The Itchin' Stitches

My dog Lewis is learning that the senior years aren't so golden. Plagued by a degenerative nerve disease, he drags his back legs around, scraping every last inch of toenail he has down to the toe bones. Fortunately someone came up with the brilliant idea of fake dog nails to save people's hardwood floors. I use them to save Lewis's back toes from utter annihilation.

Another misfortune of Lewis's elderly state is a large growth that sprang up seemingly overnight on the top of his head. Starting as a tiny bump, Lewis's "second brain" grew exponentially over a few short months to the size of a large grape. Supplied by arterials, the brain was discolored and veiny. It also had a few bumps on it where it had healed from my attempts to excise it with a needle. I finally decided something must be done.

A day trip to the local vet provided the venue for the last of the offending brain. However, when I picked Lewis up later that evening, he was still quite altered from the tranquilizers he had received. Now, a normal dog on tranquilizers is interesting enough, but put a dog with degenerative nerve disease on tranquilizers . . . you have a rag doll. And anyone who knows Lewis knows that he doesn't like being a rag doll.

Fraught with anxiety, Lewis feels the need to be at a heightened level of attention at all times. Despite his default state, the tranquilizers left him half flopped over on a regular basis. I found him by his food dish, half sitting, half laying, doggedly picking kibble out of his dish despite his perpetual fog.

When his countenance finally cleared, he had a new challenge on his hands: itchy stitches. Some dogs, because they are dumb and don't see pain as a sign to stop what they are doing, have to wear those cones after surgery. Not Lewis. He's a respecter of pain. One toenail scratch on those stitches, and he hasn't touched them since. But that doesn't keep them from itching.

Good thing for him, I know how to scratch his stitches without hurting him. Multiple times a day he jams his head under my hand, demanding I scratch his stitches. Scratching them puts him into a coma-like trance where he tilts his head at indescribable angles and closes his eyes. If he's really getting into it, he will lean too far, his nerve disease will keep him from catching himself, and he will fall right over.

Lewis's stitches come out in a few days. I assume the scar will still itch from time to time, and he will want me to scratch that too. Eventually his nerve disease will take him. I will miss his idiosyncracies, his endless anxiety, and his demands for me to scratch his stitches. 

Trencher Anyone?

Winter: the time when normal people are cozying up to a warm fire. I on the other hand, find myself standing around in a muddy lot wearing seven layers of clothes and holding a shovel. Slowed by a reluctant bank, my brother and I doggedly plug away at our construction project when others of tougher ilk high-tail it to warmer regions and wait for spring. Yeah, they go inside.

But not us. Unfazed by temperatures hovering at freezing and endless rain, we splash around our lot, loading truckloads of mud into a dumptruck, digging holes, and fencing while the locals drive by shaking their heads. Despite all evidence to the contrary, things were actually going quite well until our last day with the excavating equipment.

I must preface this event with the disclaimer that my brother is a notoriously poor communicator. Accomplishing tasks together requires me to do a great deal of mind reading, a skill I have not completely mastered yet.

The task was to scrape a thin layer of grass off the soil along the sidewalk. My exact statement was, "So you want me to put the dumptruck on the sidewalk." The answer was yes. 

As you can see, driving on the sidewalk turned out to be a bad idea. Furthermore, apparently "put the dumptruck on the sidewalk" actually turns out to mean "put the dumptruck on the lot nowhere near the sidewalk." Who knew?

Botox Anyone?

I can't say, even with the current popularity of botox injections and anti-wrinkle creams, that I have ever longed for the face paralyzing effect of smooth, younger-looking, and significantly stretched out skin. However, I few weeks ago I noticed my left eye twitching. A full-on twitch, my vision blurred and doubled as I attempted to rub the spasticity out of the offending muscle. To my immediate gratification, the vision-impeding twitch stopped. To my subsequent disappointment, a low-grade, lower eyelid twitch set in. . . for a week straight.

I must say that while my lower eyelid twitch was not unbearable, it was like an annoying leech, hanging on below my left eye day and night. Every morning I would wake up, feeling the inevitable tightening under my eye. Though it did not hinder my vision, when I looked in the mirror, the muscle appeared to repeatedly leap from my face at a rapid rate.

I found this constant muscle contraction to be exhausting. My face felt tired. All the time. I was cranky. I felt that I looked strange and people would be repulsed by beholding my contorting facial muscle. Suddenly the paralyzing effects of botox were not looking so bad. . . .

Like a parasite-laden deep sea fish, I eventually became used to my new lot in life. I would be known as the eye-twitching lady. It didn't seem so bad. I could embrace my physical idiosyncracies. Then in the afternoon of day five, it stopped. Looking around, I noticed something missing. . . My eye twitch! It was gone!

Out the window was my new plan to be eye-twitching lady. As Amanda, eye-twitch free, I fell asleep that night with happy visions of future facial flacidity. Until I woke up. With an eye twitch.

It took a couple more days for the twitch to dissipate entirely. I can't say what brought it on or when it will return. Now that it has happened once, my understanding is it is much more likely to happen again. I dread its return. I really do. But I suppose, like an alter ego, I can work on embracing the concept of being occasional eye-twitching lady.

Say Cheese!

Being a relatively peaceable person, I am not prone to bouts of murderous desire first thing in the morning. Nevertheless, early in the morning the other morning, before it was even light out, I stumbled into the kitchen and found a mouse running around in the sink. Oh great, I thought. Here it is, six in the morning, I just woke up, and now I have to kill a mouse.

My sink is pretty deep, and there were a few dishes scattered around in it, so with the mouse hiding under a tupperware container, I proceeded to prepare Lewis's morning meal and ponder my options.

A friend of mine had only recently brought to my attention the recent outbreak of hantavirus associated with Yosemite National Park. Having simply driven through Yosemite five months prior, I figured there was little risk of me having contracted this deer mouse-born disease. However, some light research tipped me off to the fact that apparently the majority of hantavirus cases occur from mice in the home. My decision was clear: the mouse would have to die.

Just then, the mouse whom I mistakenly assumed was "stuck" in the sink, levitated from his confinement and scurried behind the toaster oven. Mouse in the sink: well contained, accompanied by my knowledge of its whereabouts. Mouse behind the toaster oven: one mad dash away from a nebulous hiding place only known by rodents. I had to act.

Grabbing a handy tupperware, I moved the toaster oven away from the wall. The mouse faked left. I blocked it with my hand. It ran right. I tried to cover it with the tupperware. It broke left and slipped past my hand, across the back of the sink, and hid behind the radio. I pulled the radio out. The mouse stared at me. I hazed it from the left. As is broke right, I brought the tupperware down over it.

It jumped and squeaked. My heart melted. Thinking only of the fear in the rapidly beating heart of my little hantavirus-infested visitor, I slid him off the counter with the tupperware onto a magazine, trapping him inside.

Maybe some other day I will wake up with murderous thoughts on my mind. Maybe future rodents should quiver in fear because of my wrath. As for this mouse, I carried him out to the alley behind the house. Setting him free, he squeaked and ran under the neighbor's garage wall. I hope he's grateful. And that he keeps his mouse diseases to himself.

We Built a Barn

Being the younger sister and growing up in the woods with no other kids around, I pretty much went along with every scheme my older brother cooked up. Set up a lemonade stand in the middle of the forest and then wonder why no one is buying? Sure, no problem! Stand in front of him like a target while he hits a golf ball full force into my stomach, then writhe around on the ground, gasping for air? Count me in! Fill a five gallon bucket full of bricks, string it up in an oak tree, then tie a trip wire to my toe at night so I can wake up and release the bucket to fall on the head of potential intruders? Where do I sign up?!

Now that we are adults, we get to undertake more mature projects. Projects involving power tools. Projects where we could die if one of us, namely me, does not know what she is doing. The latest endeavor . . .

Indeed, we built a barn.

