Watts Line

Hallo-wiener visits market

Halloween costumes loom large in our family history (as is probably the case with most folks.)
For instance, the year that Manchild #2 turned 4, I figured he'd be all excited about getting dressed up for Halloween, being the little ham that he was (and still is). Instead, he refused to put on the costume and clung to the doorframe when we were ready to head out for Trick or Treat. I ended up staying home with him while the Hubster - dressed in his German bundhosen, knickers and carrying a hiking cane - made the rounds with our enthusiastic firstborn-eventually-to-become-Surfer Dude.
Dude, on the other hand, loved Trick or Treat and had a fit when he turned 13 and I told him he was too old to go out. He redirected his energy to Halloween parties. The boy loves a good costume. Some of the more memorable were a pirate and the Karate Kid. The Hubster and I still remember the first time we met Dude's one and only (they've been an item eight years now). They came by the house to show us their Jesse James and Annie Oakley get-ups. They were en route to a party and looked great.
When they left the house, the Hubster turned to me and said, "He needs to hang on to her." And that's just what he did.
I talked with Surfer Dude yesterday from his home in Oregon.
"Whatcha gonna be for Halloween this year?" I had no hesitation in asking, because he has never NOT dressed up - ever. Usually he makes his own. But this year he'd found the perfect costume at a store. It was more than he could turn down.
"I'm going as a squeeze bottle of yellow mustard."
Well, that was just about the most perfect of all costumes for him. His love of yellow mustard is legend among those who know him. He even eats yellow mustard on fries.
He rejoiced a while about the possibility of finding a costume that spoke to him on such a personal level.
"Now I have to go drill some holes in the sides of some big shells to make the top for her costume. She's going as a mermaid." Okay.
This year I've turned my Halloween attention to the little four-legged wiener dog types. I found out the night before about the Doggy Halloween Costume contest at the Farmers Marker. Sweet Charlotte the winer dog of choice for the event. If I hurried I could make it down to the Farmers Market in time. So I hustled around the house, found an old black fleece neck warmer, cut it down to size, tied an orange bow on top and painted the perfect words on the side of the fleece: Hallo-wiener.
I pulled out her leash at which time the other two wieners went berserk because they figured they were going somewhere, too.
After ten minutes of calming everyone down enough to get them outside, I got Charlotte all harnessed up and ready to go. I was late. Maybe they'd be running late at the contest.
We drove together to the market. I parked across the street at the newspaper building and hustled with my adorable bundle across the street. The other dogs were leaving. They'd all been on time, and we were late. Way too late.
We strolled the market, looked at the produce and headed home. I'll save the costume. Maybe dress her up today, Halloween, and take her for a walk. Maybe I can talk the Hubster into donning his bundhosen again.
Happy Halloween everyone. And be careful out there tonight.

Contact Judy Watts at jwatts@journalscene.com or 873-9424, ext. 220.

