Chapter Three con't: Chores, Lawncare & Green Thumbs

Men and women handle household chores very differently. Rob is mortified at the amount of laundry I put into the washer and dryer. He never noticed until the second dryer belt snapped. I didn’t notice the banging of the washer, as it rebelled against unevenly distributed clothes and sidled on its own towards the bottom of the stairs.

“Didn’t you hear that noise?” he asked.

“Yes. I thought it was a helicopter flying over the house!”

“How high are you filling the washer?” he asked.

“I don’t know. To the top…until the hamper’s empty?”

He smacked his forehead.

When it came to filling the dishwasher, however, that was another story. Just when I thought the racks were crammed full, Rob would perform some feat of rearrangement then forbid me to start it. 

“This is only two-thirds full. Don’t run it yet, you’ll waste water!”

“We need to run it. Tomorrow I’d like to drink coffee out of a mug instead of a gravy boat!”

“How come I can’t get you to load the washing machine the way you load the dishwasher?”

“Well, as we are discussing habits, can you please refrain from leaving gobs of toothpaste on our bathroom towels? Yesterday I dried my face and looked like I’d been spackling!”

“Whatever,” he replied. “I’ll be in the garage.”

* * *

I never knew that buying a BBQ grill was as complicated as buying a car. I thought it a simple task: we’d spot one in a store flyer for $99.99 and buy it. However, I was about to be proven wrong!

We made several trips to home and garden stores looking at chrome and steel beauties that gleamed under fluorescent lights. I’d point to one, “Let’s get that one.” Rob would shake his head in disgust, “No. That’s not a reliable brand.”

I’d point to another, “How about that one?”

“No, no!” He’d shake the lid from side to side. “See how flimsy it is?”

“Ah.”

Soon I got bored and muttered, “I don’t care which one we get. A grill’s a grill.”

He stared agog as if I’d blasphemed against the good Lord himself.

“That’s absolutely not true!” he stammered and stomped off to choose one himself. Finally, he purchased a top-of-the-line commercial grill, complete with matching grill tools and matching custom–fitted cover.

For some reason, he still hasn’t shown me how to use it.

* * *

Lawn care in Suburbia

After being apartment-dwellers for so long, owning a little patch of land of our own was wonderful. Along with this honor came responsibility. We planted a vegetable garden and tulip bulbs and we painted a fresh walkway. Rob embraced yard work with fervor, clearing brush and putting up new fences. It gave him an excuse to buy ‘necessary’ lawn implements.

Once again, our variations in vernacular caused confusion when Robert told me one evening that we needed a tractor.

“You mean a lawnmower?”

He rolled his eyes, “Yeah.”

“We have a push mower. We’re getting a ride-on mower? Cool, I want to use it!”

I saw a flicker of alarm on his face. Then he regained his composure. “I found a tractor on e-Bay. I’m going to look at it after dinner.”

He seemed to be gone an awfully long time. I called him when it started getting dark. He answered excitedly, “We’re still talking. This guy has amazing stuff in his garage! I’m buying the tractor. It has a snow blower attachment and it’s a really good deal. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” I was touched that he’d asked.

A little while later, I got a text message that read:  I have the sexiest tractor on the block! That’s right, the sexiest! 

I smiled. It was the closest thing to a dirty text I’d ever received.

So we were proud owners of a shiny Toro tractor with only 56 hours on it. (Tractor mileage is calculated by hours, who knew?) The next day it sat like a beacon in our yard. The lush green lawn complemented the fire engine red tractor. I am certain that Rob left it out for a good long time for all the neighbors to envy.

I finally called out the window, “Are you gonna mow the lawn or what?” Rob climbed on it, after he declined my offer to take a picture for the photo album.

From inside the house, I enjoyed the scent of freshly cut grass and the familiar hum of the lawnmower. I guess I was naïve. It was when I went outside to sip a glass of iced tea in the sun, that the truth hit me.

He came tearing full bore around the corner from our side yard with a huge grin on his face. Grass clippings flew off the tractor. Our pets darted out of the way. I realized that it was just another toy! I had a brief image of him as a youth, kart racing at the local speedway.  