Having essentially zero construction experience, barn building provided an opportunity for me to try a multitude of new things. For instance, I have successfully lived through walking along the 1.5 inch side of a 2x4 while balancing on the side of a roof. Standing on the top rung of an 8 foot ladder, I lifted one end of a 150 pound truss up onto the top of one of the barn walls. I have somehow managed to maneuver a 16 foot extension ladder from the front to the back of the barn, set it up, climb up and down it, and paint the barn without falling off the ladder. I have experienced the exhilaration of hanging out of the hay loft door, holding onto the inside truss with one hand while painting with the other. Working with a number of saws, I can now indeed cut a board at 34 and 15/16 inches, and thus far I still have all my fingers. And when I nail T-111 siding, I can say that most of the nails hit the studs.

I have crouched, crept, crawled, climbed, lifted, cut, hammered, drilled, nailgunned, caulked, and painted my way through this experience, all at the behest of my brother, who believes I have the ability to do anything. And sure enough, I know how to do a lot more now than I did before this project.

Next on the list, whole house building. Considering the journey so far, I can just see us now, each balancing an end of a 40 foot beam on our shoulders, the cross piece for the top of the trusses. Climbing up extension ladders, rung by shaky rung, we will eventually place the beam in place, hold our breaths while we nail it, hoping it doesn't fall. Then we can sit back and chuckle to ourselves, thinking, we built a house . . .

The Flying Cow

Ah, rodeo. That timeless experience where grown men in tight jeans show us what they are made of. Leaping off horses at full speed, they wrestle steers to the ground. They ride bucking horses and bulls, risking their lives, their limbs, their ability to father children . . . But nothing can capture the imagination of the multitudes like the age-old sport of cow milking.

My understanding of the history of rodeo is that it evolved from the days when ranchers would get together in the spring, breaking young horses, branding cattle, moving cattle from one feeding ground to another. So theoretically, most of the sports one watches during a rodeo have a relatively strong tie to those cowboying days of yore.

For the life of me, however, I can not grasp the purpose of cow milking. For those unfamiliar with the sport, a cow runs out of a chute, at which point a cowboy on a horse chases her down and ropes her around the neck from horseback and forces the cow to stop running. Now a large guy resembling a football linebacker runs out to the roped cow and pounces on her head, presumably to hold her still. The cowboy on horseback then leaps off of his horse, runs up to the cow, and grabbing an available teet, squirts some milk into a bottle. The clock doesn't stop until the cow is free from the rope and the cowboy has run to the judges to present his bottle of milk.

I will confess I know nothing about cows. Perhaps dairy acquisition is a hurried event. However, I always thought that a rushed cow was a kicking cow.

To illustrate my point, just today a cow in the cow milking event had other plans. Surely her head was filled with pastoral visions of lazily munching hay while her milk is being squirted into a bucket, sans rope around her neck and football linebacker holding onto her head.

She ran from the chute. The cowboy chased her down on his horse. He threw his rope. The loop sailed around her head and shoulders as she jumped through its opening like a circus performer. Feeling the rope tighten around her middle, she conjured every image she ever had of being a peaceful dairy cow, solidifying her dream in her head. The gate loomed close . . . And she leaped. Clearing the five and a half foot gate, she trotted smugly toward her heard. No speed milking today boys, she chuckled to herself. Quietly she started munching hay.

Bugging You

Just tonight I was walking Lewis amidst groups of bats flitting two and fro through the dusky night sky. Coming upon the "swimming hole" (euphemism for a slow part in the river, dammed and filled with mosquito larvae), many bats skimmed the surface. Repeatedly they skimmed and circled, skimmed and circled, presumably consuming some kind of gnat hovering just about the still water.

While Lewis fearlessly plunged into the water, bats barely missing him as they swooped by, I kept my distance, covering my mouth and hoping my hair was sufficiently plastered to my head in a such a way as not to snare a bat if one were to swish by my head.

In spite of my half-hearted attempts to protect myself from a bat entering an orifice or getting stuck in my hair, I would not have been surprised had one ran into me. After all, I'm decent sized in comparison to a bat. And there were lots of bats. And though they have their little sonar thing going, they have been known to run into things. This diatribe is leading somewhere, so please only remember this: it would have been understandable if a bat had run into me.

There are other times when I can be walking along on a warm summer evening, and I see a rather large swarm of gnat-like things hovering around in a group. Logic would serve that if I walk into that group of gnats, I may get a gnat on me. I may inhale a gnat. A gnat may go up my nose.

I Walla Walla, when school starts in early fall, these curious bugs with blue fuzz on their butts start to fly all over the place. As a friend of mine once learned during blue-butted bug season: ride your bike in a swarm of blue-butted bugs, spend 20 minutes picking blue-butted bugs off your sweatshirt.

And . . . this is the grand finale. If there is a large group of something and you walk into it, you may physically encounter at least one element of that group. But this is my question of the night. Why, when I am out mowing the lawn, does one single, solitary gnat or little fly or something fly around in front of my face the entire time? Out of the infinity of atmosphere this one bug could inhabit, it chooses to inhabit the two inches in front of my face. For an extended period of time. No matter how much I try to wave it away. Forever will I be confused by this phenomenon.

Beware the Cervidae

My small town, located precisely in the middle of nowhere, is quite the sanctuary for roving deer. (I also think the deer are aware that one cannot discharge a firearm within city limits, so they take sanctuary. Plus there are an abundance of gardens for them to graze on. Bright little Cervidea). On any given day while walking down the sidewalk, I may either be joined or gawked at by large groups of deer. By large, I mean up to 7-ish. Maybe.

While this is not a number to rival herds of wild horses or the often raved about groups of shaggy buffalo who used to rove across the Montana plains like swarms of locusts, you must remember that I am only one person. Seven deer. One person. Bad odds.

I bring this up because deer on the outside are serene. They munch on grass. They spring around on cute little cloven hooves. They stare at you with doe eyes. . .

Lest anyone be whiled by their charms, please do not forget When Wild Animals Attack. Those pointy little antlers and hooves, once dainty while seen springy across a field, take on a whole new meaning when stuck in your eye.

Don't get me wrong, I do not live in fear of our deer. I like seeing the doe with her babies walk down the sidewalk in front of my house every morning. I just like seeing them from the other side of a locked door.

It's my understanding that male deer, otherwise known as bucks, will attack without provocation, particularly during October-December, their months of rut. 

I do remember walking on a cold fall day around dusk a couple of years ago. There was a small buck in a field, at least a hundred feet away. Stopping to admire his beauty, my mind told me, ah, what a beautiful deer. Look at him standing proudly in that field.

Just then the deer stomped his foot. I got a nervous look in my eye. The deer snorted. I tensed. The deer took a step in my direction. . . . Thinking only of imminent puncture wounds, I fled the scene, and I now have a healthy respect for our deer.

Sagebrush Roads

Above, you will see my most recent acquisition. Having ridden dirt bikes in the past, I had some nostalgic recollection of the activity. But as seems to be the way with most things of late, experiencing this activity in my thirties has opened my eyes to a new and better understanding of the joys of dirt biking.

First off, there is quite a sense of freedom going out, firing up my own bike (that I can actually get kick-started with minimal effort), and riding off into the sagebrush.

After purchasing this bike, I was a little timid on my first ride, trying to force the bike to do what I wanted. Recently, however, I have been trusting it more. Instead of fighting where to bike wants to go, I go with it, trusting in the off-road tires to manage to terrain. And after that . . . I started having fun.

Riding this bike out on the open plains, wind whipping by, surrounded by nothing but nothing. . . I highly recommend it.

The Gift of Adversity

We've all heard it before, something about a piece of sand, an oyster, and a pearl. Or there are those perseverance motivational posters, which of course make me NOT want to persevere just because the posters are so darn upbeat.

But there is something about being a little older and wiser than I once was that is causing me to understand that many of these vague tidbits of philosophy are actually true.

I remember being in junior high, and there was some class where the teacher was talking about the difference between eustress and distress. Eustress being the type of stress that causes a positive response. In our sand and oyster scenario, I suppose this would be the bit of sand that turns into a pearl as opposed to distress, which would be like the oyster getting sandblasted. Probably no pearls there.

What I'm getting at here though, is that I'm starting to experience this concept and actually be able to cognitively reflect on it. Not that my life is particularly adversarial or anything. I'm just saying that I see a more diligent side to me when I am faced with some kind of stressor.

