Birdie Belle

2,920 miles

2012-01-29T19:06:00.010-07:00

7 days and 2,920 miles can make an amazing difference in one's life.

In the landscapes that you see . . .

vs.

. . . the clothing that you wear . . .

vs.

I was imagining myself wearing flip flops, thus the closed eyes.

. . . and the livestock that runs free, among many other things.

There are chickens and roosters loose all over Key West. This one and her babies happened to be living at the outdoor restaurant that we ate at one afternoon. I think they had chicken as a special the next day.

Craig and I headed east for a short weekend yesterday to sort cattle and spend time with family. It was a quick road trip and a good one at that, but I have to say that as I sit at my kitchen counter and write this, it's sure good to be home. I think I'll stay here for a while.

Southernmost

2012-01-25T18:25:00.026-07:00

Last Thursday morning, after a slightly-less-than-relaxing 3 hour drive on snowy roads the night before, Craig and I hopped a flight, and then another, and then another on our way to the southernmost part of the continental United States. Key West, Florida.

Neither of us had ever been there and, after doing a little research and discovering that the average temperature in January is 78 degrees, we figured it would be THE place to go to experience a little escape from the Montana winter.

Our first hint that Key West was like no other place we'd been happened while we were still in the air. The captain took command of the intercom and as he was explaining that we'd started our initial descent he took a moment to mention that the runway at Key West is a bit short and that was going to translate into an 'aggressive landing'. I sort of quit listening after that however I think he also mentioned something about using all of the flaps to slow down and stopping quickly. I'm not sure, I was digging around in my purse for anti-anxiety meds.*

We made it to our hotel and were welcomed by an amazing view. Vacation had begun.

Since I'm sure you don't want to walk through my memories of each day, I'll give you some of the highlights.**

Because the island is just 2 miles x 4 miles, getting around Key West was simple. There was really no need to rent a car so our first full day there we rented cruiser bikes. We fit right in.

The second day we decided that though the bikes were less expensive we were moving up in the world to the electric 2-seater 'car'. With a top speed of 25 it wasn't quite the full-size Ford that we were used to but she did have ample head room and a pretty amazing turning radius.

The attempted getaway from the scooter gang was a little dicey but we managed to whip a practically impossible u-turn and lose them in the crowd. It's a good thing; they looked fierce.

We spent time wandering Duval Street, which is the main shopping street on the island, and found a number of goodies to bring home. Unfortunately we didn't bring home any conch shells or alligator heads.

We were also unable to find anything of value in the 'Everything is $5.00, or 3 for $10.00, store.' I couldn't justify a bedazzled beach cover-up or short shorts that said Key West on the fanny.

Also on the list of 'hey, we're tourists' things to do was a trip to the southernmost point. You can't miss it, it's marked with a gigantic monument and there were always roughly 37 people standing in line waiting to take a picture. We wised up after the second day of driving by and debating on whether or not we'd like to join the crowd and got up early one morning to walk down to it. Brilliant. Not a soul in sight. Except for the lady who took our picture of course. Apparently I was wearing transitions lenses that day . . . I'm not quite sure why my glasses got a little dark. Maybe it was the humidity. That'd definitely what's happening with my hair.

We wandered over to Ernest Hemingway's house on our last full day and I got slapped by one of his polydactyl**** cats.

No, I did not try to pick it up.

There are 44 cats, all descendants of Mr. Hemingway's cat Snowball, that live on the grounds and in the house. Though the house is beautiful, and the admission price worth it, I'm thinking that the groundskeepers might consider investing in a few Glade Plug-Ins. It smelled a little 'catty' if you catch my drift.

The number one priority of the trip was relaxing and we made sure to make time for that. I played a bit of chess at the hotel . . .

I'm sure that's a perfectly legal move.

while Craig yucked it up with some fellow card players. They were kind of boring.

We spent time at the beach and the pool, although after watching the seagulls use the pool as their afternoon bath I had second thoughts about going back in.

We took advantage of the room service menu one night and had the world's best 24-layer chocolate cake.

This is how we both felt about the cake.

Since the piece was gigantic I also took advantage of the complimentary shower cap and the mini-fridge. Who doesn't love chocolate cake for breakfast? I can think of one person.*****

A couple of the evenings were spent watching the sunset at Mallory Square. Wait, wrong grammar on that. The sun actually set into the ocean. Well, I mean if we're being factual here, the sun, I mean the earth, just kept going and really didn't stop anywhere but I guess the ocean was in our way (or maybe the earth's rotation was in our way) so we couldn't keep watching the sun. Regardless of where it set or didn't set, it was a beautiful sight each time. The Square . . . with a celebratory atmosphere . . . was filled with hundreds of people, food vendors, musicians, street performers, and stunning views.

On Tuesday morning we hopped a flight, and then another, and then another, and finally, after a 2 hour drive on not-as-snowy-as-the-week-before roads we made it home. Back to winter, back to our jobs, back to 'real life'. When winter is still gracing us with her presence come March, I'm going to put on my flip flops, turn on some Jimmy Buffet, stand under a heat lamp, and look back at these pictures. Ah, Key West. I'm thinking we'll be back someday.

*Not really, although I did tell Craig that I loved him. Just in case.

**If you'd like a play by play you're welcome to give me a call.***

***Only if you know me. That might be weird otherwise.

****Lots of toes

*****Hi Camie!

Timeclocks and pay stubs

2012-01-11T13:20:00.022-07:00

This week I celebrated my 10th anniversary at my current place of employment. 10 years. I'm not sure how it got this out of control.*

While doing a little reminiscing about this job, and all that has gone on in 10 years of employment and 10 years of life, it made me think of every other place that I've punched a clock and I thought I'd share them all with you. If you've been dying to know my work history then this is your dream post come true.

The Status Farm

Contrary to what the title says, we did not herd stats all day.** I worked for one summer on a small farm at the age of 14 (hello child labor!) that grew status flowers. (Alternate spelling is statice flowers). Depending on the time of the summer we pulled weeds, hoed rows, and picked/bunched the flowers to be dried and sold later. It was my first summer in Wisconsin and my first real experience with the state bird, the mosquito. Not a bad way to start out my working years. Not necessarily a good way either.***

The Grocery Store Bakery

I took a little break from working (read: all of high school) and got my next job the summer I graduated at Sentry Foods as one of the bakery girls. I proceeded to work there off and on for the next 5 years occasionally even filling in on the deli side of things. (I would always double-glove when someone ordered head cheese or blood and tongue. Seriously, Wisconsin?) The bakery was absolutely fabulous. Who doesn't love the smell of long johns in the morning?**** I frosted donuts, made bread, sampled the Persians, and kissed the guy who worked in produce. Working at a grocery store at the age of 17 is a wild time. Wild.

The Plastics Factory

For the first two years of college I chose to live at home and go to the University of Wisconsin-Sheboygan Center (Go Wombats!)

:: Side note here . . . aren't wombats from Australia? Who thought that it would be a natural fit for a college in Wisconsin to be represented by an Australian marsupial? One who has rodent-like teeth and a backwards pouch? What's the message there?::

And we're back. Like I was saying, I lived at home those first two years and while I continued to work in the bakery (see above), I realized that if I was going to make enough money for my remaining education I'd better get a job that paid a bit more and didn't have a produce boy to distract me. So I went to work at the local plastic factory making flower pots, lawn chairs, and emesis basins. Bemis. (They're also known for their toilet seats but I was never in that department.) I worked second shift on Saturday and Sunday and once I got used to the smell of hot plastic and the fact that I might not get my fingerprints back (seen as how they had melted off from the heat while making the dark green lawn chairs) it turned out to be a great gig.

