Shorty-Short

           I’ve been having a love-hate relationship with my hair lately. Mostly hate. I’m not an especially vain woman, but when I get gussied up to go out, dagnabbit, I want my hair to look nice! And it’s always a crap shoot. Do I have the right amount of hair gel in it? Did I blow-dry it right? Is my part in the right place? Can you see the balding spot on my crown?

          Then I have issues with it always coming down on my forehead and getting in my eyes and I have to constantly sweep it back. The other day I actually put a babushka on!

          “What’s a babushka?” you ask.

          It’s a kerchief folded triangularly and tied either under your chin, or in my case, at the nape of your neck. Maybe the nape of the neck thing isn’t traditional, but it’s how my beautiful Miss Helen wore hers.

          I used to wear my hair short. In fact, I wore it short for a long, long time. Years even. This is me with my handsome mountain man in 2014 and it’s growing out here.

          I was the most happy, most consistently happy with my hair when it was short.

          “Mike, I wanna get my hair cut really short again.”

          “When do ya wanna go?” he asked. Mike is a good husband and doesn’t tell me how to wear my hair, even if he hates it. Then again, I’ll never know if he hates it because he won’t ever say.

          This week we did that.

“We’re going for haircuts today,” I told my morning peeps. “I’m going for shorty-short.”

“Winter is coming… you might want the locks for just a few more months!!” Steph, my beautiful neighbor said.

“I’ll get a hat,” I told her.

          Paula, the gal that does our hair, was hesitant.

          “I want the sides and back a number three — four clipper and like an inch on top,” I told her.

          “Okay,” she said, took the clippers, attached the comb, and took a little off the bottom on the sides and back then started to blend the rest in with her scissors.

          I stopped her. “No.” I picked up the hair on the top of my head and motioned for her to, “Take it all off!” the sides and back.

          “Okay,” she said and went back to the clippers.

          Hair was falling all around me, on my shoulders, my face, sliding down the front of the plastic apron. Finally, she went back to the scissors. She worked on the top, then started blending it down the sides and back.

          “Hummph,” Mike grunted.

          “What?” I said looking up at him.

          He ticked his head toward the mirror.

          I looked.

          “It’s too long,” I said getting his meaning.

          Paula went back and made it shorter, cutting the length in half.

          The next time I looked, it was much more what I was looking for.

          Paula took the apron off, shaking my graying locks to the floor. I stood and brushed myself off, moving out of the way so Mike could take the chair.

          “Holy cow!” Mike said. “Look at the hair!”

          I turned to look. “Wait a minute. Let me get a picture.”

Then I turned the camera to the mirror. “This is how I take a selfie,” I said.

          We walked out and even though the temps were mild, my head felt the difference, that’s for sure!

          That’s okay. I don’t have to look at it and it gives me a reason to wear some cute hats. Besides, hair grows and it’ll grow.

          I’m just a little apprehensive of the response I’ll get at church on Sunday. Not much. Mostly just wondering what people are gonna say.

          “I bet they’re gonna say, ‘You got a haircut!’” you say.

          Yeah. I bet they’ll either say that or — what’s the old saying? If you can’t say something nice…

          I don’t care. Not really. But that didn’t stop me from dreaming about it!

“What did you dream?” you wanna know.

It’s a good thing I made a note or I’d’ve forgotten by now. I dreamed I got up and got dressed, in the dark. It’s something you do when you don’t want to turn the light on and disturb your sleeping husband. I fumbled around and found a shirt thinking I like this one, even though I couldn’t see it, finding pants and putting them on, not really caring which pants they were. Then I went to wherever I was going, walked in and caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror and had to laugh right out loud. I had on the most awful plaid shirt with a pair of pants that clashed not only in color but in plaid, too!

I guess my subconscious is afraid I’ll be a spectacle at church. The rest of me really doesn’t care what anyone thinks of my shorty-short.

>>>*<<<

          It has been a critter-full week in the Luby household this week.

          I get up one morning and find this guy on my kitchen floor.

          “What is it!” you ask.

          Well, I know for sure it’s a kind of weasel. But what kind? It reminds me of the ferrets my kids had when they were growing up. I sent my picture to Trapper John.

          “Guess what I found on my kitchen floor. Do you know what it is?” I asked. Then, just so he would know it wasn’t alive in my house, I added, “Besides dead.”

          “It looks like a Long-tailed Weasel,” Trapper told me.