Busy day at work: more gets accomplished in a more diligent and efficient manor. Slow day at work: eh, I can do that later . . .

Perhaps everyone else is ahead of me on this one, so I apologize if I am stating the obvious. It's just that I've been a lot more aware of my pieces of sand that have become pearls.

Just a Thought

Back when I was a kid, I remember my mom buying a handful of fireworks for me and my brother for the 4th of July. Longingly, we gazed at the packaged fireworks for days, anticipating the long-awaited night when we would be able to light them off. Occasionally, we would get to light one off on the 3rd, or we may be able to wave a sparkler around as a special treat leading up to the big event.

At our house, "the big event" usually lasted 10-15 minutes max, at which time we would light a couple little fireworks and grin giddily as they spun around and squealed some high-pitched noise. Fifteen minutes later, the whole show would be over, and we would head back into the house, satiated for another year.

I don't know if it's my increasing lack of tolerance for noise, my ownership of a particularly skittish dog, or if the private firework shows are actually getting longer, louder, and higher, but I would like to cast my vote for a quieter 4th of July.

Having never been engaged in active battle, I can't speak from experience, but it's my understanding that the 4th of July is to commemorate our freedom. And while I understand freedom is often gained through wars and battles, is it really necessary to commemorate our freedom by bringing back memories of rocket blasts? Can't we just celebrate with the family bbq? I can tell you, Lewis would have a much happier time celebrating his freedom with people dropping hot dogs in his mouth instead of trying to hide under the couch while the world outside goes crazy for several hours.

So maybe we could step back a little. For the sake of all skittish dogs and middle-aged women gaining an increasing lack of tolerance for noise, is there any way we could scale back to sparklers and a couple of fireworks that spin around on the ground and squeal, then call that good for the year? If you want the big show, there is always Fort Vancouver on TV. It was just a thought. . .

Botany By Amanda

I am not a knowledgeable horticulturist. When I come across a new discovery in my yard, of which there are many, I do not suddenly spout technical wisdom about the plant's genus and species. I simply say what it looks like to me.

A recent case and point has to do with a large tulip blooming in my yard. Here is the dry, boring, scientific description of a tulip: the tulip is a perennial, bulbous plant with showy flowers in the genus Tulipa, of which up to 109 species have been described and belongs to the family Liliaceae . . . Yawn.

In contrast to that dose of jargon, here is my description: large, bold and beautiful, multicolors of red, yellow and orange, and with brushy edges I referred to as "bugs' feet".

These are them, and as I'm sure you would agree, something this awesome defies scientific description



And on a side note, a centipede, being the bug in question, has feet very similar to the edges of my tulips


See. . . the same!

I Love You to Death

The story is short, but far from sweet. Last weekend I was sitting with friends, watching swallows swoop to and fro through the west-side mist, happily catching bugs in their beaks. Suddenly, a smallish bird swoops down on top of one of the swallows and the two go flying into some dense trees.

Dennis: "Whoa! Did you see that?!"
Me: (with an optimistic sense of the happiness of spring and the goodwill of all creatures toward one another) "Awww, they are mating!"
Dennis: "No, Amanda. . . That bird just attacked and killed the other one."
Cherelyn: snicker snicker

The End

Harvest of the Worm

I'm not a worm fan. I have handled worms, mind you, have considered having a worm farm in my house, and I have used worms to fish in the past. But I do not recall every fishing for bait. Meaning I don't remember ever digging up worms.

I respect worms and their role in life. It's a distant respect though. I like them in the ground, where they belong. Occasionally I am resigned to touch one if necessary to lour a fish. I do not, however, wish to navigate vast seas of them retreating slimily into the ground while I walk across my back yard.

My small town is not known for it's plethora of annual rainfall. Nonetheless there is an occasional bout of precipitation. I think this sends my dry-side minded worms into a state of delirium as they struggle topside in an effort to . . . breathe? Or what is it worms do above ground? Do they have lungs? Do they need to be in the air to absorb oxygen through their skin? And if this is in fact necessary, how do they survive underground, surrounded by close packed dirt? They are indeed a conundrum to me.

Despite my mild curiosity, I still almost gag at the sheer volume of the tubular intruders basking in my backyard during a good rainfall. Just tonight I went out to walk Lewis, and my stroll across the yard felt more like a tiptoe across a minefield as dozens of waterlogged worms retreated sub-level beneath my tread.

Not only this, but they climb my porch steps. How does a worm climb?! I have no idea. But in the morning, there they are, dry and abandoned on the concrete, a good three feet above the moistened soil they were trying to avoid.

So the bottom line is, I don't enjoy interacting with worms. Not grubs. Not nightcrawlers. Not maggoty things. No worms. Period. Fisherman of the world, please do visit my backyard and thin my wormy population. For this, I would be eternally grateful.

Sage Wisdom

I'm sure that parents must get some sort of smug satisfaction when their offspring finally give in and follow a long harped on piece of advice. So this is for my mom. Fortunately for me, she never uses a computer, so no smug satisfaction for her!

The tidbit of advice in question would be my mom's constant adage: wear gloves! I am not a glove wearer. Gloves are designed to create a barrier between you and the object of interest. I'm kind of a tactile person, so if I am digging around in the dirt or otherwise working with my hands, the gloves really take much away from the entire experience.

This of course means that my hands are tattered with scars, scratches, hangnails, bruises, dirty fingernails, and the like, but I figure that just comes with the territory. I do have to admit however, that I have encountered one thing that has made me into a glove wearing believer. Allow me to introduce you to him:

This is a grub. I have never encountered a real grub before digging around in the soil of my small town. Around here, they appear to be everywhere. As you can see, he is fat, he is juicy, he has little legs that suction cup to your fingers. These are not things I am into.

So, just like that, I am now a glove wearer. Not all the time mind you, but when digging in unfamiliar soil, these hands are covered at all times. No juicy grub is going to suction his little feet to my fingers any time in the near future. So to my mom, if she ever reads this, she can happily say she told me so.

Early to Bed

I love going to bed early. It makes me giddy. This is exactly what I look like when I go to bed early:

Well, minus the part about that being a boy, but you get the point.

Even though I love going to bed early, sometimes I get a wild hair notion that staying up late would be fun. I will stay up late, I think. I will watch a movie and eat popcorn and it will be fun! So I proceed to select something typically kind of dumb off of Netflix. I settle in with my popcorn, and happily crunch away for about 10-20 minutes.

Once the popcorn is finished and the clock has struck 9:01 p.m., I suddenly start to feel tired. My eyes feel gritty after a day of contact wearing. This is only exacerbated by staring at the movie. I start to wonder why I am even watching this movie, and shouldn't I got to bed? At this point I am so far into it, dumb or not, I still want to see how it ends.

Next my arms start to feel restless. You know how people talk about Restless Leg Syndrome. Well, I have Restless Arm Syndrome. When I get tired, my arms get very restless. They want to move and jump around. No matter how I position them, they drive me crazy to the point of wanting to dismantle them from my body and set them aside for later.

Once again, the thought that I should just go to bed runs through my mind. But now I am tired. And I get to thinking about all the stuff I have to do to prepare for bed. And it seems like so much work now that I am so tired. So might as well just sit there and finish the dumb movie.

Eventually I can't take it anymore. The clock has struck 10 p.m., and I have had it. Grumpy and tired, I drag myself through the getting ready for bed activities, and by the time I am there, this is my state of mind:

People often give me a hard time about my propensity to go to bed early. I have noticed, however, that when babies get tired and fussy, usually people recognize they need to go to bed. They are wrapped in a warm blanket and given a bedtime story and rocked to sleep. This sounds ideal to me. Perhaps I should start training Lewis to be a nanny. Or, I could just go to bed early . . .

Cheers!

Typically when working on repetitious, mundane tasks, I find random songs popping into my head and then running over and over again. (Thanks to a friend on Facebook, a recent song was "Baby monkey, riding backwards on a pig, baby monkey". But that's another story.)

During a recent mundane task, the Cheers theme song was running through my head all day. I believed this stemmed from my brother spending quite a bit of time in my small town lately. Coming from a large city, he is rather flabbergasted by customs of the residents of my small town. People stop by on the sidewalk and talk to us about random things. One of his favorite phrases while here is, "Dude, what is up with the people in this town?"