The Accounting Office

After two years at home I transferred to the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater (Go Warhawks!) I can't remember how it all worked but somehow I ended up in the Accounts Receivable department of the college. I kept the books that pertained to the campus food budget for the last two years of my education. Sitting at a small desk in the office of one of the accountants on campus, putting numbers in tiny boxes, and balancing things left to right and top to bottom was marvelous. I seriously considered changing my major from art to accounting. I momentarily thought about double majoring but I wasn't sure how I could make that work. "Here, let me draw a beautiful picture on your ledger." "Shall I design something with numbers?"

The Assisted Living Center

During my last year of college, while I worked in the accounting office, I also worked in one of our town's assisted living facility caring for those adults who lived there full-time and those who came as part of the 'day care' program. I have to say that of all of my jobs until that point, it was probably my favorite. Of all of the jobs that I've ever had, it's definitely in the top 3. It was trying at times*****, but mostly amazing. Talking with a man who had been a commercial pilot in his younger, healthier days and seeing the joy in his eyes while he spoke . . . visiting with the woman I bathed every day and listening to her stories of traveling the world in the 1920s 6* . . . helping comb the hair of the woman who'd had a stroke and laughing with her at her crazy unruly cowlick 7* are all memories that have lasted. It was a really special time full of very special people.

The Coffee Shop

After college I moved west with the idea that I would eventually get my 'big' job in Seattle or Portland, live in a high-rise, and drive a German car. I ended up in my hometown working at a coffee shop. The same but different. I learned the art of lattes, tasted more scones than I should have, 8* and made enough carrot juice to float the Titanic.9* While working here, I also worked at the next job . . .

The Kids Clothing Store

Being a young twenty-something living in a resort town (read: expensive) meant that most people I knew at the time, worked 1 to 2 to 16 jobs to make ends meet, myself included.10* The kids clothing store was one of those multiple jobs. My memories of that time include talking to my cousin Sarah who worked at the body care store that shared space with us, stocking tiny cashmere sweaters, talking to Sarah, straightening the little shoes, and talking to Sarah. Good times but maybe not as productive as they could have been.

The Newspaper

My first 'real' job! The local daily was hiring a graphic designer for the 4p.m. to 1a.m. shift doing ads and getting the paper to the press each evening. I could finally put the degree to work that I had slaved at the above mentioned jobs to pay for. Besides, my student loans were due and my coffee shop tips weren't quite covering them. I spent two years in the newspaper business and learned plenty about pressure, deadlines, and the inability to get ink out of your clothing when you lean up against the press. It's a surefire way to ruin your favorite shirt.

And that brings me to now. To the job that I've held for 10 years. Maybe someday I'll write a post about all of the wonderful, crazy, fun, amazing times I've had there. It won't be today though. This post is way too long and there aren't any pictures. I'm getting bored.

So there you have it, my employment history. Commit it to memory. There may be a test later. But probably not.

*It's been a wonderful 10 years.

**Though with my love of useless knowledge that might have been fun.

***I joke, it was fine. We ate cookies and drank lemonade every day.

****The kind you eat, not the kind you wear.

*****Unless you like to be spit on by an elderly woman who has dementia.

6*And making sure to be interested when she told the same story more than twice.

7*We might have hair-sprayed the heck out of it that day.

8*Hello there 10 pounds.

9*That might not be the best example.

10*I had to pay for my one bedroom apartment next to the railroad tracks (read: in the ghetto) somehow.

Aftermath

2012-01-04T21:53:00.005-07:00

I stayed up until 2:00 a.m. on New Year's Eve and it's taken me a few days to recover. In fact, as I write this my eyelids are practicing their 'automatic-garage-door-with-a short' impression and are currently half mast. It's a good thing I'm not trying to park anything in my eye.*

Anyway, since I promised I'd keep you posted on any uninvited uniform-wearing guests at our New Year's shindig I feel like I should keep my word. Some of you reading may be wondering why I had a fear that the fire department and/or police department (or both) might show up. Let me clarify . . . our house, though right in town, has a bit of land behind it that, though also right in town, is technically in the county. It's a very fine line.

Fireworks are not allowed within city limits. Ours were a scant 100 yards from the city limits. Open burning is closed however bonfires, if kept to a size of 4x4 feet, are allowed. Craig dug our bonfire pit with a Caterpillar. It was slightly larger than 4x4 feet. You can see the rationality of my fear.

We started the fireworks at 10:00 and any worry that was contained in the box in my head labeled 'Our neighbors are going to hate us for this' was quickly squelched upon hearing the cheers of those in the apartment buildings and houses close by. Each time there was a pause in the action there was a roar from the crowd. Quite honestly, though the fireworks were AMAZING, the best part for me was hearing the anonymous voices coming out of the dark shouting 'Yahoo' and giving their best whistles.

Needless to say, there apparently weren't any complaints to the police about the noise and the fire department had better things to do. We were in the clear.

We might chance it again next year.**

Our slightly larger than 4'x4' pit.

*What?

**Unless of course the person reading this is in law-enforcement and then of course we're not doing it again. Too risky.

1

2012-01-01T10:56:00.004-07:00

Happy Anniversary

handsome.

One down,

forever to go.

Outer Space

2011-12-30T18:44:00.015-07:00

I am in a blogging black hole. Sure, there are a bunch of things that I could write about (Christmas Eve, Christmas, the day after Christmas, two days after Christmas, etc) but nothing seems very exciting or particularly blog-worthy. Unless of course you consider my friend Jess, who had never before been to the Christmas Eve circus that is known as my family's get together, opening THE ONE present out of them all that is a gag. That's right . . . she got Nefertiti!* What are the odds?! (I guess they were about 1 in 20 considering that 20 people participated. Genius.)

Much to Jess's dismay (I'm sure) someone actually STOLE Nefertiti from her! It was unprecedented but apparently the lure of a $20 coffee gift card was more than Sarah could handle and she sacrificed a little space in her house to a ceramic bust of a dead Egyptian Queen to satisfy her caffeine habit. We all have our weaknesses.

Early the next morning Craig and I got up to drive the 4 hours east to the ranch. The term 'early' should be used loosely here. Craig was rightfully eager and wanted to get up at 4 a.m. so that we'd be there around 9. I was onboard with his plan. Onboard until I heard Toby Keith belting out some horrific*** song from the other side of the room. He was so loud that I was sure he was sitting on the floor next to Craig's side of the bed strumming his guitar and singing like he was playing Madison Square Garden. I practically fell out of bed on my way to kick him but as it turns out he was just in the radio. I fumbled around for the OFF button to make the madness stop and then, with all of the intention in the world of getting back into bed and rousing a snoring Craig, I got back into bed and fell asleep. We got up at 5:15. I don't think Craig has forgiven me yet.

The two days spent at the ranch were great. Wide open space, peace and quiet, family from far away, and 50 degrees on Christmas Day.**** The girls went on a daily walk to the end of the driveway and back, helping Nada push Lindie up the last hill each time. It's a killer.

Since returning from over the mountains earlier in the week I've kept a pretty low profile, concentrating on relaxing, taking a daily nap, doing laundry, and organizing things around the house. Work shuts down for the week between Christmas and New Years and though I always think that I'm going to fill my time with social activities and projects like painting the spare room or cleaning out the garage . . . I always somehow choose to do nothing over anything and it's wonderful. No regrets. Besides, tomorrow is New Year's Eve and we're having a little shindig in our backyard. It's going to be exciting I'm sure, especially if my hunch is correct and the fire department shows up. Uninvited.

I'll keep you posted.

Well would you look at that . . . an entire post about nothing particularly 'blog-worthy'.

