I’ve long been a fan of “Coastal Living” magazine, even though I don’t live on the coast. I like to read about beach houses and bungalows, find out how people decorate in such a fashion that tracked-in sand won’t hurt the carpet or furniture, and see how they allow for weather.

Condo Hotels have intrigued me ever since I was introduced to the concept one summer on the Jersey Shore. I remember that we’d drive by this towering building every day on the way to or from the beach, and that my mother referred to it as The Monstrosity. (Monstrosity would become my first “big” word – I was all of two.)

Years later, I’d see the same building, complete, no longer looking like a stack of cinder blocks and cavernous gaps where rooms should be, and wonder what it would be like to live in a luxury condo overlooking the beach or the yacht harbor. As much as I prefer the notion of a beach bungalow at sand level, there’s something attractive about being up near the stars, and having the whole coastline as a view.

It’s become our habit (Zorro’s, Cleo’s and mine) to do a daily walk before I settle at the computer to write. Generally, we do this between 9:30 and 10:30 in the morning, before it gets too hot. Today, we didn’t manage to do this until almost noon because I had other engagements.

Generally one turn around the long blog (one block over, through the park, up another short block, and down the long block home) is enough to keep both dogs tired out until supper, at which point their antics – the tricks they do do EARN said supper – tire them out enough to keep them from driving me crazy until the three of us retire to the bedroom. Once we’re in the bedroom, each of them selects one of my ankles as a chin rest, and I can read, write, watch television, or do all of the above, for hours, as long as no one (meaning me) has to move.

Tonight, about an hour ago, the routine changed.

I fed them around six, and let them out into the back yard to do their stuff (and so I could turn off the hose, which was in the pool, and had subsequently flooded the yard), around seven.

Just before eight, as I was about to write my second to last post for tonight (and I apologize for the over-abundance of posts – I had some ad-links that were due tonight, and even though one of my services doesn’t care if posts are back-to-back, I care), a small dog jumped up and braced their front paws on each of my thighs, and said, “We’d like another one of those walkies, please.”

At least, I thought that’s what they were asking. They might have been looking for Fuzzy, who isn’t yet home from work. So I asked, “Are you looking for Daddy?” and they gave me the look that means, “Who?” And then I asked (because they’ll often signal when it’s bedtime, “Do you want to go to bed?” But clearly they didn’t.

“What do you want?” I asked, and they raced for the door to the mud/laundry room/airlock between house and garage where their leashes are stored. Zorro pawed at the door, and Cleo sat in front of it and warbled, the way she generally does when begging for her special T-O-Y that we keep hidden so she won’t destroy it.

“Ok,” I said. And yes, I do speak aloud to the dogs. It amuses me, and they like the sound. “Let’s go for a WALK!”

This is a trigger phrase, and caused utter pandemonium, until leashes were snapped on, doors were opened and shut, and the street had been peed upon.

Meanwhile, I was trying to figure out what to do with my cell phone, for I’d grabbed it thinking it was unwise to wander around in the dark without something in case of emergency, even with two canine companions in a fairly safe neighborhood, but alas, didn’t have any pockets.

I ended up ducking behind my mailbox and shoving it into my bra. The edge of the bra touched a button, and the screen lit up, so I walked for a quarter of a block with a glowing rectangle of light on my left breast, but the dogs didn’t care.

And by the time we passed the neighbor out for his evening motorcycle ride, the light had gone off…really.

I’m going to have to get a fanny pack, because I suspect evening walkies are about to become a regular occurrence.

It’s interesting the way one word or phrase can trigger an entire memory. Here’s an example.

Surfing websites, I came across a site advertising Callaway golf equipment, and it immediately reminded me of an essay I’d once read by a man who had grown up listening to Danny Kaye’s version of the classic Cab Calloway song, “Minnie the Moocher,” had practiced it with his brother, and had gone to one of Kaye’s concerts to prove how good he, himself, could be. I don’t remember the author, but I remember the part about Danny Kaye challenging the audience to a string of “Hi de hi de hi de ho” choruses.