With the skill and precision of an Indy 500 driver, Rob snapped the tractor in reverse. And with a spin of his wrist, he deftly maneuvered the machine into the small space in the garage, leaving two inches on either side. He hopped off the tractor triumphantly.

As we both surveyed our gorgeous manicured yard, I realized I’d never have to mow it.  

* * *

   

Green Thumbs?

One of our proudest achievements as homeowners was planting a vegetable garden. We honestly didn’t think that anything would grow. We bought a bunch of seedlings and hoped for the best. Since Rob didn’t do anything halfway, our soil came from the bottom of a riverbed (he knows people) and was dumped right at the house. After we discovered that deer considered our garden their dinner buffet, Rob designed an elaborate wooden elevated garden bed and surrounded it with a locking fence. We took note of the old wives’ tales and scattered mothballs and chunks of Irish Spring soap to keep insects out. We soaked garlic and onions in water and sprayed the noxious liquid on the plants (NOTE: it works for dinner guests too). We bought fancy bamboo stakes to hold up the plants, we checked them every day and watered them religiously. It was a labor of love.

In two months time, the garden was monstrous! It exploded with crops: tomatoes, cucumbers, eggplant, string beans, squash and radishes. Our friends and neighbors were amazed. We felt guilty for our success. I realized Rob had found his calling. All he needed was a pitchfork and some overalls. I wanted to be the very best garden helper I could. In my zeal, I decided to pick mint leaves. I must have picked every darn leaf, as the next day, all we found were some skeletal stalks. Rob’s words still haunt me:

“What happened to all the mint?!”  

I cringed, “I picked it.”

“All of it?!”

“Was that bad? Won’t it grow back?”

I don’t think he heard me. He was bending over and gingerly fingering the barren plants like a vet tending a wounded animal. I raced inside. I’d make sun tea! All I could find was a plastic canister with a screw top lid. I submerged a dozen tea bags in it, tossed in all the mint leaves and Viola! I set it proudly on the counter.

He came in later and put his hands on his hips. He said three things:

“It’s supposed to be in a glass jar.”

“It’s supposed to sit in the sun for ten hours. It’s 6 pm.”

“You’re not supposed to put the stalks in, just the leaves.”

I shrugged and said nothing; I had no defense.

I don’t think we drank any of that tea. It sat in the fridge for two weeks, solely to make me feel better. Eventually, when I realized the leaves were moldy, I dumped the whole concoction down the sink. I don’t know if the mint plants in the garden ever recovered. I was too embarrassed to look.

* * *

* * *

When you have pets, you can have a whole heap of trouble. We had a battle with fleas that lasted for three months. No one tells you that when you’re fighting a flea infestation, you will DO MORE WASH THAN YOU’VE EVER DONE IN YOUR LIFE.

It started when our cat ‘visited’ with stray cats in the wooded area behind our yard. She must have pranced right into our house loaded with the buggers. Within days, our dog had them. Then we had them. They were on the carpets, the couches and the blankets. I couldn’t see them, but they jumped up and bit me on the ankles while I watched TV.

My poor daughter, who was now in college, came home for a visit and brought fleas back to the dorm! That did not make her popular with her roommates.

There was an embarrassment factor. I knew fleas were prevalent in warm months and could infest even the cleanest of homes. Still, I walked down the pet store aisles hoping I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew! As I rang up my purchase, I wanted to say to the cashier “these are for a friend.” The pet supply industry must make a killing on these calamities, because we spent a small fortune on drops, shampoos, sprays, repellants and foggers.

We did so much research on fleas, I felt like an entomologist. We learned the three stages of a flea’s life, yuck. We learned preventive measures, educated ourselves about yard treatments and vowed never to let it happen again. We’ll see...the weather’s getting warmer.

Chapter Three:  Weekend Bliss

Before we moved into our new house, I imagined the relaxed and romantic Saturday mornings we’d have together − my sweetheart and I snuggling in bed while we chatted about our plans for the day, sunlight pouring through an open window, accompanied by a warm breeze. We’d hear the coffee gently percolating and smell the rich aroma. We’d get up at 10 o’clock and make a big breakfast.

