Brillo's New Pad

For the last week, the Pease family has been host to my sister’s Labradoodle, Brillo. A Labradoodle is a cross between a Labrador Retriever and a Standard Poodle. Labra-doodles are congenial and active dogs. They have the wonderful temperament and loyalty of the Lab, and the high-spiritedness and intelligence of the Poodle. At least, that’s what my ‘dog book’ says…

Brillo is all legs. Black-- with just a wee spot of white on his chest--his hair is curly and of the non-shedding type. Instead of falling out to create tumble-weeds which roll across my floors every time the front door is opened, Brillo’s hair grows, instead. At one family function, I’ll see a dog close-shaved--and the next…he’ll look like a raggedy black mop with brown eyes and a wagging tail. Last summer, Chris went so far as to give the (poor) dog a Mohawk. Hair cropped short… except for a narrow, two inch high ridge of hair down the middle of his head.

There’s no dignity in being a dog in the Bessey family.

Here at The F.A.R.M. we haven’t had a dog living with us for almost a year and a half--and Josie-Earl, especially, has missed that. There’s been no canine running to the door to greet us when we return home from a day at work or at school. No thumping tail when we speak a kind word; no cold, wet nose nudging our hands when it’s time to go for a walk. So, we were anticipating a visit from our ‘dog-nephew’…

He arrived with a leash, some food and ‘treats’, and a quick word about how good he was about being put outside on a run. We were cautioned against letting him roam outside without being tethered--for the boy has legs like a gazelle and the heart of a long-distance runner. And once he was off—he was gone. I assured my sister that there’d be no problems. That Brillo was safe with us.

Chris left. I got some rope and made a long tether for him by the front porch. I came inside and smiled benignly at the dog.

He peed.

Right in front of me, he peed! I hollered. A knee-jerk reaction. What else could I do? I didn’t have the ability to magically shut him off, mid-stream! But the act of hollering “Brillo!” only made matters worse. For instead of standing there in one place, he took off through the house at a trot, happily sprinkling as he went. A Labrapiddle, then…

I’ve mentioned that we've missed having a dog around the place, right?

I followed his trail and mopped up after him. It was no big deal. Any dog in a new place was bound to have an accident, right?

He made the rounds, investigating the sights and sounds and smells of the house. Brillo has been here many times, and has met our three cats. But this time, he had a new feline to socialize with. Marian, my neighbors’ cat, is also visiting us while her humans are away for a month vacationing in New Zealand. I could almost read Brillo’s mind as he sought out the source of this new kitty smell.

“Ooh! Fresh meat!”

If only she’d just stayed still. Not run. But gray Marian took one look at the mop-headed Brillo and lit out in a flash of fur and the scraping of claws on hard-wood floor. The chase was on! Yee-haw!


Yes, life at ‘The F.A.R. M.’ is the epitome of ‘serene’. The cat ran, the dog chased, the teens followed—worried that the black beast was bent on having a kitty chew-toy. I knew better. I can read a dog’s soul. Brillo was a push-over. A child at play. A softie. And… when Maid Marian turned on him, spitting and with claws extended—Brillo was a coward.

But he was a coward with fully operational body functions. That night, when Mr. Grumbles got up to go downstairs to use the bathroom, that fact was discovered in vivid detail. I heard my husband holler. I heard him swear. And then, I heard him say, “Karen! Come clean up your dog’s $***.”

The man knows better than to demand. His wife doesn’t comply with demands.

“Excuse me!!??” I said. “Would you care to rephrase that?”

“Karen, come clean up your ***-****** dog’s $***!”

An excellent rephrasing. Asterisks are exclamation points in this house. Regardless of the fact that it was three a.m., I wandered downstairs, my curiosity piqued. I flipped on the light.

There he stood, leaned against the table, one bare foot held aloft.

“And while you’re at it, clean this off, too!” He looked. He gagged.

Oh, brother…

I had to chuckle. I mean… it wasn’t ME who’d stepped in a gigantic pile of labrapoople. It wasn’t me who’d wandered around barefooted in the dark, trusting that the floors that I so often traversed would be free of excrement! Out of pity for the man, and to save myself the chore of cleaning up after him, too, I grabbed some paper-towels and wiped between his toes. I grabbed some more, and cleaned up after the dog. I listened to the harangue—a rare occurrence in the wee hours of the morning. I nodded in compliance as I was told that I was a push-over. That I was ‘too nice’. That I never said ‘no’.

I cocked my head.

“Should I have refused to clean the doggie-doo off your foot? Does the fact that I did, also make me a ‘push-over’?”