          I asked my handsome son Kevin, too. He sent me a Google link. There are three species of weasel in Pennsylvania. The Short-tailed weasel is also called Ermine, Bonaparte’s Weasel, and Stoat. The Long-tailed Weasel is also known as the New York Weasel. And the third one is called a Least or Mouse Weasel. The ranges of all three overlap in Pennsylvania. The Short-tailed is found mostly in the northern and eastern parts, the Long-tailed is common throughout the state, and the Least is found in greatest numbers in the southcentral and northwest.

          With the weather cooling and the temps fluctuating, I’ve brought all my paints, stains, and glues in from the patio. I opened my Mod-Podge last week and saw I had a little condensation going on and thought it’d be prudent. If I want my paint and glue watered down, I’ll water it down.

          I set my nifty little paint carrier on the floor by the kitchen table where I could get to it easily, then I saw someone helping themselves.

          “Raini!” I yelled. Raini ran for the pet door and outside. I was hot on her heels. “Give me that back!” She got to the grass, flopped down, dropped the paint, and looked at me.

         “That’s mine,” I cooed. I didn’t want her to think she was in trouble. “Can I have it please?” Before I could get close enough to grab her, she picked up her paint and was gone. It took several trips around the yard before she finally let me have it.   

    

          Little Miss Raini got her transmission taken out this week, as Mike likes to say. We had her spayed. We dropped her off early Tuesday morning and waited.

          Poor Bondi.

          I didn’t even think about how Raini’s absence would affect her — or even if it would. Turns out, it did. All day long Bondi wandered around, lost. At one point I saw her get one of her toys and try to get Blackie to play with her.

          “She’s missing Raini,” I told Mike.

          Late afternoon we picked up a very groggy Raini.

          “No running or jumping for ten full days and walks on a leash only,” were the instructions given to us by the vet.

          There’s no way we’re ever going to stop her from running and jumping so we’ve opted to keep her kenneled. The first night was easy because she was so out of it. I took a video of her sitting there drifting from side to side as she fought sleep. The second day wasn’t too bad but she’d cry if I left her sight. So, Mike helped me carry the kennel from room to room if I was going to be gone longer than a few minutes. That didn’t take long to get old.

          “Why don’t we put her kennel on the furniture dolly and you can push her around with you?” Mike suggested.

          That was an absolutely great idea and made all our lives easier.   

“Peg, what’s that cord out the back of Raini’s kennel?” you wanna know.

That’s a heating pad. The vet suggested she might like the heat while she’s recovering but keep it on the lowest setting. I watch and make sure she’s not getting too hot but she seems to really like it. The bed Raini’s on is one of those that cats or small dogs can go inside. When Bondi used the kennel, she always collapsed it and laid on top. After a while I stopped opening it back up and it’s the way Raini uses it, too. It’s perfect to put the heating pad inside so she’s not laying directly on it.

Another problem presented itself almost right away. Bondi. She wants to play with Raini and won’t leave her alone when I take Raini out to do her business. Of course, it’s not all Bondi’s fault. Raini wants to play too.

          Look at these shenanigans!

          I manage to get them separated, Bondi goes off, and I think it’s over.

         The second my back is turned and I’m dragging Raini back to the kennel, Bondi comes running and takes a flying leap at Raini, her tail wagging a hundred miles an hour the whole time!

          I guess I didn’t know how much Bondi really missed Raini. 

          “No running, no jumping!” I told Raini. “And if you’re unhappy about it, you’ll have to talk to Dr. K!” She’s the one that did the surgery. Since I can’t trust Bondi to leave Raini alone, I have to lock the pet door before I take Raini out of the kennel. If Bondi gets out the door ahead of us, I can’t catch her.

          Raini is becoming increasingly dissatisfied with being kenneled and is very vocal about it, if you catch my drift. I called the vet on her behalf.

          “Do I really have to keep her kenneled for ten days? She’s miserable!” I told Kelly when she answered.

          “We do recommend a full ten days,” she said. Raini whined and Kelly heard her. “Poor Raini Day!” she said.

          We bought bones to keep her busy. I’ve given her some toys and I walk her every day. I just want y’all to feel sorry for me. It’s hard listening to her cry.         

          Another morning.

          Early.

          Two-thirty! I took a picture so I didn’t have to remember the time.

