Monthly Archives: February 2009

Enuff’s enuff please.


Granted and accepted. I am a cold weather weenie.

By February, when the season is at it’s seemingly endless, most wearisome bleariness, my abject hatred for winter and everything wintry flares like an infection.

I’m over it.

I’m over the 20 degree weather.

I’m over walking the dogs in the 20 degree weather.

I’m over being bundled up like the Michelin Man while I walk the dogs in 20 degree weather.

I’m over the icy, keening, howling NE winds coming off the ocean and being bundled up like the Michelin Man while I walk the dogs in 20 degree weather.

I’m over the relentlessly dry, itchy, skin caused by the icy, keening, howling NE winds coming off the ocean and being bundled up like the Michelin Man while I walk the dogs in 20 degree weather. 

I’m so over it.

Thank God it doesn’t snow here or I’d completely go off the rails.

The two of us.


This is a meme from Dooce ( I know, I know I should be able to do the link thing, but it’s not working). She was nice enough to allow commentors to answer on their own sites and link from her. I don’t normally do things like this because they feel like stuff that goes on at a baby shower, but I’m in a weakened state. Besides, dooce is cool.

So here goes nothin’

What are your middle names?

Miss Carol’s is Ann and mine is Leon.

How long have you been together?

Almost 25 years, we’ve been married almost 23.

How long did you know each other before you started dating?

We met on a job site and didn’t start really dating until the job ended, about 2 months.

Who asked whom out?

Miss Carol had the gun.

How old are each of you?

Miss Carol is 52 and I’m a very young 51. Definitely a cradle robber, there.

Whose siblings do you see the most?

Um, about the same. Miss Carol is one of 12 and I have 3 brothers and sisters.

Which situation is hardest on you as a couple?

Getting me to leave the island.

Did you go to the same school?

No. I went to George Mason and Miss Carol attended UVA.

Are you from the same home town?

No. I grew up in Fairfax while Miss Carol’s privileged childhood was spent in Mount Vernon. I only dreamed of dating rich Catholic girls. 

Who is smarter?

Me and I tell Miss Carol every chance I get.

Who is the most sensitive?

Miss Carol. She cries at movies. Jeez.

Where do you eat out most as a couple?

Anywhere local. Not to sound snotty but there are so many great privately owned restaurants in VB we don’t do chains. The Baja Cantina is a fave right now because they have the best fish tacos on the planet.

Where is the furthest you have traveled as a couple?

One of Miss Carol’s brothers is a Jesuit priest in Mexico and we’ve gone to visit him a couple of times. I wish I could be more like him.

Who has the craziest exes?

What are exes? Did I mention we’ve been married for 23 years?

Who has the worst temper?

Me. I get angry at the weather.

Who does the cooking?

Miss Carol, otherwise it would be the same 3 meals over and over again until she killed me.

Who is the neat freak?

Me. Miss Carol calls herself tidy which is a kind of messy that means you can find things.

Who is more stubborn?

Miss Carol.

Who hogs the bed?

Our dogs Cutter and Tug. It’s pathetic sounding, but you haven’t lived until you find yourself sharing a pillow with a snoring Lab.

Who wakes up earlier?


Where was your first date?

Sitting and drinking on the hood of Miss Carol’s car at National Airport in DC watching planes take off. 

Who is more jealous?

Miss Carol. I am some kinda catch. For octogenarians.

How long did it take to get serious?

Instantly. For me anyway. Miss Carol always thought it was just a passing lust.

Who eats more?


Who does the laundry?

Miss Carol. If I have to do it I’ll just put blacks and whites in all together. I’m diverse that way.

Who’s better with the computer?

Miss Carol manages an IT department at a hospital so she is.

Who drives when you are together?

Me. Unless I’m drunk.



Oceandoggy had been noticing on his frequent walks with the dogs that the City seemed especially virulent in their sign erections.

So he decided to count them. To count just the City signs that were along his mile long daily path. You know, the stop signs, the street signs, and such. 

It took several weeks because oceandoggy either kept forgetting until he came around the final corner and said, “oh shit, I forgot again”, or because he would start counting and then his mind would wander, working on cures for cancer and renewable, inexhaustible energy, and prosperity and intelligence for all. 

It was tough. But finally he got his count.


Thass right.

91 City mandated, carefully constructed, and meticulously placed, signs in the half mile oval of a quiet beach side residential community. 


Seems a little extreme, perhaps even a trifle overbearing to oceandoggy but he is the first to admit he neither works for the City where signs appear to be the new currency of the realm nor is he a traffic engineer. 

Not to mention the volumes it speaks of oceandoggy’s life that he has the time to not only count signs, but take pictures of them, and write about them.

Birthday Boy.


He’s not 60, he’s friggin’ 59.95.

Sorry about the photograph. Miss Carol took it with her CrackBerry Storm or Tempest or Hurricane or something and it’s beyond oceandoggy’s feeble 21st century skills to correct. Just pretend he’s napping. He’s old.

Oceandoggy has himself some old friends. Not only old as in dirt, but old as in as ingrained and inveterate as a tattoo. And, boy howdy, am I glad. This weekend Miss Carol and me went to Rick’s birthday down in Knott’s Island. It was a hoot.

Living in a small, close community with friends and people you have known for centuries and decades maybe isn’t for everyone but it is for us. Granted, you can’t bullshit them anymore, but if your truck hasn’t moved for a day or two they’ll come lookin’. It’s nice. And Rick’s birthday week was an affirmation of that.

First, the blast in Knotts Island and then later in the week a party at The Baja, our favorite bar. Always the same folks, our friends. It’s a warm, familial kind of thing.

Happy Birthday Rick.

Take a nap.



Long before there was a cutesy name for it, Miss Carol and me would take little, teeny, tiny, vacations near to home. Mostly because we’re lazy and don’t want to go anywhere but also because they’re fun.

This is how it works. Pick a city close to you, book a room, make dinner reservations, take off early on a Friday and go. It’s always fun getting out of school early.

And then go bar hopping, have a great dinner in a place you’d normally never go to and, after all that, head back to the hotel room for some adult style fun, rockstar fashion.

And when you awaken, hung over and satiated, greasy and lubed, you can just drive home- no taxi’s, no annoying flights or security checks, none of  the hassle normally associated with travel and vacations.

Another big bonus is that you don’t have to pack anything but a toothbrush, and you’d be amazed the number of places you pass by each day, thinking gosh, golly, we really need to try that place, or go there, but don’t.

Unless you’re staycationing.

Back story. Part 4.


So anyway.

This is how Cutter and Tug spent most of their first months with us- little furry bundles with damp noses constantly napping. They were as inseparable as they were indistinguishable.

They would always sleep huddled up against one another as, I imagine, the entire litter had. Now that it was just the two of them, they seemed to cling to that closeness. Still do, as a matter of fact.

Early on their personalities began to emerge and diverge. Cutter was clearly the alpha male, constantly curious and always underfoot. Tug was happy sitting on the sidelines and watching, needing all sorts of patient coercion to try anything new. Tug seemed openly surprised by any act of kindness while Cutter took it as his due. Cutter reveled in his puppy cuteness, Tug was dismayed by it. Cutter pranced and Tug warily trudged. 

I think a big reason for their diverseness was that Cutter was one of the first puppies chosen from the litter and Tug was the last, silently watching as his brothers and sisters disappeared and as the plywood box they lived in got bigger and colder and lonelier.

Every time I tell Miss Carol about Tug sitting alone in the plywood box she cries which proves she has a heart.

So I tell it to her a LOT.