Expectations

My week started with high expectations. Mike called one of his cronies and arranged to meet him and another friend at a local restaurant Monday morning. We were going out for breakfast, something we haven’t done in a long time. I’m talking about a real sit-down-and-be-served breakfast out. McDonald’s doesn’t count.

I took road pictures.

          The restaurant sits right on a little creek.

          Instead of mowing this little sliver of ground or letting it go to weeds, they put in a beautiful wildflower garden.

          “Good morning!” the waitress cheerfully greeted us when we walked in the door.

          “Mornin’,” Mike says. “We’re meeting Butch and Woody here this morning.”

          “Oh! They’ll be here around eight.” Butch and Woody are regulars.

          When she set up our table, she set a place for the other guys, too. I sipped my coffee, Mike his water, while we waited for the eight o’clock hour to roll around. About a quarter past the hour, and two cups of coffee later, Mike called Butch. After speaking to him a few minutes, Mike hung up.

          “They’re not coming.”

          Our waitress came back around. “Are you ready to order or do you want to wait a little longer?”

          “They’re not coming so we’ll order.”

          Mike got an omelet and I ordered biscuits and gravy.

          “That comes with potatoes,” she said. “What kind would you like?”

          “Home fries, I guess. Is there gravy on those, too?”

          “There can be!” she said and noted it on the ticket.

          When my food came, I took one look at it and hated it immediately. The thin gravy sank to the bottom leaving chunks of premade sausage boogies sitting all alone on top. Where was my creamy, thick, white sauce with little pieces of sausage‽

          “They don’t use much milk,” I told Mike. But I was still willing to give it a chance. I took a little taste, then another, then the pepper kicked in. “And they used way too much pepper, too!” Crestfallen, I put my fork down and rinsed the pepper down with coffee.

          “Get something else,” Mike suggested.

          “No. I’ll pick on this.” I picked up my fork and started pushing stuff around on my plate. I broke a little piece of biscuit off and ate it. It was still awful.

          “I almost told you not to get that,” Mike said, taking another bite of his omelet. He knows how picky I am about sausage gravy.

“Mark’s makes good sausage gravy,” I pointed out. “And so does Kristy’s. I won’t know if it’s good here until I try it.”

Mike could tell I was having a hard time eating it. “Just get something else.” 

Paying for one ten-dollar breakfast was enough. I didn’t want to pay for two. “I’ll just pick on this and take the rest home for the dogs.” Although, I doubt the dogs would eat it either. It would end up out in the weeds for the whistle pigs or possums.

          “I don’t mind paying for two,” Mike said. “Get something else.”

          About this time the waitress comes around with the coffee pot. “How is everything?” she asked.

          “I hate it,” came out of my mouth without me even thinking about it.

          Her smile dropped. “Would you like something else?”

          I was still sticking to my guns. “No, I’ll just pick on this.”

          “Yes, she does,” Mike chimed in.

          I ended up ordering eggs and bacon and when it came, I was a much happier camper.

          “I’ll pay for both,” Mike told her.

          “No, that’s okay,” she said setting it in front of me.

          I know she wasn’t happy. She wasn’t quite as chipper and smiley as she was before. When we paid for the meal, we paid for the biscuits and gravy even though she didn’t charge us for them.

          I can’t tell you how much I appreciated her replacing my meal. The only other time I hated a meal, the expensive, upscale restaurant we were in wouldn’t.

          I talked about this in my morning love note to my peeps. My handsome redheaded brother also makes his sausage gravy with water instead of milk. So, I guess people do like it that way, just not me.

          I took a few more road pictures on the way home.

          While we’re talking about food, let me tell you about a couple of other incidents that happened this week.

          Do you ever make Hamburger Helper?

          In my whole life I’ve probably only made it a handful of times.

          Aldis had it and I picked up a box for a quick, easy meal for us. Besides, it reminds me of a story.

          Working in a factory, one of the guys was telling about his son going off to college.

          “Ira got him a half dozen Hamburger Helpers to take with him. He took them out of the box and said, ‘I don’t like these.’”

We were eating our lunch and listening with rapt attention.

Bob looked at each of us in turn. Leaning in for emphasis, he said, “She’s been making it for years!” He paused and a smile crept over his bearded face. “When he came home, she made a box for supper. You know what? He said he liked it!” It was a gottcha! moment.

