The Great Bagel Explosion

I stop at the Central Market in Poulsbo to pick up 5 dozen assorted bagels, sliced and prettily arranged on those plastic domed catering trays. I was already one hour into my morning commute; and it was another 1-1/2 hour drive north to my customers in Port Townsend. They loved it when I showed up with goodies, and I'll admit the truth: I needed a potty stop along the way. I make this run every 3 weeks, and I'm such a regular when I call Central Market to place my order, they proudly inform me that they are "making fresh ones JUST FOR ME." Ain't that sweet? And should serve as a warning?

I very carefully stack my catering trays in the back seat of my feisty green Taurus (FORD: Found on Road Dead) and, bladder emptied, head north.

It's a quiet, rural drive -- lots of big trees, 2 lane roads, water, mountains, bridges, yada yada yada. I'm tooling along Highway 3, headed for the Hood Canal bridge: the last major bottleneck point on the way. I've already caught a ferry, driven up an island, crossed a bridge, stopped to pee and picked up the bagels. The Hood Canal bridge is the only connection between Kitsap County and the Olympic peninsula, and with a submarine base close by, well, I could count on getting stuck for a while when the bridge opened to let subs in or out.

So I'm racing for the bridge, since I really don't want to get stuck for 30 minutes to an hour (potentially) waiting for ship traffic. I'm coming aroundb the corner, at the road that leads to the llama and camel farm. But I digress. Sort of.

Pondering camel-y and llama-y thoughts, I spot a deer, daintily waiting at the side of the road. Hoof planted on asphalt. looking both ways before she crosses the road (safety first) (really. You know how time slows when you panic and everything is crystal clear? It was one of those moments). I shriek and slam on the brakes and lay on the horn, and swerve out of the way of th deer. It's 9:30 in the morning, for god's sake!

The deer jumps back, I aim for the shoulder of the road, and that carefully piled stack of slippery plastic catering trays? They take flight.

The top tray sails over the passenger seat, and hits the windshield with a resounding BOOM. The lid flies off, and as the deer bounds off, all I see is a shower of bagels raining 'round my head. The lower trays slid forward with enough force to smack the back of the seat, pop open and eject their bagel-ly goodness all across the back seat. Like Mexican jumping beans, they are.

And of course, I bought a lot of what I call "stinky" bagels. Crusted in chunks of garlic, globs of onions and a shower of poppy seeds. Or slabs of Asiago cheese. Or globs of kosher salt. Then the "sweeties," covered in tasty cinnamon sugar lumps, or studded with dried fruit. Warm, smelly, delicious, fragrant, and sliced. And not a bottom is anywhere near its top, when I come to a stop and catch my breath.

The top of a garlic bagel is spinning on the dashboard like a top, spewing garlic everywhere. I see the bottom of another bagel in the passenger door side pocket. I'm afraid to look in the backseat (yet) so I run my hand over my head. Er, or try to. There's a big glob of something sticky on the top of my head. Poppy seeds are everywhere, like the mad escapees from a flea circus. I whimper, mostly because the smell is overwhelming and I'm covered in smelly, lumpy, sticky bagel detritus. I rest my head on the wheel, honking the horn and scaring myself silly again. Deep breath? Nope, shallow with my mouth open, I crack the windows to let out the combined sweet-and-stinky smell permeating the car. I cautiously glance in the back seat.

One tray has magically escaped destruction, but the other four? It's a bagel bomb back there. Four dozen sliced assorted bagels, stuck to windows, upholstery, my PURSE, drug samples and whatever else I casually tossed back there in my mad dash to the ferry terminal.

Well, this breakfast run is a bust. I furtively check my mirrors and open my door. And start heaving bagels into the trees, ditch and weeds. At least they are biodegradable, I think. And I'm sure the resident possums, raccoons and crows will have a field day. I wait for a car to go by, and chuck a garlic bagel towards a stump. Thump! Direct hit! Ok, this is a great way to work out my adrenalin rush, panic and frustration.

This is getting fun. I get out of the car, and try to shake myself clean. I start heaving bagels by the handful, cackling like a crazy woman. A couple of pickups go by, slow down and stare in amazement. I give a cheery wave, windup my arm and pitch! Another bagel half goes over the fence. What the heck else can I possibly do at this point? Match up the seperated bottoms and tops? Not a chance. I know I'd pair a blueberry bottom with an asiago top, or something equally ridiculous. It's better to abandon the evidence and get out of dodge.

It takes me about a half hour to purge the car, shake out the mats, and wipe down the dashboard and steering wheel. Peronal Motto: Always Carry Wet-Ones Cause I'm a Danger to Myself and Others.

The car (and me) is as clean as I can get it in this remote part of Kitsap County. I straighten my clothing, muster some (any) dignity and get back in the car, and head for the bridge, leaving the evidence behind me. All except for stray bits stuck in places I can't reach, or that have dug hold in the carpeting. I'm sure my customers will understand, and hopefully laugh with me.

I cross the bridge, and gird my loins for the 45 minute drive and day ahead.

Oh damn. I've got to pee again.

New Neighbors Move In

My new neighbors have all their pictures on the wall, less than 18 hours after moving in. (We'll come back to how I know this). That's utterly insane and far to organized.

The moving truck showed up at 3:30 on Friday, with Young Couple, Cute Baby, and Her Parents in tow. They had the movers and their two SUV's totally unloaded within a couple hours. I took the dogs for a walk at 6, and sympathized with the over-stuffed garage. It'll take them months to clear that out, I was quite sure. And smug. Hell, it's been a couple years and I'm still digging out my garage and I have at least 6 pictures without permanent residence on any of MY walls.

