Category Archives: Fun

Girl Happy

Girl HappyYesterday morning, as I walked my wife out to the car, I asked her “Guess what tomorrow is?” She looked puzzled for a few moments, made a guess or two. I told her “It’s our anniversary!” She smiled and we twittered back and forth about what to do, settling on getting a pedicure and going to eat a good steak. We smooched and we went off to our day’s work.

When she came home, she announced herself as “It’s your wife, of XX years!” (For identity-theft security reasons, I will only say that it is more than twenty, but less than fifty). We had a task to perform that we usually do together – we sell a product online and every few weeks we have to whip up a fresh batch. She and I just hung out and worked on the new batch, assembling and packaging the items for later sale.

Gemey had spun up a music program on her tablet, it was playing her favorite mix of songs. Before long she entered a state that I call “girl happy.”

There are many levels of positive feelings that a human can experience. One can feel satisfaction from a job well done. One can feel delight when a wee one does something precious. Unbuttoning your pants after an epic meal is yet another.

“Girl happy” seems to be a state where a girl feels safe, secure, loved and pretty all at once. It seems to be the feeling one has when you can have a margarita AND cheesecake, and not worry about being judged by yourself or others. It’s a state of being happy that it seems completely appropriate to sashay and wiggle to a tune. My wife does find her “Girl happy” spot periodically, but not as often as I would like to see, because I love to see it.

This morning I came downstairs. My early-rising wife was getting ready for work, and as is my usual I said something like “there’s my sweet baby.” Her reply was “There’s my man of XX years.”

The girl happy was still there. It made me feel good too.

Our world seems to have turned its back on things like fidelity, commitment and keeping one’s shoulder to the grindstone. My wife has always been a fantastic partner and a good friend. I trust her, and she trusts me. Over the years I have continually worked to be a good husband. Sometimes my husbanding looks like that candle holder I made in art class in 3rd grade…lumpy, misshapen and completely unfit to hold a candle.

Even so, when you smart, beautiful and formidable darling of XX years starts to shimmy and slide to a wonderful, romantic Motown tune when it is just you two, when she exudes the existential joy that is so elusive, perhaps I’ve not done so bad.

Happy anniversary, baby.

Llama Dama Ding Dong

A one “l” lama is a religious leader.  A two “l” lama is a furry, cloven hoofed pack animal.  What is a three “l” lama?

A large fire in Boston.

I have but one joke that includes llamas, which I shared while visiting my friend’s farm where she raises, among other things, llamas.

Llamas are gentle beasts, though any prey animal will act defensively.  A nasty kick may await a man who makes them feel threatened.  My friend reports that llamas are very protective of their territory and will provide security for other livestock, such as sheep.

She had one fellow – an appaloosa – that proved to be very inquisitive and affectionate.  As I took photos, he mugged for the camera.  Apparently he was born while a shutterbug was nearby.  As the photographer fired off hundreds of shots, the sound of the camera made an impression and somehow imprinted on the beast.  Though all of my friends llamas were tame, most were timid.  This guy would mosey over to me anytime he spied the camera.

The fur is very soft.  Petting their necks is like running your fingers through a cloud.  Their fleece (if that is the right word) is spun into yarn and used in those products in which one would expect yarn to be used, though probably not a toilet paper cozy.

A good llama has a desirable “confirmation” a combination of traits that hew to a standard among llama enthusiasts.  Ears with a pronounced banana-like curvature.  A long, straight and level back.  Soft, long fibers in their coat and a nice color.

Walking around the pasture, I came across a distinct patch covered in small, dark, shiny nodules.  These were llama spoor.  Unlike some livestock, llamas confine their poo into small areas, a behavior that keeps them from fouling up their feedstock and making it easier for the shovel and rake team.  No doubt the manure is wondrous for the garden.

Male llamas are possessive of the females, and one llama male will chase off other males.  Juvenile males are driven off once reaching a certain maturity.  My friend has to keep the herdsire – the breeding male for her herd – away from the young males and the ladies.

Llamas are opportunistic breeders, meaning that they can get pregnant any time and need not wait for a cyclical “heat” like a dog.  The act of copulation activates the biological changes needed to make a baby llama.

Llamas are somewhat exotic in a state of horses, dogs and cattle, but in fact they are surprisingly easy to care for and manage.  They are beautiful, and if raised in proximity to humans, gentle and personable.  It was really nice to spend a few hours among them.