*For those unfamiliar with Nefertiti her story goes like this. She was born in 1370BC and died an Egyptian Queen in 1330BC. We pass around her mummy.**

**Not true. Well, her years are correct but what we pass around is a ceramic bust that my mother painted in the late 70's. We sold it in The Great Rummage Sale of '84 (where we also sold a car, an antique wheelchair, and my mom's prized pie tin among other items) to my cousin Paul. The grammar on that is wrong; Paul didn't buy the car, the wheelchair, the pie tin, and Nefertiti . . . just Nefertiti. He then donated it to his sister Camie's rummage sale in '99 or '00 where I rediscovered her and brought her home. With a little touch-up paint she became a gag gift for my dad's birthday one year and he returned the favor to the entire family about 7 years ago on Christmas Eve. She's now 'the traveling gift' and as you can see from the picture above, she sports eyelashes and glasses as well as the New York Yankees logo on top of her crown. There's something new every year.

***I don't find all of Toby Keith's songs horrific but I find any song horrific at 4 a.m.. It's not natural.

****That calls for an Amen!

A river runs through it

2011-12-20T18:15:00.008-07:00

I read a blog written by a woman that I don't know. She lives in the south and writes about her girls (who wear wonderfully monogrammed clothing and really big bows*), her stay at home life, and her strong faith in God. (kellyskornerblog.com) I don't know how I found her but there's something that keeps me coming back. I'm pretty sure if we ever met we'd be the best of friends. That's how it works right? Everyone is exactly the same in real life as they are online. Right? That's what I thought.

Anyway, she recently wrote a post that was just 10 random thoughts and confessions–a sort of stream consciousness thing–and it cracked me up. I figured I'd give it a go. I'm not sure what all I have to say so I apologize in advance if this river turns into more of a trickle and you have to hitchhike back to your car. Let's begin . . .

1. Hitchhiking - I've never done it, nor would I ever consider it. I have however, much to I'm sure my parent's dismay as they read this, been in a car that has picked up a hitchhiker. Two girlfriends and I traveling back from Yellowstone Park on a very rainy weekend picked up a man who was obviously boating with friends and needed to get back to their pickup and trailer since the rain was ruining any chance of floating the river. We picked him up and silently I think we all regretted it instantly (only because we realized the chance we were taking). I spent the next 5 miles coming up with a plan of how I was going to take him out if he decided to jump our driver (who he was sitting behind). Since I lived to tell about it, he was obviously harmless. Either that or he figured he probably shouldn't mess with me. I'm going with the former.

2. I'm considering canceling my subscription to Real Simple. I feel like it's making my life complicated. Seriously.

3. Handel's Messiah makes me cry every time. Something about the sopranos and their high voices. I used to be a soprano in high school but I'm guessing lack of use made my voice lower. I'm now a tenor. Not really. I suppose I could sub in a pinch.

4. I'm very glad it's Christmas. It's such a wonderful time of year, and regardless of all of the stress, people seem to be in a relatively good mood. Either that or we're all really good at hiding our true feelings.

5. Speaking of Christmas, does anyone out there remember going caroling door to door? Does that still happen anywhere other than a Charles-Dickens-era movie? I'm positive that my family went a few times when I was young but I'm not sure who we would have gone with. I'm beginning to wonder if it wasn't a Baptist thing in the early '80s.

6. While we're on the topic of Baptists, not necessarily in the early '80s, I'm very thankful for the upbringing that I had . . . in the Baptist Church in Whitefish, and the Bible churches in Texas and Wisconsin and for all of the people that we met along the way in each congregation. I've got a head-full of memories of potlucks and summer camps, Christmas parties and Mother's Day lunches and more. Most importantly though there's a foundation to my life that cannot be shaken. For that I am most grateful.

7. Because I said the word 'foundation' in my last note it made me immediately think of building a house. Not that Craig and I are planning on building a house anytime soon but just in case he decides some Monday that he'd like to start building on Friday, I make sure to look at the house plan that is published in the Sunday paper and cut it out if it looks promising. There was a doozy a couple of weeks ago . . . two stories, wraparound porch, gigantic master closet, etc. I almost picked up the phone and ordered the plans.

8. My cat Rosemary likes to lick the outside of bananas. That has nothing to do with note #7.

9. I sometimes wonder if people think I'm a little too vocal about my cats. Please don't judge me. Oh heck, judge away. We've all got a little weirdness in us.

10. I admire my mom very much. As I get older I learn more and more just how BIG her view of people and this world is. She doesn't seem to be frightened off by anyone's 'weirdness' and that to me is wonderful.

So there it is. A bit of info right off the top of my head in no particular order. And now this head is going to bed.

*It takes me back to our days in Texas when I longed for really big bows. Medium-sized bows would have worked too. Heck, any bow would have been fine by me.

World traveler

2011-12-14T18:20:00.010-07:00

Though we go to Las Vegas for the rodeo, we're left with an awful lot of non-rodeo time. Since the show is a short two hours, and the cab ride from the hotel to the arena can take anywhere from 3 to 13 minutes depending on whose cab you jump into*, that means there's approximately a lot of time left to do other things.

This year the weather was beautiful so on Saturday Craig's mom and sister and I decided to walk down The Strip a ways just to see what we could see.

The great thing about Vegas is that there is always something to see. Take for instance this family-size car. My guess is that the Kardashians were in there. There's a lot of them and they would need something this size. And perhaps something this understated.

Since the hotels in Vegas are akin to small cities that means that Vegas blocks are gigantic thus making The Strip very long. Donna, Nada, and I gave it a go though and made it from the Wynn to the Bellagio and back using only our feet. I can't give you any mileage on that but it was a decent stroll. These folks however, must have been going the distance. Preparation is key and from the looks of it they were prepared. I half expected George Costanza to come wheeling up behind them. (If you look carefully there were actually three riders.)

Also commonly spotted in Vegas are people dressed as various 'characters'. Last year I saw Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, the band Kiss, Elvis (of course), Frankenstein, and Johnny and June Cash just to name a few. How could it get any better? I give you this.

The man on the left is clearly awestruck.

As I took pictures from behind I wondered if his spidey-senses picked up on that. If they did he didn't let on.

The following tips came to mind . . .

Never wear full body spandex in the daylight.

Never wear full body spandex in any kind of light.

It might be best to wear the fanny pack in the front to deter pick-pocketing.

It might be best not to wear a fanny pack.

I didn't pass them along.

And finally, one of the more economical things about Vegas is that you can see a multitude of worldly locations in one afternoon. Forget overseas travel, just go to Vegas.

For instance, while in Vegas I went to Rome and saw Mr. Caesar . . .

I hopped on over to Paris and stood in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower . . .

Craig and I did a quick trip to Venice to take in the sights . . .

And last but not least, we visited a pineapple under the sea.

All for the price of one ticket to Vegas.

Viva Las Vegas!

*Note to self : if the cabbie on Saturday night is representative of the rest of his countrymen from the Philippines, never travel there.

Tradition

2011-12-13T20:22:00.028-07:00

Traditions - a continuing pattern of beliefs or practices.

Life is full of traditions. Things we do repeatedly, some with no other reason than that's just what we've always done. For instance, Craig and I have a tradition of watching 'The Biggest Loser' on Tuesday nights. We also have a tradition of eating pizza on Tuesday nights.* If we're not careful, Tuesday nights will be when we traditionally gain weight. (I'm not sure the word works there but I had to fit it in.)

Of course we're also entering a time of the year full of traditions . . . the food we eat at our family celebrations, the day we open our presents, whether or not we hide a pickle on our tree or an elf on our shelf. Tis the season for traditions.

