The Perfect Song Blog

Kids should not be allowed in grocery stores. I have good reasons for saying this.

I’ve taken over the grocery shopping to give Leigh more time with her business. I don’t mind extra duty but I do shop like a male.

I have a list. I want to find an item as quickly as possible, cross it off and move on.

I don’t mind other shoppers who pull off to the side of the aisle and park as they study ingredients on a package or compare prices. I don’t mind the elderly who move at a slower pace. I can pass them, just as someday, a new generation will pass me.

What I absolutely can’t stand are shopping carts that have little kids attached to them – to the front, the sides, the back and to mom’s pants. One, two, sometimes three hyperactive, nose-picking rug rats all vying for attention while Mom is trying to find the best prices and make sure she remembers her husband’s favorite beer.

I don’t even like the ones who are trying to be good, standing still—in the middle of the aisle. The last thing I as a male am going to do is ask the child to get out of the way and trigger the terrifying ire of a mother whose child is being threatened by a male.

No, I am going to stand there politely, gritting my teeth and trying to maintain an expression of empathetic patience until the mom sees the traffic blockage and says: “Come over here, Megan. Stay out of the way.”

She then gives me a look that says: “Thanks for your patience. And polite as you are, please get lost and don’t interrupt us again.”

Grocery shopping is the one recurring life experience in which a woman has to question the practicality of motherhood. She’s looking for low sodium pickles while trying to watch the whirling, kicking kids and hoping they don’t pick up a jar and drop it. . .or throw it at a sibling.

If they’re not trying to get mom’s attention by asking questions, the kids are doing it by crying or pleading for some sugar-laden treat that’s making them hyper and fat. They’re wild cards, not staying on their side of the lane, darting in and out, bouncing , grabbing stuff off shelves, begging mom to buy something or (I’ve seen it), sneaking it into the cart.

Kids are shifty little buggers and we don’t give them enough credit.

They also do not belong here. Grocery stores should be for adults only.

Really.

And those damnable “grocery cars” are the worst thing to ever occupy into a grocery store. In the next post I’ll tell you why.

It’s a story you won’t believe, but it is, I swear, true.

My quest:  to make great barbecued spare ribs.

Not just great, but outstanding. Fall-off-the-bone. Melt-in-your-mouth.

The first couple tries were failures with dry, tough meat that left jaws aching from all the chewing. But last Sunday, I knew I had it down. I put the baby-back rack in the oven at 300 degrees. I would do them for six hours, checking every two hours to make sure there was water on them to keep them moist and tender.

At 5:30 I asked Leigh if she’d made the barbecue sauce. She hadn’t. I said I would. I knew where the recipe was. I was in a rush because all the side dishes were done. I tossed in a quarter cup of ketchup, measured out the mustard, crushed the garlic clove and added a dash of worchestershire sauce.

The last ingredient was ¼ cup of strong coffee. I measured it out and poured it in. I brought it to a slow, simmering boil.

Leigh came out to the kitchen. “What’s wrong with that sauce?”

I shrugged. “Nothing that I know of. I followed the recipe.”

“It looks dark.”

“I followed the recipe.”

It was a beautiful day so we ate on the deck. I brought out the ribs and as I dished them out I was quietly ecstatic that they did, indeed, fall off the bone. I picked off a test piece. Ahh, melt-in-the-mouth it did.

“I don’t understand why the barbecue sauce looks so dark,” Leigh said again.

We spooned some out and put it on the done-to-perfection ribs.

“Ooh,” Leigh said quietly. What’s that funny taste?”

I took a bite. Something wasn’t right.

“Why’s it crunchy?” She asked.

As soon as she asked that, I had a suspicion of some wrong doing.

“Are these crunchy things coffee grounds?”

Bingo!

“Mmm, yeah. It said ¼ cup strong coffee.”

“It’s supposed to be coffee! Boiled coffee. Not coffee grounds.

I had to admit that her observation made perfect sense. I tried another bite. The most tender baby back ribs in the world still tasted wretched in a sauce made of coffee grounds.

She ran into the kitchen and in five minutes made a barbecue sauce that did justice to the ribs.

Okay. I got the ribs down.

Now I work on the sauce.

Life can be complicated sometimes.

So in the last post I was in Wal-Mart trying to buy my seed starter kids, seeds, storage crates and T-Gel shampoo. I was after the crates when this huge couple appeared in front of me. Aside from crying, spoiled kids with a helpless mother, nothing makes me more uptight than large people who take more than a fair allotment of space in the world.

This couple was composed of a 6-foot, 250-pound human in jeans so tight they had to have been put on by a construction crew.

