Monday, April 27, 2009

As If God Can See Them From Heaven

On a recent house hunting trip to Dayton, Chris and I found ourselves spending a great deal of time in our car. All weekend we drove around, neighborhood after neighborhood, town after town, trying to find "the one." To save money, we booked a room in the cheapest motel we could find and took the dogs with us on the trip. The motel turned out to be what we presumed was a crack house/whorehouse where the baby mama who cleaned our room lived in the room above us and our room had a collection of overlooked cigarette butts and unmentionables under the furniture.

We took the dogs as opposed to boarding them, first because it costs $25 a day to board them in a place they hate and second because the motel, as luck would have it, allowed pets. I lovingly call the boarding kennel "Doggy Camp" to make it sound more exciting to the girls when we have no other option but to board them. But Chris has taken to calling it "Doggy Concentration Camp" and I think this gives the girls a complex about it. So, when we can travel with them these days, we do.

Now, when I booked the motel room, there was nothing online about pet fees, so I was under the impression it would be free to bring them. All the better. However, when I showed up at the "Whore-A Day Inn", there was a sign on the counter that said, "Please notify us if you have pets with you." So, being the honest person I am, I told the lady about the two small dogs we brought with us. To which she responded, "Are they clean?"

Startled by this concern for sanitation I began to respond that yes they were clean but I choked on the stale cigarette and mildew stench emanating from every corner of the room. The place was really called "The Red Carpet Inn" and I imagined it getting it's name from the amount of brutally murdered dealers and hookers found on the floors of the rooms. After a few coughs and regaining my poise, I said, "Yes, and they are house broken so there shouldn't be a problem but if there is I'll be sure to let you know."

"Okay, because I don't want them to mess up the carpet but if they do, just let me know so I can shampoo it," she said. Then I paid my $3 per dog, per day fees and we headed to our room.
After our first trip out to look at potential homes the next day, we returned to the motel to find two shirtless guys in lawn chairs hanging out in front of the building. They were slouched over a little hibachi grill, beers in hand (cans, not bottles) with their laundry hanging to dry from a nearby tree. Baby Mama heard us pull up from her open window upstairs and leaned out and shouted, "Hey! I put new sheets on ya'll's bed today!" and she gave us a friendly wave.

So, we went in to enjoy our fresh sheets, the only thing in the room that did not smell like cigarettes and mildew, rested up and headed out to search again. Every time we left the motel, we had to take the dogs with us of course because God only knows what kind of havoc they could wreak on our immaculate home away from home. But having them in the car with us everywhere we went proved to be a tenuous experience. The first day was hotter than I expected and although I kept cold water in a dish in the car and the windows cracked with the car parked in the shade, I felt bad for the girls and was concerned about their comfort. We kept them air conditioned as much as possible and got them out for short walks in between looking at houses but eventually I started feeling pretty guilty about the long day in the car for them.

So, when we broke for a bite to eat at a local shake shack, I bought them an ice cream cone which they shared voraciously. After our brief intermission with refreshments, we hopped back in the car and about ten minutes down the road we noticed an unusual odor from the back of the car. Somebody had tossed up the ice cream cone. It laid in a mushy off-white pile in the back corner of the car and every time we turned a corner or came to a quick stop, a paw or a tail would inevitably end up in it. Chris got a look on his face like he was going to hurl himself and began yelling, "Oh God! For crying out loud! That is so gross! God I can smell it all the way up here!" He turned on the AC full blast and leaned into it taking deep breaths as he drove.

He rolled down the windows but this unleashed a tornado of dog hair that had been accumulating in the back seat. So there was Chris, face smooshed into a putrid scowl, gagging and breathing straight from the AC vent while he swatted swarms of dog hair from his face. Occasionally he would make spitting noises which I assumed meant he had gotten a hair in his mouth and was trying to expel it without letting go of the wheel.

Eventually we pulled over so I could clean up the mess, get the girls out of the back for a brisk walk and get Chris out for some fresh air. I didn't have much to mop up the puke so I grabbed a few napkins which had collected in my glove box from the occasional fast food runs, and found a bottle of car scent. The bottle had lost it's spray nozzle so in desperation I just poured the coconut scented liquid onto the spot. We all calmed down and collected ourselves and got back into the car. We were hit by an overwhelming wall of coconut breeze but at least it was better than vanilla ice cream and stomach acid.

By the end of the day, we were becoming desperate to make the best of our situation. We still had not found a house, the car smelled like a tiki bar had overturned on us, the dogs were getting restless and shedding profusely and Chris and I were losing our sense of humor. That's when we noticed the stars. "Do they mean something? I mean are you a member of something if you have one on your house?" he asked me. "You mean like a cult or a secret society?" I said with a laugh. Apparently since I was the only Ohioan in the car, I assume he thought I had some inside information on this peculiar mystery. As if there is like an underground society of rural Ohio housewives who obsessively decorate in rustic decor. Although I have witnessed an inordinate amount of Ohio homes covered in wooden carved ornaments and fabric decorations, it's not like I have a membership.