We all laughed.

So, I made Hamburger Helper for lunch and remembered that story.

“How was it?” I know you value my opinion.

Mike liked it.

I remembered why I don’t buy it very often.

A chicken recipe came across my Facebook feed that had simple ingredients and looked like something I could make.

I decided to make it.

I thawed out four chicken breasts and made the sauce.

“Always double check your recipe to make sure you put everything in,” I heard Momma in my head.

I ran my finger down the list and saw salt. I hadn’t put salt in it. I skipped to the beginning of the line for the amount.

It smelled good as it baked but the first taste told me it was way, way too salty. I scraped the sauce off and ate it anyway.

“If I make it again,” I told Mike, “I’m not gonna put so much salt in it.”

Cleaning up the dishes, I picked the recipe off the counter and read it again. Yes, it has salt — season salt, which I’d already put in. Dummy me didn’t read season when I double checked my ingredients and added an extra teaspoon and a half of table salt! No wonder it was too salty!

I told Mike my mistake. “Did you know when you married me that I’m not perfect?”

He didn’t answer.

>>>*<<<

We made a trip to Dickson City for ceiling tile. Mike needed one more case and five singles.

“Maybe Home Depot sells single tiles,” my handsome mountain man said.

Lowe’s only sells them by the case.

We left early. The fog was just starting to burn off the mountain tops.

This place used to house honeybees. I don’t know what happened to them.

“It looks like they lost a branch,” I said, noticing the fresh scar.

 Driving past, it looks like a sizable branch landed on the house. I didn’t do a good job getting a picture on the way home, either.

Home Depot had the ceiling tile we wanted and they also only sold them in cases. But they also carried a four-pack. Mike needed five.

“What are you gonna do?” I asked.

“I’ll see if I can’t salvage one of the old ones.

We left Home Depot and went back to Lowe’s for the case of ceiling tile because it was cheaper there. It wasn’t much of a drive. They’re right down the road from each other.

In Lowe’s, in the ceiling tile section, someone had opened a case of tile and taken a couple out.

“Maybe where someone else opened them, they’ll sell us one,” Mike said. “Would you go look for someone and find out?”

I found a couple of guys stocking a shelf not far away.

“Excuse me. Can you help us in ceiling tile?” I asked.

“I can try,” one of the guys replied. “What do you need?”

“We need one ceiling tile. There’s a case open. Can we buy just one?”

“I don’t see why not. They have a barcode on each tile.”

“But it says on the shelf, sold in cases only,” I pointed out.

He left his job and went with me back to where Mike was waiting. He pulled a ceiling tile from the opened box and pulled up the sticker to reveal a barcode.

“See,” he said showing us. “It has its own barcode.”

I put my finger on the handwritten sign on the rack above the ceiling tile cases. “It says sold in cases only.”

“This was already open. Do you think they’d sell us just one?” Mike asked.

“I don’t see why not. It’s silly to have to buy a whole case for one tile. I’ll tell you what. Take it up to customer service and tell them. See what they’ll do,” he suggested.

Mike and I did that. After waiting ten minutes for our turn at customer service, explaining the box had been opened already, and we only needed one tile, we were flat out told, “No. We can’t sell them individually.”

We left the ceiling tile there and walked away. They were not flexible on the policy at all.

“Maybe so many tiles got damaged that they were losing money,” I suggested. It’s always about the money. “So, we’re back to plan B?”

“We’re back to plan B,” Mike confirmed.

Something else we were going to the city for was a birthday gift for me. I loved having Bird, I already have a bird cage, and I wanted another bird. When we were in PetSmart getting supplies for Bird, I saw the colorful little Zebra Finches. That’s what I wanted.

We talked with the gal for quite a while. She said Zebra Finches are a good beginner bird because they’re easy to take care of.

These little guys are quick and she had a hard time catching a pair for me.

“How can you tell which are the male and which are the female?” I asked.

“The males have orange cheek patches,” she said.

“Do they sing?” Mike asked.

“No, but they make a little meep, meep,” she said imitating their sound.

Suddenly, from the cage we were standing in front of, came an answering chorus of “Meep, meep, meep.”

