I have decided I’m going to start a new business making scratching posts.
Laverne and Shirley love them. To death, it turns out, because before long, they end up looking like this:
Previously, when they’ve gotten to this stage, I’ve thrown them away. But Tara thought we might be able to breathe new life into them with jute, a rope that’s popular with gardeners.
I was down, so I made a trip to our local Ace Hardware. They didn’t have jute but did carry sisal, which looks identical. They’re both plant-derived, resilient, and resistant to wear and tear. (And 100% sustainable, biodegradable, and compostable, which is a nice bonus.) I picked up a roll for $7, and while I’m no math whiz, even I can calculate that’s less than the $50+ we’d pay for a new scratching post.
Tara figured she’d use wood glue to attach the sisal, but I stepped in. “Naw, dog,” I said. “We don’t need no stinkin’ glue. I got this.”
My wife raised an eyebrow over this declaration. Not because I’d playfully called her a canine or trotted out well-worn paraphrased dialogue from The Treasure of the Sierra Madre: she just doubted my ability to complete the task. Can’t say I blame her; math isn’t the only thing I’m not whizzy at. I also suck at arts and crafts and struggle to assemble even basic things. I’ll put it this way: IKEA is my Kryptonite. This is why it’s always a small miracle when I end up putting something even remotely complicated together, like that fire pit in the back yard last year.
Still, I knew I could do it, so I retreated to the work bench in our garage with one of their well-loved scratching posts (at this point nothing more than a cardboard tube with frayed bits of rope), the spool of sisal, and a staple gun. This was the first time I’d ever used the work bench for its intended purpose, versus as a catch-all repository for a whole bunch of stuff that needed to be put away. Made me feel all kinds of manly!
Twenty minutes later, I emerged with this:
“You did it!” Tara exclaimed, sounding a little too surprised for my liking, but I was too proud to be offended.
Within minutes, the cats were using their like-new scratching post again. Naturally, this got the ol’ wheels turning. My inner entrepreneur – who never met a get-rich-quick scheme he didn’t love – suddenly envisioned a future where the streets leading up to MarTar Manor were paved with gold. I wasted no time sharing my giddiness with the missus.
“I should quit my job!” I said, nearly breathless with excitement.
“Say what now?” she asked.
“Why toil away for The Man when it’s obvious I am The Man?”
“I’m not following.”
Geez Louise, had Tara already forgotten my shining accomplishment!?
“I’ll become a scratching post baron and build an empire out of sisal, cardboard, and sweat!” I explained.
At this point she shook her head, muttered something under her breath, and walked out of the room.
“What?!” I called after her. “Even John D. Rockefeller had humble beginnings! You have to start somewhere!”
Actually, I have no idea whether Rockefeller’s beginnings were humble or not. But it sounded good coming out of my mouth.
And…fine. After a few minutes huffing and puffing while nursing a bruised ego, I had to concede that I may have gotten a little carried away for a moment. I guess the scratching post business ain’t exactly booming. At best, this could end up being a hobby that nets me a few extra bucks.
Guess you’re stuck with me awhile longer, CheeseGov!
Once again, today is my Friday. Tara’s, too. We had originally booked a long weekend getaway in Duluth for my birthday. But when I pulled up the booking confirmation a few weeks ago, my eyes did that comical popping-out-of-the-head thing.
The hotel charge for two nights was $420. Were they high or what?! It wasn’t even anything fancy, unless you consider a Wyndham Garden fancy. Judging by the 3.1-star average Google rating, few reviewers do. Adding in meals, bar tabs, and gas, and suddenly this was going to be a Very Expensive Weekend.
I told Tara that was too much money for us to spend, especially given today’s economic uncertainty, and we should cancel. She suggested a compromise: one night instead of two, and closer to home. Sheboygan versus Duluth. I actually found the idea very appealing; coincidentally, we visited Sheboygan over the same weekend last year, but only spent a few hours there. We found it quite charming and vowed to go back for a more in-depth trip. After all, they don’t call it “The Malibu of the Midwest” for nothing!
So, I pivoted. Booked us a room at a La Quinta. Not only is it much cheaper ($170), but it’s also got a 3.9-star Google rating. Score! And instead of a fancy supper club dinner, we’re just going to find a dive bar and park it for a few hours. “We always have the most fun doing that!” Tara said, and she’s not wrong.
I guess it’s a good thing my champagne wishes and scratching post dreams won’t come true after all. My tastes are far too simple for my feet to ever fit comfortably in John D. Rockefeller’s shoes.
Mark My Words 
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