There are a world of people out there that you’d never talk to, but put a
leash in their hand and you’ve got something to chat about, And it’s not just
trivial banter, like about the weather, but something that’s
interesting and personal. Caring about someone’s dog, is caring about them.
But I’ve noticed something interesting about dog dialogue. Without
fail, one of the first questions is this:
“How old are they?”
I’m not sure if people are genuinely curious about how old ours dogs are, or if it’s just something to get the conversation going. Is it going to provide them with some insight into behavior or temperament? I don’t know if it would mean anything to me, unless we’re considering a very young or very old dog.
Sometime I give the answer in people years, which really throws folks off. One time, I said “This one’s 63 and that one’s 56.” Then I gestured to my wife. “And she’s 57.”
Some of us had a pretty good laugh about that one.
We decided years ago that our household would have one TV.
This was supposed to bring us closer together, but in recent years it usually meant bitter confrontations over who would control the remote. Evenings were the worst, especially when my wife wanted to see something and the kids wanted to play video games. Watching somebody steal cars in Vice City or kill terrorists? Not her idea of a good time.
Well, now that kids are out of the house things are easier — except on nights like Sunday when ABC’s Galavant was going head-to-head against the Patriots – Colts game. I don’t have to tell you what I wanted to see — but since I’m the world’s greatest husband, I watched the game in another room on my iPad.
So, it’s not a one TV house anymore — and the temptation to retreat into the solitude of a personal screen feels like a risk. This brings me to my advice for newlyweds: treat your house like the one with a single TV; your time together is too precious to be spent separated by your tastes in television. Marriage is not Netflix, and you didn’t sign up for whatever you want, whenever you want it.
And hey, since we’re on the subject, a word about Galavant. I really tried to like the show, but the one episode I saw was hideous. If you need an example, watch the number “Oy! What a Knight,” whose tired schtick was as stale as week-old challah. The jokes are about as good as that one.
Everybody’s concerned about Hurricane Sandy and you can’t go five seconds without being reminded on how to prepare — but one thing in particular has stuck in my craw: stocking up on water.
It’s true that having water on hand is a good idea, but it largely depends on where your water comes from. If you rely on a well that uses electricity then you could have a problem if the juice goes out. But many people with a municipal water supply — like in the town where I live — are unlikely to have any trouble.
Without getting into the nitty gritty, my water does not move around by electricity, but by the pressure created by a water tower. As long as they keep the tower filled we’ll have water pressure. They don’t need to pump it all over, just up the tower — and there are generators in case of power failure.
Unless we have a gravity failure, we’ll probably have water.
Are there things that can go wrong? Of course — but losing water is very unlikely. Just try explaining this at home. My wife kept asking over the weekend if we should buy water and I kept saying no — until I finally gave in and went to Price Chopper at 5:30 this morning.
In the parking lot I met a man with a cart full of water. Did you leave a few bottles for me?
“Yeah, there’s a little left. You know, I’m only here because my wife is driving me nuts about having bottled water in the house. She doesn’t understand where our water comes from!”
I relieved him of his shopping cart — most of the carts in the corral were tied up so they wouldn’t scoot off in the wind — and hit the water aisle.
I went up to the night cashier, a Russian man who’s always the cashier when I go in there at odd hours. He looked into my cart. “You have a lot of water.” He pronounced it “vawter.”
“Yes. My wife. We won’t need it, but this will make her happy. And I won’t have to listen to her go on about the water.”
He thought about that for a second. “Then that is a small price you are paying.”
Fat man in a tuxedo with a broken zipper.
Of course my wedding day is memorable — especially the incident with the pants. About an hour before the ceremony the zipper on my tuxedo pants failed.
Please insert your joke here.
Anyway, I rushed out of the church and across the street to the florist shop with my best man and obtained a large safety pin to hold everything together. Just imagine if that pin had unsnapped during the service.
But as memorable as October 3, 1987 was, October 4, 1987 was even more notable. When we woke up in Saratoga the morning after the reception it was snowing. Ha! Snow in October? That can’t last long, can it?
But it did keep snowing and snowing — and later that day we were stranded on Route 20 in Rensselaer County listening to trees snap all around us in the woods. It ended up taking took six hours to get to the entrance of the Mass Pike in Lee.
It was a slippery beginning, and like in most marriages there have been a few crazy moments, but the same way we made it through the freak snowstorm we made it to twenty-five years. And these days that’s really saying something.
We occasionally like to remind our male readers that they should watch their step. (Keyboard Krumbs does not endorse violence as a remedy to domestic disputes)
No Smoking Means No Smoking
ROANOKE RAPIDS, VA — A Roanoke Rapids woman is in jail with no bond after authorities say she beat her husband with a broom stick and stabbed him with scissors for smoking in the house.
According to reports, Sandy Johnson Garner, 28, Dayshon Garner’s wife had a rule of “no smoking” in the house. He, however went to the bathroom and smoked. At first his wife was suspicious, but then she became infuriated, authorities said.
Temple said she first threatened her husband through the door. Armed with a broom and a pair of scissors, she kicked the door down and began to beat and stab Dayshon Garner. (Roanoke Rapids Daily Herald)
Paging Moe Howard
STROUDSBURG, PA — A 61-year-old woman upset with her husband struck him in the crotch with a crowbar and then hit him in the head with it, Stroud Area Regional police said.
Police said Dale Morris got angry over a note her husband left her and when he came home, she confronted him and then struck him in the crotch with a crowbar. When he bent over, she struck him in the head with the crowbar. Police and court records did not indicate what was written in the note. (The Morning Call, Allentown)
Just Say No to Sarcasm
HOLLAND, MA — A 42-year-old woman, fed up with her ex-husband’s sarcasm, allegedly shot him in the hand with a pellet gun, police said.