“How old are they?” I didn’t know if she’d have a definitive answer to that or just a guess.

“They’re all supposed to be six months or under when we get them.”

The info on the cage front said they live about five years. I didn’t want one that was four years old.

Since then, I’ve learned Zebra Finches are bred in captivity and can live as long as twelve years if well cared for.

The lady at PetSmart gave us a box to get them home.

“We have some other shopping to do,” Mike said. “They’ll be okay in the car with the air on?”

“Don’t leave them in the car. Take them in the stores with you,” she advised.

And that’s what we did.

Birds are not like dogs.

Birds are not even like cats.

They don’t wanna cuddle or be touched.

We’ve had them for four, five days by the time you get this. Zebra Finches are quite active, and quite the talkers, too. All day long they dart from perch to perch, keeping up a steady stream of chatter. They’ve learned to recognize Mike. When he comes out to the kitchen he stops and talks to them. They fly to a perch close to him and talk back.

“Have you named them?” you ask.

Only as a joke. I call them Meep and Meepette, you know, like Smurf and Smurfette?

>>>*<<<

A Hummingbird Moth on Bergamot. Momma called them Humbees.

I love Bergamot! It’s in the mint family and you can make it into a tea or cookies. The flowers are edible and can be used in salads as an interesting garnish. They have a strong peppery flavor, which can become more enhanced with the drier the condition of the flowers.

Native Americans used this herb to treat digestive disorders, coughs, and the flu. The tea made from this plant was also used to treat any discomfort in the mouth.

Bergamot was also used to dress wounds as it had some qualities similar to a disinfectant.

You can eat the leaves, flowers, and young shoot tips — raw or cooked. They are used as a flavoring in salads, fruit salads, drinks etc. The leaves give an Earl Grey flavor to black tea.

A Skipper on Bergamot.

Evening primrose.

Pokeweed. I see the legs of a little flower spider on there, something I didn’t see when I was taking the picture or I’d’ve gone for a flower spider picture, too!

“How’s Raini this week?” you wanna know.

She had to wear her muzzle three times this week, but only twice for going after Bondi.

The first incident was when Bondi tried to come through the pet door from outside. Raini nailed her. I don’t know why. I calmly grabbed her collar, pulled her off Bondi, and muzzled her.

The second time was when we were playing a nightly before-we-go-to-bed game of jump. Bondi’s ball gets thrown down the hallway and she chases after it. I just toss Raini’s ball into the air right by the bed and she jumps for it. Their paths crossed and Raini gave a warning growl. I gave her a muzzle and put both balls away.

Bondi is very afraid of Raini. Sometimes I have to go outside and carry her in because she won’t come in on her own. Yesterday she sat in the other room and whined until I went and got her so she could sit in my computer chair with me. I’m hoping time will soften the edges of her fear.

The third time Raini wore her muzzle was because we’d taken her to Tractor Supply for her rabies shots. I didn’t have the slightest idea how Raini would react to other dogs. The only other dog she’s been around, other than Bondi, is Tux and she’s known him since she was a pup.

We got to the clinic twenty minutes before the listed start time and the line was already forming. A lady with two dogs was first, then a young gal with a kitten in a carrier, then us. The two dogs went nuts barking at Raini. Raini was afraid and tried to hide behind my legs as the dogs barked and lunged at the end of their leashes.

“Their tails are wagging so I think they just want to say hello,” the lady said to her young daughter with her. The dogs were siblings, four months old.

The daughter wanted to let our dogs get together and kept after mom.

“I don’t know what my dog will do,” I told her. “I don’t want her to bite your dogs.” Then she sorta understood that it isn’t always about what your dog may or may not do.

The lady took her dogs a little way into an adjoining aisle and out of sight of Raini so they quit barking.

Other dogs showed up behind us and I listened to the idle chatter of the owners. The lady directly behind me with a Poodle Yorkie mix, talked to her dog a lot. “Nice going, George. I walk you out in the grass and you wait until you get in here to poop.”

She did clean it up but I had to smell poop for a good while after that.

The people behind her, a youngish white man and nine- or ten-year-old black girl, talked to George’s mom. He told her they had two more dogs out in the car besides the two with him and had a total of nine dogs in all.

