And It's Easy to Find Parking!

This weekend, I'm going to treat myself to a shopping spree. Don't you worry about Val's 44 oz. Diet Coke money. This shopping spree will not break the bank. No Black Friday for Val. No Cyber Monday. This will be the first annual Gray Google Saturday. I'm in the market for writing contests.

I've seen several shared by my blogging buddies. And I have a couple that I enter every now and then, as the mood strikes, and as my procrastination ebbs. None of that NaNoWriMo for Val. Too imposing. I'll just putter along and whip something up on a whim. Let it marinate. Refine it. And send it out, like a child on the first day of school, wishing it success, but yearning to hold onto it, to keep it mine.

Gray Google Saturday. No crowds to fight. No long loading times. Just me and my keyboard and my BFF Google.

I'm sure to stop before I drop.

Maybe I'll Branch Out into the Cookbook Arena

Hey! I'm sure some of you are gourmet cooks. Or at least gourmet eaters. Do you know what one of these things is called? Or what it's used for?

I used to know. I have four of them. But now in my dotage, I cannot remember why they came with a set of grilling implements. Is it like a Hungry Man Dinner, a BIG fork intended for those Paul Bunyan types of guys? Like Campbell's Chunky Soup, so hearty and filling that NFL players survive on it? I know it's not a trident. Duh. I know my prefixes. Any trident looking like that would end up at the Trident Factory Outlet Store.

Come on. I'm sure all of you know what it is. Maybe it's just a special fork used to eat a big salad that one person paid for and another person handed to you.

Since I don't remember the real used, I'll let you in on a little secret. Here's what we use it for around here:

Indoor marshmallow roasting! Just turn on the electric burner, hold close to glowing metal, be ready to send your teenager to fan underneath the smoke alarm, and VOILA! Stove-roasted marshmallows!

You're welcome for that recipe. I might start compiling a cookbook to sell on the counter of my proposed handbasket factory. So far, I have three recipes: Chex Mix, Tower of Soup, and Stove-Roasted Marshmallows.

You know you want one.

Fool Me Once, Shame on Me. Fool Me Twice, BAD DOG JUNO!

Does anybody know a good dog whisperer? A doggy psychologist? Not-Heaven's Bells, I'll even take a pet psychic. Or that "Walkies!" lady from the BBC, Barbara Woodhouse, even from beyond the grave. My sweet, sweet Juno is fast becoming Backroads Enemy Number One.

I blame myself, really. Juno needs a purpose in life. Lurking around under The Pony's truck in a hollow scratched out of the gravel, laying in wait to ambush Mr. Turkey and pull out his tail, or tossing a brown rubber chicken with only one yellow foot into the air to play a game of one-sided fetch it not what my sweet, sweet Juno was meant to do. I need to take her up the road a piece, to the guy who has sheep. Then she'd be happy. Can't say the same for the sheep.

Yesterday afternoon I stopped to give her some extra loving care. Perhaps she simply feels neglected. It had rained most of the day, so she was probably cooped up on the porch. All three dogs ran to the side porch for some Val love. Of course I spent most of my time with Juno. Ann the black german shepherd is not all that bright. A quick pat and the mention of her name is enough to satisfy her, even though Juno feels the need to thrust herself between us for my undivided attention. Even Tank the beagle strolled over for a pat. I worry about him. He gets too near the edge, and Juno is quick to bump him off, which would not bode well for his stocky physique. I usually can act as a cushion to keep him topside.

So yesterday I was hugging Juno, letting my hand extend over her back to pat pat pat the head of Tank or Ann. Juno commenced to squirming like a red wiggler being impaled on a barbed J-hook. She was all feisty with pent-up energy. I always talk to her during our lovefests. "Now, Juno...you know there's plenty of Val's love to go arou--"

I'LL BE DING DANG DONGED IF IT DIDN'T HAPPEN AGAIN!

Juno did not just feint toward my oral cavity. This time she landed a direct hit on my lower lip. I was wary from the start, and was watching for it. But she's just so darn good. She's an Olympic-caliber mouth-noser. I sputtered and spit. Anybody passing by might have thought I was foaming at the mouth. At least I did not chomp down and cop a chew on her slimy black proboscis.