But before you head to bed to entertain visions of sugar plums in your head, this is not a post about Christmas traditions. It's a post about Vegas. That's right. Vegas.

I've written about it before but Craig and his family have a tradition of going to Las Vegas each December to take in the final three nights of the National Finals Rodeo. For the past three years I've had the opportunity to go along and, unless we decide that scalping the tickets is more lucrative, it looks like it will become one of my traditions as well.

What follows is a brief scrapbook of our time at the rodeo this past weekend with, of course, commentary by me or my other personality . . . whichever one speaks first.**

We find our seats in the arena early and this is traditionally where I experience a panic attack. Hello heights. I love you.

Each night the rodeo starts with the traditional grand entrance of cowboys and cowgirls. It's quite the sight. (Here's a video I found of it on YouTube. If you watch it all of the way through keep an eye on the team from Texas. You don't mess with Texas.) Every year I wonder why there isn't some massive pileup of horses but apparently to be in the rodeo you have to be pretty good on a horse. There go my chances.

Speaking of horses, every night the NFR flag girls ride these beautiful black horses wearing matching outfits (the girls AND the horses). They're very sparkly (the girls, not the horses) and if I'd ridden a horse more than twice in my life I'd apply for a position. Again, there go my chances.

A quick note about the NFR flag girls . . . they must wear pink or red lipstick and they must smile 100% of the time. I wonder if they use vaseline on their teeth.

This guy in the orange shirt dances every night and every night the camera zooms in on him and the crowd goes wild. He's all sorts of crazy.

But the crowd really goes wild when the lady on the left dances. They call her the 'White Tornado' and apparently she invented rodeo. Alright, so not really but she has been to almost every NFR since it's inception, if not all of them. I wonder if she was ever a flag girl. She does wear read lipstick after all.

Also seen at the rodeo this year . . .

Craig with a purse. Two men in large black hats swooped in and took his cowboy card after this picture was taken. He can re-apply in 6 months but cannot be seen carrying a purse, or any other feminine item, in the meantime.

A fabulous souvenir booth where my sister-in-law picked up this adorable little trinket.

Apparently they got a great buy because she had a wonderful time.

A crazy clown with scary-long arms.

I completely forgot to watch the bull riding because I was so busy watching him.

Where do you think a girl can get a set of arms like that? They might come in handy. Think of how many things I could store on the top shelf, or perhaps the roof, knowing that I'd have no trouble reaching them. Gosh, life could be so simple. Or maybe really hard depending on how you look at it. I don't think the seat in my car goes back far enough to allow driving with them. I'd have to sit in the back seat and there would be blind spots galore. That's just an accident waiting to happen. "Sorry Officer, I couldn't see since I was driving from the back seat on account of my abnormally long arms."

So anyway, there's a quick taste of the rodeo. Did you notice that I didn't include any pictures of the actual events? My apologies. It was high, they were far away, my camera doesn't zoom well, all of the contestants were so fast, all of the pictures that I took were blurry, I was too busy watching instead of hiding behind my camera, etc, etc, etc . . .

I may not have included any pictures of the rodeo, but I've got another post-full of pictures coming tomorrow of non-rodeo Vegas. Stay tuned.

*It used to be a very strict tradition. It has since morphed into sometimes pizza or sometimes buffalo wings but it is always with a salad. We're balancing things out.

**I joke.***

***No she doesn't.

Giving Thanks

2011-11-28T20:48:00.017-07:00

Thanksgiving. Giving thanks. So much to be thankful for, not the least of which is family. And time spent with family. Even when your dad impersonates Captain Hook with the dough attachment of a KitchenAid mixer. Maybe even especially when he does that.

Craig and I traveled west last week to spend the holiday with my parents. Our journey was uneventful except for those few minutes spent traveling through a field in George, Washington in a semi. I can now cross 'off-roading in a Peterbilt' off of my bucket list. And I thought that one was way out of reach.

We arrived at Craig's in-laws* Wednesday evening and the preparation for Thursday's dinner began in earnest. There were pies to be made . . .

Rolls to be, well, whatever rolls are supposed to do . . .

This particular batch rebelled and decided that raising was too much effort. So they didn't. Instead of the glorious rolls that were pictured with the recipe we had golden brown, incredibly dense, land-in-your-belly-with-a-thud, nuggets with our dinner. What's a holiday without something ridiculous?

And there was a turkey doing it's best ostrich impersonation while waiting to be brined.

The brining was left entirely up to Dad and Craig and they did a wonderful job.

Well, I should say that I'm sure they would have done a wonderful job however the females** in the house hovered in the kitchen "just to be sure" that everything was going according to plan and giving directions. It's a terrible trait.

Thursday came and the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade went. I turned it on and decided that the dubbed singing and the crazy hat weren't worth it. So instead I watched Judy Garland sing her heart out in Meet Me In St. Louis. No crazy hats there but I can't be sure about the dubbed singing.

I digress.

There was football to be watched

(either with your eyes or through your nose)

and then finally it was time to bake the pies,

BBQ the turkey,

and set the table.

I found myself taking what my Dad and I fondly call 'The Traditional Nock Table Photo'. I'm not even sure why I do it but every year I find myself taking a picture of the table in all of it's pre-feast glory. Perhaps one of these days I'll release a coffee table book that's all pictures of tables. It'll be a hot item mark my words.

The dinner preparations took a day and the actual meal was done in about 23 minutes. And then it was time for our annual game of Dominoes.

I should clarify that and say our annual game of Dominoes accompanied by the great rules debate. Each year we break out the game and each year I read the rules (which have been translated from some other language and are therefore very hard to understand) trying to decipher whether or not you draw one domino per turn that you cannot play or whether you keep drawing until you can play. We've done it both ways and because we only play it once a year no one can remember what we decided the previous year.

It always ends in fits of laughter from my mom and 'harumphs' from my dad. He loves table games. In fact, he looks forward to them so much that we typically throw in a game of Yahtzee after the Mexican Train has run its course. One gets the feeling of unbridled excitement when looking at Craig and Dad in this picture. Or maybe it's unbridled boredom.

In any case, it was a wonderful Thanksgiving. So, from my family to yours, a very Happy . . . wait a minute . . . Mom, open your eyes . . .

So from my family to yours, a very Happy Thanksg . . . dang it, I didn't set the timer right. Either that or I've fallen underneath the table. Craig, that's uncalled for.

So from my family to yours, a very Happy Thanksgiving. May you understand the rules that come with your Dominoes game.

*Did you catch that? Sneaky.

**That would be my mom. And me.

(Un)expected

2011-11-14T19:52:00.007-07:00

It happens every year and every year I'm caught off-guard either wearing a skirt without tights or ballet flats without socks.*

Winter.

Her arrival is a certainty and there are subtle (and not-so-subtle) hints starting as early as September. Heck, sometimes she's even earlier with her "Hey, just so you don't forget about me, here's some snow." In June.

Because of her persistence, and her annual visit . . . which is really more of a move-in-and-take-over-the-house-long-term-stay . . . I haven't quite figured out why I'm so surprised when the mercury hovers around 12 in the mornings and I choose not to believe it's that cold out. I pretend that my skinny jeans and ballet flats with a light coat will be more than ample. I tempt fate with short sleeve shirts and wonder why I spend all day shivering. There have been more than a few days spent at my desk in the comfort of my coat because I can never quite warm up after the morning walk from the house to the garage without gloves and a hat.***

I finally decided today to believe what she was saying. The thermometer said it was 9 this morning and I cried "Uncle". I grabbed the big down coat and the mittens and the hat. I wore socks and preheated the car. It was a day of complete comfort with nary a shiver in sight.