The only part of that daydream that actually became reality is the big breakfast. Our weekend mornings go something like this:

7:30 am: Can’t hold it any longer, must use the bathroom! I know what this means. Our dog hears me and thinks that it is time to wake up. He whines until one of us allows him into the bedroom. I open the door. He pushes through, knocks me aside and licks my snoozing sweetheart. There is a lot of snuggling, between Robert and the dog. By the time Robert rolls over to my side to kiss me good morning, his face is soaking wet. I decline. 

Robert takes the dog outside … and never comes back to the bedroom.

8 am: The house phone is ringing, text messages are jingling and a fire whistle from the station two blocks away is howling. I groggily enter the kitchen in battered furry slippers. The cat is meowing with hunger. Robert is already sitting at the home computer scrutinizing e-Bay. We exchange ‘Morning, honeys’ with a quick smooch.

8:30 am: We make a calorie-laden breakfast that would make King Henry VIII blush. The bacon smell permeates everything, including my hair. The pets inch closer and closer to the table in fierce competition for table scraps. We shout at both of them. Afterwards, we load the dishwasher. The dog licks dirty plates when he thinks we’re not looking.

9:30 am: I ambitiously decide to exercise. I put on sweats and stretch vigorously. The dog reclines nearby in his luxury bed, surveying his domain (the family room is just a big doghouse). The cat waits in the kitchen for us to make another meal.

10:00 am: I sit on the floor in a lotus pose, and I’m assaulted by the foulest stench, which I swear has a color - green. I am convinced our dog does this on purpose when I am trying to achieve Zen. I run to the door which leads to the garage, yank it open and shout, “I’m trying to do yoga and the dog has GAS!”

“C’mere, Shnoop!” Rob calls out. The dog trots off, giving me a dose of the walking toots as he leaves.

11:00 am: I’m exhausted from getting up so early. The house is quiet, so I decide to get back under the covers and enjoy a new novel. Rob comes in a minute later, “Oh yeah, my mother’s coming over.”

 “NOW?! I haven’t showered.”

“She doesn’t care.” He puts on his jacket.

“Where are you going?”

“Helping Mark put a motor in his truck.”

“What about your mother?”

“Oh, I told her.” He kisses my cheek and runs off, “Make her some breakfast or something. You girls have fun!”

Chapter Two: Man vs. Woman Otherwise Known as Dog vs. Cat

Man vs. Woman Otherwise Known as Dog vs. Cat

When we adopted our cat from the ASPCA years ago, we were told the cat was male. My daughter, who was six years old at the time, named the cat Andy. I didn’t know much about animals, but it seemed odd that we couldn’t see the, er, plumbing, through his fur. Nonetheless, a few weeks after we got him, I made an appointment at our local vet to have Andy neutered.

I brought the cat to the vet’s office on the day of the operation. I filled out the paperwork; spoke to the veterinary nurse about the procedure and the recovery. As I stood nervously in the waiting room, waiting for the operation to be complete a nurse called me after just a few minutes, “The doctor would like to see you, Ma’am.”

She took me to an examination room. The doctor was an old time country vet. He wore a flannel shirt, Levi jeans, cowboy boots and had a silver belt buckle. He smiled wryly. I was bewildered. He motioned for me to come forward. There was poor Andy, hunched and shivering on the metal table. Doc spun Andy around, pulled down an examination lamp, spread the back legs and pointed, “Him’s a HER!”

I gasped.

“So we’ll be spaying Andy today, not neutering her,” he said with a laugh. “Just thought you’d like to know.”

So Andy became “Andie” because my daughter didn’t want to rename him. I mean her! I never did call the ASPCA to mention their error. It was just another example of mistaken identity. 

* * *

As our cat started getting older, my daughter and I indulged her even more. We gave her kitty snacks two or three times a day, filled her dish whenever it was empty, gave her milk from our cereal bowls and bits of tuna sandwiches. It was intimidating to share the house with a lean, fit dog, who was in essence, still in puberty.

“Honey, the dog’s rubbing his chin on my carpet again!”

“He has acne. It itches!”

But I digress. Rob would measure cups of organic dog food and portion out the proper amount into Shnoop’s food dish. The dog ate only the finest dog snacks from the pet store. They were all-natural, cleaned tarter, freshened breath and contained no fillers or trans fats. No ninety-nine cent pet snacks from Shoprite for this dog!