Her boyfriend was even bigger, lumbering along in a daze that he had been born with.

I was directly behind them so I can tell you with authority that side-by-side they were wide enough for a truck license.

They held hands, meaty hands. While this was nice and loving in a big, meaty innocent way, all they were doing was staying in my way. They were slow. Of course they were slow. Part of me understood that.

When you’re forcing this much mass to move, your velocity never shifts out of first gear. I found an opening by a garden hose display and veered left.

An aisle later, closing in on my T- Gel , I ran into an old, bent lady plodding with a walker.

Don’t get me wrong. I love old, bent ladies with walkers. They are the white-haired salt-of-the-earth, still determined to be a part of society, which is to say, they’re damn well going to shop at Wal-Mart. The one downside of old ladies with walkers is they’re scary. I have this neurotic feeling that at any given moment their determination can turn into rage and the walker will become a weapon of destruction.

I can just see this lady – repressed and misunderstood all her life, finally rising in a burst of animal strength nurtured by decades of seething, silent anger, bringing the aluminum walker crashing down on my unsuspecting male head and smiling with a wild triumphant look in her pale eyes: “I’ve always wanted to do that. You didn’t think I had it in me, did you? You male chauvinist T-gel using pig. Pick up your seeds and get out of my way!”

I cautiously avoided the little old lady, grabbed my shampoo and rushed to the check-out where a cashier associate punched the numbers with skill created by practice, swung my bag around on the turnstile and said “Thank you for shopping at Wal-Mart.

“Have a nice day.”

I have mentioned in several posts that I hate “Have a nice day.” The vast majority of “nice day” users don’t mean it and if they thought about it at all would probably realize they want their day to be as rotten as theirs.

I took my bag and headed out as the wizened 75-year-old dude in his baggy blue vest at the exit door looked at my receipt , nodded and said, “Have a Good Day” in a way that said “My legs are killing me.”

I stepped out in the parking lot. Mission accomplished.

It’s a really big parking lot .

I know my car’s out there somewhere. . . .

My name is Dennis Miller and I’m an ebayholic.

Yes, I’m addicted. I thought I could just visit the site, have a quick peek and walk away, a social eBayer as it were. But no, I found myself gradually going back more and more until it became once a day, then twice. My God, sometimes I even signed on in the morning. I don’t know how this happened.

I’m not proud of it.

Let me give you some background. Let me talk about it. I need to talk about it, to share my story.

I first logged onto eBay in the 1990s, — wait! – let me leave for a moment and check. . . . Yes, I joined November 27, 1999, as the door closed quickly on the 20^th century. At that time I was interested in . . .oh, God, I don’t even know what I was interested in. But I bid on some things and won and played around with it for maybe a couple years. It was cheap high, but nothing serious.

Then I walked away from it. Cold turkey! I didn’t look back. I had neither need nor desire.

Nearly 10 years went by. Any of you my age knows how fast 10 years goes by. A blink. A wink. A heartbeat and –whoosh—a decade is behind you.

Then, in 2007 I started a website on a forgotten hard-boiled detective writer named William Ard. I had written an article about him for a magazine in 1992. I suddenly had the urge –no, a craving!—to start a web site and write about him, include photos of the numerous paperback book covers. I wanted to share him with the world and there is no better place than a web site.

I needed (and I say this in a hushed voice, looking to my right and left; God knows who is listening to all this) books. I needed books to photograph and upload onto the site.

My shoulders sag and I stare vacantly at my shoes as I admit this. I returned to eBay. . . . Yes! Nearly ten years clean and I returned to eBay. This time it wasn’t gradual. I strode through the cyber bat-winged doors, flinging them back and ordering auctions straight up!

I wanted Ard books! I sought them out with the full knowledge that I would pay any price for a first edition vintage paper back in very good condition or better. No one, please understand, no one would outbid me. I had the means and the will.

Needless to say, I found titles and I bid. And I won. With each title or lot I placed an initial bid with a maximum bid. As other bidders weighed in, I watched them carefully. I hit on their links to see who they were, if they were a casual collector or a seller. I was unmerciful in my quest to gather Ard titles. No one would get in my way.

As the bidding of each auction neared its end, I stayed on the site and hit the refresh button every 30 seconds, thwarting anyone who tried to come in at the last minute. Swoop in and throw another 10% on? Forget it, competitor! I toss in 20%!

In the first few weeks, I won every bid. Yes, it felt good. And no, I felt no remorse. I had a William Ard Website and I was determined to become the world’s leading expert in the works and life of this author. It’s a narrow, specialized field, but please try to understand the need, the attraction, the addiction of being the world’s best something or other.

