Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Adult Mart

I will not recount my dissatisfaction when ADULT MART decided to abandon the name Ninth Street News when it took over the porn shop across the street because even though the neighborhood residents knew the true identity of Ninth Street News, it was easy to pretend that it was just ... well, Ninth Street News and not a porn shop. I think that the provocatively dressed mannequins in the window gave it away, but still, it was better than ADULT MART with the grotesquely huge sign it erected.

And then, in a bizarre management decision, ADULT MART closed its doors from midnight to eight in the morning. I haven't had occasion to visit porn shops, but I would think that business would be pretty good after midnight. This assumption is based on my personal observation that I wrote about in this blog of the the mostly naked guy running down the middle of street at 4 in the morning to pick up something he needed at Ninth Street News and then sprinting back to the apartment building from whence he came for his rendezvous with destiny.

Last week, in a freakish break in the nasty weather we have been having, the daytime temperatures for a couple days reached 60, which brought the ADULT MART cashier, a rotund woman, cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth, a whitish wife-beater under an unbuttoned flannel shirt over some kind of navy blue ultra stretchy I'll-call-them-pants-because-I don't-know-what-they're-called-in-real-life, outside to lean against the building next to the door, enticing passers-by to enter in search of ... a pack of Marlboros, perhaps.

As I approached with the three dogs, she sloped away from the wall and towards me. "I have two dogs," she said, cigarette bouncing up and down in the corner of her mouth. She held out her hands. Bella, the Cameron Diaz of Boxers, backed away and cemented herself against the back of my leg; but Scout, politely wagging her Beagle tail, approached the woman and allowed the woman to rub her head. Sheba, the elderly Boxer, stood and looked at the woman.

"Can I get them a treat?" she asked, ash cascading to the wet sidewalk. "I got treats inside," she said to the dogs.

"I don't usually let them take treats from strangers, but they seem to think you're okay," I said. "But this one," I pointed to Bella, still pressing against my leg, "won't take any treats from strangers."

She laughed and wobbled into the open door. She came back with a bag of some Purina soft chewy things of some sort. Scout happily grabbed the treat the woman held out. Sheba was more circumspect and politely accepted the offer from the woman. And Bella did not move.

"They are delightful!" she exclaimed, now sans cigarette. I thanked her.

And then she said, "Come in anytime for treats. I love dogs."

Yeah, ri-i-i-i-i-ight. Does she really expect me to come in ... for "treats?"

Road Trip

First Stop:

Second Stop:

Black Forest

WARNING: To men who are thinking about getting married or who have been married a short period of time, DO NOT EVER DO THIS.

There are things that never come up in conversation between two people, even in nearly a century.

So, when Nigella Lawson made her Black Forest trifle, Stacey recorded it; so, I could check it out. She was excited and, yesterday, told me to watch, "It's only eight minutes." Yesterday, I watched Nigella make the chocolate custard with oh-so-scrumptious bittersweet chocolate melted in a makeshift double boiler (and you haven't seen anyone melt chocolate in a makeshift double boiler until you have seen Nigella Lawson do that, and then give permission to sample it) and with rich-tasting cocoa (and I must say that her pronunciation of "cohhh-cohhhh" is worth watching the clip over and over and over again). And then she adds the cherry vodka over some chocolate cake pieces and does all the other stuff with the can of black cherries, draining the liquid, adding them in to the recipe.

"What did you think?" asked Stacey.

"I don't like it," I replied, tersely.

Shocked, she said, "You love Black Forest cake."

"I hate Black Forest cake."

"What? Since when?"

"Since way before we were married. You have me confused with someone else," I replied. "Well, I do love German chocolate cake with coconut pecan frosting. And the Black Forest is in Germany. And my favorite ice cream is Breyer's cherry vanilla. That's made with black cherries. So, maybe you jumbled all that together; and it's understandable that you would think that. But I've never ordered or eaten Black Forest cake while we have known each other."

"I made you a Black Forest cupcake once, and you said you loved it."

"Really? I don't remember that. Well, I'm your husband. Part of the job, I guess."

By the way, the new chair we picked up at Arhaus Furniture today looks great. It looks really comfortable, too.

It's Organic!

I have already explained my disaffection with peanut butter.