Tomorrow's forecast is calling for a high of 40.

I'm thinking I'll wear a skirt and ballet flats . . . but I might bring the down coat just in case.

*One should probably never wear ballet flats with socks. If you see me wearing flats with socks just let me know that the 80s called and they want their fashion back.**

**If you see me wearing flats with socks and stirrup pants, go ahead and commit me.

***The one positive there is that you can wear the same shirt a few days in a row. No one will ever know.****

****Not that I've ever done that. Really. Never.

Purging

2011-11-06T21:42:00.008-07:00

I may have mentioned it before but Craig and I do not live in a large house. In fact, at right about 900 square feet it's just slightly smaller than average American home which measures in at 2,700 sq. ft.. Alright so 'slightly' is probably not the most accurate descriptor. Our house is three times smaller than the average home. That is fine. I am not complaining. However, I am also never watching Hoarders on A&E ever again. Scratch that, Craig is never letting me watch Hoarders on A&E ever again.

A little backstory - When Craig and I got married, we each had established lives* in our respective homes. The home I owned is the same size as his and so when we combined our lives, unless we rented shipping containers and positioned them artistically in the yard, it obviously wasn't all going to fit. That was fine. We each did a lot of compromising and reduced our worldly goods to a slightly more manageable size. Though I can't speak for Craig, I at times relish the idea of purging my belongings and starting fresh. At other times I hold on for dear life and think that the planets might misalign if I have to get rid of my college pottery projects or my high school cheerleading plaques. It's a delicate balance.

I've never quite figured out if my purging cycles are related to the lunar calendar, the Mayan calendar, hormones, or boredom but let's just say that they were in full swing this weekend. My guess, on this weekend at least, is that it had to do with that darn show on A&E. I woke up Saturday with an irrational fear that one day we'd be on Hoarders. I countered that with plans of greatness. Not only was I going to clean my closet, go through the pile of magazines that I just don't seem to have time to read (but I'm sure there's something life-changing contained within their pages so I keep them anyway), and weed through the library of CD's** that don't get played anymore, I was also going to clean Craig's closet too. And he was going to think it was awesome. I pretty much envisioned a ray of light spilling out and an angelic choir singing each time he opened the door after I was through. I was certain there would be heaps of praise and exclamations of "how in the world did I live with it in the state it was in before?!".

I took everything off of the shelves, grabbed all of the unused hangers, and drug everything out that wasn't bolted down. I refolded and organized and felt pretty proud of myself. This was going to be a mini Extreme Makeover Home Edition. The only difference was that Ty Pennington wasn't shouting into a bullhorn and I didn't knock out any walls. There just wasn't time.

After everything was folded and stacked on the bed Craig poked his head in. I asked if by chance there were any items that he'd like to part with. Was there anything that he'd like to donate to Salvation Army?*** Maybe he didn't need all of these sweatshirts, I reasoned. Please don't let us end up on Hoarders I pleaded, trying to make my case ever so dramatically. I might have gotten choked up. I can't remember.

What I got instead, as I stood in our little bedroom with his closet all around me, was a very calm, very patient "Why does it matter how many sweatshirts I have?"

And there, in the silence of a Saturday afternoon, I had to admit that it didn't matter if he had 2 or 22 sweatshirts. We were not in danger of having a clothes carpet, like I had witnessed on that recent episode. The sun would rise and set like any other day

And it did. The sun rose today, and I purged more of my stuff. Just in case.

*Read that as 'lots of stuff'

**Hey Angela, join the 21st century!

***This has become a joke with us. I think that Craig is convinced I'm going to give away everything to the Salvation Army one of these days. I just might.

Gym shorts

2011-10-30T18:06:00.010-06:00

I've shirked my blogging responsibilities lately and I am oh so very sorry. My hamstrings are very sorry too. They're also very sore. In fact, it appears that they might be forming a mutiny.* I fully expect them to have jumped ship by tomorrow morning. Wait, in a mutiny don't they make the captain jump ship? I'm doomed.

What do my hamstrings have to do with my lack of blog posts? A lot. They're the whole reason I haven't been able to open up the computer and tap away at the keys. And you thought I used my hands. Ha!

Actually, the relationship between blogging and hamstrings goes a little something like this . . .

Two weeks ago I joined a different gym in town. While I was sweating to the oldies** on the treadmill I noticed an advertisement that was taped to the machine. It said something to the effect of - 'Do you want to lose amazing amounts of weight in a ridiculously short time? Do you want to fit into your jeans from high school? Are you crazy enough to take this class?' Alright, I don't remember the exact words but by the end of my workout I had signed up for a 6 week high-intensity, personal-training-setting class. And I paid money for it. I guess that explains the crazy part.

The first class was on Sunday and we learned all about our new nutrition plan which includes um . . . let's see . . . dang, where'd I put that little list of acceptable foods . . . uh, it includes . . . well, let's just say that if you LOVE dairy products and grains it would take a lot of getting used to because there are none of them. I actually had a dream this week that was all about toast with butter on it. Sad, sad, sad.

We also worked out that first day. To open a little window into how I was feeling afterwards, I walked out of the gym with one of their towels because quite honestly my mind had left the building and I'd completely forgotten that the white thing in my hand wasn't mine. I didn't have the energy to turn around and take it back in. I then sat in my car for a few minutes before driving the 8 blocks home for fear that I didn't have the strength to hold the steering wheel.

Before I make myself out to be a weanie I must give examples of my athletic prowess. Alright, prowess is probably not the right word but we'll just carry on. Way back in 1987 my school took part in the Presidential Physical Fitness tests. They were special that year because not only were we competing against each other, a select few were also competing against the Soviets. THE SOVIETS! The safety of the world rested in how many pull-ups we could do. I've got my pin and the letter from Ronald Reagan to prove it. I think it's with my Princess Diana books.

In high school I was on the track team where I was a sprinter and a high jumper. Now granted, on the days that the sprinters were doing pyramid workouts it might be true that the other high jumpers and I decided that it was imperative we work on our form and our form only. I don't know too many people who like pyramids.

In college I needed to take a credit of gym. I decided that Canoeing/Kayaking 101 (which was held in the winter and thus in the college pool) wasn't for me and chose to take Military Conditioning instead. My friend Sarah and I got up early three mornings a week starting in January and ran through the frigid Wisconsin air across campus to the gym. We were the only two girls in the class and the Sergeant, though he called us Fric and Frac, cut us no slack. His instructions to 'exercise until muscle failure and then run two miles' meant exactly that. It took about a week before I was able to lift my arms above shoulder height. Shampooing was a real chore. I may have skipped a couple of days. Of shampooing, not class!

I've taken boot camp classes, suffered through kick boxing with friends, completed two marathons, and kept myself somewhat active the rest of the time. I have not, however, kept myself as active as this class has kept me in just three workouts. I don't remember a time when I voluntarily did wall-sits or push-up planks. I don't think that I've taken an inventory of what was missing from my life and found bench-jumps on that list. I can't remember the last time I've sweated this much.***

So, in a very large nutshell there you have it. If over the next six weeks you see that my posting is erratic all I can say is that I'm very sorry. And so are my hamstrings. And my quads. And my glutes. And my biceps. And my triceps. And my abs. And my calves. And my pinky toes. I'm sure they'll start hurting at some point.

Here's hoping that I don't dream about toast tonight.

*I'm not really sure what that even looks like but I'm sure it's bad.

**I wasn't really listening to oldies and Richard Simmons was no where in sight. His shorts however, were.

***Sorry, that might be too much.

Quiet

2011-10-25T21:31:00.006-06:00

{Quiet}

Birdtail Creek Rd.