Throwing me a glance that was half-nervous, half-exasperated, Mr. Grumbles limped off to the shower, walking on the heel of his right foot, toes held aloft.

A wise man knows when to be quiet. And a wise man might not know WHERE to put his foot down, but he knows when NOT to.

And Brillo? He slept through the whole thing… and was perfectly well-behaved for the rest of the week.

Cheap entertainment, that’s what he is.
I’ve missed having a dog at The F.A.R.M.

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Top photo: Brillo in September 2009
Cat photo: An irritated Curious-- Josie-Earl's cat
Bottom photo: Etta, another Labradoodle who has stayed with us at The F.A.R.M. (She lives with Marian kitty, mentioned above. Sorry, no pics of Marian, yet. She hides when the camera comes out...) Etta had just finished chewing something she wasn't supposed to have... hence the guilty look. :o)

Mothers Say the Darnedest Things!

My friend Lorraine stopped by the office today and reminded me of something: Mother’s Day is right around the corner. In her hand was a folded piece of paper; a collection of “Famous Last Words” she’d read which caused her to smile, and she wanted to share them. It hasn’t been that long since my friend lost her own mother, and so I was touched that she included me—and therefore you—in her sentimental and humorous musings.

I’ve been a mother for twenty-seven years. The older I get, the more I realize that I am very similar to my own mother. The silly things she said to me are often repeated in my house… even though I recognize that those warnings and admonitions are usually foolish. We mothers can’t help ourselves. We are desperate to raise kind and well-grounded and productive members of society. We are determined to do our best to keep our children safe, and we yearn for their happiness. And so… when common sense doesn’t work, we resort to whatever we have in our arsenal which will.

Here are a few of the standard, oft-used and mostly ridiculous phrases employed by mothers like me. Mother’s like Lorraine, and Leona, and Jo. We simply can’t ourselves.

**If you don’t stop, your face will freeze like that.
**I only have two hands.
**Let me kiss it and make it better.
**Because I’m your mother; that’s why.
**Go ask your father.
**Wear clean underwear; you could get into an accident. (It always amazes me that this works!)
**Don’t put that in your mouth; you don’t know where it’s been.
**I don’t care who started it.
**If I didn’t love you so much, I wouldn’t care what you did.

**You’ll have kids of your own someday.
**Clean your plate; there are starving children.
**As long as you live in my house, we’ll do it my way.
**Wait till your father gets home!
**If all your friends jumped off a cliff, would you want to do it , too?
**Don’t ever forget that I love you.
**You’ll always be my baby.

And my personal favorite, used by busy mothers everywhere who simply don’t have time for debate:

Because I said so!

Yes, I admit it: I have used every single one of these idioms in the last quarter century. Each one passed through Mum’s lips, as well. They are the time-honored quips of beleaguered but loving mothers, everywhere.

I’m thankful for my mother—for what would I have used to keep my three offspring in line if I hadn’t had her good words to carry with me? Mum worked hard to raise us right, and she didn’t have it easy, either. After all, she had to walk barefoot through snow uphill both ways to get to school when she was a child. And I’m pretty sure I did, too.

I love you, Mum. And to mothers everywhere, happy Mother’s Day.

Titles Are Clear-Kut Innovations (aka TACKI)

For those of you who are fans of my Irregular column ‘Observations From The F.A.R.M. (Fresh Air and Room to Move)’ please check out my pal Jack Ramsay’s blog, The Down Under Dunder, or DUD. (Jack and I are masters at this game! GAG… DUD… The cunning we possess when coming up with titles for our creations is mind-boggling! Remember, it was Jack who wrote that excellent children's story about the circus cow who wowed audiences with her extraordinary juggling act. The title was, if I remember correctly, Balls on a Heifer. And of course, I am the best-selling author of the tale about the hirsute creator of custom-designed portable under-the bed toilets; Hairy Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Yeah… Jack and I? We know what we’re doing in the ‘title’ department!)

Some of you may remember the Scotsman from his guest appearances in my column and on Grumbles and Grins. But if you missed him (and I assume the ONLY reason you missed reading ‘Observations’ or GAG was due to a terrible, debilitating illness) then you have an opportunity to catch up, right now!

Please travel to Australia via the cyber-highway and spend a few moments with my pal, writer Jack Ramsay. You won’t be sorry.

He’s an idiot, but don’t take my word for it. Jack is the expert on idiocy, here. Go check him out.

So Help Me, God!

Years ago I wrote an ‘Observations’ column about my first foray into small claims court. I was attempting to collect a rather large debt resulting from a ‘bounced’ check. Innocent as to the procedural aspects of the courtroom, I made several blunders; the least of which was that I took a bottle of water into the room with me. I had a cold, you see…and I didn’t want to enter into a spastic round of coughing in such a solemn setting. I was doing the judge, the lawyers, and the protection officers a FAVOR! Or so I thought.