Little did I know it would lead to bigger, stronger addictions that I’m in the middle of. Yes, even as you read this I’m struggling with a force more powerful than anything I ever imagined.

It’s pulling me into it’s black hole even as I write. I never thought it would go as far as it did. I thought I was in control.

Hard as it is, I’ll complete my confession in Part 2.

If you’d like to comment, please do. I could use the support.

I can just hear the question: “Okay kids, how would you like to watch a movie on the big screen this afternoon?” And the kids, ages 3-5 jump up in excitement. Mom packs them into the car and takes them to Sam’s Club.

How do I know this? I saw this family, Sunday. I went to Sam’s at 11:30 to beat the church crowd. Well, all the other heathens in New York State had the same thought. The place was mobbed. I showed my membership card to an uninterested senior citizen in his Sam’s vest. I grabbed a cart and proceeded inward. . .until I reached the family. The mother stood there using her cart to lean on as the kids, sitting on the floor in a semi-circle, watched Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl.

This was not a few minute watch. They were in for the duration. The kids were so engrossed I’m sure they forgot they were sitting on a gray, concrete floor. The mother was oblivious to the woman in front of me trying to get through as people, trying to get out, stood and waited. Finally a hole opened up and the woman pushed around the family and I followed.

I think if a Sam’s Associate had come over and paused the movie, the woman probably would have taken the kids over to the snack counter and bought pretzels and soda and returned to pick up where they left off.

I could see her sitting at the supper table that evening, telling her husband about her day. “Yes, we watched Pirates of The Caribbean. I just love Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom.”

“This was in Sam’s Club?” Asks the father for clarification.

“Yes, it was a little drafty. People kept coming in the whole time. You know those big doors . . .when they open it lets in a lot of cold air.“ Turns to children. “I don’t know how you kids stood it sitting on that cold floor.”

“I think somebody called Mommy an idiot,” one child says.

“Bitch,” another child adds. “They called her a bitch.”

“I think it was dumb bitch,” the other corrects. (See? Kids are always paying attention.)

“People are so rude,” the mother says. “I mean there we were just standing – or sitting – minding our own business and people gave me dirty looks. I mean, they wouldn’t be playing those movies if they didn’t want people to watch, would they? I mean, that’s the point.”

She takes a bite of mashed potatoes. “People are so immature,” she says self-righteously.

“I wonder what’s on next week?” One child says.

“We’ll see, honey,” Mom says. “I’m sure it will be a good one.”

In the last post I mentioned I volunteered to clean the upstairs bathroom on a weekly basis and Leigh gave me a training session. When she left, I looked around and decided to start with the tub. I have rinsed tubs before. I have also watched it get so grungy that I barely wanted to step in.

Now I was on my knees, scrubbing it inch-by-inch. It was an eye-opener. Here was a mere one-week collection of all types of things I’d washed off my body. There was a lot of hair. But there was also just –I don’t know—scum.

Humans are walking dirt balls and there’s nothing to be done about it except to wash all the collected dead stuff off your body, then get rid of it with Bartender’s Friend.

I moved on to the toilet. Using the Lysol wipes, I was again closer to a dirty toilet than I’ve ever been. It was not a pretty sight. What made it worse was the knowledge that these were my stains. For the most part, these were marks only a male can make.

But as I scrubbed and wiped something miraculous happened. The toilet gradually turned gleaming white before my eyes! It was transforming into something beautiful. In fact, it was so beautiful I wiped it down again just to see if I could heighten the gleam.

I scrubbed the inside of the bowl until it, too, gleamed. I flushed and watched the crystal clear water swirl around the blinding white sides of the porcelain bowl. If toilets had feelings, this one would be beaming with pride.

Inspired, I moved on to the sink, shook out some Bon Ami and began scrubbing. Toothpaste and spit stains were rubbed off. Beard hairs and flecks of pipe tobacco were swept away. I cleaned the mirror and washed the walls.

Then I stood back and looked around. Listen, when you make your living as an administrator and writer you don’t always see the results of your work. Today I stood there and basked in the results of my labors—a spotlessly clean bathroom!

I walked out so I could walk back in and appreciate it with a fresh eye.

The pride in ownership took a toll however. Later, I had to use the toilet. I looked down at its graceful curves flawlessly white. I lifted the seat with a loving appreciation I had never felt for a toilet seat. I unzipped and took aim and . . .had second thoughts.

I didn’t know if I could go through with this.

I was suffering PTCT –Post Toilet Cleaning Trauma.