That’s a lot of dogs! I’m thinking about how much money it takes to take good care of that many dogs.

“What time is it?” I asked the young gal ahead of me.

“Ten after,” she said.

The clinic was supposed to start at the top of the hour. I’d been waiting a half hour now.

Raini liked the sound of her voice and strained at the end of her leash. “She’s never bitten anyone,” I told her. “I only muzzled her because I didn’t know how she’d be with other dogs. She wants to say hello. Is it okay if she does?”

The young gal held out her hand, an invitation for Raini to come closer. I relaxed the leash. “Hello pretty girl,” the gal cooed and scratched her ears. Raini liked to beat me to death with her tail.

By this time several of us were sitting on the floor. Raini came back and laid down next to me.

Suddenly, we all became aware of a huffing, chugging sound getting closer and closer. I knew the snorting, chuffing, grunting sounds of a bulldog when I hear it! We all watched until he came into view and took a place at the end of the line.

“How would you like to listen to that all day long?” I asked Kitten Gal.

“Noise canceling headphones. That’s all I’ve gotta say.”

I laughed.

First it was dogs barking, then dog poo, and now it was heavy dog breathing. So many sights and sounds and smells and Raini was exceptionally good. She sat in my lap some, her head on my shoulder. A few times she tried to leave. “Stay with me,” I told her and pulled her back. Then she’d lay down again. She never barked. Never growled. Never tried to go for another dog — or the kitten in front of us.

We were told the vet was running late.

At quarter past the hour, we were told the vet was there but her staff was not.

It was half past the hour when the clinic started.

The vet-tech came out with portable scales and took down all the information for the two four-month-old pups and owner. She went over a list of services they provide that might be pertinent to pups, listed what the gal wanted, gave her a price, collected a signature, and moved to Kitten Gal.

Then it was our turn.

Raini weighs thirty-five pounds and she’s fifteen months old. She needed another shot as well as rabies. The vet-tech listed it and gave me a price. Even without a vet’s office call, it was still ninety dollars.

They were finally ready to start taking pets and the lady with two dogs went into the back room where the vet was set up and the line moved up.

I didn’t know Raini was paying attention and wanted to follow the other dogs through the doors into the back. “We have to wait our turn,” I told her.

After a bit, they came out, went past us and out the door.

It took — forever! — another five minutes or so before they came out for Kitten Gal.

We moved to first place in line and again Raini wanted to go into the back room. She stood and eyed the doors. “Wait,” I told her pulling her to a stop. “You really wouldn’t want to go back there if you knew what they were going to do to you.”

Having lost my jibber-jabber partner, I turned to George’s Mom.

“Have you been here before?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s eleven and I’ve only ever brought him here.”

“Does it usually take this long? This is my first time here?”

She shook her head and answered, “No. Usually it’s right in and out.”

“So, you don’t go to a vet?”

“Uh-uh.”

“What do you do when he gets sick?” I wanted to know.

“Knock on wood, he’s never been sick.”

The vet-tech came past us to the young man behind George’s Mom. “The vet said she isn’t comfortable giving a rabies shot at this time. It could harm the unborn babies.”

I couldn’t hear all of what he said. All I heard was, “Would you rather....”

I looked at George’s Mom. “I think I’d wait.”

“Me, too,” she said.

I didn’t know the young man could hear us, but I didn’t care that he did.

“What if she gets rabies?” he asked me.

“The chances of that are pretty slim if you keep her in.”

“We have foster kids and part of the agreement is the pets have to have rabies vaccines.”

“Oh, gosh. I guess you don’t have any choice then.” I felt bad for the little unborns.

He shrugged. “I’ll just wait and talk to my vet.”

“Where do you go?” I asked, knowing there aren’t a lot of choices in our area.

“Wysox Animal Clinic,” he answered. “It’s a lot cheaper than the other one.”

Damon pushed open the door, looked at me, and said, “Raini Dae.”

“Yep.” Raini was eager to be moving at last and trotted right into the back room where the clinic was set up.

“Has she ever had any problems with her shots before?” the lady vet asked.

“Not that I remember.”

“Sometimes, with the one shot, I give a little Benadryl to help them,” she said. “Is that okay?”

“Sure. That would be fine.”

