Make Me a Mojito Day ruins rum for me and I can’t imagine I’ll ever drink it/them again. In fact, I almost hurl just looking at the sauce served with my poppadum when I order Indian food.
I can’t even chew Doublemint gum.
Once something’s made me ill, I can rarely return to the scene of the crime. In fact, chocolate covered cherries used to be my favorite food until I had the stomach flu right after eating a few at Christmas in 1979. I’ve never touched them since.
[Can’t be said enough, seventh grade was a bitch.]
I’m seriously worried that I won’t be able to play Poolyball again, or listen to Yacht Rock, that I’ll forever associate the game with nausea and dehydration and the feeling of ten thousand anvils being dropped on my head at the same time.
When I finally do ease myself back into the water after an overcast week, an iced Solo cup of High Life at my side, some Deacon Blue coming through the speakers, I discover that we’re cool again, no worries. The beer is as smooth as Donald Fagen’s vocals.
Summer is saved.
Miller High Life, I shall never forsake you again.
FLETCH’S LAST WORD:
Songs People Think are Yacht, But Are Not
Horse with No Name – America: Riding through a desert on a horse is the opposite of Yacht, especially when the horse is a metaphor for heroin. And abandoning a horse after six days in the desert has to be felony animal cruelty.
Wildfire - Michael Martin Murphey: What the fuck is with people thinking songs about horses are Yacht? You can’t have a horse on a boat. The song about a ghost horse that died in a blizzard, and maybe its ghost rider that possibly perished while looking for it, has zero Yacht. In fact, it has negative 36 Yacht. Yacht Rock is either fun and tropical like a mai tai, or smooth and smoky like a fine scotch. This song is… sucks.
Come Sail Away – Styx: “But, Fletch! It has ‘sail’ right in the title!” Cool story, bro, but the sailing vessel turns out to be a starship full of extraterrestrials. And you know they have anal probes. The chorus should be:
They said come get abducted, come get abducted
Come get abducted with me
Come get abducted, come get abducted
Come get abducted with me
Afternoon Delight – Starland Vocal Band: We all know what they’re talking about, and that’s not the problem. This song is not Yacht because of its blatant country influences and ‘70s variety show production style. Yes, Donny and Marie did perform it on their show. Now I need a shower.
Anything by Jimmy Buffett
Eleven
Crazy Cat Lady
“Five cats and a woman. That is all I need in life.”
- Alejandro Jodorowsky
“Hey, I got you a latte.”
I’m home from running errands and I have a coffee for Fletch. Unless I’m just going to the gym, I try to never come back empty-handed, whether it’s lunch or an éclair or a hot beverage. I’m all about small gestures because we’re not huge gift givers – in fact, he’s forbidden to acknowledge my birthday. No card, no cake, no tidings whatsoever.
This came about because I spent my whole life trying to figure out how to be in England on November 5th, which is Guy Fawkes Day. [That’s the date Fawkes was caught before he could burn down Parliament.] Growing up, I was so psyched to share a birthday with what sounded like such a cool holiday.
Every Guy Fawkes Day that passed built my anticipation for when I could finally be there to celebrate along with the rest of the country. After forty-some years waiting to be in England on that day, I started envisioning Brits carrying me around Cleopatra-style through the streets of London. Children would throw candy at me. Bands would play. People would cheer and try to kiss me in pubs.
While this expectation had no rational basis, there we were.
The closest parallel I can draw would be like if a Brit, let’s call him Nigel for the sake of this example, came to the US and expected Americans to be all fired up because Nigel and George Washington share a birthday. No one would be shooting off liberty cannons when Nigel got here, or releasing flocks of bald eagles carrying flags in their beaks. At best, Americans would be all, “Huh. Interesting coincidence. There might be a mattress sale you could check out.”
For Nigel to expect anything else would be odd, an irrational leap. Yet there I was, in London, profoundly and deeply disappointed to discover that no one was trying to carry me around or kiss me in pubs.