Anyway, we've not seen the stars anywhere else in the country, so far. They come in all shapes and colors and some even have the American flag painted on them. Either way, it is uncanny how many houses you will see in Ohio with a star nailed to the side of them. We supposed that in the tradition of the fashionable goose and the porch flags that let everyone know what your favorite thing is, these metal 3-D stars are the next big thing in outdoor home decor.

So, we made a game out of it. As we drove through the neighborhoods, every time we passed a house with a star, we'd punch each other in the leg and yell "Star!" Houses with multiple stars got a punch for each star they had and American Flag stars automatically got a double punch. Whoever spotted the star first and got their punch in won that point. We were having fun with our stars and were perfectly content to entertain ourselves at that level when suddenly the residents of Troy, Ohio raised the bar.

By Saturday night we were still driving around and it was getting dark. That's how we were able to spot them. Like beacons lighting up the houses as if the family's were hoping God could see them from Heaven, these three foot arrangements of multi-colored lights hung proudly from porches and outside walls. Chris did a double take and blinked a few times before hitting the breaks and exclaiming, "Are those rosary beads?" I turned my head quickly to adjust my sight on what he was looking at. Sure enough, there hung in all their glory were large looped strands of lights with lit up crosses hanging from the bottoms. Giant rosary bead light arrangements.

"Are those seriously freaking rosary beads? Are you kidding me?" Chris was incredulous and began laughing in amazement. I too was shocked by the sight and began laughing hysterically. "That's awesome." Tacky took a higher level in this little town. Once we saw one, we began to see them everywhere. Around every corner another house lit up like a Vegas chapel. There was no special occasion, it wasn't Christmas, but for some reason, the God-fearing townspeople of Troy decided to Hail Mary their homes with the proudest display of religious fervor I've seen since the days of Tammy Faye. We paused for a moment, slowing the car down to a gentle halt and sat staring in a moment of silence at this statement of devotion. Our cheeks basked in the glow of the multi-colored bulbs and for a brief moment I was almost touched.

I thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be nice if I could find myself a set of these giant rosary beads to light up our motel? If God really can see these from Heaven, well those people need all the help they can get." Then I thought, "I wonder if Jewish people put giant lit up Stars of David on the outsides of their houses?" But then I thought, "No, that would just be asking for it. They probably just stick to the yearly understated mennorrah and call it a day."

Anyway, we left feeling like our weekend in the car and motel was like a visit to Soddom and Gomorrah; animals and vomit, hookers and cults. It was just too much. Seeing the calm yet slightly creepy rosary lights was like a north star guiding us back to Bethlehem. We were going to survive this trip with only slight trauma but also with a renewed strength in pursuit of what will one day be our home. And when we find that home, I might just hang a small set of rosary beads on the wall to remind us of our suffering.

Appalachian Customer Service

I have found that one of the greatest cultural experiences money can by is a trip to your local Wal Mart, pretty much any where in West Virginia or Eastern Ohio. Customer service is of a unique quality that, while I would not say is particularly good or professional, it certainly is entertaining. And there seems to be personality profiles of your local Wal Mart staff, which can be found almost as if they have been cloned, at just about any store location in the valley. Let's start with my favorite, "The Hon Girl." You know her. She's the one who calls you hon, several times throughout the process of your purchase. "How you doin' today, hon?" "Did you find everything you needed today, hon?" Sign here, hon." "Here's your receipt, hon. You have a nice day now." It is her understanding that she is being friendly and polite by giving you such an endearing nickname. You are supposed to feel like family by the time you leave the store. And, if she were at least middle aged, with grey or white hair and looking like she has at least one grandchild, this would be somewhat comforting. Especially after you just braved Wal Mart on a Sunday after church lets out.

But too often, "the Hon Girl," is not a granny. She is instead a young girl, usually at least 10 years your junior, likely with no formal education to speak of. In this instance the "hons" are terribly condescending and "The Hon Girl" ends up grating on your last nerve rather than making you feel coddled and nurtured. She comes across sounding as if she has earned some superior status in the social stucture, like she is wise and learned and you, you poor thing, need her gentle hand holding in order to navigate the daunting process of putting your items on a conveyor belt and then swiping your card through a machine. "Whew! That was way over my head! Thank God you were here to guide me through that."
"No problem, hon."

Another personality I have come to feel kindred to is "The Sharer." She's the one who feels the need to discuss, either with you or with another employee in front of you, the drama which is going on among the staff. She'll either talk to said fellow employee, talk to herself, or tell you directly how she feels about whatever injustice is going on.
"I swear. Some people. She thinks just because she's pregnant, she should get extra smoke breaks. Well, I've been here since four and I'm taking my break whether she likes it or not. My feet swell too!"