And this is where the Cheers theme song came in. The song says, "sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name". Another line says, "you want to go where people know, people are all the same". And I guess I have to wonder if that is true. Because recent conversations I have had with many people would imply that they would prefer just the opposite. They don't want everyone to know their name. And they definitely don't want people to be all the same.

I have been accused of being old-fashioned before, boring in fact. And many times I feel like I was born several decades too late. I mean, yes, I can see why anonymity has some appeal because then you never have to feel uncomfortable being vulnerable around other people.

But what's to say that feeling uncomfortable with being vulnerable isn't just another part of life that we have to get used to. Over time, it would seem less awkward I think. And I think the song is true. I think maybe there is a part in everyone's heart that wants to be known by name to other people. I think that most people want to feel like they are understood by others.

And I believe that the heart of a small town can be found anywhere, just by choosing to set anonymity aside and introduce yourself by name. By letting someone know that your struggles or joys or whatever are the same. And maybe the song is just repetitious because it's that simple and that true.

Hibernating

I think I might be part bear. I say this because there is definitely a temperature above which my body and mind function optimally. Anything below that and I am ready to hibernate. Unfortunately I think that optimum temperature is 70 degrees, but hey, we all have our limitations.


This is a common North American Wood Frog. Every winter the frog freezes solid, then thaws in spring to go about doing whatever it is frogs do. I'm North American, so it makes sense that I would do the same thing. And to support my cause for less than optimal functioning at low temperatures, I would imagine that the frog's motivation gets a little lower when it is frozen, not to mention it's kinda hard to move. I'm just saying.

Hibernation is characterized by slowed metabolism, slowed breathing, and lowered temperature. Typically animals hibernate during periods of food scarcity so that they can conserve energy. Prior to hibernation, they consume large quantities of food to build up body fat off of which they survive during hibernation. I like this idea. Eat a ton, get fat, work it off by sleeping, wake up and do it all over again.

The alternative is moving to Florida, which I wasn't planning on doing until I was 95 or so, but it is starting to look more appealing all the time.

Yeah, that's more like it. True, Florida has it's drawbacks like alligators and man-eating pythons, but hey, they don't hibernate right? So it must be warmer. My mind and body are starting to function more optimally just thinking about it . . .

Multidistracting

You know how they say that most women are multitaskers? I would like to make a case that what appears to be multitasking is actually just being caught up in a series of distractions while trying to accomplish one task.

So yesterday I needed to go to the grocery store. This required a list because no matter how few items I actually need to get at the store, I will always forget something unless I have a list. The list required paper, which I swore had just been lying on the kitchen counter the other day. My small pad of post-it notes were missing. Despite the fact that they were obviously not there, I continued to stare at the counter top because, I swear, they were just there the other day.

After they did not magically materialize, I finally gave in and headed to the office for some more post-its. On the way, I noticed my computer and decided to write yesterday's blog about windmills. This required searching through many windmill photos trying to find just the right one (which I never did. I just had to settle). After getting that all finished up, well, what the heck, why not just check Facebook since I'm already on the computer.

Forty minutes later I am ready to head to the office for the post-it notes. This is not before checking in the kitchen just one more time in case they had decided to return. While there, I see some papers that need shredding lying around, so I figure, since I'm headed to the office anyway, may as well get those in a pile and take them with me.

But suddenly I decide to be hungry. I doubt I even was hungry, but I was in the kitchen, and since there is food so close by, may as well eat some. So I grab a carrot. Since the fridge is so close to the back door, I walk over and look out the back windows at Lewis in the yard, just to make sure he looks like he's doing okay. And of course I love Lewis and love to look at him, so I stare at him for awhile, thoughtfully crunching on my carrot.

Walking back to get the papers to shred in the office, I remember I need to start some laundry, so I take a detour into my closet and get the clothes. I get the washer started and then grab the papers and take them to the office. I shred them. Then I get the post-its, take them into the kitchen, and make a list.

Finally I get all ready to leave for the store but notice some flour or something on the counter next to the stove. While cleaning it off, I look at the little shelf right at my eye level and there, sitting with a pen conveniently located next to them, are the post-it notes.

Feels Like Home

Having driven through Palm Springs several years ago, I was startled by the vastness of the ugliness of the fields of windmills down there. Here in the Columbia Gorge, we have been working for years on our own wind project: a supposed cash cow that mars the landscape daily with its rows of white giants and nightly with its ceaselessly blinking red lights. No longer is the night sky filled with stars and infinity, but rather glaring red reminders of the boundaries imposed by the constant sentinels.

Despite my distaste for our wind project, I have grown accustomed to the presence of the windmills. I even have to admit to a certain fondness for them. Please allow me to explain myself. I grew up in the Portland area, west of there really, and while my time was predominantly spent growing up in a subdivision, I was a mere 10-15 minutes away from the bliss of country and open spaces.

Growing up on the west side, it never actually occurred to me that there were places in the world where it didn't rain nine months out of the year. Not until moving to the east side for college were my eyes opened to the wonderful world of the dry side. Suddenly I was able to go outside every single day of the year. Even during the fall and winter it may rain some, but it always stopped at some point during the day and the out of doors were mine to be had. Now I had arrived: rural land and little rain. I knew I had found my place.

So here is the windmill correlation. I visit family in the Portland area rather frequently, but my spirits always lift when I leave the big city behind. Driving east, I wait in eager anticipation to see one thing. Just before I get to highway 97, there is a big curve to the right, then to left. On the start of the curve to the left, the tips of large blades emerge over the hilltops, slicing their way through the Gorge wind . . . and I know I am home.

Splash Down

Several summers ago I was camping with a group of friends and decided to take Lewis for a walk. I think it was late summer in Eastern Washington, and the ticks were out with some force. Not that that is a necessary point in the story, but I just wanted you to know there were lots of ticks.

Anyway, Lewis and I are walking through a wheat field. Okay, wait, it couldn't have been late summer because the wheat was still green. So it was whatever time of year wheat is green and about three feet tall and there are lots of ticks.

So we are walking, or rather I am walking and Lewis is frolicking. Keeping in mind that Lewis is only eleven inches tall, he can't exactly see over the three-foot-high wheat. Lost in my own thoughts, it took me a second to register that Lewis's wheat frolicking movements were headed toward the five foot cliff and the rushing river. Next thing I know, the little guy emerges from the wheat field and flies off the cliff, splashing into the rushing river.

Initially he swam for an island, but at the last minute he looked over his shoulder and saw me standing on the opposite shore, so he changes course and attempts to swim for me. Meanwhile he is being swept away, and I am running (yes, Cherelyn, I did run) along the edge, trying to figure out where I can jump down and try to grab him.

He sweeps by an eddy, just out of my grasp. Then he gets snagged up in some debris further down the river. In a moment of Indiana Jones bravado, I grabbed a dangling tree root and repelled down to where he was, only to have him be swept under the debris and come out on the other side.

Fortunately there was a sandbar on the other side that he swept onto. I told him to stay there, climbed back up the cliff, trotted down to the sandbar, and hauled him up to safety. And I'm telling you, if a dog could talk, this is what he would have said: "That was awesome! Can I do it again?!"

I think this experience could be taken two ways. One way is to tread safely and slowly through the wheat, making sure to check carefully before plunging ahead. Another way is to frolic while you can, swim like crazy, and no matter how scared you were, look at the whole thing as a great adventure. I think I'm with Lewis on this one.

Lessons in Domesticity

Talking with my friends recently, I looked down to see a gaping hole from snagging on a rose bush just below the knee of my favorite pants. My domestic qualities are far from accomplished, but hey, they are my favorite pants, so they had to be fixed. My last experience with a sewing machine, about five years ago, ended with me jabbing and breaking off the sewing needle inside of my finger. So I was a little nervous about the undertaking.

My first lesson was: guide! don't pull!

Guide! Don't pull! Apparently if if you pull, the stitches are too far apart. If you don't guide, it just sews the same spot over and over again. So guide! Don't pull!