This little inmate is running our asylum. I've got to put my foot down. But she's just so darn lovable. Says Val. But not Hick or The Pony. Could it be that I am not objective where Juno is concerned? I can't bring myself to swat her with a rolled-up newspaper. Or even speak harshly to her. She did not get a good start in life. I indulge her whims.

Maybe I'll just see if Hick can find me one of those Friday-the-13th Jason hockey masks at the auction. I'm pretty sure that if they'll stop a puck, they'll stop a dog's nose.

They're Gonna Love That Sweet, Sweet Nose in Prison

Exhibit A

The Defendant

How do you plead?

The defendant consults her attorney.

Your honor, if I may approach the bench...

What you have here is circumstantial evidence, at best.

I say you drop the charges, and my client will seek a 90-day shock treatment program for her addiction to brown rubber chickens with one foot chewed off.

As the sun sets over Backroads, the victim treads lightly in the background, more harm done to his pride than to his body. The alleged perpetrator shows remorse.

We Know You're Not From Here

I turned off the blacktop and onto my gravel road around noon yesterday, and was slowed by dog walkers.

That's right. Five miles from town. Out in the sticks. On a road that's not even a blue highway on a state road map. Dog walkers. I immediately sensed their foreignness. Definitely not Backroads dwellers. They had to be city folks, out for a Sunday drive in no-man's land. Roughing it. On an adventure with their four-legged friends. The signs were all there.

First was the big sign. The sign nailed up on a tree ten feet into our gravel road. "Private Property. No Trespassing." Parking one's truck on the edge of the gravel road past that sign kind of counts as trespassing, you know. That's why we used to have a big metal gate with a chain and a padlock, until too many people actually built homes on their property and didn't want to get out and unlock it. The free part of the road is the blacktop, by the bridge, by the creek. Nobody can own a creek. Your dogs can pee to their heart's content in the creek, or along the blacktop right-of-way.

The second sign was the truck. It almost fooled me. A pickup truck, by cracky! Then I noticed the color-coordinated, locking bed cover. No. We don't normally have those. They don't fit right with a toolbox mounted against the cab. And it's hard to haul stuff under a cover.

The coats on the man and woman were a clue. Coats! At only 54 degrees! Who wears a coat in such balmy weather? Not Backroadsians. And not in such bright neon green. That color is for road workers. Besides, a Backroadsian will still be wearing his wife-beater sleeveless ribbed white t-shirt at 54 degrees. If the temperature drops below freezing, he might throw a flannel shirt over it. Below zero, it's a sandstone-colored Carhartt cotton-duck jacket.

And another thing. Backroadsians do not run around with their women. Guys hang out with other guys in their pickup trucks. The gals stay at home. Man and woman together in the woods on a Sunday afternoon? Not in these parts.

The dogs themselves were out of their element. So excited! Two big black ones, and a brown one. I didn't get a good look at the breed, though I'm sure they were not simply mutts. They were so hyped up that two tried to run out in front of me. Perhaps to shove their snouts in my mouth for a good chewing, or because they were so over-stimulated by the country aromas wafting on the wind. Thank goodness the doggies were safe, because they were on leashes!

Major clue! Backroadsians don't take their dogs anywhere on leashes. And they most certainly don't have the leashes hooked to nice harnesses that fit each dog like a tailor-made suit. Backroadsians lower the tailgate of the coverless pickup bed of their truck, give a whistle, and Fido and Rover hop in for a ride. They pace side to side, sniffing the air as they fly down the highway. If the Backroadsian makes a stop at a gas station or Walmart, the dog stays with the truck. It would never enter Fido's mind to hop out and run off after a scent. He jumps up on the metal toolbox and barks as people walk by. He's protecting his truck.

I didn't witness it from this particular couple, but I've seen it at the front-lawn dog toilet that locals call The Dairy Queen. The method of rehydrating the canines. Nobody around here carries a collapsible water bowl, into which they pour bottled water. Backroadsians motion for the dog to jump down from the truck, where it will drink from a muddy puddle.

