Tuesday, March 15, 2016
Of mortals and marriages
In any conversation involving my love for horses and my husband, the same question always surfaces.
"So, Dona, does Sam ride, too?" There's always a hesitant pause between the word 'so' and my name. Leaving me to wonder if the person asking is afraid I'll knock their block off.
Answer: No, he does not.
And nobody ducks.
Yes, there was a time when Sam rode horses. He's even gone on overnight horseback camping trips, something I've never done (add that to my bucket list). Thing is, he doesn't share my passion for horses. Truth be told, he's not really a passionate person. He's more the quiet reserved type, who prefers to observe, listen and respond if needed.
Like many couples, we have our shared interests; the outdoors, camping, being outdoors, traveling, watching certain television shows, eating, riding our four-wheelers, fishing, boating. And each other, of course. But that's pretty much where it ends.
He loves to hunt. I do not. It's not my thing. I don't have that killer instinct and prefer to shoot animals with my camera. I went hunting with him twice. The first time I asked what I now believe to be the stupidest question I have every asked anyone in my life. Hunting involves a lot of waiting. And walking. And waiting. And more waiting. I'm a patient person but at one point I turned to him and, believing him to be the resident expert on deer behavior, I innocently asked, "What time do they usually show up?" Looking back now, not my finest moment. Sam may be a quiet man, but I know many a belly laugh erupted in the company of his friends when he shared that little memory with the guys.
Okay, so I have my flaws. I openly admit them. Nothing to be ashamed of, it's common knowledge, we are all entitled.
Now, he's not prone to snappy comebacks. Nor does he like to boast. He's not arrogant, but more mild mannered. Doesn't talk a lot.
I often think he's the guy who inspired that now famous slogan from the 70s and 80s, "When E. F. Hutton talks, people listen."
You get the picture.
A couple of years after I got Duke the question got asked for the umpteenth time. Sam is a patient man, but every one has a breaking point. I don't recall exactly where we were at the time, but the air immediately changed when the question smacked the atmosphere. This time, his usual silent shrug off transformed into a simple statement. A very flat, yet concise statement.
"No." I smiled as he spoke, half expecting it to end there. But no--he had something up his sleeve. His face beaming with pride, eyes alight with devilish delight as he announced for all to hear, "I never put anything with a brain between my legs."
Oh.
Really?
So stunned was I at the utterance of those few words, he completely caught me off guard. Did my ears betray me or did my quiet, mild-mannered husband just have a little fun at my expense? I didn't know what to say. His response was so far removed from what I expected, so uncharacteristic of him, I felt speechless. And I let it go. Let him have this one moment. Awkward as it was, funny for several others, it was one of those classic moments in marriage everyone who has ever spent years with one partner encounters. It's going to happen. At least once.
But then, it happened again. Only this time I was too far away to retort. Oh, I had decided after that first time, it would not repeat itself again. And if it did, I would have the last word. Fair is fair.
The opportunity presented itself a third time while attending the grand opening of the newly constructed veterinary clinic and hospital built by Duke's vet, David Rustebakke. Sam and I were chatting with another couple in the equine examination area. Sam worked with the man, Lynn, who shared his love of horses with his wife Patrice. During the exchange of stories and adventures, Lynn asked the question. Or dropped the bomb, depending on your point of view.
His eyes twinkling with delight, Lynn asked, "So, Sam, with Dona riding all the time, when are you going to get a horse of your own so you can join her?"
I felt a smirk draw on my face. Wait for it...
Tilting his head slightly to the side in a dismissive manner, Sam slowly took a sip of his fruit punch, shrugged his shoulders and said, "I'm not."
Lynn furrowed his brows, exchanged confused glances with his wife, and I saw the silent question dash between them. Followed by the, 'Don't all couples share this love together like we do?' look on their faces.
"Why not?" Lynn asked, puzzled. Patrice edged in slightly closer, body leaning forward in anticipation.
Here it comes. Oh, I can't wait because this time I am ready!!!!
Standing tall, chest puffed out Sam announced (not so quietly), "Because I never put anything with a brain between my legs." The smile on his face was enchanting. Pity I was about to wipe it off his face.
Two sympathetic heads turned in unison at my direction in awkward confusion.