With great reluctance I finally let the water flow. I shook ever so gently but even with the gentlest shake, men are condemned send drops flying where they shouldn’t. I zipped, grabbed a tissue and wiped the rim.

This toilet, I determined, would remain stain-free.

The shower was a different matter. When I shower at night the last thing I’m going to do is rinse it out. I resigned myself to having to face my collected detritus every Saturday armed with Bartender’s Friend.

But I do find myself nightly inspecting the sink for stray hairs and stains.

Yes, I have ownership now and take my duties seriously. But I’m also a little embarrassed to realize that women have known for decades what I finally appreciated: beneath the clothes we are unclean creatures.

I volunteered to clean the upstairs bathroom every week. Sounds small, I know, but it was a big jump for me.

I wanted to do something to help with the cleaning and knew from experience that washing, drying and folding clothes is not for me.

So, Saturday we had a training session, an eye-opening training session. I figured cleaning a bathroom meant washing the sink, wiping down the toilet and picking up things.

“First you have to take all the stuff off the sink,” Leigh said, moving the hair brush, electric toothbrush, tooth whitening solution, soap, deodorant and paper cup. She held up a bottle of industrial strength liquid that looked like something McGyver would use to melt concrete. “Then you squirt on the areas around the faucet that get gunked up. “ She squirted it.

“Don’t get it on your hands.”

I was becoming frightened.

What other flesh-melting weapons did she have hiding in her cleaning arsenal?

“Let it soak while you go to the tub,” she continued. “Scrub it by hand with this sponge using Bartender’s Friend. Get all the areas on the sides. Don’t forget the faucet. ”

I thought Bartender’s Friend was someone who bought me a drink.

This was looking a bit complicated. I was beginning to think I needed a degree in chemistry, protective face gear and heavy rubber gloves to complete the mission.

“Next you do the toilet. “ She dumped some ammonia into the bowl. “Then use Lysol Wipes to clean the rim, the seat, behind the seat and the sides.” She hauled out the toilet bowl brush. “Scrub the inside of the bowl until it’s clean.”

She went on. Haul out the throw rugs and shake them outside. Pour ammonia on the bath mat to get rid of the scum. Sweep the floor. Clean the walls where the dog lies and rubs dirt into them. Wash the mirror.

She handed me the cleaning materials. “Thanks . Good luck.”

And she left.

I was on my own.

In the next post I’ll let you know how I made out.

We went to Outback for Leigh’s birthday last week. Nathan wanted an appetizer. Leigh said okay and they proceeded to discuss what they wanted.

The waiter had come over three times while they were trying to decide. He stood patiently waiting as they argued in the most polite passive-aggressive manner I’ve ever heard.

“We can get the bloomin’ onion,” Leigh said.

“But you like the spinach dip,” Nathan answered.

“But I know you like the bloomin’ onion.”

“You always get the spinach dip.”

“Well, it’s new on the menu and we don’t know if it’s good.”

Finally Nathan shrugged. “You decide. It’s your birthday.”

They went with the bloomin’ onion. The waiter smiled, noted it and left.

Thirty minutes later a line of exuberant young waiters and waitresses with America’s Loudest Voices marched out and sang happy birthday to a young woman at a table beside us. It was the loudest birthday song I’ve ever heard.

Leigh, by the way, hates this feature of several restaurant chains.

Fifteen minutes later the band of servers returned and sang happy birthday to someone at another nearby table. This time I put a hand over my ear closest to them and held onto my coffee to keep it from vibrating off the table.

We finished our meal. I was just picking up my napkin when the happy band appeared again. “How could so many people be celebrating birthdays?” I wondered.

They stopped at our table and sang at the top of their voices holding a bowl of ice cream with a burning candle. As they sang, I studied Leigh’s expression which was a curious mixture of shock, rage, and thoughts of revenge.

They were directed at me. Her expression put a damper on the group’s enthusiasm. A waitress handed Leigh the ice cream and they hastily beat a retreat.

“Why did you do that?” Leigh said to me. It wasn’t a question. It was a demand that needed either a really truthful or a really creative answer. “You know I hate that!”

“It wasn’t me. I know you hate that.” In this case I thought simple was best.

“You did it when you called ahead.”

“I didn’t. I know you hate that.” Stay on message.

It worked. She turned to Nathan. “You did it you little –“

“No! I swear! I didn’t.” When Nathan wants to get a point across he always says “I swear.”

“You must have! How did they know? Somebody had to tell them!”

We puzzled over this until the waiter returned with the check. “I have a question,” I said. “How did you know it was her birthday?”