Sometimes she complains about the customer who was ahead of you. "Some people can be so bitchy, you know? I tried to tell her she can't purchase a six pack with her W.I.C. card but she got all pissed off about it. Whatever. They gotta pay me more than seven bucks an hour to put up with that shit. Did you find everything alright today, hon?"

One of the best personalities, however, is "The Manager." This name gets quotations because so many times you'll find a manager who does not really know how to manage. They have the keys to all the registers and they know how to fill out all the paperwork and to tell the employess when to take their breaks but beyond that, they're at a loss. As for professional communication skills, well really you're just asking too much. Take today for instance. I went to Wal Mart Express Tire and Lube to get my oil changed. During the "express" hour that I waited for them to get started on my car, a very disgruntled man wearing a red plaid flannel shirt and work boots came tearing into the customer service area yelling about the tires on his truck.

He flung his arms around and raised hell, apparently because he was disputing the tread measurements on his tires for an inpsection. The employee doing the inspection claimed they were too low and would not pass. He adamently disagreed. Finally, a "manager" came over to intervene. After about a few minutes of trying to explain the law and the rule for tire tread, the irate man caused the manager to blow. Within five minutes the two of them were in each other's faces, pointing fingers and screaming at each other.

"You watch your mouth sir!" said "manager."
"They do not need to be replaced, they're just low!" said irate man.
"Sir do not talk to me that way! I'm the manager!"
"I'll talk to you anyway I want and don't point your finger in my face!"
"Get out!"
"You touched my face! I'm calling the cops!"

You can guess how this episode ended. After the irate man was "managed," two police cars showed up, statements were taken, the irate man was banned from Wal Mart and "manager" stood outside smoking cigarettes and discussing his side of the story with other employees for about twenty minutes.

Again, if you're on a budget, as so many of us are these days, go to Wal Mart, not necessarily because they're prices are so low, but because it is the cheapest form of entertainment you will find and its unque cultural quality is unsurpassed.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Turds in a Circle

The other day, I was walking Maggie and Mandie on our daily route through the neighborhood. Now, people acquire dogs for a lot of reasons. They're man's best friend, a robber's worst enemy....I originally got my girls to fill some need to have something to love and care for. I never anticipated the comic relief they would give to me. As we walked down the street at our usual stop-and-go gait, Mandie paused for the fiftieth time. She sniffed the grass, pivoted a few times--- once left, twice right---and then curled her butt up underneath her until she resembled a hedgehog. This is the dance. The poop dance.

The problem is, my girls have doggie ADD. A good dump requires focus, meditation if you will. But at the slightest bark off in the distance, Maggie and Mandie are railing in a chaotic bark-at-the-wind style. "Where is it coming from?" They seem to say frantically. "I don't know but we must sound the alarms until we nail the sucker!" This is what took place in the middle of her crap, disrupting the ritual. Mandie continued to pooh but pivoted in a full circle as she did so, all while raising her head to the sky and barking out in protest of the mysterious culprit.

When she finished, she walked away from what resulted as a miniature turd Stonehenge. Staring at this sculpture in amazement, I found myself almost proud. I never have a camera when I need one! My dog is an artist! Mandie continued to bark in her broken record, medium tempo as she kicked back her legs, spraying Turdhenge with a grass storm. Meanwhile Maggie inspected Turdhenge, obviously for its authenticity, and then we moved on down the road.

When we got back to the house, Chris was making dinner. The girls raced into the house to check on his progress. He was making spaghetti. As the girls begged and danced around his feet, he reached into the pot and pulled out two wiggly noodles. He placed the sticky pasta in their hair on the sides of their heads.

Both of them furiously threw their heads to the side trying to grab the noodle dangling off their ears. And each time the noodle flung simultaneously in the same direction. Looking like two dogs with the same nervous tick, they persistently chased the noodle that swung towards their face and then away, just out of reach of their mouths. As we hollered in laughter at this ridiculous display, the two continued to chase their prey.

Eventually, Mandie, the one who would be thrilled to be fed 24 hours intravenously, got wise and decided to go after Maggie's noodle. She waited for it to swing toward her and then she snapped at it like a crocodile. Once she caught it, she began to tug at it, jerking Maggie's head to the side. By this time the noodle was wrapped up in Maggie's hair and it looked like Mandie might take her ear along with her noodle. Chris was on the floor. When Maggie got over the shock of what was happening to her head, she realized that this strategy was much more effective and she went after Mandie's noodle. The two of them were intertwined like two mating eagles, tugging and nibbling on each other's heads. They turned slowly, choreographing their moves so that each could get substantial bits of the furry pasta.

Finally, the episode was over and the noodles were sufficiently retreived from their heads. Chris and I filled our plates and went off to battle the ravenous beasts as we guarded our dinner. Art, dinner and a show all in one evening. Who knew we would be leading such rich lives?