Slowly I reached my hand up and placed it on Sam's upper arm. "If that's what you truly want, then I can arrange it for you." Chin up. Big smile. Pride goeth before the fall.
Two sets of eyes and a pair of heads turn from me to Sam. Without saying a word Lynn and Patrice took one large step back, putting a good two feet between the four of us. More space to fill the awkward silence, no doubt.
"So, Dona, does Sam ride, too?" There's always a hesitant pause between the word 'so' and my name. Leaving me to wonder if the person asking is afraid I'll knock their block off.
Answer: No, he does not.
And nobody ducks.
Yes, there was a time when Sam rode horses. He's even gone on overnight horseback camping trips, something I've never done (add that to my bucket list). Thing is, he doesn't share my passion for horses. Truth be told, he's not really a passionate person. He's more the quiet reserved type, who prefers to observe, listen and respond if needed.
Like many couples, we have our shared interests; the outdoors, camping, being outdoors, traveling, watching certain television shows, eating, riding our four-wheelers, fishing, boating. And each other, of course. But that's pretty much where it ends.
He loves to hunt. I do not. It's not my thing. I don't have that killer instinct and prefer to shoot animals with my camera. I went hunting with him twice. The first time I asked what I now believe to be the stupidest question I have every asked anyone in my life. Hunting involves a lot of waiting. And walking. And waiting. And more waiting. I'm a patient person but at one point I turned to him and, believing him to be the resident expert on deer behavior, I innocently asked, "What time do they usually show up?" Looking back now, not my finest moment. Sam may be a quiet man, but I know many a belly laugh erupted in the company of his friends when he shared that little memory with the guys.
Okay, so I have my flaws. I openly admit them. Nothing to be ashamed of, it's common knowledge, we are all entitled.
Now, he's not prone to snappy comebacks. Nor does he like to boast. He's not arrogant, but more mild mannered. Doesn't talk a lot.
I often think he's the guy who inspired that now famous slogan from the 70s and 80s, "When E. F. Hutton talks, people listen."
You get the picture.
A couple of years after I got Duke the question got asked for the umpteenth time. Sam is a patient man, but every one has a breaking point. I don't recall exactly where we were at the time, but the air immediately changed when the question smacked the atmosphere. This time, his usual silent shrug off transformed into a simple statement. A very flat, yet concise statement.
"No." I smiled as he spoke, half expecting it to end there. But no--he had something up his sleeve. His face beaming with pride, eyes alight with devilish delight as he announced for all to hear, "I never put anything with a brain between my legs."
Oh.
Really?
So stunned was I at the utterance of those few words, he completely caught me off guard. Did my ears betray me or did my quiet, mild-mannered husband just have a little fun at my expense? I didn't know what to say. His response was so far removed from what I expected, so uncharacteristic of him, I felt speechless. And I let it go. Let him have this one moment. Awkward as it was, funny for several others, it was one of those classic moments in marriage everyone who has ever spent years with one partner encounters. It's going to happen. At least once.
But then, it happened again. Only this time I was too far away to retort. Oh, I had decided after that first time, it would not repeat itself again. And if it did, I would have the last word. Fair is fair.
The opportunity presented itself a third time while attending the grand opening of the newly constructed veterinary clinic and hospital built by Duke's vet, David Rustebakke. Sam and I were chatting with another couple in the equine examination area. Sam worked with the man, Lynn, who shared his love of horses with his wife Patrice. During the exchange of stories and adventures, Lynn asked the question. Or dropped the bomb, depending on your point of view.
His eyes twinkling with delight, Lynn asked, "So, Sam, with Dona riding all the time, when are you going to get a horse of your own so you can join her?"
I felt a smirk draw on my face. Wait for it...
Tilting his head slightly to the side in a dismissive manner, Sam slowly took a sip of his fruit punch, shrugged his shoulders and said, "I'm not."
Lynn furrowed his brows, exchanged confused glances with his wife, and I saw the silent question dash between them. Followed by the, 'Don't all couples share this love together like we do?' look on their faces.
"Why not?" Lynn asked, puzzled. Patrice edged in slightly closer, body leaning forward in anticipation.
Here it comes. Oh, I can't wait because this time I am ready!!!!