Andie would enter the kitchen, as she always did and would seem annoyed that Rob and the dog were present. (She’d never forgiven them for the first introduction. On that occasion, Shnoop lunged and barked ferociously at her for twenty minutes, yanking a flustered Rob all over the house by his leash. Rob continuously zapped the dog with an electric shock collar set at level 100. I was shutting all the windows and pleading for Andie to come out from under the furniture. It must’ve sounded like a horrific crime scene. I am convinced that is why our only neighbor doesn’t speak to us.)

Anyhow, back in the kitchen, Rob looked at the cat and greeted her, “Hey there, you big loaf.”

“Can you please not insult my cat?”

“Look at her! She’s completely round.” He leaned down towards her, “How does it feel to look like the letter Q?”

“Stop it,” I pushed him. “She’s fine. It’s winter weight.”

“It’s September!”

I was losing ground. “She’s afraid to play outside like she used to. There are dogs in every yard.”

“Then feed her less.”

“She’s not fat, she’s fluffy!”

Rob raised his eyebrows and cocked his head.

“It’s just fur,” I added meekly.

Rob gloated and ran his hand over the lean dog’s flank. “Yeah, ok. I don’t think fur is supposed to hang down to the floor when she walks. Why don’t you let her walk under our bed and take care of those dust bunnies?”

I scooped up my cat and walked out. Let those boys make their own dinner! We’d have cereal and tuna fish.

* * *

As the months went by, our pets got used to living together. Rob decided to take this to the extreme by trying to make them friends. I told him that this was futile. 

“You’ll see. Someday they’ll sleep together,” he said.

“Only in the grave,” I replied.

There was a constant rivalry for our attention between the cat and the dog. In addition, Shnoop had a habit of moving away from his dog dish before he finished chewing, resulting in a trail of mush that fell out of his mouth onto the floor. I made the mistake of calling Andie to come to me while Shnoop was eating. Well, the dog wanted some attention, too! He trotted over, mouth wide open and planted a stripe of drool and unchewed food onto Andie’s back. I gave the poor cat a bath that night. 

Shnoop was a fairly obedient dog. Andie, however, didn’t let anyone tell her what to do. So Shnoop had to be the independent variable in Rob’s experiments.

I walked in on him one day trying to teach Shnoop to kiss the cat.

“Give her kisses, give her kisses. That’s a good boy.” The dog sniffed and licked at her little face. It was sweet. But an hour later, when the cat came upstairs from her litter box, Shnoop kissed her rear end. 

Rob shouted and scolded the dog.

I jumped to the dog’s defense, “You’re confusing him. How do you expect him to know that it’s alright to kiss one end and not the other?”

* * *

Chapter One: WHAT'S THAT SMELL?

Chapter 1 What’s that smell?

One damp Sunday morning shortly after we moved in to our new house, while Rob and I were sitting in the kitchen, something unwelcome entered my olfactory senses.

“What’s that smell?” I asked, crinkling my nose.

“I don’t smell anything,” Rob replied.

I leaned toward the dog. “Blecch, it’s him. He’s stinky.”

Rob looked hurt, as if I’d said that he was stinky. “He smells alright to me.”

“He definitely smells weird. Can’t you give him a bath?”

“It’s too soon,” Rob replied, looking at the newspaper.

“What do you mean?”

He let out a deep sigh. It was the sigh of someone burdened with the task of educating a cat person on the health and hygiene of a canine. “You can only bathe dogs once a month. It’s bad for their skin, and you have to use a special dog shampoo.”

“When was his last bath?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Ugh! Is there anything else we can do?”

“I have a re-hydrating spray for his coat. That smells pretty good.”

“Somehow I don’t think getting the dog wet is the answer, but ok.”

Obligingly, Rob fetched the spray and started applying it. Droplets glistened all over the dog’s fur, and the floor, the furniture and the lamp. The thick scent didn’t agree with me and incited my gag reflex.

A few days later, I discovered another unusual smell. Early one morning, as our pooch lay curled in his bed, I stopped mid-stride on my way to the kitchen.

“What smells like rotten peanuts?”