Next comes the application of the iron-on, decorative patch.

Iron on the patch. Then sew around the edges because iron-on patches do not actually iron on.

After some fingertip pain, I learned the thimbles are not just for looks. . .

Finished product! And no finger injuries! Let the domesticity begin . . .

Stormy Weather

If you are a lover of storms, please stop reading now because I don't want to hear some well meaning but misdirected comment about how storms are so neat and people should love getting rained on and all that. I am a desert lover. It speaks to me. I love being able to look far and vast. I love how the desert is so quiet that silence makes a sound, and when you hold still for a long time, you see it come to life around you. I love sand and warmth and cute lizardy things. Those are things that I love.

These are things that I don't love: I don't love walking on a cold night, rain plummeting down and starting to seep through my supposedly water resistant clothing. I do not like things clinging to me. Wet clothes cling. This is bad. If I wanted to dress in cling wrap, I would do so. And speaking of clothes, I don't like having to put on a zillion layers of clothes just to take a simple walk.

I also don't like coming home and having my recently skunked dog waft his residual smell around because his fur is wet. Nor do I like cleaning the kitchen floor every single day of my life because there are fresh, muddy paw prints across it.

I don't like how dampness makes things stick to me. Suddenly I am a magnet for dog fur, for clothing lint, for my own loose hairs, for bits of moss or mud or some sodden leaf that I happened to come in contact with. And wet feet. Not a fan of that either.

Yes, I know the northwest is green and beautiful and lush and blah blah blah. And yes, I know this is all because of rain. I also know that I have lived here long enough to earn the right to complain. So there.

Song of the Frog

Following a particularly hectic work day, I was frantically walking Lewis in an attempt to "get things done" when I walked by a house that had singing frogs in the backyard. Singing frogs help time to slow down a bit and put things into perspective. For instance, I was walking on a rainless, relatively mild night. The air was fresh, and the night was rather still. The frogs were singing merrily, and it made me think of lazy summer nights when the sun sets late and you can rock the minutes away on your front porch, talking with a good friend or just watching life go by.

When I was riding horses many years ago, we had a frog in the wash stall that lived under the water control handle. I made a sign there indicating that the frog should not be harmed or overly disturbed. Sometimes the frog would sing, reminding us of its presence. The frog always reminded us to slow down a little and think of something other than the immediate tasks we felt we needed to accomplish.

The next time I hear frogs singing, I am going to stop and take note of the other things I was likely missing. The gentle breeze or the smell of spring flowers. I will stop and let the frogs remind me of what is important.

Nature Fridays

I would like to instate Nature Fridays in my life. Having a spastic work schedule over which I have no control will make this nearly impossible, but I like the idea nonetheless. There is something about Friday in particular, the day prior to the day of rest. You can almost feel the earth getting ready to take a breather. Not so on Wednesday or Monday or some other such day when it seems to be status quo as usual.

So anyway, on this particular Nature Friday, Lewis and I came across some kind of woodchuck. Taking a left into the forest instead of our customary right, we found ourselves down in a canyon unfortunately littered in junk. However, amid all the trash, there sat a little brown guy, the tips of his long fur glistening with gold in the sun just starting to come out from behind the clouds. He was so laid back I just wanted to pet his apparently soft fur. Lewis felt that the critter was so laid back, he just wanted to leisurely eat him. Needless to say, I think either pursuit would result in puncture wounds of the rodent-tooth variety.

Getting back to the story, Lewis chased the little guy, and he (the woodchuck, not Lewis) disappeared into an old tire. Tying Lewis to a concrete thing near by, I returned to the tire and was able to lift the woodchuck's hiding place up and snap a pretty close photo of him.

Awww, isn't he cute? And he didn't even seem scared really, just more shy.

Here is Lewis looking over his domain. As you can see, Nature Fridays are full of discovery and great views. If you have the time and lack of a spastic work schedule, I recommend you try them for yourself.

cuisses de grenouilles

Walking down the street the other night, I came upon a frog who had unfortunately been flattened by a passing vehicle. While its body was not very intact, its back legs were. They were completely straightened and rather muscular looking. This reminded me of a muppet movie I watched many years back as a kid where the french chef was always chasing after Kermit because he wanted to eat Kermit's frog legs. 

At the time, I thought this quite odd. Perhaps stuck in a literal brain stage of life, I could not fathom why the french chef would want to eat Kermit's legs. Kermit's legs are not muscular. They do not look succulent. They are stick straight and rather fuzzy looking. I would imagine that eating Kermit's legs would be rather like frying up a fresh batch of those oblong cotton things they stick in your mouth at the dentist office. 

This is Kermit. His legs do not look yummy. 

This is dental cotton. Need I say more.

My Pet Skunk

Recently, for approximately 12 hours, I had a pet skunk. Ironically enough, I called him Lewis. He even looked just like Lewis, and he lived in my house just like Lewis.

You know how on a late summer evening you are sitting on your front porch, rocking away in a chair and listening to the neighbor kids play in the streets? Perhaps there is a gentle, warm breeze that carries the aroma of a far away skunk to your nostrils. It is not an unpleasant aroma. It is so faint you might even think is smells halfway decent, simply reminding you of summer and nature.

Now, completely erase that pleasant image from your head and imagine that it is not a far away skunk that tickles your nostril hairs. Instead, imagine that you are holding in your lap the real deal. There sits a fully functioning, gamey, I-just-got-startled-and-have-emitted-the-subsequent-juices kind of skunk.

So the other night I put Lewis outside in the yard before going to bed. When I went to let him in, my new pet skunk entered instead. I don't want a pet skunk, I thought, and gave him a bath, hoping to get Lewis back. All night long, the power was overwhelming as my pet skunk slept peacefully in Lewis's crate in my room.

The next morning, I rose early and scrubbed all the floors, thinking maybe the skunk had tracked his juices in on his paws. All morning at work, a skunky aroma followed me as I attempted to maintain a professional demeanor. When I got home for lunch, I opened the door to my house and was greeted by my pet skunk and his overpowering odor.

Fortunately, I had done some internet searching and came up with a skunk eliminating elixir. Mix I quart 3% hydrogen peroxide with 1/4 cup baking soda and a couple of tablespoons of dish soap. Dump this onto your pet skunk and wash it thoroughly into his fur. Wait five minutes and rinse with tepid water. Viola! You have a dog again.

I am infinitely thankful for Lewis's return. While I love all nature, there are few wild animals I want living in my house with me. From now on I will keep a supply of hydrogen peroxide and baking soda, just in case the pet skunk wants to return. . .

How to Crack a Farm Fresh Egg

I have, since acquiring a house, also acquired a desire to own a couple of chickens. Where this desire came from, I really have no idea. I have never had chickens before. My grandparents had some chickens when I was a kid, but I don't recall anything about them except our dog trying to kill one of them one time.

Nevertheless, I intend to embark on this poultry endeavor eventually because for some reason I have equated chickens with this idyllic and pastoral vision in my head. Just like Caroline Ingalls, I can run around in plaid dresses and a long apron, scattering seed to the fowl and gathering their eggs. After their eggs are gathered into my apron, I walk purposefully into the house and lay them out on the butcher block counter top where I am whipping up some culinary delight of pioneer proportions.

Expertly, I grab an egg in one hand and bang it on the side of my metal mixing bowl. . . . And that is where the vision stops, because unlike Caroline, I still hold a barely cracked egg and there are a couple of shell pieces in my bowl. Slightly discouraged but not yet defeated, I whack the egg a little harder against the edge of the bowl. Now more pieces fall off, and I drop the entire egg in the bowl where it breaks and its contents ooze out and mix with all the pieces of shell.

Unfortunately, this true story just happened a couple of weeks ago at my friends' house. Dennis was in fits of laughter, threatening, "There better not be one piece of shell that ends up in that cornbread!" Cherelyn just looks at me and says, "And you want chickens."

All I can say is that "old farm hands" got an earlier start. They were not in their mid thirties, cracking their first brown egg. No, I'm sure they had many a shell bit get into their cornbread before they learned to perfect the technique. I remain convinced that with a couple of chickens of my own and some practice, the plaid dress and apron wearing version of me will emerge. And I will crack eggs, one handed and victorious.

