Heels at a wake.

I predicted that this might be a bad year for funerals, and indeed, I was obliged to attend one last week. In a way it was a happy occasion, in that the deceased had once been estranged from his family, but by his passing was sorely missed by all. A wake with a prayer service was scheduled, and I got there just in time for the prayer service, which was standing room only. 

Then the weird thing happened. I bring all this up because I found it very odd and slightly entertaining. 

As the service concluded, I made my way to the front to bid farewell to our friend and to offer condolences to the family. I happened to notice some black flecks on the ground as I waited -- black flecks that stood out against the beige carpet -- black flecks that followed my path to the front. 

Had I stepped in some foul substance on my way in? How embarrassing! Time for a quick goodbye and exit. 

Except on my way, I saw something sticking out from my pants cuff. The very thing that was leaving the trail. 

The heel of my left shoe had chosen this sacred and solemn occasion to disintegrate completely. 

I ripped the heel off and continued. As I ducked down the steps to the funeral home, the heel from the right shoe, not to be outdone, emerged from beneath my shoe. I paused, ripped that off too, and proceeded to the car posthaste. 

Now, this is an odd thing to have happened. This was a pair of well-made Ecco shoes that were in apparently fine condition when I left the house, shoes that were comfortable and buffed up nicely. But note too that these shoes had been in my possession for well over fifteen years -- I can't actually remember when I bought them. Since I've been working at home for more than nine years now, they have not gotten as much use as they once did. But meanwhile the rubber was slowly rotting away until bam! In the presence of death, they themselves gave up the ghost. 

Funerals and weddings have a way of disclosing unfortunate couture situations at the last minute. The suit you like no longer fits (damn you, Doritos!). The tie you intended to wear has a coffee stain you missed. The cuff links no longer sit together in the box; one has gone roaming. Anything can happen. I would not have minded discovering the shoe issue at home; I have other dress shoes. I did mind the heels sitting under my feet through the event like a sooty time bomb.

I've had heels detach from shoes before. I've even had the entire sole with heel detach from cheap uppers in my young days. But I've never had a heel just disintegrate. Had the dog gotten to them and chewed at the heels? No, it would have been plain to see. Nope, this was just a case of rubber deterioration, I suppose. Even silicone lasts only 20 years. 

Well, that's the way the heel bounces. 

For the men whose funerals I've attended recently: May their souls rest in peace. 

As for my shoes, well, may their soles rest in peace. 

Oopsie! Church edition.

Advent is under way, and I was glad to be in church yesterday for it. It took a little intestinal fortitude to do so, mainly because the week before I had sorta put the congregation in danger of seeing something attached to my intestines. That is to say, my fly was open and I didn't realize it until I got home. 

When I was a kid, an incident like that would have made me want to crawl under the bed and stay there until, well, my current age. A sure sign of maturity is that it isn't like that now. Not that I don't kick myself for old mistakes -- I most certainly do, usually when I awaken in the middle of the night -- but silly things like forgetting to XYZ before leaving the house? Not so much. 

It's unclear whether my exposure was even visible. I had been wearing a drapey shirt (a shent, I guess), and I was wearing black undies rather than white (which I might have been, as I do own a couple of pairs of classic tighties). That is to say, the black shorts may have been hard to notice even if they were not covered by my shirttails. 

No one said anything. I think the deacon gave me a look, but he's a retired cop so he probably gives everyone that look anyway. 

Besides, it'd be far from the most embarrassing thing I've ever seen in church. I've seen a lector who accidently started reading the Gospel (the priest or deacon has to do that); I've seen people drop the Host (big no-no); I've seen a nun and a priest trying to get the symbolic robe on a newly baptized adult and working at cross-purposes until it looked like they were taking a hostage; and of course -- an all-time classic -- I heard a lector introduce a reading from the Letter of St. Paul to the Philippines. Wherever there are people, there can be embarrassing stuff. A little flagging fly ain't much of anything. 

Really, I've seen far more embarrassing things per capita everywhere else. Schools, clubs, bars, offices, public transportation, supermarkets, press conferences -- pound for pound, these have far more embarrassing incidents than church. It's just the reverence in church that makes them stand out more.

Anyway, Advent is here, and that's nice. I feel like I'm well behind my neighbors. They all seem to have completed all their decorations by last Thursday. But I'm not going to rush myself in getting the job done. That's how you wind up hanging off the roof by a string of lights. Talk about embarrassing!