After London, I realized that I was ready to let go of my birthday, too. Didn’t need it. Now, as far as Fletch is concerned, the day should be SERVPRO® – like it never even happened. I don’t miss it.
Actually, I’ve never been big on gift-grab holidays because I think they create too much pressure as an adult. For example, we stopped exchanged anything on Christmas, save for stockings, a few years ago. Now we spend the season doing fun things like decorating and baking and entertaining, instead of making ourselves nuts about who has more of what under the tree.
[Let me be clear, if you have children and you unilaterally adopt this policy, I cannot be held responsible for your kids’ actions.]
Because we don’t go crazy on the major stuff, I make sure there’s a never-ending stream of small treats all year. For example, I know Fletch’s energy flags in the afternoon, so I figured he could use some caffeine.
“Hey, where are you? I have coffee!”
Nothing. No answer. For all his admirable qualities, he has the uncanny ability to vanish the second I arrive home with heavy bags to unload from the car, yet magically reappears the moment the items are all put away. The second the last can of refried beans goes into the cabinet, poof! He’s like Lance Burton, materializing out of thin air. I’m not surprised, as I’m just back from the grocery store and Target with a trunk full of soup cans and cat litter.
Really, it’s like he has a second sense.
I begin hauling out items myself. Of course I bought two hundred and fifty pounds of driveway salt today. Of course I did. I dump the sacks in the corner of the garage by his car so I can get to the rest of the purchases.
I finish unloading all the bags while Hambone supervises, trotting along behind me. She’s a small ball of muscle and sinew, compact and powerful, her eyes, nose and face the same shade of burnt umber, the only contrast provided by the kind of sharp, white teeth that belong on a dog three times her size.
I love her so much, but good Lord, this creature looks possessed, especially when she’s excited and her eyes glow red. One is tempted to reach for holy water, maybe summon a priest.
I toss her a cookie for her efforts, but she just looks at it. She’s what I call “Hamorexic,” sometimes eating only every two or three days. She’s not food-motivated, which I simply cannot not fathom. Like those old commercials that used to ask what I might do for a Klondike bar?
Untoward things, I suspect.
As I unpack and stow, Hammie does The Lean, where she presses her whole midsection up against my calves. There is no higher compliment one can receive from this dog, no greater sign of trust and affection. I stoop to pet her and she wiggles with glee, flopping over to show me her taut, clammy, hairless belly.
You’d never know that this sweet little thing suffers from terrible anxiety. At first, we thought she’d become aggressive when she started to fight with Libby three years ago. Turns out, she’s an enormous coward and the whole world scares her. After we started keeping them apart, Frozen-style, we also discovered the full extent of her separation anxiety.
[If you need to know how to replace a chewed-up door jamb or clawed-through sheet of drywall, lemme know, we’re experts.]
Between exercise, training, and medication, we’ve made enormous strides in increasing her confidence. She has a happy life because we will not give up on a pet. She’s worth the effort.
However, we’ve not done as much work as we’d like in bringing Libby and Hammie back together recently for two reasons; first, Loki has taken additional care l
ately. He has trouble getting around because of hip dysplasia and he’s experiencing increasing symptoms of canine senility. He’s been a very good boy for a very long time, so we both cater to his comfort.
More pressing is that our blind-in-one-eye cat Odin [of Clan Thundercat] has required a lot of extra help lately. He recently lost a leg through a series of unfortunate events, all of which are his own fault. Fletch summed it up as, “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.” However, I feel it’s more of an object lesson on Why You Don’t Date Rape Your Brothers. While I chose to have his damaged leg amputated, the vets at the specialty clinic could have saved it for ten thousand dollars.
Ten thousand dollars.
Not a typo.
That’s how much my Achilles rupture surgery cost, and that price included all the physical therapy.
While I fully admit to being a crazy cat lady, I am not a crazy cat lady so I didn’t automatically agree, all, “Yes, yes, whatever it takes! I shall sell my hair and my antique pocket watch to make it happen!” I wanted to explore all the options, so a team – a team! – of orthopedic surgeons came into the treatment room to explain why I should save the leg through surgical intervention.