          Two-thirty in the wee hours of the morning, I’m awakened by the persistent meows of a cat. Right after I woke up, I heard Raini wake up. I got the flashlight from the headboard and went to investigate. I found Spitfire. He brought me a present. He was so proud and thought everyone should get up and come see.

          I’m guessing Raini knew what his cries meant. Chances are I’ve slept through other episodes. If she recognizes his cries and sneaks out of bed before I wake up, she gets a mouse all to herself. Being kenneled, all she could do was sit there and cry.

          I was afraid she’d wake Mike, if she hadn’t already. I didn’t want to leave the mouse on the floor for her to get, although I don’t really know why. I let her eat mice all the time. I guess I just didn’t want to deal with it on this night.

          I picked him up by his little tail, put him on the butcher block beside the cat food dish, and rushed to get Raini. She knew. She came out with her sniffer sniffing. I got her past the spot on the floor where the mouse had been laying and out the door. Standing there, begging her to pee so we could go back to bed, Blackie comes outta the pet door, mouse clamped firmly in his jaws. Going past Rainie, she lunged for him, but I caught her around the neck and kept her still. Blackie jumped up on the fence and on over, growling the whole time.

          Spitfire is an excellent mouser, but so is Bondi! She got two this week!

          The first time was while I was sitting at the kitchen table working on porch signs. I saw Bondi take off and run to the closet. I can tell when she’s seen a mouse. I got up to help her find it. After pulling everything out and not finding him, I happen to look inside the roll of aluminum that I have stored in the closet. There he was. Stuck. Then I see he’s dead. D-E-D dead. I was guessing she smelled it and that’s how she knew it was there. I didn’t really want her to have an already-dead mouse. I don’t mind if they have fresh ones, but who knew how long this one had been dead. When she was off looking for the mouse somewhere else, I picked up the roll and saw his little feet were still kicking. He wasn’t dead after all.

          “Bondi!” I called.

          She came running, spotted the mouse right away, and grabbed it.

          “OUTSIDE!” I command and she goes right out the pet door.

          I followed her for a picture.

          And she’s checking for signs of life. I went back in the house. 

          Later, when I went out, I found her mouse. She chewed it a little but didn’t really eat it. I tossed him over the fence.

          Now I’m wondering if the mouse hadn’t made a noise or maybe she heard his scratching as his little legs kicked in death throes.

          At the end of the week, Mike and I were making dinner and Bondi goes running for the trash can, head low, nose at work. She tries to squeeze in beside the trash can but there isn’t enough room.

“She found a mouse,” I told Mike and pulled the can out.

          “Woof!” Bondi says. Translation, “Thanks!”

          The mouse was definitely in a bad place to have been seen. The only hiding place is behind the microwave cabinet. Bondi ran from one side of the cabinet to the other, emitting little throaty growls and barks.

          I got the flashlight and looked. Yep. There was a mouse. I’m under the delusion that I’ve got this under control. Normally I just grab the flyswatter, poke it in and the mouse runs out the other side. Not this mouse! No siree! He was climbing on the handle of the flyswatter rather than face Bondi at the other end. Twice he almost came out my side while Bondi was on the other. She’d see it and come running to my side.

          “Get the broom handle,” Mike suggested.

          “Okay but keep Bondi on that end while I chase him out.”

          Mike kept Bondi in the trash can cubby while I poked the broom handle at the mouse a couple of times. That little stinker climbed the handle and came right out my side, ran past the door, behind the thirty-gallon-trash-can-turned-birdseed holder, and under the baker’s rack. The whole time I’m screaming for Bondi. She’s using her nose to find the mouse, I’m using my eyes and see where he went. I picked Bondi up and got her where she could see the mouse. She couldn’t quite get under the rack and the mouse tried to make a break for it. He was stopped by a giant jar filled with giant pinecones that sat at the end of the rack and went back to the corner. Bondi is a half-second behind all the time, mostly because she has to use that time to squeeze under and squirm out from under the rack while the mouse is running back and forth.

          Then the mouse surprises me! He starts climbing the corner using the bars and leg of the baker’s rack! He gets to the first shelf and I’m frantically throwing stuff from the shelf to the floor. Bondi goes for the stuff I’m throwing. The mouse gets to the second shelf and I’m casting around for something to poke him with before he goes any higher, but he stops. I picked Bondi up and held her nose to the mouse. Rather than face the impending jaws of death, the mouse lets go and falls to the floor. Bondi squirmed from my hands as I lowered her to floor, dropping the last foot, and nailed the mouse.