But at the very first sip--and much to my dismay--the bailiff ejected me and my Aquafina from the courtroom.

How embarrassing! How humiliating! How unnecessary, really! I mean, couldn’t she have simply asked me to hand the offending elixir to her? Was there any reason why she had to make me climb over the legs and across the laps of seven good men and women in my rush for the door? Did she not comprehend that it was HOT—stifling, in fact--and that my skirt was sticking to my butt? And that everyone else behind me in the room therefore KNEW I’d neglected to wear panty hose?

I wanted to tell her not to get her knickers in a twist (like mine were)…I really did! But…I was in awe of her uniform, her scowl…her very presence. And so, I skulked from the courtroom and went to the lavatory to dump the offending bottle of NOTHING BUT PURE WATER!

Sheesh.

I was allowed back inside, and I won my case by default. However, the defendants declared bankruptcy just days later, and I never recouped my loss. It’s one of those lumps you take when you own a business, I suppose…and most times, I never even think about it.

But I DO remember the humiliation of being treated like a criminal for doing nothing more than entering a courtroom with a simple bottle of water in my pocketbook.

I’ve been back in those hallowed halls a time or two since then. And today I had occasion to go, again. I wasn’t on the docket, this time. I was simply accompanying a friend; lending a shoulder, a smile…and a bit of dental floss. (A word to the wise: It is never a good idea to eat a breakfast sandwich directly prior to appearing before a judge. Unless, of course, the stuff stuck in your teeth is color-coordinated with your courtroom duds.)

Anyway…my friend, her mother, and I waited on the hard wooden benches directly outside the courtroom door. As the hallway filled up with others who were listed on the eight-thirty docket, the portal opened. There, in all her glory, was the same bailiff who had thrown me so callously from the courtroom all those years before! I recognized her in an instant!

Because she was wearing a uniform, you see…

Seriously…she was easily identifiable, despite the fact that she was older, plumper, and a bit ruddier of complexion. It was the eyes…those stern, glaring, don’t-mess-with-me-you-WATER-DRINKER-you! eyes. I admit it; a chill ran up my spine.

Which was a good thing…for I didn’t relish the idea of another adventure into the realm of ‘sweaty-butt-wedgie’...

Yes, my old nemesis stepped into the hallway. The masses turned eagerly in her direction, anxious to have their day in court. As folks pressed in around her, she spoke. Loudly and clearly.

‘Turn all cell phones off before entering the courtroom! No food or liquids of any kind are allowed beyond this door!’

Oh, sure! Now she tells me! If only she had had the foresight to make that announcement back in 2002! I could have saved myself a world of humiliation!

I wondered if I had been the catalyst for this new policy. If the sight of my skirt molded around my bum all those years ago had prompted an emergency session regarding the announcements that should be made prior to letting the general public into Courtroom #1 in the Franklin County District Courthouse.

It pleases me to think so.

My friends and I joined the throng as it pushed its way into the room. I was determined not to make the same mistake twice, and so I planted myself close to the aisle. It worked for about twelve seconds. I was asked to ‘move down’ to make room for the rest of the occupants of the room.

Another note: Next time, be the LAST to enter the chamber, rather than the first…

Attendance was taken, cases were called, cases were dismissed, and judgments were entered. At last, it was my friend’s turn to speak with Her Honor. She walked to the front of the courtroom. She raised her hand and was sworn in. I noticed that the ‘so help me God’ was omitted from the swearing…like He’s been omitted from so many other things in this country, lately. My friend took a seat, and began answering the judge’s kind but pointed questions. At the very moment the judgment was entered in her favor, her mother leaned against me in relief. She began to talk excitedly. I began to respond in the same manner. And the bailiff?

Aw! The bailiff told us to ‘BE QUIET!’

That woman! That harridan! That purveyor of proper decorum! She’d had it in for me for years, I could tell! She’d spotted me in the lobby, and she’d bided her time…waiting for the perfect excuse—ANY excuse—to flay me with her tongue! To disgrace me in front of two dozen strangers, my friends, and a district judge! It wasn’t enough that I’d been forced to the wall, hemmed in by strangers…this claustrophobic woman who has a tendency to forget vital undergarments! It wasn’t enough that I’d arrived in her domain water-free, arid, lacking in any liquid refreshment. I hadn’t even BROUGHT my cell phone into the building, for crying out loud! Couldn’t she give me an ‘A’ for effort, and LET ME BE?!