Wiener endures Shear Terror

It's fall and Sally our she-weenie princess dachshund has fur that is an absolute magnet for anything that isn't still attached to a tree. Last year I decided the best thing to do was to shave her. Although I'd taken her to a groomer in the past, she was recovering from back surgery and handing her over to a groomer was not a chance I was willing to take. "I can do the job myself," I decided. It would be safer for Sally. So off to the giant pet store I went to fetch clippers. I found some that looked like they could shear just about anything. The instructions indicated just that. There were tips for shaving dozens of different breeds of dog, for horses and also for cows (yes, cows) all delivered in microscopic print. Oh, and the instructions were reiterated in five languages. (To tell you the truth, even the English instructions seemed a bit foreign to me.) Anyway, I got home, read through the instructions for trimming a dachshund and laid out all the paraphernalia. The Hubster walked through, saw me with me with clippers in hand, studying the fold-out sheet of "how-to clip your dachshund" and asked, "Whatcha doin?" "Gonna trim Sally. Don't trust the groomer with her back." "Okay...I didn't know you knew how to trim a dog," he said. I could see that he was likely to put his money on the groomer and not on me. "It'll be fine." I said. "She's your dog," he said. "I'm going to the hardware store." (He always goes to the hardware store when I'm doing something he can't bear to watch. Like the time I dyed our late dachshund Sam's hair with Just for Men for a photo. He - sam, not the Hubster -- came out looking like a raccoon.) So he left and I hoisted Sally up on the counter. I turned on the clippers. Sally looked at me and the buzzing black thing I was holding and decided she'd had enough before I even got started. She tried to escape. I coaxed her back and she finally let me work my magic. As it turns out, there was no magic. Three hours later I stood back and looked at an exhausted dog with a bad haircut. There was a bald strip down her left side. There were a couple of spots on her back that were likewise sans hair. The right side was still a little bushy. Her neck had tufts every half inch or so. Black fur littered the countertop, my shirt, the floor of the kitchen and half the den. It floated in the air. I put Sally on the floor and she slunk away humiliated. She was mortified by her new "do." I had that same look on my face one time after a bad haircut. I knew how she felt. About then the Hubster returned. "Nice job," he said, bent down and petted Sally in sympathy as she cowered. So this fall, I have to decide to groom or not to groom. Can she face letting me have at her again? If I were she, I'd stomp all four feet and say "no." And if I have any sense, I'll just say no, too. Contact Judy Watts at 873-9424 ext. 220 or jwatts@journalscene.com

Manchild #2 needs a good night's rest

When Manchild #2 moved out a few weeks ago, lots of folks commented to me in person, by phone and e-mail. The tone of the messages fell into four categories:

a. You'll never stop missing him - ever.

b. You'll get over it - in time.

c. Don't worry - he'll be back soon enough. Mine is and now he won't leave.

d. You've got to be thrilled. When's the party?

Well, the day after he left on Sunday, he was back on Monday to cut the grass. But we haven't seen all that much of him. In reality, probably just enough.
When he moved out, the one thing he didn't take was the mattress set.
"It's yours. You should take it," I urged him right up until the minute the truck drove away.
"Nope. A friend gave me a queen size box spring and I'm taking the futon mattress to put on top of that," he said, confident about the arrangement.
"That doesn't sound too comfortable," I said. It fact it sounded brutal.
"I'll be fine, Mom," he answered. I wasn't buying it.
So, as he left, in a fit of motherliness, I said, "If you decide you want a mattress to go on top of that box spring, let me know. I'll buy you a new one as a housewarming present."
I got the distinct impression from the look he gave me that he had no idea what a housewarming present was, and whatever it was, he didn't want it.
"Mom. Please. I've got it covered."
So off he went. I didn't really give it much thought after that. Until last week. I was sitting at work minding my own business, (and actually the business of the community as well since that's what we do) when I got a phone call from our recently departed guy-child turned man-out-on-his-own.
"Hi, Mom," he said a little tentatively.
"Hi, Sweetie, What's up?"
"Well, ummm, is that offer for a mattress still good?"
"Sure it is."
"I can't sleep. Last night I had to sleep on the couch. That futon and box spring are really hard. I can't get comfortable...."
"I'll take care of it this weekend," I told him. He thanked me, and I swear, I think his voice cracked with emotion. He really must have been tired.
So Saturday, I headed off to the mattress store where I met a lovely lady. I told her my budget (which I thought was plenty generous) for a mattress only.
"You won't get the guarantee without buying the box spring that goes with it," she said.
"It's going to a 23-year-old guy," I told her. She nodded knowingly and said I was right. What difference would a guarantee make in that situation. He'd never notice if something was wrong anyway.
Now, it's been a good many years since I bought a mattress. I just have one thing to say. They cost a bundle and there's dozens of firmness types and coils and foam padding and latex padding. It's mind-boggling. But I finally decided on one that I figured would get our 6-foot, three-inch Manchild a good night's sleep, I called him from the store.
"They're delivering it on Monday between one and four," I said.
"Thank you, Momma. Thank you. I love you, Momma."
I love you too, Sweetie."
He's been gone a month now and we've moved on to a new phase in the mom/son relationship.
I'm happy to be able to do something for him.
And I'm glad he feels like he can ask.

Contact Judy Watts at 873-9424 ext. 220 or jwatts@journalscene.com.