Yeah. We know you're not from here. But for the sake of the dogs, we look the other way.

The Tome Inscribing

A couple of weeks ago, I attended a book signing for a guy I went to school with. I stumbled upon it by accident, whiling away the 50 minutes of my plan time, reading the local paper online. They had run a front-page article, with his picture, a week or two before. So I was pleasantly surprised to read in the calendar of upcoming events that he was signing his futuristic historical novel. It's about Civil War soldiers who pass through a cave that's a time warp, and come out in the future, where they assume the war is still going on.

This signing was in the public library, a building I used to work in when it was the unemployment office. The Pony and I parked T-Hoe in the lot, and proceeded to seek entrance. The first door had a sign that directed us to the front. So did the second door. We walked about 270 degrees (for all the math teachers) around that venue when we could have parked on the street right by the door. As I went by the main desk, I waved my copy of the paperback, which I had ordered from Amazon, unaware of this signing.

I saw my old classmate seated at a wooden table, talking to three people. Good. I wasn't the only one to show up. I moved closer, and waited a polite distance of three giant steps, or ten baby steps. Close enough so people could see that I was next, and far enough not to interrupt their interaction. It didn't take long to figure out that these three people were in the same family, and buying one copy of the book.

Let the record show that Val is not a snob. She worked in an insurance salvage store, by cracky! She doesn't put on airs. She wears Crocs! But I must share with you the absurdity of my signing experience.

This is Backroads. People here are not privy to the ways of book signings. In fact, they would snicker if anyone said the word privy out loud. It has another meaning here. These are my people. Good to the bone. Mostly honest, and hardworking. The country was build upon their backs. In fact, it put some of their backs on disability. But they are generous to a fault. Impressed with a local author. Just not all that well-versed in book-signing etiquette.

The three musketeers lingered. They saw this event more as a family reunion, with their adopted author. I won't go into detail on their appearance. Let's just say that if this post was all about them, I would have titled it "The Three People You Take Pictures of in Walmart." It was a mom, a dad, and an adult son. The kind you know lives in the basement and plays computer games all day. WAIT A MINUTE! THAT DESCRIBES MY SON! Except for the adult part.

Anyway, these three went on and on about old times. I gathered that they were once neighbors, or the son had been a student of the author at one time. They asked if Author was still teaching. Really? His picture wasn't in the yearbook. Not even under "Playing Hooky," or "Not Picutured." They acted like he was lying to them.

Author was trying to wrap it up. "I guess I should just sign this to 'The Walmart Family.' Or do you want someone's name in it?" They agreed, and the son proclaimed that HE was reading it first. Author nodded to me. "Where did you get THAT? I'm the only one that has paperbacks." He was surprised I got it from Amazon in three days. Apparently it's a print-on-demand book.

The Walmart Family was having none of that. They drew the attention back to themselves. "Come by and visit with us. If the silver van's not there, the red van should be there." I learned that they had not been able to find the library. That they had to ask the police for directions. And that Walmart Jr. had just had a tooth pulled, and had gone through two knee surgeries. In addition, the Walmart Family home had been struck by lightning, which destroyed their stove and refrigerator and several other major appliances.

I know they were there before I was. And had as much right to have a book signed as I did. Maybe more, because they bought it directly out of Author's cardboard box. But seriously. They were taking my rightful place as a former classmate of Author! I wanted some face time. Mother Teresa herself could have raised my ire if she was all peaceful and patient and stepped in front of me to have her book signed. Because who has the nerve to be dead and cut in line at a book signing? I don't care who you are.

After 20 minutes of standing, listening to the Walmart Family drone on about themselves, my attention started to wander. I noticed a woman furtively peeping out from the shelves in the area that long ago housed my unemployment office cubicle. She exuded the attitude of Kathy Bates just before hammering James Caan's legs to put him in Misery. I glanced at some paperback shelves. Kathy Bates kept popping up in various locations like Waldo. Finally she plopped down in an overstuffed faux-leather chair near The Pony, no doubt contemplating the best moment to bring in the sledgehammers in her trunk. I wondered if she'd been there before me, and had slunk off when exasperated by the Walmart Family. Oh, well. Too bad, so sad. I held the title to the prime piece of next-in-line real estate now. Which reminded me, I needed to step back over there.