I had a demand moments ago to make a peanut butter sandwich; so, being nothing but compliant, I consented to the demand. And while there are not many ways to make a peanut butter sandwich, I do try to make it well, thickly peanut buttering one slice of the bread and then thinly peanut buttering the other piece of bread, making sure that the pieces are complementary ... or supplementary, take your pick. I match up the sides the way the slices came from the bag of bread; so, that might not have anything to do with complementary and supplementary.

I do that so that there is no danger of any slop-over from a little piece of bread hanging out that might cause peanut butter to get on my hand, arm, or other body part.

I grabbed the plastic jar of peanut butter from Trader Joe's. What do I know? It's peanut butter. But organic is good, and it is organic peanut butter. In a petroleum-based container. I opened the lid.

Now, the plastic in jars of Jif and Skippy is substantial. I have discovered that the plastic in jars of Trader Joe's peanut butter is pretty flimsy. When I opened the jar, some oily substance flew out because the jar squeezed in -- and not just "some," a lot of oily substance shot out, all over the counter ... and my hand.

What the heck is that? Is that some kind of trap for the unwary? I mean, how the heck was I supposed to know that there was a bunch of oil that was going to shoot out at me? There is nothing on the jar for an idiot like me that says: WARNING: Oil may erupt from container! Use CAUTION when opening!

I washed my hands. Not entirely successful, but I stirred the oil in -- I assume that is what I was supposed to do -- and made the sandwich.

And then I tried to clean up the counter. I don't know if I got it all. I can't tell. I got boiling hot water on a rag after I used a soapy rag. I have no idea if the granite is shiny or oily.

And I can't get this oil off my hands. I washed my hands -- three times. The keys are getting oily as I type this post.

This is worse that the actual peanut butter getting on me.

I'm going to take a shower. I can't stand this.

E-mails Between Friends

From: Bill
Subject: Winter is bad
To: "DT"
Date: Tuesday, February 1, 2011, 4:02 PM

Donnie --
I got my bill for renewal of my Cavs tickets. The price went down about $600. And if I renew, I get four additional tickets for 6 of the remaining home games of my choice!!!! Oh boy, what enemies do I have I can foist those tickets on and make them suffer like I am. I'm having a hard time believing that these players are really pro basketball players. they could not beat the Buckeyes.

So, I am not renewing and will be buying Cleveland State tickets next year -- I think they are about $350 for 15 games in the first five rows or something like that.

I walked out the front door this morning with the dogs and there's 8 inches of snow. Where did that come from? I'm fed up with this weather. The couple down the hall went to Florida for a week. That sounds good about now, except I volunteered to watch their fucking cat. Must be fucking cabin fever getting to me.

Guess who has a personal trainer for the next few weeks -- if I had a gun, I'd probably shoot the mother fucker. And he likes this shit ... at 7 in the morning. I'll show him, though. Fucker.

Somehow, taking the dogs out at 6 or so wasn't so bad until I have to do it before working out. Mother fucker. And then, yesterday morning, there's some guy who looks like he lifts locomotives in his spare time, is lifting weights and doing weird pushups and I don't know what else and he's grunting and groaning and yelling. How fucking annoying is that shit when I'm trying to maintain my form AND lift weights AND breathe the right way. There'd be two dead guys if I had a gun. Honest to God. That guy doesn't need to work out -- he needs to be grunting and playing women's tennis!

But I guess I'll be doing better in a couple weeks -- learn how to grunt and stuff. That'll be impressive. Geez, I could impress the ladies. Hahaha! Except there aren't any down there so early in the fucking morning. Except one, I think. It was hard to tell, actually, because of all the grunting ... she was there on Friday last week. I guess grunting is the most important part of weight lifting.

That's all for now.

Bill
_____________________
From: DT
Subject: Re: Winter is bad
Date: February 1, 2011 5:27:04 PM EST
To: Bill

Billy
Hey, you could post your tickets on a pole in front of your place.
Let me know how the trainer works for you ... laughed my ass off on that.
YOU were always so good at taking instruction.
No you don't have to grunt when you lift although the steroids he is on will shrink his nuts down to the size of peanuts ... that should be worth a chuckle the next time you see him
It is 23 and fucking raining hard we have ice all over damn big mess. Keeping fingers crossed and hope it warms up before the snow gets here.
Sucks. I am sore as hell from slipping around, haven't gone on my ass yet but I think that is coming.
62 and sunny in Phoenix and they are bitching.