Your Correspondent bids Farewell to his Car

My aging Dodge minivan began to show its age a few months ago. Already on its second transmission, the old gal’s 3rd gear began to intermittently jump in and out at highway speeds. This van was assembled in 1994, four years before the Germans took over, 13 years before Cerberus and 15 years before the Government took it over and arranged a shotgun marriage with Fiat.

I can say it has been a solid used car. I have never, and probably never will, buy a car new. Used cars make far more financial sense, even accounting for repair costs and the occasional unexpected breakdown. For $3000 ($1500 to purchase, about another $1500 in major repairs) I drove a reasonably reliable vehicle for over four years. It is inevitable that you will be inconvenienced one day on the highway, but I say carry AAA and a cell phone and comfort yourself with he fact that over five years you are likely saving tens of thousands of dollars (I buy really cheap cars). One big repair I did myself with the aid of my very mechanically talented son. 300 bucks in parts, 8 hours of labor, 100 bucks to my son and 1400 bucks to my physical therapist. Net savings $19.21. That’s three lattes at Starbucks if you have a coupon.

My legendary thrift aside, all good things come to an end. I cleared out my van of stuff and made arrangements to take my car to a “recycling center”. Taylor’s place is a junkyard about six miles from my job. Located at St. Charles Rock Road and Kingsland, they offered a fair sum if I drove the van to them, saving them the trouble of a tow. My plan was to load up my bicycle, offer up a handful of prayers invoking the patron saint of drivetrains and drive the van in. I would complete my trip to work under my own power. On the evening before taking my 15 year old beater, I pulled up to my garage and noted that the van was not where I left it.

The damn thing had been stolen.

Annoyed as hell, I reported it missing to the police, after establishing it had not been towed for some violation of alley-parking etiquette. Around 9:00, the police dropped by my house and asked if I was missing a van. The 1st district cops gave me a ride where the van had been abandoned, after first encouraging me to get a screwdriver to use as a “key” as the ignition switch had been wrecked. The little Rasputins who had boosted the van had found several solid objects against which to rub the fenders and quarter-panels. A loose plastic chunk made a forlorn, staccato wail from the wheel well until I yanked the piece free.

The next morning I loaded up my fancy bicycle, donned my fancy cycling shoes and clothing and continued on with the intended mission. I was prepared to accept a lesser sum, though the man offered the amount sight unseen. I did tell him about the bad transmission, but he asked no more questions. Arriving early, I pulled into the seemingly abandoned junkyard. Doors were open, music played, but the only human form was a mannequin lying on the ground, clothed in a mechanics uniform and surrounded by empty beer cans. Under my breath I muttered “Cujo?”.

Eventually a sturdy man drove up from the bowels of the yard in a giant forklift and asked if I was going to junk my van. He told me the guy who handles those transactions would be in somewhere between 8:00 and 8:30. The yard opened at 8:00 for people seeking used parts.

Right at 8:00 people began to file in. Admission is a buck, though I think it applies to the price of any parts you buy. Working men brought tools and grabbed wheelbarrows to find the part they needed to get back on the road. An older black man strode through with a failed part, his son or grandson following. The young man chirpped happily away obviously glad to be with a respected mentor.

FYI – if you ever need to feel like an idiot, I recommend you begin by putting on spandex cycling shorts with a pad tucked up in your nether regions followed by a snug cycling jersey. Finish the deal by standing in a gritty junkyard as people who have real jobs file past. Perhaps the only way to be a bigger tool would be to saunter to the grimy window where “Joe” collected money for parts and order a soy macchiato. With nutmeg.

“Joe” didn’t have much use for me. I said “Hi” and offered my hand, which he refused, half-regarding me out of the corner of his eye. I thought about making a wisecrack about the snub, but I was outnumbered by young men who worked for a living. My shorts already ride up. A wedgie would be catastrophic, probably requiring reconstructive surgery.

Eventually Da Boss arrived. He was friendly and we quickly exchanged paperwork and handshakes. I looked at the check and calculated how much more valuable my bicycle was than my car (4x). A young man sprayed “94 7/1” in yellow paint indicating the day they got the car and the model year. I tucked away the check, loaded up my junk and took off for work.

I have a nice, easy job where I work with my head, not my hands. Surrounded by conditioned air and clean environs, I can remember scrambling to find a part at a junkyard in the afternoon so I could fix my car in the evening to get to work in the morning. A mechanic named Doc takes care of most of my repairs. I can turn a wrench, but it is an option, not a necessity. That said, I do not pity those guys I saw today, neither do I envy them in some yeoman-hero sort of way.

I just appreciate them.