Standing tall, chest puffed out Sam announced (not so quietly), "Because I never put anything with a brain between my legs." The smile on his face was enchanting. Pity I was about to wipe it off his face.
Two sympathetic heads turned in unison at my direction in awkward confusion.
Slowly I reached my hand up and placed it on Sam's upper arm. "If that's what you truly want, then I can arrange it for you." Chin up. Big smile. Pride goeth before the fall.
Two sets of eyes and a pair of heads turn from me to Sam. Without saying a word Lynn and Patrice took one large step back, putting a good two feet between the four of us. More space to fill the awkward silence, no doubt.
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
Someone is not in the kitchen with Dona (revisited)
This entry is from November 2005.
Contrary to popular belief, I am not a domestic goddess.
No siree. Far from it.
Okay, so there is evidence that every now and then I venture into the kitchen and emerge with homemade goodies. But, truth be told, I really don't shine in the kitchen.
The first time I made jelly by myself, I almost burned down the house and ruined a brand new stove. Just the year before I had learned how to make grape jelly at the home of my friend, Bona. And she warned me, more than once, don't try to make jelly by yourself. You should always have someone helping, especially once the fruit, sugar, and water mixture starts boiling.
So one fall evening a couple of years ago I wanted to make some more grape jelly for Christmas gifts. Bona was supposed to help, but her back was flaring up and she was down for the day. Same for Sam, who had put in a doubly full day at work and was physically drained. Fresh grapes are only fresh for a short time, and I had picked these grapes days before, so I decided not to wait any longer. I gathered all the necessary tools and ingredients and got cookin'.
I turned the solid grapes into liquid, and ended up with about 12 cups of juice. Into the pot goes 8 cups of juice and 5 cups of sugar (shock! yes, 5 cups). Set heat to high and wait for mixture to boil.
They say a watched pot never boils. Oh, it does. The second you take your eyes off it.
I'm keeping one eye on the mixture while I get the jars ready to receive the hot liquid. The jelly pot is close to boiling when I turned my back just long enough to line up some of the jars so I can begin to spoon the jelly into them. Both my hands are full of glass jars when out of the corner of my eye I see the liquid level in the pot quickly rise to the top...and begin to spill over. In horror I put the jars down on the counter, shut off the burner and remove the pot from the heat, after grabbing two pot holders, of course. Safety first, you know. Too late. Our stove is electric, not gas, and is one of those solid surface types that take forever and a day to cool down after the heat element is turned off.
The pot is no longer into a rolling boil, but now smoke is billowing...quite profusely I might add...off the stove top. Thick, grey sugary sweet smoke.
SHIT!
Switch on the overhead exhaust fan. Forget trying to wipe the sugary mess off the stove, the heat has now crystalized the sugar and bonded it to the stovetop, which is still pretty hot and doing a mighty fine job of filling the kitchen with smoke.
SHIT!
Run around the kitchen, opening every window and the door. The stove is still smoking and the exhaust fan isn't exhausting. My heart is pounding and my mind is racing while visions of fire fighters rushing into my home armed with axes and fire hoses immediately come to mind.
This would be an appropriate time to panic before the smoke detectors start going off.
Run around the house, calling out to the hubby who is downstairs in the family room. Continue to open doors and all available windows...continue to panic. The living room is now filling up with smoke.
It's a rather eerie feeling to open the front door of your home and literally watch thick, grey smoke being sucked outside. A tad unsettling as well.
Walk back to the kitchen and banish the thought of trying to cover up my little faux pas. I'll never get away with hiding the evidence now. Busted! The look on Sam's face when he walked into the kitchen was....well, in a word, indescribable. And I won't repeat what he said. I've choosen to forget.
An hour later, the smoke finally cleared. Two hours later Sam finished scraping the burned grape syrup off the brand new stove top. That was my version of 'How to break in a new appliance.' And a darn good hootin' job I did of that if I may say so! When all was said and done, I called Bona, knowing she could use a good laugh.
To this day I can't stand in front of that stove and watch something boil without thinking back.
I now own a very tall stock pot which I use to make my jelly in and I never fill it more than one-quarter full. The jars get set up before I make the jelly mixture. And to look at the stove, you'd never know what happened three years ago. Not a trace of burned sugar remains.