Just in the nick of time, too. There was a new gal in town. Who might have been a body double for Lulu in To Sir, With Love, had she been born several decades earlier. I gave her the stink-eye and rushed back to my rightful on-deck spot. Unfortunately, she was either a close-non-talker, a stalker, or one who has no concept of personal space. Blondie was in my hip pocket. Heck, she could have been in my hip-replacement, so close was she. With each inhalation, I virtually committed assault.

The Walmart Family ran out of sad-sack tales, and bid their adieu. I was dying to sit down across the table from Author for a little tete-a-tete. But Blondie surged forward with me. I feared that she would ensconce herself on my lap (oh, who are we kidding, Val has no lap) so as to insinuate herself between me and author. Alas, our chat was brief. Turns out Author knows Hick! He lived next door to Hick's first girlfriend way back in high school, though Hick was a few years ahead of us both, and went to a different school.

Author complained that the Backroads internet rag had run his Local Author article a week AFTER a previous book signing. Now they were not on speaking terms, and were even chilly to his liaison. He did, however, write out his number on an index card in case we ever want to do business together. That's all he had time for, what with Blondie giving him meaningful looks, butting in, saying "Hi" while it was still my turn.

I felt sorry for Miserable Kathy Bates.

A Wanton Disregard For Hygiene

I confess. I've been holding out on you.

There has been a slight update on the dog-nose-chewing incident. I can't imagine why I didn't want to revisit that moment in time. My mom sure likes to reminisce about it. She starts laughing like Carol Burnett, Harvey Korman, Lyle Waggoner, Vicki Lawrence, and Tim Conway in the middle of an Old Man sketch. Like Ricky Ricardo when Lucy is foiled in one of her outrageous attempts to outsmart him. Like Roseanne in the opening credits of her first season.

Two weeks ago, when The Pony and I were carrying in groceries, Juno came to greet me. Ever since my taste of canine snout, I've been cautious. I still engage in our lovefests, but I'm wary. On high alert to avert my head should my sweet, sweet Juno fling her muzzle towards my pie-hole. She mostly behaves. But every now and then, Juno rears her silky head. You know how it goes. B.F. Skinner found out that a behavior will continue, even if only rewarded one out of ten times. No extinction for my Juno's nose-jabbing. She got a taste of me getting a taste of her snoot, and now she wants more.

It did not help matters that she ran to the grocery bags I plopped on the porch and took a quick sniff. Thus causing The Pony to crow that, indeed, "Juno DOES get into the groceries. Just like Dad said." Poppycock! She is just inquisitive, that's all. Maybe a missing person touched one of those grocery items while loading a freight truck, and Juno is on her way to becoming a famous rescue mutt. At no time did she insert that tasty nose of hers into the bags.

So there we were, after the novelty of the missing person wore off, Juno and me, lovin' it up. Then all at once, my sweet, sweet Juno forsook me for another. She took two steps across the side porch toward the garage door. To the cat we don't like very much, Dusty, with the crinkled ear, who was arching her back, rubbing against the cedar siding of the garage wall, indicating that she would very much like me to open that door back up so she could run in and consume some stale food that Juno had not gotten to yet. Allegedly.

Juno's mission was not to poke Dusty with her sharp, herding (yet delicious) nose, thus eliciting a playfight. Nor was it to run Dusty off so the spotlight would be on herself. Nope. Juno just had to step over and insert her pre-chewed nose directly into the inviting feline anus of that darn cat. Not simply a polite little sniff. Inserted. Like a proctologist without a glove. She was two nostrils deep in that puckered orifice. I blame Dusty. She didn't have to raise her tail like an exclamation point, now did she? Like the two of them don't have all the live-long day to play Who Sniffed Your Anus?

Just as quickly as she was gone, Juno returned to my loving arms. Raised her quivering snout toward my face. My mouth clamped shut tighter than Jerry Seinfeld's when his date Audrey offered him a piece of Poppie's pizza.

The horror just got real.