So the pups and I are gone oh, maybe an hour. It was a nice night, there were squirrels to chase; cats to tease, and disgusting things to eat. We get back, and all that's left is a ginormous pile of flattenened boxes. The garage is completely empty. I stop dead in my tracks. How can this be happening? What are they, alien movers that sprout multiple arms behind closed doors? It's a 3-story townhouse, for god's sake! Lugging things up and down the stairs exhausts everyone, just ask any of my friends! They all comment on "it must be such a good workout living here." Tell that to my broadening beam, I say.

Anyway, I gape. Not a peep of a sound comes from inside -- no swearing, thumping, grunting..you know, typical moving-day hell noises. The pups are tugging at me for dinner so we trundle inside.

Last walkies at about 9:30...this is the part I said we'd get to later. From the darkening street, I can see into their living room as long as their curtains are open and the lights are on. Which they conveniently were. Everyone is sitting around on furniture that is thoughtfully placed, as opposed to haphazardly shoved up against the wall like all normal freshly-moved furniture should be. And here's the rub: hanging on every single wall I see...pictures. Mirrors. Knick knacks, for god's sake! What is the matter with you people? You should be exhausted! You just drove from Montana with a 6-week old Cute Baby and everything you own in tow! I expect to hear wailing (from adults or infant), gnashing of teeth, and general sounds of despair. Nothing.

Who has this easy of a move? I mean, I moved 5 times in 2005 (I do like the alliteration of it) and it was AGONY. I still have nightmares about lost underwear, missing toothbrushes, and that deja-vu feeling that comes post divorce (I know I used to have x, where the HELL is it???) since I wasn't sure who got what for quite a while. He moved out first while I was out of the country for 2 weeks, and took MY down quilt, my sleeping bag, not to mention my camping clothes. Why, I ask you? I NEVER want those back.

Anyway, so I took the dogs out for morning walkies with trepidation. I heard the garage door go up, so I knew they were up to something. It's your first day post move, stay inside and stumble over boxes, and scream at each other about "where the hell did you put the coffeemaker, for gods sake!" So the dogs and I trot out (they trot, I drag behind) and I stop dead in front of the open garage. It is freshly swept, barren of all things moving, and yet...there's at least a full-flat of Two Buck Chuck sitting tidily in the middle. Maybe they used the boxes for moving? I give a furtive look around and peek inside. Nope, I see bottles. Whoah. That's a lot of Chuck, considering the Trader Joe's is all of a mile away. And there's another 2 in the city, so it's not like there's going to be a Chuck Emergency, right??

I hear a polite cough behind me and jump, mentally chastising the dogs for not putting up a warning. Oh no, they're getting chin scratches and ear rubs. Traitors. "That's a lot of Chuck!" I say brightly. Her Father agrees, and explains that there is not Trader Joes in Montana, so they are stocking up. I babble in relieved agreement. I am relieved because I pictured the piles of empty bottles on recycly day, and the driver cursing us all for our imbibing ways.

Young Husband comes out, and the men proceed to install shelves in the garage at light speed. I'm openmouthed, dumbfounded and jealous, and the dogs and I finally trot off for the morning's potty run.

"These people are too perfect" I mumble as I pull an assortment of poop bags out of my pocket. Tinkerbell looks at me over her shoulder and her brown eyes are full of pity. Traitor for an ear scratch and a cookie, I think to myself. I vow NOT to look in their windows anymore -- I may see hand-stenciling, faux marbeling or real marbeling before lunch.

They are so darned efficient, maybe I should just hire them

The Chihuahua vs the Altoid

Bella, the 7-lb chi (who thinks she's an 80 pound rottweiler) has this need to carry thing around in her mouth. Not to eat or play with, more like Linus' security blanket. Occasionally cute, rarely disgusting, and always exasperating, they range from:

- Subway napkins and Cheeto-bags from the construction site halfway down the block
- pinecones from the tree around the corner
- sticks that are everywhere; ditto goose poop
- the occasional hairball from one of the marauding cats in the neighborhood

and, on this particular occasion, a pepperming Altoid mint. Now I usually indulge her need to drag something around, unless it's poop (Bella! Drop it! Followed by fishing around in her oh-so-tiny mouth and little sharp needle teeth) or a nasty dried up hairball.

So she spies the mint, and happily pops it in her mouth. This should be interesting, I think. Her head is up, proud that she's found a "treasure" that Mom won't object to. The tail is fanned up high and waving in the breeze. She makes it half a block (aka a half marathon for 3" legs) and then stops dead in her tiny furry tracks.

Ptui! Out comes the Altoid. She jumps 3 feet straight back, and proceeds to bark at the slobbery little white disk, melting gently on the sidewalk. The barks are now accentuated with little hops. She looks at me, and blue eyes clearly ask, "what the hell is THAT?"

"Pretty hot, huh, munchkin?" I ask, giggling like a madwoman. Bella turns back to the mint, picks is up and determinedly marches on. For all of 3 feet, and then the Altoid is projectile-spat into the grass. She looks back at me, eyes slightly glassy and panting heavily. She emits a low growl and lunges for the disk. Somehow, I will win this battle, her determined little stance says.

I'm now snorting into my sleeve an wiping the tears from my eyes. She's barking madly at the mint, which simply lies there in its gooey glory. "Enough!" I roar. "LEAVE IT!" I think she's grateful that I've intercepted so there is no loss of face, merely a mom-induced stalemate. With one last huff, she turns her back on the offending thing and trots off with her head (and tail) as high as ever. I'm hoping that this might cure her of her need to pick up every disgusting thing she sees on the sidewalk.

Which it does....for about 20 feet. Something lumpy blows across her field of vision, and we're off after yet another "treasure."