I have a special fondness for Danny Kaye. Obviously I never met him, but whenever I stayed home sick, my mother would bend the “no TV before five pm” rule, and since I hate cartoons, and never got into soap operas, that generally meant reruns of Star Trek or old movie musicals. Since there are far more musicals than TOS episodes, I saw a lot of Danny Kaye.

My two favorite Kaye performances are the “pellet with the poison” bit from The Court Jester and the “Russian Composer song” from one of his other movies, in which he played a prize fighter. I think it was The Kid from Brooklyn.

I had, as a small girl, and have still today, a rich internal fantasy life. I’m rarely lonely, rarely bored. Escaping into a world where Danny Kaye sang about a gazillion Russian composers in 28 seconds was exactly the sort of thing I used to do. While we all have voices in our heads from time to time, mine don’t belong to my mother or my grandmother, but one of them belongs to Danny Kaye.

The last performance of his that I ever saw was an episode of The Cosby Show in which he played the best dentist ever. He died when I was in high school. I always regretted never having written him fan mail, even though I don’t believe in writing fan mail, generally.

There was a point to this piece, really, but it’s gotten muddled, because in my head, all I can hear are strains of Danny Kaye singing “Minnie the Moocher.”

Folk’s here’s the story ’bout Minnie the Moocher
she was a red hot hoochie coocher
she was the roughest, toughest frail
but Minnie had a heart a big as a whale

Orlando isn’t exactly the beach, but the one time I was there, I remember thinking, “Oh, this would be lovely without the humidity,” and “more time to visit Disney parks would be fun.” As a result of being there for a con, and not having a ton of free time, I’ve never managed to make it to Epcot, only to the Animal Kingdom.

To be honest, my Florida dream vacation involves renting a house on Sanibel Island, not a Orlando vacation home rental, but Fuzzzy does go to Florida quite often, and it’s a much more pleasant place to visit than, say, Sterling, VA in winter, where he’s been twice in the last two years, or Buffalo, NY during a cold, damp spring.

But the Harry Potter thing is opening in Orlando in 2009, and while I mocked it in this very blog just a few months ago, the truth is, I kind of want to see it (it’s not a Disney park, but part of Universal Studios Florida), because, really, you can’t be any kind of fan and NOT want to at least see it. Once. Briefly.

So maybe, just maybe, Orlando is on the horizon after all.

Miss Cleo is a bit of a klutz.

On our stroll today, she did her business then, because she’s so amazingly talented, managed to step in it while kicking grass to cover it.

She then tried to stop and “go” every few feet on the way home because she could smell herself.

And she was embarrassed.

Now, she’s mad at me, because when we arrived home, Zorro was let off his leash, but SHE was dragged to the back yard where the hose and her hind-quarters became well acquainted.

No doubt she’ll leave a present near the hose later, to show her opinion of the thing. Her honest opinion.

But at least she’s clean.

You’ve all been really polite about not complaining, but Carmi mentioned that having the comments link at the top of a post was a little confusing, and I’ve noticed that it’s especially so on those post where Mr. Linky is enabled, so I’ve moved the comments links to the BOTTOM of each post.

Just wanted to let everyone know.

Every month or so
On a trip, Fuzzy must go
He’s got the packing down to just one little bag

When he returns to me
My very first spousal duty:
About his expense reports, I must nag.

The accounting people are slow
Though they use payroll software, I know
So I worry when our bank balance starts to sag.

“Are you sure you sent it in?”
“I did,” he’ll say with a grin.
“Before you even told me,” he will brag.

“Good, cause the cable bill’s due.
And it’s an expensive one, too.”
I say this, and try not to sound like a hag.

“I hate when you go away.
I much prefer homecoming day,
Though I kind of wish you’d manage to bring me more swag.”

He laughs and gives me a kiss.
And for a few moments there’s bliss.
But then to my head comes this Reimbursement Rag.

And yes, I realize this isn’t a rag so much as a blues riff.
Also, he does bring me flowers whenever he goes to the grocery store.