Some Quiet Time

It's amazing, after living in a small town, what your new definition of "hustle and bustle" can become. I would probably consider my town a "burg". A handful of people live here. Nothing really happens. There is no rush hour, no traffic lights, and the only places open after 7 p.m. are the bars on Main Street. So my town snoozes away, sleepily closing it's eyelids to the hurried antics of other towns hundreds of miles away.

Despite the constant calm, I just today noticed a sharp contrast when Lewis and I walked up the hill outside our town and into the forest. It was in the forest that my ears noticed the absence of the noise I never notice constantly occurring down below in town. Up here I could only hear a slight breeze in the pines, the sound of last fall's leaves crunching beneath my feet.

Lewis and I took a break on the side of a hill, sitting in the warm sun. (Well, okay, I was sitting in the warm sun and Lewis was trying to contort his body in such a way as to fit every last square inch of himself into the shade beam created by a tree trunk, but the point is that we were resting.)

As I was sitting there, I noticed a little snake writhing around in the leaves. I am by no means a reptile fan, and of all the wildlife I could have viewed during that moment, a little snake would be last on my list. Actually, a large snake would be last on my list. (Imagine that, a 40 foot python in the foothills surrounding my small town. Now THAT would be something). The point is, I saw wildlife, creepy as it may be. Wildlife I would have missed had I just kept walking like I do when I'm in town.

My town is filled with deer. Deer in the streets, deer in the yards, deer eating people's gardens. I see and walk by deer on a daily basis. But I do not really stop to look at them. I am usually on my way somewhere, and the deer are so prevalent that I just walk right by them. I think if I had seen a deer in the forest earlier today though, I would have stopped and really appreciated it for the beautiful creation that it is. Not just a pest plucking the heads off of tender new garden shoots, it's liquid eyes and athletic movements attest of an animal built for speed, grace, and intelligence.

So I'm grateful today to have taken a step outside of whatever noise my sleepy burg distracts me with. With the promise of spring right around the corner, it is good to be seeing again with new eyes.

Tail Feathers

My dog has tail feathers. Also affectionately referred to as his pants, Lewis's tail feathers are long and flowing in the winter and clipped short in the summer.

His winter tail feathers.

His summer tail feathers.

Lewis's tail feathers are quite talented and can do multiple things. For example, the other day we were hiking out on the bluffs by the Columbia River. Being the gorge, it was quite windy. Lewis, having a "Born Free" moment, was standing on the edge of a cliff with the wind at his back. His tail feathers were splayed out nicely by the wind. Had they been slightly longer, he may have been able to base jump with them.

His tail feathers also almost act as a blanket. Right now he is lying in his slumber ball with his tail feathers arranged nicely beside him. Just a few more inches and he could pull them over his bottom, creating a bottom cozy.

I could also braid his tail feathers if the mood struck me, or they could become tail feather dreads. My favorite time of year though, is when they get shaved off for the summer. He can strut his stuff for the doggie ladies, displaying his muscular set of glutes, getting ready for winter and the fresh set of tail feathers.

The Green Banana

I don't know that I would necessarily characterize myself as a banana connoisseur. In order to be that, I would have to have experienced bananas in all their various states. From green and crunchy to science experiment in the fridge, waiting to become the banana bread I will invariably never make, I would have had to at least have a sampling of each (and every one in between) to be able to claim the title of connoisseur. So, with the disclaimer that I am no expert, I would still like to make a case for the superiority of the green banana.

Primarily, I should qualify the adjective "green". By green, I do not mean a banana where the skin comes off but the peel stays on. I also do not mean a banana that is far enough along to peel, but you still chip a tooth and get a nasty film on your teeth when you attempt to bite off a chunk. These I have tried, and that's gross.

What I am referring to is the banana just a tiny bit further along than this. There is still some green on the skin. The banana can be a little finicky to peel, but it will usually give in. Then when you sink your teeth into the thing, it doesn't fall apart as a mushy mess in your mouth. There is a crispness to it, maybe like a mealy apple, only that sounds gross, so don't think of a mealy apple. But don't think of a crisp apple either because that is too crisp. In fact, don't think of apples at all because I'm talking about bananas.

My point, though I'm not sure I have one, is that ripe bananas are not good. A fruit should never be the consistency of baby food unless you are eating it out of a baby food jar. Anytime there are brown spots on stuff, that's bad. Do you eat apples (there I go with apples again) when they have brown spots all over them? How about any other fruit? No. Brown spots are an indication of impending rot, so don't do it! For the love of all things good, adopt a taste for the green banana.

Till 'Er Up

I like to work on my friends' farm. However, they are always warning me not to do this or that without supervision because they are afraid I am going to get hurt. I'm not sure why they have this fear since I am not the one who broke my leg stepping out of a horse trailer. I am not the one who scraped all the skin off my arm on tree bark. Nor am I the one who was trampled by a horse this summer.

That being said, last fall I wanted to rototill their garden. This I would do while they were both at work. Cherelyn sounded dubious, "Are you sure you shouldn't wait until Dennis gets back from work? I'm not sure you should rototill with no one here." How hard could it be? I assured her. Just pull the chord and give 'er some gas while following along behind. I had rototilled once several years before. I figured it was one of those skills you retained. With a doubtful look on her face, Cherelyn reluctantly drove away to work while I trotted out to the garden and the rototiller.

After a quick appraising look to figure out how to start it, I fired the rototiller up. It started easily, but I must admit I was at a bit of a loss as how to get it to go. Recalling it should be self-propelled, I looked around for some lever with the telltale rabbit and turtle on it. No offense to any do-it-yourselfers, but it was evident that this rototiller's rabbit and turtle lever had been broken and replaced with some home remedy years ago.

Not to be deterred, I figured since the tillers were tilling, I could just place them on the ground and the thing would go. Oh, it went all right. About a hundred miles an hour. Suddenly I was speed rototilling! Wind in the hair, dirt flying, me running behind, trying to maintain control. It was great. Only nothing was getting tilled except the top half inch of soil. I am happy to say that it only took three running, dirt flying swaths to figure out the self propel mechanism. And the garden did indeed get tilled thoroughly and deeply enough. I can't wait until next year when I forget how to engage the self propel again. Let the speed rototilling begin. . .

The Mothering Parrot

I recently had a conversation with a friend about her rescued parrot. The parrot had apparently been living in less than desirable conditions. Sloughed onto a neighbor by the previous homeowners, she was kept around because the neighbor felt sorry for her. I don't really remember the details of how my friend acquired her, but the parrot is now living in a happy home and exhibiting the characteristics of a contented bird: egg laying.

Now, I know that parrots are birds, and I understand that birds lay eggs. I even understand that birds sit on eggs. But I have never in my life pictured or seen a parrot sitting on an egg. This concept of the happily nesting parrot is completely new to me. Parrots bob their heads. Parrots talk. Parrots make messes while they hold peanuts with their feet and shell them with their beaks. Parrots bite. Hard. In my mind, parrots do not nest. It's far too motherly of an activity.

So I did a little google search for photos of parrots nesting on eggs. I came up with this one, which was the closest I got.

As you can see, this parrot is not exactly sitting on the eggs. The eggs are there. The parrot is hovering. But this is far from the full blown, fluffed breast feathers over the eggs while the parrot sits contentedly and clucks like a chicken. So I am left discontent. I do believe that my friend's parrot is happily laying eggs and indeed sits on them. However, the nesting parrot is a phenomenon that remains a mystery to me. I'll just have to see it with my own eyes someday.

Gotta Love High School

Ah, high school. That iconic time when emotions make our decisions for us and even the smallest things hold astronomical weight in our world. It was a time when we really believed in things, no matter how inconsequential they may have really been. Our label was everything; where we fit into the crowd and how that shaped who we were and who we would become. In honor of high school, and of the 80s, this is one of my favorite clips from one of my favorite movies. Just see if it doesn't get to you a little.

Dead Ant, Dead Ant

I have a love-hate relationship with throwing things away. When it comes to "stuff", like knickknacks and things I thought I might use someday, I can't wait to dispose of them. Things like bananas, on the other hand, they are far beyond the banana bread stage and working themselves right up to science experiment before I am willing to part with them. This is similar with my cough drops.