“The Benadryl shot is an intramuscular shot and she’ll feel a pinch,” the vet said.

Young, strong, Damon held Raini on the table. She felt it! She yipped and tried to get away, but Damon held on to her. Raini calmed while the vet went to get the next shot.

“These next two shots go just under the skin and will just be a little prick,” she explained.

Damon held Raini and the vet was fast getting the next shot in.

Raini said that was it! She was done! She’s leaving! And she was fighting Damon to get down. He held her and much to my surprise, even in her distress, she didn’t try to bite him.

The vet approached with the third and final shot. As soon as she touched Raini, Raini had a fresh fit of fight.

“Hold on a second, Doc,” Damon said.

She stood by. “Tell me when you’re ready, Damon.”

As we waited, the vet turned to me. “They know as soon as I touch them that a poke is coming.”

It was probably a good two minutes before Damon gave her the okay and she went in for the shot. It was done.

They have a little station set up where you pay and because of our wait, they gave us five dollars off the service.

Raini couldn’t get out the doors fast enough. Someone tried to pet her on our way through the store but she wasn’t having any of that. She wound around behind me and made for the outside. I twisted in a circle and shrugged.

“It’s okay,” the lady said. “She’s shy.”

Out in the parking lot a whole new drama was taking place.

“There’s a dog in that car that’s barking and carrying on,” Mike told me.

Raini was circling our car looking for a way to get in. She wanted to go home.

“So?” I said.

“The cars not running, and it’s gotta be really hot in there. That poor dog.”

So, Mike was talking to a guy parked behind our car, who was having a fit over the dog locked in the car with the windows shut tight. Another guy parked beside us was also in on the dog watch but when Raini and I came out, he wanted to pet Raini. Raini wasn’t having any of it and just kept asking me to open the car door for her. I did and she jumped in.

“I tried to pet the other dog but she growled at me,” he told me.

“Bondi growled at you‽” I couldn’t believe it.

“What’s her name?”

I know it’s an unusual name and most people don’t get it the first time, so I explained. “Bondi. She’s the bond-ee and I’m the bond-er.”

“Yeah. Every time I’d reach in, she’d growl.”

He demonstrated, reaching in the open driver’s window. Sure enough, Bondi growled. Secretly, I was pleased. My vicious guard dog. All eleven pounds of her.

I became aware of a commotion behind us. I’d vaguely been aware of a couple coming out of the store and going to a car a couple of cars over from where we were while I was talking with this other guy.

“NEXT TIME I’M CALLING THE POLICE!” the man behind us yelled as he was getting back into his truck.

“I guess we missed all the excitement,” I told the guy I’d been talking to.

“Yeah, well, that’s okay.” He did something with his car, then walked away.

Mike and I got in our car. “What happened?” I asked.

“That guy said he left his car running, but it wasn’t running the whole time we were there!”

“Maybe it’s like the time we left our car running with Bondi in it when we went into the store. We weren’t in there very long and when we came back out, our car wasn’t running either,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, but we were there for quite a while and it wasn’t running.”

“Break a window,” I said.

“You can’t do that anymore. You have to call the police. Unless it’s a kid inside, then you can.”

 All in all, we were there for an hour and a half.

How much money did we save?

I don’t know.

I only have one more Raini story.

I mowed the dog run this week. Both dogs have a fit when I get the mower out. Bondi just barks at it but Raini will actually dash in and grab the wheels. I make them stop and stay away from the mower. How do I do that? Easy. It’s called a fly swatter. I don’t have to hit them with it, the threat is usually enough to keep them away. Pretty soon they lose interest and sit on the patio while I mow.

Mike went to get the mail. When he came back, both dogs were barking at something. He thought they had a cat cornered or something. Turns out, they were barking at the mower.

A couple of days later, Raini was barking her fool head off. I let it go, thinking she was barking at a cat on the other side of the fence. But Raini didn’t stop and I thought it prudent to make sure she hadn’t cornered a cat, or possum, or skunk, inside the dog run.

Nope. It was the mower.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her. To which she frantically replied, “Bark! Bark-bark-bark-bark!” She dashed in, grabbed the back wheel, and pulled the mower out. I thought there might be something hiding under it, so I checked. There wasn’t. She was just trying to herd the mower.

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