Ruth Foley, 42, of 6 Williams Lane, was charged with assault and battery with a dangerous weapon, police said. Ms. Foley allegedly told police she armed herself with the victim’s pellet gun because two cats were fighting in the yard while the victim worked on a vehicle.
“She said he began speaking to her sarcastically and they began to argue, prompting her to shoot on the ground in front of him.” She struck him with a second shot, the acting chief said. Ms. Foley said she didn’t mean to hit him, but “in a way I wanted to hurt him,” the acting chief said. (Worcester Telegram & Gazette)
I’d been spinning a web of lies for weeks.
Clandestine meetings. Setting up secret email accounts. Hiding money. The funny thing is a lot of her friends were in on it, too. When your friends keep something like this from you, you’ve really gotta wonder.
You say I have no conscience? Not true. There were many nights when my scheming cost me sleep.
I’m talking about her surprise birthday party, of course
Because a gentleman doesn’t discuss a lady’s age, let’s just say it was a significant milestone. I will say this, though: if you’ve ever thrown a surprise party it helps if you’ve read some spy novels, because it involves considerable tradecraft.
The story was that we were going away for the weekend –but first we had to make a quick stop at the American Legion for a pre-Super Bowl party. Yes, a pre-Super Bowl Party. I even mailed a postcard to my house announcing the imaginary event.
“It’s supposed to be for the Giants fans. They’re showing a video of Super Bowl XLII.”
That sounds sort of ridiculous, but she was like, whatever. Her bags were packed for our weekend away so why not?
She bought the story hook, line, and sinker. It reminded me of the way they used to scam people on Mission Impossible. If anyone from The Company is reading this you know where to find me.
Here are a few tips:
- Develop some talking points so you don’t start contradicting yourself.
- Get everyone on the same page with your story.
- Don’t volunteer unnecessary details.
The whole thing was great, but it raises a question: will she still trust me after all that sneaking around?
Big companies often make their top execs fly separately. This is done to prevent a plane crash from wiping out a firm’s key managers in an instant. So shouldn’t the same logic apply to your family?
I brought this up to my wife Ann before a family vacation. Look, I said: we should take different flights -each of us with one child- in case of a plane crash. She asked, “Why would you want to go on without me?”
“Well… of course I wouldn’t want to go on without you but if something happened I wouldn’t want all of us to be gone.”
She looked hurt. “If the plane was going down I’d want you there with me.”
Careful here, Rob. “This isn’t about me I explained —it’s about the kids. And if it were my plane that crashed you could carry on.”
“What about trips without the kids?”
I jumped out of my chair. “Jeez! That’s even more a reason to fly apart! You want the kids to end up orphans?”
Now before you say I’m crazy, let me offer into evidence this tragic tale of family travel that unfolded after last June’s Air France crash over the Atlantic:
Fernando Schnabl flew home from Brazil with his daughter Celine, three, hours before Christine Schnabl boarded Flight 447 with their five-year-old son , Philipe. The family always fly separately, as the parents feared that they would all die if their plane crashed. Now their worst nightmare has been realised.
Mr Schnabl and their daughter caught an earlier flight and landed safely in Paris, where they were informed that the second plane – which had taken off only a few hours later – was missing.
See! You’d think I was asking her to fly in coach while I sat up in first class. I think next time this comes up I’ll appeal to a much stronger motivation, an emotional trigger that she will find unable to resist: what would happen to the dogs if we were both gone.
Look, I don’t know if Tiger Woods wife chased him down the driveway with a golf club. And it’s totally none of our business what went on that night between him and his spouse or if he’s had/planning to have/having an affair. None of our concern.
And if his wife did attack him with a golf club could you blame him for fleeing in terror? I mean, really: imagine a big, tall, former Swedish fashion model coming after you swinging a golf club. Dude, I’m totally running.
Nope, none of that’s any of our business. Nor are all the crazy stories starting to come out about what Mr. Woods does when he’s not on the golf course. Please let it go.
But there’s one question we deserve an answer to: what’s the appropriate club to use when chasing your husband down the driveway at 2am, a 9-iron or a pitching wedge?
In the interest of full disclosure, my wife once pursued me with a snow shovel. It was many years ago —and while I hadn’t done anything like what Tiger Woods is alleged be involved with, I probably deserved it. Fortunately for me a snow shovel can not be swung efficiently because of the wind resistance it encounters.
The lesson here is clear, gentlemen: don’t leave your golf clubs by the door.
We went to pick up my 14-year-old after a dance at school last week. He gets in the car and my wife says, “Why were you drinking?”
Wow! Talk about an aggressive interrogation technique —where did that come from, Law & Order?
We’ve been down this road before. You learn to spot the signs and what questions to ask. When my older son was in high school I once followed his footprints in the snow to the spot where he and a friend hid their empties. Another time I threatened to drag him down to the police station for a breathalyser.
Teenage drinking has been around as long as there have been teenagers and alcohol, and that’s a long time. The cat and mouse game between parents and their kids would be comical if not for the inevitable tragedies fueled by booze.
So, how did you know he was drinking, anyway?
“I could smell it.”
Then I realized that what she caught a whiff of wasn’t my son’s breath, but the huge dollop of Purell I’d squirted into my hands as he was getting in the car. I’m obsessed with that stuff.
Bottom line: trust, but verify —and if your kid tells you it’s just Purell smell his hands.