My friend’s mother looked at me in horror. Like it was MY fault she’d just been publicly reprimanded by a fierce-looking woman in an official uniform! Like I had been the one to start the overloud and enthusiastic conversation! As if I would be the one to blame if the judge then decided to throw my friend’s case out of court due to the irrepressible nature of her ‘support system’! But it wasn’t MY fault. I wasn’t trying to be rude. I have respect for the protocol one must adhere to when taking part in the judicial system of this country, and this state of Maine! I do!

I swear!

So help me, God.

The Camera Adds Ten Pounds!

December is typically not a good month in which to diet. The Christmas holiday season is jam-packed with social events…the ‘company’ party, the neighborhood party, the family parties, and the OTHER company party. Too, there are the shopping trips. It is practically unheard of to spend a day in town, bustling from shop to shop, without stopping for a bite to eat in a restaurant or a café or a fast food joint. Such extravagances almost always result in an over-indulgence or two. It’s impossible not to splurge on a piece of strawberry cheesecake or a dish of chocolate mousse. After all…it’s Christmas! It’s a tradition!

But you see, I have a problem. I am going to be a guest on a local television show on December 27th. Just two days after Christmas. I’m excited… psyched, even! What a great opportunity to tout my novel, Grumble Bluff! To spread the word about my newspaper column, ‘Observations from The F.A.R.M.’! And what fun!



But holy smokes! Everyone knows…the camera ADDS TEN POUNDS!

There are some people, admittedly, who can afford to look a bit heavier, a tad more fleshed out. Sure there are. Of course!

But I’M NOT ONE OF THEM!

Oh, brother…

I have NEVER been skinny. Even when I wasn’t curvaceous, I wasn’t skinny! I’ve already HAD the ten pounds added. The twenty! The…um…twenty-one!

Good heavens…

I suppose it’s a good thing that there are men hereabouts who like their women with a bit of meat on their bones. I know I would have been up the proverbial creek without a paddle if every man in western Maine was only content with slender ladies who sported collarbones and had space enough between their thighs to throw a Frisbee through.

Yup. As Martha Stewart would say, ‘It’s a good thing.’

Of course, it’s important to remember that we well-rounded girls have many other attributes that make us attractive. I read a survey once that stated that Maine had one of the highest percentages of overweight women in the country. That may very well be true. After all, we have a very long, cold winter here! It’s hard to concentrate on how your bikini will look when you’re hanging wet laundry on the clothesline in -20 degree weather, or trying to peel an icicle off your tongue without drawing blood. We stay inside except to shovel snow or lug wood, and sort of semi-hibernate.

Nope, for seven months out of the year, we’re basically inactive. These months include Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, Easter, Ground Hog’s Day, Martin Luther King Jr. Day, President’s Day, April Fool’s Day, Ash Wednesday…even FAT TUESDAY, for crying out loud! And several full moons, too!

We’re doomed!

And we have only May through September to take that winter weight back off.

Do the math. If we gain five pounds a month for seven months, work hard and manage to lose five pounds each month during the summer, we are still ten pounds overweight when winter rolls around again. In four years, we’ve gained forty pounds! In eight years...EIGHTY! That’s what an average ten-year-old child weighs. That’s sixteen bags of sugar. Three hundred and twenty sticks of butter!

Man, am I depressed!!

So, it’s possible that Maine men do prefer large women. It’s also conceivable that they have no other choice…their options are that limited. Therefore, it’s vital we ladies constantly remind them that what we lack in slenderness, we make up for in hair.



See…most men in Maine don’t have a lot of body hair. Oh... you’ll occasionally see a fellow with a tuft of hair peeking out over the top of his tee shirt, but chances are good, that same man will be as bald as an egg. It’s like the body compensates for what the head has lost...

And while men have a problem with thinning hair as they get older, it’s just the opposite for us gals. As we age, we fur out. A little moustache on the upper lip, some downy fuzz on the cheeks...the occasional black wiry hair sprouting from a mole.

It’s all part of our charm, I’ve been told.

My point is, so what if some survey conducted at a college on the coast of southern California says that Maine women are overweight? We have many other attributes that make us sexy!

Hmm. For some strange reason, I’m STILL depressed.

The bottom line is this. I’m going to be on TV. In front of a host of viewers who will be both strangers AND folks who know me… and I’ll be looking like I’ve gained ten pounds. In order to appear as I do right now, I need to lose ten pounds in the next three weeks. During the season with the biggest, most food-filled holiday of them all.

Can I do it? In an intelligent and healthy manner? Well, I’m going to try. I’ll give it my best shot.

And I think I’ll start by having a shave…

The F-Bomb!