Rob came out of the bedroom. He got down on the floor and tussled with the dog. “Ohhh, that’s the doggie sweep smell…” he gushed. “I wuv that smell.”

“The what?”

“Sleep smell. Dogs emit an odor when they sleep.”

“Isn’t their daytime smell enough?!”

“I love it. It smells like peanut butter.” Rob’s eyes were glazed over with dog-love. I was grossed out.

Then he blindsided me, “What about your cat?”

I stiffened. “What about her?”

“When’s the last time she had a bath?”

“She’s a cat. She’s self-cleaning!”

“Sure she is. And she usually decides to clean herself on top of our clean folded laundry!”

I was mildly offended.

“Face it,” he said. “Both ends of your cat smell badly! The front smells like fish and the back …”

He didn’t have to finish.

A week later, I was home alone and Shnoop followed me downstairs to the laundry room. A cloud of invisible doggie-smell traveled with him. I was holding a Bounce dryer sheet in my hand. I had an idea.

“C’mere, Shnoop! C’mere, boy.”

He trotted over and I petted him all over with the dryer sheet. He reveled in the attention. I felt a pang of guilt for deodorizing him under the guise of affection. The dryer sheet seemed to wipe away all traces of doggie-smell, at least for the night. I asked Shnoop to keep it our little secret.

As the weeks progressed, and the weather warmed up, the pets spent more time outside. Still, on occasion, the dog smell would hit me like a tennis racket in the face. So I resorted to the dryer sheet trick a few more times. When I confided in my best friend, she scolded me harshly, “You could give him a rash!”

“But we dry our clothes with it! How harmful could it be?”

I felt bad for the pooch. He was such a trusting soul. And I’m sure it was a jab at his masculinity to smell like ‘fresh spring garden.’ What would the neighborhood dogs think? The very last time I did it, I decided to tuck three dryer sheets under his collar so that his fur would not be affected. It seemed the ideal solution! Everywhere Shnoop went, he brought a waft of morning freshness. The dryer sheets blossomed like a splendid white bow behind his head. Imagine, I could look forward to the dog entering a room, instead of exiting!

My fatal mistake was that I forgot to remove the sheets from Shnoop’s collar before Rob got home. The dog excitedly ran out to greet his owner, the crisp dryer sheets still attached and bobbing in rhythm with his gait.

“What did you put on my dog?” Robert shouted. He was less than amused, and I was in the proverbial doghouse.

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Foreword to Chapter One

Dryer Sheets on the Dog

and other tales of a modern family

by Camille Capriglione

copyright 2009

                                                     Foreword

When my boyfriend, Robert, and I decided to move in together, we knew that it would be a big change and require some adjustment. We had no idea that it would give us so many laughs!

We were in our thirties. Rob had never been married and I was a single mother. As Rob had been raised by a single mother, he understood what that entailed and knew that my daughter came first. There were nights he witnessed awful mother-daughter brawls. He sat through slamming doors and shouting. He was a darn good sport. Many of our dates were cut short or didn’t happen at all and there was no dating on weeknights. Actually, Robert attended all kinds of school functions with us: sporting events, plays, parent-teacher nights and chorus concerts. For that I was grateful.

He befriended my fifteen-year old and she genuinely liked him in return. She’d show her affection by walking past him and farting with a giggle or pulling off his socks and throwing them behind the television. It was a fine match. So we decided living together would be even more fun.

The biggest difference between us was that I was extremely tidy and Rob was not. Every time I walked into his bachelor pad, I had the urge to run out. Robert had the habit of leaving around whatever he was finished using, whether it was a bowl, a cup or a car part. The item would still be there three weeks later. He insisted that doing this helped him to never to lose anything. 

Another difference between us was that I adored cats and Robert was a dog lover. We were shamelessly attached to our pets and spoiled them accordingly.

 

When I visited his home early in our relationship, his beloved Doberman, Shnoop, was sitting on the couch. Shnoop was chagrined at my presence from the start. He’d had his owner all to himself since he was a pup. On our first date, the dog expressed his feelings by getting a hold of my high-heeled mule and chewing it to pieces. It was ruined. Robert apologized profusely. I put on my shoe, hopped out of the house and gave the dog a sardonic grin. Perhaps it was a premonition of things to come …                                  

* * *

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