          I grinned as she shook her head and broke his little neck. I’m so proud of my little mouser!

          “OUTSIDE!” I commanded, and Bondi went.

          Look at my beautiful Marigolds! I’m not often this successful growing things.

          The whole time this flurry of activity was going on, Raini sat in her kennel and cried. She knew she was missing out.

          After we finished lunch, I took Raini out. She found the mouse Bondi killed and didn’t eat. You might think she’d just swallow it down but she didn’t. She bit it a couple of times, dropped it on the ground and sniffed it. She picked it up, bit it some more and dropped it again. Then she rolled on it. Then she sniffed it from nose to tail, picked it up by his head and —

          Well, let’s just say she ate it. I’ll spare you any more details even though I got to see them firsthand.

>>>*<<<

          I was fussing in the kitchen, on another day, getting lunch around, when Spitfire appears in the utility room, meowing at me.

          I looked up. “What?” I asked, never dreaming he’d answer me.

          Spitfire turned, took a few steps, stopped, looked back over his shoulder at me. “Meow,” he said.

          That was a Lassie, ‘Timmy’s-fallen-in-the-well-follow-me’ moment if I ever saw one!

          I followed Spitfire through the utility room, him stopping every few steps to check and make sure I was following and stopped in front of the wayback door.

          He looked at me. “Meow?” Translation, “Please?”

          From the wayback, Spitfire climbs up onto the ceiling of the house part and who knows what he does up there. I’m not supposed to let him back there anymore because Mike’s afraid he’s making a nest in the insulation or making a mess. But look at that face! Those eyes! And he asked me so nicely! I opened the door and he slipped through.

          “He is a good mouser,” I defended when I told Mike.

          A couple of hours later, I opened the door and called. He was ready to come out and came running.

          Speaking of cats…

          Look who I found!

          Whiskers!

          He was old. He only had the two canines left.

          Oh! Speaking of Whiskers…

          I haven’t posted anything to the writer’s website called Vocal for a long time. Even though you get paid for reads, it wasn’t a good website for me.

          The other day I got something from Vocal and went to the website. I see I’ve got two followers and ten dollars four cents in my wallet! Having just finished writing the story of Whiskers, I decided to post it there. I heavily edited it, taking out almost everything except what pertained to Whiskers and posted it.

          “This story broke my heart. Feral cats break my heart anyway. But at least Whiskers knew a kind hand at the end and he didn't die alone, and for that I thank you,” was a comment I’d gotten from a lady I don’t even know.

          Besides commenting, people can leave insights. I got two of those.

          My last critter story of the week was a creepy-crawly critter. I was out walking Raini and spotted this guy. A prickly black caterpillar with red or orange bands in between the tufts.

          Not knowing if he was a ‘stinging’ caterpillar or not, I used my shirt to pick him up.

          “What is it?” I know you wanna know.

          This is a Giant Leopard Moth caterpillar and they don’t sting. He’ll overwinter in this stage and transform into a large, gorgeous, black and white spotted moth next year.

>>>*<<<

          One thing I didn’t do this week that I normally do is put the road pictures in my stories where they happen, more or less.

          I took some pictures when we took Raini over to the vet.

          The neighbor set his old TVs by the road hoping someone else would want them.

          The beautiful Susquehanna.

          I saw some brightly colored trees as we followed a Halliburton sand truck down the hill into Wysox and that’s why my camera was up and ready when a hawk broke from the trees and almost collided with the side of it.

          He veered and managed to get up over the truck.

          And here’s the trees I was after. 

The sky over Wysox. It’s not night but my camera seems to think it is. 

          A few minutes later, crossing the Veterans’ Bridge into Towanda. See! Not night!  

          I was going for vista here and saw the pumpkins on my ‘puter. 

          Around the house I spotted some yellow-green fungus growing up near the Bittersweet. I thought they were leaves at first.

          Even the inside is the same yellow-green color.

          I did a cursory search but couldn’t find out what he is.

           Another yellow-green thing is the Bittersweet moving toward his red fall color.

          My Hydrangea starts as a light green, then turns almost white before going pink. 

          On the way to get our haircuts I took a couple of pictures.

          An old barn that I’ve shown you before. 

          Volunteer corn growing outside a farmers’ barn. 