Cascade, Montana

The Schwinn beneath my wings

2011-10-24T20:16:00.003-06:00

In the afternoon, when its quiet, she dreams of the open range.

Used car sales(wo)man

2011-10-17T21:51:00.017-06:00

This past spring my 88 year-old grandmother made the transition from living alone in her own home to more of a senior living center type facility. She no longer needs to grocery shop (save for the snacks* she likes to have in her apartment), do her laundry, or vacuum, although I don't think that she's comfortable with giving up her ironing quite yet. This is where she and I differ.

Along with the boxing up of personal belongings, the redistributing of family heirlooms, and the selling of the home, that last on the list of 'things-to-do-so-grandma-felt-completely-settled' was to sell her car. With her children hours away I accepted the task from my dad and then promptly procrastinated.** Sure I parked it down the street in a highly visible location with signs in the window but that's about as far as I went. A couple of weeks went by with minimal interest and I decided to put it on the world wide web. Surely it would sell as quickly as a corn dog at the fair. Unless of course you don't like corn dogs and then that's a bad example. How about cotton candy?

I took photos and used my marketing skills to put together an inviting description on one of the more popular car sites and there it sat for three weeks. I took a few calls from interested parties that lived out of state however the eagerness predictably changed after a quick mapquest revealed that a simple Saturday-afternoon transaction was probably not in the cards. The closest caller lived a scant 6 hours away.

The listing on the internet expired and I decided I'd rather spend $25 on salted caramel mochas from Starbucks.*** My jeans are wishing I'd renewed the ad.

This is where I had a moment of clarity and thought to advertise in the local weekly shopper. It was my last resort.

GRANDMA'S CAR IS FOR SALE: 2004 Chevrolet Impala LS, V6, with only 10,300 miles. That is not a misprint, only 10,300 miles. Sandstone metallic with beige interior. Absolutely spotless, garaged vehicle with PD, PW, power seats, CC, CD player, and more. All service records included. (Price and phone number here)

I hoped the bold type that I paid extra for would draw attention and the headline would be the hook. I pictured a family finding a reliable, safe car for their young driver. Or maybe a college student who would decorate the outside with bumper stickers and the inside with fast food wrappers. I did not for one second picture an 89 year-old man.

This paper hits stands around the valley on Thursday morning. I received my first call from him before noon that same day. His message simply said 'Hi . . . . . . 555 -1212****'. I called him back on my lunch break and his first question was 'Well . . . . . . . is it worn out?' I quickly defended my grandmother's car and reminded him that it only had 10,300 miles. He laughed and said (very slowly) that he was pulling my leg. I wondered if the call was going to extend past my lunch break.

We talked, I told him what he needed to know, he drove down and looked at the car, and called me back before I got out of work. His second message said 'Hi . . . . . . . I want to see the inside of the car . . . . . . . but I want it.'

We made a plan to meet the next day before I headed east for the weekend. I arrived 10 minutes early and he was already there literally kicking the tires.

He was pleasant with an easy laugh. He wore browline glasses and his front teeth were gone. He opened the hood and looked at the engine. He checked the oil and asked when the last time was that she was driven. He wondered multiple times what size the tires were because they looked awfully big.

He wanted to take it for a spin around the parking lot. I handed him the keys and wondered if he planned on stealing it, leaving me with his 1996 Oldsmobile '88. I figured there'd be no way that he'd leave that beauty behind since he did tell me that he'd recently waxed it. He said to me "hop in, we'll go around the parking lot." I did and then instantly regretted it wondering if he did in fact have plans to tear out of the parking lot and head for the hills. He put it in reverse and I considered jumping out . . . every scary made-for-TV-movie about kidnapping running through my head. We did a large circle in the parking lot reaching a top speed of 8 MPH with me holding the door handle just in case.

We parked it. He double-checked the VIN number to make sure I wasn't selling any stolen goods. He asked again about the tires. He asked if I was a Republican or a Democrat. I must have answered correctly because he bought the car.

We settled on a price and made a plan to meet at the credit union after I'd gotten the title signed and notarized with my Grandma. He wondered if maybe he should ride along with me and come meet my Grandma. I wondered if that was a good idea.

I met my very-eager-to-get-the-car-sold Grandma and told her that the man buying her car was just one year older than her. She laughed and wondered if maybe she should meet him. I still wondered if that was a good idea.

With the title signed and notarized, and a check in hand, I gave him the keys. He gave me political literature. I'm glad that Grandma only had one car to sell.

*Windmill cookies galore.

**Procrastinating skills galore.

***That is roughly 5 grande mochas. Highway robbery galore.

****Of course that's not his number. He doesn't work for 'Information'. There's no way I can end this with the word galore.

Decades and days

2011-10-09T12:47:00.014-06:00

I hadn't seen her in 19 years and then, on a sunny Friday afternoon, her plane landed and around the corner walked the friend I shared so many childhood memories with. She looked the same, just a few years older.*

We shared hugs and 'Oh my gosh! You look the same!' and 'I can't believe I'm (you're) here!' comments. My mom, who came to town in part to share in this reunion, laughed at her stunned amazement when we arrived at the one baggage claim conveyer belt in our small airport. She did fly out of LaGuardia after all.

We fell into a rhythm in the car on the way to lunch filling each other in on siblings, the station wagon, and the street where we met. There was no awkwardness, just a weekend ahead to get reacquainted while we visited a local lake . . .

and bought wool hats (and pumpkin fudge) at the Farmer's Market. . .

and shared fun** at Oktoberfest.

A maiden voyage to Montana is not complete without a trip to Glacier National Park where buffalo chili was on the menu and the view, as always, was amazing.

We did our fair share of keeping the local economy alive, even doing some last minute shopping on our way to the airport . . .

shoving more clothes, and a pair of shoes, into an already busting-at-the-zippers suitcase. Our backup plan was to leave some items with me to send later.

No backup plan was needed, and amazingly that black beast on wheels didn't earn her an overweight fee. Had I been a better I totally would have lost.

The time together was of course too short. There was more to do, more to see, more trail to hike (literally). There were more stories to be told, more laughs to be had, more memories to make. There's always more.

Or maybe it was just enough for this first visit. Just enough to get to know each other now. Just enough to see a little of each other's lives. Just enough to remind me of the blessing of her friendship when I was 11 and the blessing now at 36.

Just enough to know that it won't be another 19 years until we see each other again.

She's thinking of coming back in February.

*Sorry for the blur. I'm going to blame excitement.

**And almost, ladies log-sawing. I had a moment of clarity and said no. I probably should have said yes.

On hold

2011-09-29T20:35:00.005-06:00

Due to weather in Chicago, and the fact that the pilots that were responsible for flying the plane from New York to Denver were stuck there*, Kathleen's flight was delayed. Instead of starting our reunion tonight as planned we'll be meeting up tomorrow. That means I've got extra time to dig out my sister's formals from 1989.**

*Apparently there are no other pilots in the New York area.

**The blue dress was one of hers, the black one was a rummage sale find.

Bottle it up

2011-09-28T21:34:00.009-06:00

We met when I was 10 or 11. I don't really remember how. Our families had moved from opposite sides of the country to Texas around the same time and lived on the same street in a subdivision where, with the exception of exterior cosmetic changes, all of the houses looked the same.

My mom didn't have her license and I needed a way to get back and forth to school. Her mom drove a Chevy Caprice station wagon and took what seemed like every kid in the neighborhood to their respective schools. I'm positive there were no less than twelve pre-teens and teens in that car at any given time.*

We developed a friendship that holds nothing but good memories for me . . .

:: The summers spent watching whatever movie happened to be our favorite over and over again and reciting all of the lines when we weren't.