There was a time not so long ago when my children were always saying funny things... mispronouncing words, misunderstanding their meanings, and the like. It was part of learning how to communicate verbally. Now, apparently, the roles are being reversed, and I’m the one who doesn’t always understand what’s being said.

A couple of weeks ago I was sitting at the computer proof-reading the chapter of a children’s tale I had written. My thirteen-year-old daughter Josie came into the bedroom and plopped onto my bed behind me, listening half-heartedly to the news that was on CNN. I can usually block out extraneous noise when I’m writing, but something about one particular news story grabbed my attention.

The Prime Time anchor read from the tele-prompter.

Earlier today, a woman in a shopping center dropped the “F-bomb” in the midst of fellow shoppers. An off-duty fire inspector was nearby, and asked her to refrain from doing it again, as there were children nearby. Enraged at the inspector, the woman began letting more “F-bombs” fly until finally, the officer arrested her and escorted her from the building.

I turned from my computer in amazement.

“You’ve got to be kidding me! You mean you can get arrested for farting in public, now?”

Josie looked at me incredulously, and then collapsed onto the pillows, giggling hysterically.

“Mum,” she gasped, “The F-bomb means she said the F-word!”

Well, THAT wasn’t what I’d been picturing, let me tell you! The mental image I’d had was one of a young mother who was out for an afternoon of shopping, which had been preceded by a lunch at a nice little restaurant. A restaurant where she’d probably consumed a cup of chili with beans followed by a broccoli quiche. At the shopping center, well, nature took its course like nature so often does--despite our wishes to the contrary--and the woman broke wind.

Admit it, it’s happened to the best of us. Muscles that control such things simply have a mind of their own at times, right? Most of us quickly walk from the spot of detonation, hoping that someone else will get the blame. If you’re really quick-witted, you might even scowl contemptuously at another passer-by or give them a reproachful glance, thereby fully depositing any guilt squarely upon another’s shoulders.

But not the star of my misunderstood news item! No, SHE stayed in place and bravely suffered the fallout from her bomb. And then, when this stranger, this FIRE INSPECTOR, called her to the carpet on it, did she blush in embarrassment and apologize, as most of us would do? No way! I’d been convinced that this woman possessed remarkable, incredible powers! I’d heard of being “mad enough to chew nails” and “mad enough to spit” but this woman, I thought, could flatulate on command! After all, she was “letting F-bombs fly!” That was something to almost—but not quite—be envious of.

And the fire inspector’s involvement? Well, in my scenario, he was concerning himself with the public welfare! A build-up of methane gas can be combustible and thereby dangerous to those humble citizens who pay his salary. Perhaps a woman who haphazardly threw around MY kind of F-bombs SHOULD be removed from public areas! But not arrested, no. I thought that was taking things a bit too far. Give her some Bean-o or Gas-X, but don’t give her a criminal record for loosing her pucker string in a crowd.

My brief vision of “The F-bomb That Could Have Leveled a Shopping Center” went up in a puff of smoke. (Sweet, nice-smelling smoke, like you’d get from incense or something…)

It was clear to me that I wasn’t “up” on the latest slang.

It could be argued that someone saying the F-word in public SHOULD be reprimanded. I acknowledge that there is a distressful increase in distasteful--and sometimes downright foul--language that is casually uttered these days in public, in print, and on TV. But arrested for it? I’m not sure. I guess without witnessing the whole scenario, I can’t give a firm opinion on it--although getting thrown in jail for it doesn’t seem very American to me. And arrested by a fire marshal? I don’t get that. An off duty fire marshal? Nuh, uh. It seems to me like he wanted some attention or notoriety from the incident because chances are it wouldn’t have escalated into a “letting F-bombs fly” scene if he’d chosen to handle the situation in a manner that wasn’t so antagonistic.

The bottom line is, I don’t know.

What I DO know is that my mother never would have dropped an F-bomb—not my kind nor Josie’s, not in public nor in the privacy of her own home! She was and is a lady, and in the house where I grew up, to say “break wind” in the vernacular was to utter a four-letter word. You didn’t say it. You didn’t drop it. And you didn’t let it fly. And you NEVER misunderstood what she was talking about, the way I misunderstood the CNN reporter.

I only hope that I can be half as good an example to my daughter as Mum was to me. But I despair. Josie’s already perfected the art of blaming the dog.


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This 'Observations from The F.A.R.M. (Fresh Air and Room to Move)' column was one of two I wrote which won 3rd place in the Maine Press Association's Better Newspapers contest. The photo was taken in Trantens Family Grocers' parking lot this afternoon. I have no idea what this lovely lady's name is, but she looked to be perfectly capable of dropping a F-bomb.