What happened to that batch of jelly? Well, it became grape syrup; it never got the chance to become jelly. A lot of work goes into turning solid grapes into juice and I wasn't about to toss all that work down the drain. Pissed as I was at myself, I just couldn't throw that stupid stuff away.
Looking back, I probably should have and written it off as an offering to appease the kitchen muse.
Contrary to popular belief, I am not a domestic goddess.
No siree. Far from it.
Okay, so there is evidence that every now and then I venture into the kitchen and emerge with homemade goodies. But, truth be told, I really don't shine in the kitchen.
The first time I made jelly by myself, I almost burned down the house and ruined a brand new stove. Just the year before I had learned how to make grape jelly at the home of my friend, Bona. And she warned me, more than once, don't try to make jelly by yourself. You should always have someone helping, especially once the fruit, sugar, and water mixture starts boiling.
So one fall evening a couple of years ago I wanted to make some more grape jelly for Christmas gifts. Bona was supposed to help, but her back was flaring up and she was down for the day. Same for Sam, who had put in a doubly full day at work and was physically drained. Fresh grapes are only fresh for a short time, and I had picked these grapes days before, so I decided not to wait any longer. I gathered all the necessary tools and ingredients and got cookin'.
I turned the solid grapes into liquid, and ended up with about 12 cups of juice. Into the pot goes 8 cups of juice and 5 cups of sugar (shock! yes, 5 cups). Set heat to high and wait for mixture to boil.
They say a watched pot never boils. Oh, it does. The second you take your eyes off it.
I'm keeping one eye on the mixture while I get the jars ready to receive the hot liquid. The jelly pot is close to boiling when I turned my back just long enough to line up some of the jars so I can begin to spoon the jelly into them. Both my hands are full of glass jars when out of the corner of my eye I see the liquid level in the pot quickly rise to the top...and begin to spill over. In horror I put the jars down on the counter, shut off the burner and remove the pot from the heat, after grabbing two pot holders, of course. Safety first, you know. Too late. Our stove is electric, not gas, and is one of those solid surface types that take forever and a day to cool down after the heat element is turned off.
The pot is no longer into a rolling boil, but now smoke is billowing...quite profusely I might add...off the stove top. Thick, grey sugary sweet smoke.
SHIT!
Switch on the overhead exhaust fan. Forget trying to wipe the sugary mess off the stove, the heat has now crystalized the sugar and bonded it to the stovetop, which is still pretty hot and doing a mighty fine job of filling the kitchen with smoke.
SHIT!
Run around the kitchen, opening every window and the door. The stove is still smoking and the exhaust fan isn't exhausting. My heart is pounding and my mind is racing while visions of fire fighters rushing into my home armed with axes and fire hoses immediately come to mind.
This would be an appropriate time to panic before the smoke detectors start going off.
Run around the house, calling out to the hubby who is downstairs in the family room. Continue to open doors and all available windows...continue to panic. The living room is now filling up with smoke.
It's a rather eerie feeling to open the front door of your home and literally watch thick, grey smoke being sucked outside. A tad unsettling as well.
Walk back to the kitchen and banish the thought of trying to cover up my little faux pas. I'll never get away with hiding the evidence now. Busted! The look on Sam's face when he walked into the kitchen was....well, in a word, indescribable. And I won't repeat what he said. I've choosen to forget.
An hour later, the smoke finally cleared. Two hours later Sam finished scraping the burned grape syrup off the brand new stove top. That was my version of 'How to break in a new appliance.' And a darn good hootin' job I did of that if I may say so! When all was said and done, I called Bona, knowing she could use a good laugh.
To this day I can't stand in front of that stove and watch something boil without thinking back.
I now own a very tall stock pot which I use to make my jelly in and I never fill it more than one-quarter full. The jars get set up before I make the jelly mixture. And to look at the stove, you'd never know what happened three years ago. Not a trace of burned sugar remains.
What happened to that batch of jelly? Well, it became grape syrup; it never got the chance to become jelly. A lot of work goes into turning solid grapes into juice and I wasn't about to toss all that work down the drain. Pissed as I was at myself, I just couldn't throw that stupid stuff away.
Looking back, I probably should have and written it off as an offering to appease the kitchen muse.
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