:: Warm Texas nights catching fireflies and dodging june bugs.

:: Playing kick the can with the kids we kept such close company with in that station wagon.

:: Pestering her younger sister.**

:: Driving the Pontiac Sunbird with her mother's permission when neither of us had a license.***

:: Being grounded, with strict instructions that I couldn't have anyone over, and she would come sit in the neighbor's yard just so that we could visit.

:: Taking the bus to the public library to work on the neighborhood newspaper that we created.****

:: Watching the massive curtains of rain during thunderstorms from the windows of my mom's studio.

:: Dancing in the puddles afterwards.

:: Looking through the pages of Seventeen magazine and wishing we were models.

:: Dressing up in my sister's high school formals and pretending we were models.

:: Doing leg lifts so that our thighs were the size of model thighs. (I'm sensing a theme here.)

. . . and so much more.

We kept in touch after I moved to Wisconsin in high school but somewhere after that life happened; college came and went, we each moved, and addresses got lost; it has only been in the last few years that we've reconnected.

We've come full circle in a sense, each moving back to the place where we lived before our families journeyed south and tomorrow, after 19 years of not seeing each other, I'll be picking Kathleen up at the airport for a 5-day visit.

There is not a big enough bottle in the world to contain my excitement.

*When I actually stop and count I guess there were only 9 or so.

**Sorry, Bernadette.

***If I remember correctly we were given permission to drive it around the block a few times to make sure that it was still running. We took the long way home.

****It was a short-lived career with only one issue in existence.

342

2011-09-19T21:06:00.017-06:00

They bought it in 1978 and made it their home for 33 years. It is the only home that I associate them with.

The large shrubs, since cut down, that crowded the front sidewalk. The sparkly rocks next to the driveway that often made their way home in my pocket. The indoor/outdoor carpet on the two front steps that led to the metal screen door whose squeak is the same today as it was when I was 8.

The hallway to the left full of photos that led to the office where Grandpa's calendar always sat on top of the desk. The magnifying glass with the horn handle and the light with the toggle switch that kept watch.

The bathroom to the right with the monogrammed hand towels and the yarn owls that stared from atop their velvety yellow wallpaper perch. The linoleum that reminded me of bricks and the shallow bathtub. Even as a child I thought it was small. I can't imagine how an adult ever fit in it.

The bedrooms in the back, one belonging to each, that were always so tidy. They seemed mysterious and private even after the house was empty.

The front room that was formal, and not often used, with the painting of the sea on the wall and the stereo that played 'Music Box Dancer' much to my delight.

The dining room with the faux brick wall and Grandma's china cabinet, with the unsure footing, that rattled each time she walked by.

The kitchen where many a meal, and Jell-O salad, was prepared. Where Grandpa offered overnight guests toast and woke the neighbors with the loud stirring of sugar into his coffee. Where Grandma's rooster cookie jar sat on the counter luring each generation of children to try and remove the lid without a sound. I'm convinced it was impossible.

The basement that held both adventure and fright for an overactive imagination. The ping pong table perfect for long-distance cousins to get reacquainted over, the indoor clothesline that always puzzled me, and the boxes that held a family's history around the corner. That small door that I should have looked in. Grandpa's art studio that displayed works in progress and Grandma's pantry that held cans of fruit cocktail and boxes of saltine crackers.

The backyard where the lawn jarts of my youth gave way to the much safer, but no less fun, bocce ball tournaments of my adulthood. The young fir trees that grew into pillars taller than the house as the years went by. The rose garden that Grandma cultivated.

It is a house full of {wonderful} memories and on Wednesday another family will move in and make it their home. They'll create their own memories over holiday dinners and backyard picnics. In summer, fall, winter, and spring. They'll celebrate special days and every days. My hope is that it is as much of a treasure to them as it has been for our family.

:: To the new family, enjoy the ping pong table! ::

4 seasons

2011-09-18T16:23:00.007-06:00

It was one year ago on this Sunday, though the date was actually the 19th, that Craig and I ended up at Whitefish Lake on a late summer/early fall day to see what we could see.

I had grabbed my camera out of the pickup at the last minute just in case something caught my eye.

He always catches my eye so I knew I'd take a picture or two of him.

And then this . . .

. . . the surprise* that caught my eye and took my breath away all at the same time.

He made a call

to parents who were waiting,

and I continued my photoshoot with misty eyes and instructions to 'be careful, don't lose that!'

He had traveled all of the way back from Seattle with it burning a hole in his pocket. His plan was to wait another three weeks until we were in San Francisco on the Golden Gate Bridge and ask me there.

I'm glad he didn't wait.

I love you Craig.

*I didn't see it coming one bit.

Walk on

2011-09-14T22:55:00.012-06:00

For a variety of reasons* I recently decided to get a pedometer. I do a lot of counting in my head and I figured this would be one less thing to keep track of.** All joking aside, it's a nice tool to encourage me to get out from behind my desk a little more often and in the 4 days that I've had it, it's been fun to see just how far I can go in a day.

Take for instance my first day—Sunday. I was gung ho and Craig can attest to the fact that I did laps in the garage while talking to him just to up my count. He may have momentarily thought I was nuts.***

10,000 steps is roughly 5 miles depending on your stride.

Tuesday was spectacular . . .

and today I reached an all time high.

I think I've got this walking thing down . . .which is good because I'm 36 now and crawling could be socially awkward.

I thought that you said you've had this for four days? What about Monday?

Oh . . . well . . . Monday was, um, [throat clear] I didn't, you see, things were busy, I guess, [shuffle, shuffle] oh all right . . .

Monday was sad. Really, really sad. Talk about bringing the average down . . .

I think I'll go for a walk.

*It's possible that I read an article about women gaining weight after marriage. It's possible that I have gained weight sine I've been married. It's possible that I'm trying to walk to Boston. You decide. No wait, I don't want you to decide. Let's just say that I'm trying to walk to Boston. And back.

**Do I count the ceiling tiles at my dentist's office? Yes. Have I ever tried to count my steps while running. Just once. It was a disaster. I lost count and had to start over multiple times. It was a really long run.

***He may have a lot of those days.

9/11

2011-09-11T00:10:00.001-06:00

Jasper Johns 'Flag' (1954-1955)

Stain remover

2011-09-08T22:21:00.004-06:00

Ring-Around-the-Tuna* . . . only slightly less difficult to remove than ring-around-the-collar.

*Another amazing 'food' item from The Joys of Jell-O cookbook**.

**That term is used loosely.

The better to bite you with

2011-09-05T21:18:00.005-06:00

Craig and I headed over the mountains this weekend to spend time at the ranch with family. Our plan included a whole lot of nothing and we did it. Mission accomplished.

While there we were visited by a couple from the area who, though they may have completely different careers Monday-Friday, spend a portion of their time hunting rattlesnakes. Yes. Hunting rattlesnakes. The knowledge alone that there's a need for rattlesnake hunters makes me want to never leave 'THE LONE RANGER' *

The hunters stopped to let us know that they had had a semi-successful hunt and had harvested one big male. Not wanting to miss this opportunity I grabbed my camera and headed outside to see a formerly venomous, now completely harmless since he was missing his head**, reptile.

They figure this one was about 5-6 years old, and though not very long at about 4.5 feet, he was pretty big around. Apparently he was a good eater.

Good eater or not he gave me the heebie jeebies.

I spent a bit of time visiting with the hunters and learned probably more than I'll ever need to know about rattlesnakes***, I guess unless I'm on Jeopardy some day and they've got a category devoted to them. Then watch out, I'll strike!5*

While I'm on the subject of things that bite, since when do the hippos in a box of Animal Crackers have teeth?