The Cone of Shame.

I mentioned that baby dog Izzy had arthroscopic surgery last week. Also, since he was going under the ether (or whatever they use), we asked if they could neuter him as well. It was my wife's idea. A friend says, "Gee, she's pretty quick with the knife, isn't she?" Of course, I denied it.

But no, Izzy was at the proper age now, and I think if you're not going to breed the dog, leaving the ol' sackeroo intact does him no favors. It's like giving a teenager the keys to a Lambo and not allowing him to ever see the car. It also helps female dogs feel less threatened, allows us to legally attend the dog park in town, avoids some common types of cancer, and prevents me from being presented with a box full of puppies that look halfway like Izzy by an angry neighbor. 

One thing it has not done is cool his crazy attitude. The kid is still a nut.

Anyway, it's a curious thing, but Izzy has been pretty good in the post-op, despite having surgery on three parts of his body (two elbows and the manly center). He was wearing a cone when we picked him up, but my wife took it off him on the way home and we haven't had to put it back on since. However, we were ready if we had to. We have this.

The Comfy Cone by All Four Paws is a soft cone that can be used in place of the E-collar known colloquially as the Cone of Shame. It seems like a remarkable invention. Soft but secure, it still prevents the dog from going after most parts of his body, but it folds when he lies down and can be pulled back when he eats. We ordered it after baby dog Nipper had a skin infection back in '18, because he was absolutely miserable with the plastic collar. 

The funny thing was, by the time the Comfy Cone arrived, it had healed up enough so he didn't need it. 

I suggested we test the thing, but we didn't want to alarm the dogs unnecessarily. So I put it on myself. And yes, it was comfortable. I couldn't see anything, because my eyes are on the front of my head and I walk upright. Never mind that; I could lie down in it and it was fine, and that was more that Nipper could do in the plastic collar. His night with the cone was just awful, and he never slept a wink. But we have had the Comfy Cone on hand for the next emergency.

Since then we lost Nipper to cancer, but he had no treatments that required a cone. Older dog Tralfaz never needed a cone following neutering, and when he had a lumpectomy last year, the vet took a lump from his front shoulder, which he couldn't reach by any means, and thus didn't need the cone. And now Izzy is healing fine and hasn't needed it.

Which means that the only creature to date who has actually worn this cone is me. 

Although it was for altruistic reasons, I actually do feel a little ashamed about it. 

Bad pants.

It's not so bad when you have bad pants and you stay inside. Yes, there's always the chance that the house will burn down and you'll escape, but the only pants you'll have left are the bad ones you were wearing when you went out the window. There's a greater chance that someone will come to the door, and you forget you have bad pants on, and answer it, instead of hiding behind a wall and pretending no one is home, as you should.

I had bad pants.

This was a pair of sweats that I think I got in a drugstore. Extremely comfortable, of course, but nothing I'd wear in public, mainly because they didn't have pockets. You need pockets for your keys, your wallet, your phone. I'd worn them to take the trash out in the wee hours before the sun came up. Aside from that, these were strictly indoor pants. You couldn't wear them to do yard work; they were too soft. A stray rock from the lawn mower would rip right through them. These were bad pants, but they were bad loafing pants, not bad working pants, and I was okay with that.

My wife hated them not for their impracticality or their lack of pockets; she hated the color. I thought of them as lavender, but looking at the Benjamin Moore Color Gallery, I'd guess they were closest to Oriental Iris. Which is kind of an odd color for a man's pants, even sweat pants, I admit. But my wife didn't have to wear them, and as long as I kept inside with them and didn't answer the door, it was fine.

I confess it was a non-optimal color. 

Then we got a dog.

Now there was the new problem: Me taking the dog out in those pants. You can't not take the dog out because your pants look funny. And don't think for a second I could use the presence of the pants as an excuse to shirk. My wife would rather I be publicly embarrassed. At night I could get away with it; a long coat might help. In the dark, someone could mistake them for bad jeans, which is marginally better than bad sweats. But in the warmer months, when the sun was out so much longer, and no long coat would be worn? You march upstairs and put on something less humiliating, young man.

The sweats finally gave up the ghost after probably a decade of faithful service. The fabric gave way in what I would call the crotchetational area. No fixing that! So I cut them into rags, in the hope that they would continue to be useful, and continue to annoy my wife in some small fashion.

Of course, now every item of clothing I bring home has to face inspection. Should have seen that coming. I guess I was blinded by the Oriental Iris.