I am a fan of Ricola cough drops. Not because they work, but because they taste good. While it takes about 20 Ricolas to do the work of one Halls, I would take the lemony, herby, non-numbing goodness of a Ricola any day.

Several years ago while I was living in an ostrich egg incubating shed that had been converted into a living quarters, my Ricolas were invaded by marauding sugar ants. Apparently I have not had a cough in several years because when I developed one of late, I turned to these previously ant-infested cough drops. Like I said, I cannot throw things away. And what harm is a sugar ant, really?

So I open each cough drop, testing it for how badly it has been eaten. If it's not so bad, and only has one ant or two on it, I brush it off and enjoy it's lemony, herby goodness. I rest in the solace of knowing that once I get through this ant filled bag of drops, new, insect-free drops are on the horizon.

Gettin' Jiggly Wi' It

Arm flab. This is the one aspect of not being in my 20s anymore that I have not fully come to terms with. I have decided that the gray hairs give my hair some sparkly highlights and some kick that it would not otherwise have. The dimply cellulite on my backside and thighs can just be ignored because hey, it's on the back. The vertical lines running up and down my right cheek when I get of bed in the morning, well, I just don't look in a mirror as closely or too often. Because laugh lines are not just for laughing anymore. And I have decided that the sun damage to my face gives me kind of an earthy look. Or maybe people just think my face is dirty all the time.

I think I take it all in stride for the most part. But not with arm flab. For one thing, why, of all places, is there flab on my arms? I get the stomach, the backside, the thighs, the double chin. But the upper arms seem obscure to me. Furthermore, it is impossible for me to ignore this flabby inundation. I can cover  it. I can not look at it. But I can't deny it.

Like when I am peppering my food. I like pepper. I figure the more pepper, the better, but everything has its limits. Even pepper. So there I am, peppering away, and my flab is jiggling. Then I think, well that's an odd sensation, so I pepper some more, just to try to figure out what is going on with the backs of my arms. Before I know it, the food is over peppered. And this is all because of arm flab.

Arm flab can cause you to overdo other things too. Vigorously shaking someone's hand for instance. Or waving at people on the streets. Before I know it, I am going to be known for having spastic arms. Maybe that's cool though. I'm not in my 20s anymore, and its about time I adopt some idiosyncratic quirk of the aging.

Hey Baby, What's Your Sign?

My friend Andrea has been hit with a barrage of bizarre pickup lines lately. Among them: "Nice braces", smoothly crooned to her by the gas station attendant loitering outside her car window while waiting for the gas to pump. After a list of getting to know you questions, he expertly whipped out a pad of paper and a pen (presumably which he owns for this precise purpose), writing down his name and number so she could "call him sometime" and they could "go out for coffee." Unfortunately for him, Andrea does not drink coffee. Apparently this gas station dude should add "do you drink coffee?" to his question repertoire. Another great line was "If you want", spoken to Andrea by a fellow college student as he dropped a note down on the table in front of her. "If I want what?" she asked, breaking out of her reverie of study to blink up at this guy she had never spoken to before. "Well, read it," he tells her, gesturing to the note. Same scenario. A note with his name and number and the proposed coffee date. Another, much older classmate has been using creepy emails as a way to vie for Andrea's attention. And a young and clueless lad felt that spilling his entire life story in the grocery store parking lot and then asking for a hug was a surefire way into Andrea's heart. 

Here is Andrea, looking like a model on the ski slopes, so I can't blame these poor boys. And it's not like I'm a huge Emily Post fan or anything, but what ever happened to some etiquette? I'm pretty sure "nice braces" does not fall under the 10 most popular conversation starters in anyone's book. I guess I gotta give the guys credit for trying though.

The Bread Box

I have noticed a trend of edible options out on the streets: various types of breads. Lewis has inhaled pizza crusts, bread sticks, crutons, bagettes, garlic bread, french bread, bread slices, bread crumbs, saltines, goldfish, rolls, muffins, cupcakes, cakes slices, croissants, and the list goes on. Why do people throw these bits of bread out onto the streets? Never before have I been walking down a city street, eating a muffin, and decided, "I don't want this muffin anymore, I'm just going to drop it on the street." Never have I been driving down the road, eating a slice of pizza and tossed an unwanted crust out the window. Never before have I eaten half a handful of goldfish and dropped the rest on the sidewalk. I must meet these bread-discarding marauders. I must understand their motives. My rotator cuff is getting sore from hauling Lewis away from snacks on the street. Perhaps we can come to some understanding. Can they not save the muffin half for later? Share it with a friend perhaps? Cut the crust off the pizza before they snack on it while taking a walk? Not eat bread products outside of their house at all? Surely there must be an answer to this overload of bread on the streets. Or maybe I have the answer. Maybe it is a vacuum by the name of Lewis.

Corgi Cuisine

Over the course of my life, my family has always had a dog or two. When I was a kid, we lived in the country and had dogs that just kind of came and went as they pleased. Then we moved to the suburbs, and our dog at the time decided that she belonged to my mom and my mom alone, so I essentially ignored her. Maybe it was just because I wasn't paying attention, or maybe our family dogs actually were more fastidious. Whatever the case then, I have noticed something since I have had my own dogs. Corgis eat disgusting things. Not only do Corgis eat disgusting things that they happen across, but they go out of their way to seek out disgusting things to eat. Among Lewis's favorite disgusting cuisine options are the poopsicle and kitty rocha. The poopsicle, as you can imagine, occurs during the winter months. A cat will leave some deposit in the previously soft earth, and it will freeze in the winter, only to be unearthed by a Corgi looking for disgusting things. Fortunately for me, the poopsicle is, well, frozen, so the aforementioned Corgi can not swallow it quickly and will have to drop it. This is another trick of the Corgi trade: look like you are not interested in anything, quickly grab the disgusting thing in your mouth, and as your owner is hysterically trying to get you to drop it, swallow it as fast as you can. Unlike the poopsicle, kitty rocha can be swallowed with lightening speed. A treat found in dirt, sand, gravel, or a litter box; soft on the inside, crunchy on the outside, kitty rocha can be quickly consumed on the fly. No need to spit it out! Hopefully taller, more sophisticated dogs are not prone to these habits. Surely their owners can walk them in peace, knowing their mouths are a safe distance from the ground and the offending cuisine options. May they rest peacefully at night, knowing their faces will not be licked by a canine who has recently partaken in Corgi cuisine.

Water for Dogs

My poor dog Lewis, despite his aggressive demeanor, is embarrassingly afraid of his water dish. Take on a Pit Bull? No problem. Violently attack German Shepherds? Check. Drink water? I'M GOING TO DIE!!!! Having had Lewis for going on 11 years, I understand what he wants fairly easily. He will be sacked out on his bed, dead to the world. Suddenly, his head springs up, his lips pulled back in a half smile, stuck to his gums on one side. He looks around, licks his lips, and tries to go back to sleep. But thirst pulls him. He repeats the above scenario several times. Then, he gets up and goes to the water dish. . . And stares at it. He lays down next to it. He comes over to me and stares at me. He goes back to the dish. He licks his lips. He whines. Comes and stares at me some more. I could be deeply entrenched in my 47th viewing of The Proposal, and does he care? Indeed he does not. And all I have to do is go stand around near the water dish. So long as I'm standing around near the dish, he happily laps away, like this whole "I don't want to go near the water dish without you because I think the thing is going to jump up and eat me" thing never happened. Yet day in and day out, it's this way. When I come home from work on a lunch break, he runs for the dish, having staved off thirst for hours, waiting for me to stand around by the dish. My friends think I am crazy to enable him this way. They say he will drink. Eventually. When he gets thirsty enough. And he may very well do that. But he's a dog. And he's 11. And he won't be alive for many more years. And one day I will miss him needing my help so he can drink water. So if it helps him to have me standing around by the dish, I guess I'll do so. For as many years as he will let me.