“Will he be able to function on three legs?” I asked.
“Yes,” the first orthopedic surgeon admitted.
“Will he miss it if you take it?” I pressed.
“No, they do pretty well, especially since it’s a back leg,” said the second orthopedic surgeon.
“What’s the difference in the recovery time?” I asked.
“Amputation’s a couple of weeks and the surgery’s about two months of confinement,” said number one. “Of course, he might need additional surgeries after that, if the hip should have to be replaced.”
I could literally hear a cash register chiming as they spoke. When they told me how much less expensive it was to amputate, and really, how much easier it would be on the ol’ pervert, amputation was the logical choice. A part of me felt sad about his delicate little striped grey leg being tossed in a garbage can, all alone and forlorn, but not ten thousand dollars-bad.
“Listen, if he breaks his other back leg, then there’s nothing we can do,” said the second doctor, miffed that I opted to discard a perfectly good limb in lieu of buying, say, a used Honda.
“If he breaks another leg because he can’t stop molesting his brothers, then he’s on his own,” I replied.
Odin has recovered brilliantly and at no point has he noticed that anything’s different. His fur’s growing in over his scar and he likes that he can snuggle even closer to me now when we’re watching TV together. He’s even back to trying to mount his brothers, Chuck Norris and Gus. Sweet recidivism!
Odin looks up at me with his one good eye, stretching and yawning as he repositions himself in the basket I keep for him at the end of the wide-plank farm table in the kitchen. A while ago, we gave up trying to chase the cats of said table. We figured, they’re going to sit here anyway, we may as well make a place for them so they stop trying to cram into the fruit bowl. I set down the Starbucks cup and knead the soft fur around his neck. His purr reverberates through his whole body.
I wonder where Fletch is?
He should be popping out of the woodwork by now. His latte’s going to get cold. I kiss Odin and grab the cup to go look for Fletch. He’s not in the great room off the kitchen, so I run upstairs to his office. His dual computer monitors are off and he’s not in the media room, either.
Where is he?
I open the door to the guest room where Patsy, our cranky old-lady cat, lives. Ham’s been on my heels the whole time. While I greet Patsy, Hambone hops up on her special chair, which is covered in a fuzzy pink blanket.
[Ham and Patsy are BFF and spend lots of time together, so Ham has her own bed in here.]
Patsy has lived by herself ever since we lost Edina, her sister, to kidney failure. I didn’t realize exactly how much the sisters despised each other until Eddy was gone. While this sounds sad, Patsy’s never been happier. She’s like Highlander; there can only be one.
I serve Patsy some Bonito flakes, which are wafer-thin bits of dried, smoked fish that taste like lox. She’s the only cat who gets this treat. I go to the Japanese market to buy them especially for her. I guess this is her reward for being a sociopath who refuses to be near other cats.
Patsy woofs down her flakes and then we hang out for a few minutes. I let her bite me, as this is the only way she knows how to show affection. Her breath smells like brunch and her teeth are tiny white needles.
[Fletch says it feels like we’re running a VA hospital for pets, between the amputees, the elderly, and the PTSD patients.]
Ham decides to hang with Patsy – she’s excellent with other species – so I leave her in here while I resume my search.
I close the door and head back down the stairs.
“Fletch, where are you? Got you a coffee.” I enter the weird sitting room off the master, which is accessed through a Jack-and-Jill bathroom. The layout of our house is flat-out bizarre. While we have the kind of spaces we want, none of them are in logical spots.
Libby and Loki are chillin’ in here. Loki’s pleased to see me, greeting me with an “aww-ooo-ooo” howl. We had a DNA test done on him once and it came back “Labradoodle,” which was absolutely a mistake and incredibly funny. Google “black wolf” and there he is, his fur, his shape, his howl, his temperament, everything. If there was any poodle in his sample, it’s because his ancestors ate them.
In his prime, he was truly magnificent. Now the poor old guy can’t even climb onto his favorite couch anymore. I bought him a fantastic orthopedic bed, washable and breathable, super-soft and specially made of memory foam for arthritic senior dogs. He enjoys sleeping next to it. The old man’s still got a sense of humor, I’ll give him that.