          He’s got a sumac growing out of the rain gutter, too.

          Lastly, let’s have some adventures in crafting, shall we?

          I made another of the very popular Pumpkin Kisses porch sign. This time I got a lot of bleeds under my stencils.

          “I can't fix it,” I told my morning peeps. “Guess I'll give it away.”

          “Send me a picture,” my beautiful Jody said. Well, I didn’t send a picture right away even though I did take one. Look how bad it is!

I worked on it for a while. I could improve some of it by making the lines fatter. But under the ‘I’ was the worst.

          Then I sent a picture to Jody.

“I think you are being too critical. But I am looking at it from a photo, even blowing it up, to me it’s character. Similar to wood grain. What about floating another leaf right there?” she said.

          I smacked myself in the head!

          Duh!

          Of course! I fixed a boo-boo on the Hocus Pocus board by adding a bubble!

          “Why didn’t you think to do that here?” you ask.

          I’ve been thinking about that. The only answer I can come up with is I’m a rule follower. I know some of you would disagree with that but basically, I am. Since this was a pre-made design, I never thought about changing it. But I should have. Thank goodness I have such good friends that help me out with stuff like this.

          I added a leaf catching the worst of the bleed under the ‘I’ and liked it so much I stuck another under the ‘W’ where there was a smudge of black paint. I really like the sign with the added leaves.

          Thank you, Jody!

          “I’m having such a problem with the bleed-under. It’s worse than ever!” I complained to Mike. “What if we got a water-based stain?”

          Our next trip out we stopped and looked. They do have a water-based stain, but they have to mix it with color. I picked Vermont Maple and tried it on a small piece of scrap wood. I hate the color! I just hate it. But I can’t take the stain back. I’m stuck with it. I tried to improve it by adding some brown and it’s not so bad now. Since I had the board ready, I made another sign, anxious to see if using a non-oily stain would allow my stickers to stick better.

          I still had some bleed under. I made my lines a little fatter and got rid of the worst of it. And from a distance your eye doesn’t pick up the minor imperfections anyway.

          When I didn’t think I could fix the Pumpkin Kisses sign well enough to fill an order, I went to work making another one.

          You’re not going to believe what a dumb-ass thing I did now.

          “What did you do?!” you wanna know.

          I had my plastic lid-turned-palette sitting on my board when I tried to add a little white. Nothing was coming out so I sqoze it a little harder — and it farted white all over my board!

          Aye-yi-yi!

          I wiped it off but it still left a smudge behind.

          I sanded it a little and added a small amount of stain with my stain rag. It didn’t look too bad — until I took it outside! Then it popped like a sore thumb!

          I was thinking about hitting it harder with the sandpaper and seeing if I couldn’t blend a little stain in, when Jody spoke to me in my head. “For heaven’s sake, Peg! Put a leaf on it!” she said.

          Duh!

          Have I ever told you I’m a slow thinker?

          I added a leaf and covered most of it up.

          I guess I’m shooting for perfect and that ain’t never gonna happen!

          Here are the two signs side-by-side.

          One was spoken for but I took them both to church on Sunday and let Susan pick the one she wanted. She chose the one on the left with the larger print.

          “I love the pumpkins!” another church gal said. “I’ll take whichever one Susan doesn’t take.”

          And I got another order! But this gal wants white pumpkins. “Can you do that?” she asked.

          I shrugged. “I can try. If we hate it, I can sand it off.”

          I’ll be working on that this week. 

          “What did they say about your hair?” you wanna know.

          “You got your haircut!” was what I heard the most.

          “You noticed!” I quipped.

          One guy crosses his arms, taps his chin with an index finger and says, “Hmmm. There’s something different about you but I can’t put my finger on it.”

          I laughed.

          “I wish I could wear my hair like that,” is something else I hear a lot or, “I’m not brave enough to wear my hair like that.”

          Usually I tell them if they tried it they’d never go back to long hair, but today I let it go.

          My last project of the week was one that had been rattling around in my head for quite a long time now. All summer I collected interesting looking twigs, sticks, and branches. I wanted to create a natural roadblock so the cats couldn’t get a straight-on jump at the birds as they visited my feeders this winter. And it would give the birds more places to perch.

          I drilled holes and put the branches up.

          Not an hour later Tiger had a bird.

          Sigh.

          “All you did was give the cats another way to get to the birds,” Mike observed.    

          And with that, let’s call this one done!