He smiled. “Oh, when they were talking about the appetizer and he” –he pointed to Nathan—“said, ‘you decide. It’s your birthday.”

He thought a minute. “God, I was hoping as we came out that it really was your birthday.”

I gave the kid a really big tip.

I have spent my life trying to learn how to relax.  To do this, in good weather, I take the dogs to the creek.  Sometimes I play ball with them.  In winter I’m not good a relaxing at all.
My brother Dave was here for the weekend and brought a bag of movies on DVD.  It was a quiet Sunday morning.  Dave and Leigh’s mother were watching Caddy Shack  I had gone through my emails, favorite Web sites and RSS feeds.  When it was time for a break, I pulled out the coffee, put three scoops on the hopper and closed the lid so it would brew automatically.
I lit my pipe and stood smoking by the sliding glass door listening to the Caddy Shack dialog.  The dogs were lying in the living room sleeping.  It was a perfect Sunday morning and I appreciated the fact that I wasn’t running around, worried about things that needed to be done.
It was a perfect Zen moment.  I was appreciating the present.
Then Leigh came around the corner, and stopped with a look of horror in her eyes.  “Oh my God!  What are you doing?  What are you DOING?
Since I really wasn’t doing anything, this was a confusing question.  I looked in the direction that was the focus of her shocked attention.
Hmm.  I have made coffee at least a thousand times in my life.  Apparently I was so relaxed this time around that I forgot to put the coffee pot on the coffee maker burner.  Coffee was flowing down onto the burner, through the burner, onto the counter, down onto the dishwasher and onto the floor.
Ten cups of coffee, when not contained, covers a lot of territory.
Leigh shoved the pot onto the burner.
Without a word I grabbed the sponge and Leigh took the dishcloth. She also picked up my cell phone which lay in the middle of the caffeine tsunami.
“What were you thinking?”  It was a question Leigh has asked me hundreds of times over the years.  When I was young and had more energy, I’d offer a lot of things:  “I was thinking about Einstein always having a bad hair day. . .I was thinking about how amoebas divide in half and are complete amoebas again.”
But anymore I just shrug and state the obvious.  “I wasn’t thinking.”
We’ve been through this two-line dialog a lot over the years.  “What were you thinking?” and “I wasn’t thinking,” seems to be enough.  Marital poetry, as it were.
There was enough coffee now in the pot for one serving.  So I poured myself a cup.
“Would you like coffee?”  I asked.
Leigh thought a moment.  “Yes, and I’ll make it.”
I nodded.  “I thought you might say that.”  I took my coffee and went downstairs to try and relax.

*        *        *

Don’t forget to check out my novel, The Perfect Song, (written under the pseudonym, Damon) available at amazon.com  

To make things easier for my mother-in-law, Leigh bought one of those plastic contraptions that raises the toilet seat by six inches. I warn you now, this is definitely PG-13 if you don’t like potty talk, because I’m talking about real potties.
Anyway, I didn’t think much about the raised toilet until I had to go.
There are several steps in the male peeing process. Males are familiar with the process so you can skip this section, unless you want a refresher for whatever reason.
The first step, of course, is unzipping the fly.
Step two is the release of the member followed by the actual peeing (step 3), then the little shake to be rid of excess droplets (#4). Next is hauling back in and zipping up. Men usually don’t think about all the steps because with so much practice it becomes a pretty fluid process, as it were.
Now, suddenly, I found myself confronting a seat with a small hole and six inch high walls. As I stood there studying the situation, it became clear that I was about to shoot from an approximately 30 degree angle which meant I would hit the sides and subsequently catch the devil from my wife. So I found myself straddling the damned thing and aiming straight down.
To aim straight down, one has to bend forward.
This is not easy.
I was holding on with both hands for maximum security on a vertical shot for the first time in my life.
It’s now or never I thought.
I went.
I failed.
I hit the side.
I stood there, still straddling the toilet realizing I had to go to step four. There is no way to shake it without hitting the sides and the top. I shook it just a little– and proceeded to hit the sides and the top.
I cleaned the seat and studied it from various angles. I sat down at the computer and developed various charts involving angles, heights, trajectory and even velocity. I concluded there was no way to succeed with step four. Shaking, no matter how you do it, creates random patterns. It’s simple physics.
From that day I avoided the bathroom with the raised seat. When I have to go I trudge upstairs, or make a trip downstairs. Or I just wait until I’m outside. Fortunately we live in the woods.
Now, when I call the dogs and say “Let’s go out and go pee-pee,” the pack includes Tyler, Tristan, Zeus. . . and me.