Libby’s arranged on top of a pile of pillows on top of the couch. She lazily thumps her tail. One is reminded of Jabba the Hutt. (Fatty does not share her nemesis Hambone’s commitment to physical fitness.) They both get a treat. Libby chokes hers down without even chewing, sort of like a duck. Loki eats his with a smile on his grayed face; this pleases me. There are only a few grains of sand left in his hourglass, but it delights me to see him relish experiences during the time he has left.
I turn the corner into the master, assuming he’s in the bathroom.
“Jesus, Fletch, I’ve been looking all over. I have coffee for you. You’ll probably have to nuke it by now.”
I expect to hear the exhaust fan whirring away as I approach.
Nope. Where the hell is he?
I come back into the sitting room and Loki greets me with an “aww-ooo-ooo.” He either completely forgot he saw me thirty seconds ago or he’s messing with me. Either is possible. This earns him another cookie, which delights him again. His reaction tells me he’s messing with me. I kiss him on the top of his head, which is warm and threaded with bits of white fur. Fletch and I always say his head heats up when he’s thinking hard.
You do you, you sweet, old gentleman. You do you.
I exit through the bathroom and Libby joins me as I check out the basement. This is the only logical place he could be. Fletch doesn’t usually noodle around down here during business hours, but maybe he’s trying to fix a router or something.
We search every corner as we have [meaning I have] a bit of a hoard accumulated and I want to make sure he’s not trapped under anything heavy.
Nope.
Where is he?
I’m not worried, per se. I’m just confused. This is so out of the ordinary. He wouldn’t have gone anywhere without his car as we’re not in a walkable neighborhood. Well, we’re walkable for me [humblebrag] as I’ll often run the dogs to their vet appointments a mile away so they’re calm upon arrival.
In theory, he’d walk Hambone or Libby to the vet if I asked, except he doesn’t possess that kind of time management. He’d make a mental note and plan for the walk all day. Then he’d take
one more call or attempt to finish one more Visio diagram and then he’d look at the clock and realize the appointment started five minutes ago. Then he, and whichever dog was due for shots, would hop in the car, he’d drive it like they stole it, and they’d arrive at the vet in a state that’s the antonym of calm. Also, I’ve already seen all the pets and no one has an appointment today.
Maybe Peter, his boss, picked him up for a late lunch or something? Peter lives only a few miles away. That would explain why Fletch’s car is here and he’s not. I’ll just confirm by looking in the drawer in the kitchen where he keeps his wallet and keys. They’d be gone if he were out.
Hmm, they’re here. His phone’s plugged into the dock, too. Double hmm.
I wonder if he’s in the yard? This winter has been almost entirely without snow and strangely warm, so it’s possible he’s working on something outside, but wouldn’t I have seen him? He’s been eyeing that dead fir tree in the corner of the driveway for a while. I keep telling him, “It’s WAY too big for you to cut down yourself,” but he’s all, “No, all I need is a winch, and I’d save five hundred bucks!” but then he’d cost us five thousand bucks when the damn thing took out the roof of the garage after it came crashing down because it’s way too big for him to cut down by himself.
We have this conversation a lot.
I look out the kitchen window and don’t see him by the dead fir. Then I put on my coat and Libby and I traverse the entire backyard. He’s nowhere. I call and call and hear nothing back in response. It’s too bad there’s no snow out here because then maybe I could see footprints and track him down.
Okay, this is kind of weird.
Obviously, no one’s kidnapped him. If someone did, I imagine the minute Fletch starts going into granular detail about what data lives on the cloud, and the best way to back up files, and blah-di-blah, or he does that God-awful horking thing, or he hears the water heater clicking and he tells them he can fix it and the next thing the kidnappers know, they’re taking pirate baths in a bucket for three days instead of showering proper, then we’d have ourselves a Ransom of Red Chief situation on our hands right quick.
Stories I'd Tell in Bars Page 15