to see the slovenly garb, call a spade a spade, and say, “Niiiiice, Pam.  Pass the chips, will ya?”

I got to thinking that everyone has ‘sweats’ days.  Days where they wear whatever the hell makes them comfortable.  But no one likes to be seen being comfortable.  Why?  Why can’t we be comfortable all the time?

Ever looked at the get-ups ‘famous’ people wear?  What is the name of that incredibly obnoxious family…Kardashian…ever seen the crap they wear?  NONE of it looks comfortable.  It either looks like its 2 sizes too small (to show off their, uh, assets) or they look like they are constant wedgie givers (again, assets).  And high heel shoes that you KNOW are killing them.  And don’t get me started on the clown paint, the make up, eesh.

WHO Dresses Like That???

People who are more concerned about the image they portray than on their own comfort, that’s who. And I just don’t get it. I’m not interested in who you want me to think you are.  I am only interested in who you are.

And guess what, most people are wise enough to see past the threads.

When I see people in pink sweats, nasty old thermal tops, and Phyllis Diller hair, I assume they are comfortable enough in their own skin to let other people see them that way..  And I’m ready to be their friend, because I like to hang around unpretentious, easy-going, non-judgemental people.

Mama Boe:  Not built for speed.  Not built for Strength.  Not built for Sexy.

Built for Comfort.