My Kingdom for a Washer

I love honey. I love it in tea, love to douse my cornbread so that it's soaking with honey. What I don't love, is honey dripping down the sides of the plastic bottle in the cupboard. Reaching in to grab my beloved honey, my fingers get stuck to the sides of the bottle. (I have to say I hate to get things on my fingers. I hate it when I'm cutting cilantro and those little leaves stick to my fingers. I hate to peel an orange and have orange rind and juice all over my fingers. My feelings are the same about honey on my fingers. I'm not a bear.) I wrestle with the bottle as it has stuck to the bottom of the cupboard. It eventually peels off with a sickly sweet semi-dried honey sound. I swear, I pour it with the utmost care. I am not one of those careless honey pourers, those people who pour with abandon and let a huge string of honey run down the side of the bottle. No, I pour most gingerly, let the little strand break before tipping the bottle back up. I even lick the top (a warning for anyone visiting who wants to use my honey). So it has to be this, the lid to the honey needs a washer. Apparently after the honey has been poured, it gets into the threads of the lid and eventually runs down the sides of the bottle. So this is a cry to you, honey packagers of the world. Please put a washer in the lid of my honey. I would be most grateful. Now I must go wash my fingers.

I'm Not Old!

My friend Cherelyn can't stand it when people call her "old". She's pushing 60. On the cusp actually, and soon headed right into a new decade of life. But that has never slowed her down before, and she'll be darned if it's going to slow her down now. ("That's right!" I can hear her saying). So it's little wonder I did not go running to her aid when I looked up to see her laying on the frozen mud during a wilderness wood gathering session. I hadn't seen her fall, but I knew she hadn't fallen from a great height, so I figured she would just jump right back up and keep gathering firewood. Meanwhile, she's thinking I'm cold-hearted for not racing to her side. She's thinking, I know she was only a little ways away, what is taking her so long to get here? I did eventually notice that she was not springing to her feet, so I at least asked her if she was okay. The ensuing moans and groans indicated that she was not. So I did run then. Took off her shoe and sock. Noticed swelling and bruising on the ankle. Had a back and forth discussion with her about the definition of the word "top" ("It hurts on the top." "Here?" I ask while pushing on the top her her ankle. "No, the top." "But Cherelyn, it's swollen on the side." "It hurts on the top." "Here?" I ask again, pushing on the top of her ankle. "No, the top. Oh, just go get Dennis!") I ran to get her husband. Helped carry her to the truck, toss her in, and tie an ice bag on (the side of) her ankle. So see, I helped. It's true that her husband and I continued to gather firewood for a half hour before leaving for the hospital, but hey, you can't waste a good tree. So three hours later we learned the ankle was broken, and I do promise, I will run next time.

Waiting for a Hero

I was told awhile back that it is desirable for a woman to have scar-free legs. This may be obvious to most people, but I sure wish I had been privy to this tidbit of information in my formidable years when I started shaving my legs. Unarmed with the scar-free information, I delved into the world of feminine beauty armed with a single blade Bic razor and water from the shower. Over the course of many years, I had dehided myself numerous times. Little strips of skin would hang off the razor like uncooked bacon slices as my shins, my knees, my ankles, would bleed freely. Any hope I had of the scar-free, desirable looking legs, is a thing of the past.
Lest anyone despair, there is a hero in this story. Somewhere in the mid to late nineties, Gillette came out with the Mach 3. This of course was a razor for men, but I purchased one in hopes that their claims of a smooth shave for men would translate to my poor legs as well. My eyes were opened. I was now free to shave with abandon as the Mach 3's triple blade, springy action and moisturizing strip slid happily over my skin, not through it. Finally, my skin peeling days were over. . . . Until last week. When I left my beloved Gillette at some friends' house. In their agony, my legs wait for their triple bladed hero to return.

Adoption

I'm a late adopter. You know, one of those people who sits around for years while new technology comes out, waiting for everyone else to buy it and use it and hate it or love it so I can finally make a decision. That being said, I finally got an iphone the other day. AT&T was selling the 3G version for 99 cents. That seemed like a reasonable enough price, so I went ahead and purchased the thing. And I must say, I am really impressed. Gone are the days when I have to boot up my laptop, put in the password, wait forever while it acquires this and downloads that and thinks endlessly about what it wants to do, all so I can just check my email. Now it's just "slide to unlock", tap the email button, and done.
I do have to say with the iphone however, similar to how I was with my first Nintendo and Super Mario 1, the thing draws me, it pulls me, it wants me to tap, tap away at it's touchscreen. It wants me to download more apps. I swore to myself I would NOT download Angry Birds. I failed. I was playing Solitaire in bed this morning for heaven's sake. I now text. A lot. I am lost in an iphone induced stupor that I can only hope to resurface from soon.

They May Look Like Little Oak Trees, Butt . . .

It started off as four small dots that I swore had to be some sort of bug bite. Having spent the night at some friends' house, I quickly surmised they must have bed bugs. Not wanting to be judgmental or alarm them about their apparent insect infestation, I literally sat on the problem for two days, bouncing along on a tractor seat, cutting down 40 acres of brush. Yes, the offending dots were on my derriere, my posterior, my hind end. I, um, yes. I had poison oak on my butt.
After two days of bouncing and chafing, the dots had started to ooze, and a large reddened area had blossomed on the right side. By the third day, the transformation had happened. I woke up, and my butt didn't feel right on that side. Upon further inspection, my right cheek was HUGE. Not having been blessed with any volume on my posterior side, this was grotesque in comparison. The comparison being the floppy, non-rounded cheek to the left. Not having a butt is one thing. Having a hugely lopsided, mishapen, not to mention ITCHY, and oozing butt cheek is quite another. And I was just starting a run of shifts at the hospital. I found that sitting on a bag of ice was the only soothing action I could take. Numbness was my friend. For an entire week.
The moral of this story is, no matter how disgusting the bathroom is at the local fishing hole, do not, I repeat DO NOT squat in the forest.

Playing Possum

Despite Lewis's diminutive stature, he does believe he is a great hunter. Armed with visions of conquering the wildlife infused jungle that is our small town, he happened upon a possum in the backyard. No, I did not witness the actual encounter, but after seeing the possum and seeing Lewis, I would envision it happening as follows: Possum, walking around backyard, suddenly encounters 11 inch tall intruder. Possum plays dead. Intruder sticks nose deep in possum's fur and all around area possum is laying.
Side note here. It must be known that Lewis has an abnormally poor sense of smell for a dog, especially for a corgi. My mind drifts to me chasing my previous corgi a mile down the beach as he took off after the smell of a bread crumb. Lewis on the other hand, literally jams his nose into things. It also must be known that possums, when playing dead, secrete a foul smelling fluid from their anal glands. (Yes, I said anal glands).
So I come onto the scene, and here's Lewis:

Things I Learned From a Floor Sander

Home ownership, I am learning, is a test of staying power. I bought a fixer-upper mainly because it was "cute" and I thought I needed something to do with my time. Wanting to finish some major projects before I moved in, I decided to refinish my bedroom wood floor. Arriving at our local rental center, the following conversation ensued:
Rental Center Guy: Have you ever sanded a floor before?
Me: No.
Rental Center Guy: Me neither.
After a tutorial of what the rental center guy "thought" I should be doing with the floor sander, I soon stood in the middle of my bedroom floor, ready to sand away. One squeeze of the handle and the sander flew into the wall. I flew into the adjoining wall. Lesson number one: sometimes you have to dig your heels in and stand your ground. I'm not saying to be irrationally stubborn, but some things take a little brute force sometimes.
After a day of sanding, the edges of the room still needed to be sanded down. Thinking this would be no problem, I bought a little hand sander, and after an hour, I had finished a 6 inch square section of floor. Lesson number two: take big things a little at a time. As I gazed upon the amount of floor still left, tears often glistened in my eyes. Often I wished I had just hired someone to do this. It would have been easier.
One miraculous day, however, it was time to finish my newly sanded floor. See the finished product for yourself, and I think you will agree with lesson number three: sometimes, in the end, it is worth the effort.

Old, boring floor.

Ah, look at that baby shine.

I just have to say one thing after creaking around with bruised knees a permanent bow to my back for 3 weeks. . . . I ain't 22 anymore.