Rawr!!!

*What have I gotten myself in to?

**A little bit of snake info from the hunters : rattlesnakes can still strike you even when they're missing their head. It won't harm you. A head that has been removed from a snake may still try to bite you. It can harm you since that's where the teeth and the venom are located. Never touch a snake head even if it's without its body. Snakes with or without their head may continue to 'move' up to 4 hours after they've been killed. Gross me out.

***Such as this little tidbit–snake meat does not taste like chicken, it's closer to frog legs.****

****Don't frog legs taste like chicken?

5*That's a really horrible pun.

The ark

2011-08-31T21:18:00.010-06:00

In a predictable romantic comedy* from a couple of years ago, the lead male says the following line when confronted with the fact that his date from the night before has left her purse at his house . . .

"Guys, a woman’s purse, alright, it’s her secret source of power. Alright? There are many dark and dangerous things in there, that we, the male species, should know nothing about."

I remember my mom's purse as a child–wait a minute–that's not correct grammatically because my mom's purse was never a child, it was always a purse. Let me start over.

As a child, I remember my mom's purse though I do not remember what was inside it. That's because it was off-limits. Or maybe not so much 'off-limits' as a place of deep dark corners containing who knows what. I know that's how my Dad often felt so instead of throwing on the headlamp and diving in, he would always hand it to my Mom to dig out** whatever item was in question.

I started carrying a purse in junior high. My early purses were miniscule little things as I prided myself on being a minimalist. I felt a real sense of accomplishment from carrying my necessities in a bag the size of a credit card. In high school the tiny size was somewhat borne out of necessity because of the need to carry my entire day's textbooks between classes. Why not use a locker you ask? I was (am) a little anal about being on time and the extra 37 seconds that it would have taken me to run down the one hall*** in my high school to my locker might have caused me to be less than 3 minutes early to the next class which in my world, meant I was late. I feel an anxiety dream coming on.

Back to purses.

As I have aged my purses have grown and not too long ago I went in a new direction altogether with this roomy number.

About a week ago I thought it might be 'fun' to dump out my purse and see exactly what is in it. I figured it'd at least make good blog fodder. Here goes . . .

Alright, well that was great and terrifying at the same time. I think I've discovered why my shoulder hurts all of the time. That stuff has got to weigh at least 4.3 pounds!

Let's take a closer look shall we****

(Turn back now if you've got a weak stomach.)

(That's a misrepresentation, there's nothing gross in my purse.)

(It depends on how you define gross.)

Seriously, let's take a closer look . . .

Here we are in the pharmaceutical aisle. I don't often carry around a box of decongestant but if you could hear how plugged up I've been for the past 5 days, you'd encourage me to not only carry the Sudafed PE but a neti pot as well. I've got some Aleve because it feels like the responsible, grown-up thing to do, some homeopathic eye drops left over from this year's allergy season, and some anxiety drugs left over from 2008. They may or may not work anymore but the placebo effect is in full force. I've also got a Netflix movie from earlier this week. Don't tell Craig, I was supposed to have dropped it in the mail.

We're still partially in the health and beauty section here with the same eye drops making another appearance. Eight bobbie pins and two rubber bands, which I was thrilled to find since the cats have stolen all but one of mine out of the house. I'm guessing they're under the piano again. The small wooden thing is a trick toy given to me by a friend of Craig's family. I pretended I knew how it worked for a good day and a half until Craig finally showed me. I might be fine with making fun of myself but by golly, no one else can laugh at me!5*

Along with the two rubber bands in the previous picture, I've got two pens, and two identical lip glosses in my purse. Apparently I received some direction to gather things by twos. Come to think of it, it is a pretty large purse and I've got a hunch it could float in a pinch.

I've got a library of business cards, punch cards, and 3 year-old gift certificates that I'm wondering if I can still use, along with a thumb drive and a bell. It's not a big bell but every time it rings a little angel gets their wings.

No, that is not a burgundy birds nest in the middle of the above picture. What we have there is a piece of burgundy tulle that formerly held bird seed that was thrown at a wedding I attended in July. I know, it's an hour from September. I've also got a fancy coin purse from Mazatlan. Unfortunately it does not contain any coins.

And finally, the janitorial section. This is where I keep my myriad of keys for all of the doors that I might need to open. Not only do I have one car key in my purse, I've got two. (Two!) Are you dying to know why? Would you believe that I was running late earlier this week and couldn't find my key in the deep dark corners of this vessel so I had to grab my spare? It's time to clean out the purse.

*If we're honest aren't they all?

**I make it sound as if my mom used a garbage bag for a purse. That was not the case.

***I am not exaggerating.

****What is possessing me to do this?

5*That's not true. 6*

6*Sometimes it is.

Hi Ho Silver

2011-08-28T18:02:00.006-06:00

My horse knowledge consists of a pony ride in the backyard of a neighbor's house when I was 7 and a 'trail' ride at a KOA in the shadows of Mount Rushmore. It would not be a stretch to say that I'm inexperienced. So when Craig, or anyone else, suggests that maybe it'd be fun for me to learn how to ride, I'm signing up for lessons here.

These guys look totally my speed.

On par

2011-08-23T20:44:00.014-06:00

I have been awarded just one trophy in all of my 35 years. I was 7, or maybe 8, and I took golf lessons at one of the local courses. At the end of the term they handed out awards for attendance and I got 3rd place. Apparently being tardy doesn't pay. Actually, in all seriousness, we had an end of the season tournament and I placed 3rd. I'm not sure what my score was or how many holes we played but I was pretty proud of that trophy.*

I retired from the game** not long after that and it would be about 7 years before I picked up the clubs again. I had moved to Wisconsin my freshman year of high school and figured that because I wanted to earn a letter jacket I should join the golf team. The team consisted of three freshman girls and a bunch of upperclassmen guys. We didn't get picked on at all.***

Because there weren't any other girls in our entire conference, Sandy, Toni, and myself spent the entire season working on our putting, practicing our cart driving, and sitting in the clubhouse eating fries while watching the boys from the neighboring school. Needless to say I didn't letter in golf.

Fast forward a whole bunch of years (if you're doing the math it's about 20) and here we are in 2011. I've married a cowboy who likes to golf and this past Sunday we decided to test our communication skills and patience and play 18 holes. Craig dusted off the Royal Venom II for me and away we went.

You'll notice by looking at the bottom of the score card that par on each hole is either 3 or 4. You'll also notice that I didn't take a picture of the score card after we were done. By the end of the day my score was a little closer to the total yardage than par**** so we burned it instead.

I set out with the Royal Venom II and the Flying Lady and was sure that the rust would fall off quickly. I would be back to my 7 year-old self soon enough taking 3rd place in a local tournament.

As it turns out, the Flying Lady flew alright.

So did the Titleist, the Nike, the TaylorMade, and about 10 other ones. It's a good thing golf balls are a dime a dozen. Or 3 for $5. Whatever. It's also a good thing that Craig has an incredible amount of patience.

I was happy to see that there was a rule saying that you must disregard your stroke if you hit a power line. Goodness knows with my skills it was a real possibility.

I was even happier that there wasn't a sign that said you must disregard help provided while putting. Goodness knows with my skills it was a real necessity.

The day, though at times taxing (mainly because my ball landed beyond signs like this a couple of times) . . .

was just perfect. I'm pretty sure I'll be clearing off shelf space for more trophies in no time.

Isn't that right, babe?

*It's in my garage with the Princess Diana fashion books and my letter jacket I'm sure.

**The pressure of living up to that 3rd place trophy was just too much.

***That's really true. I don't remember any bullying, though I was probably too nervous to notice if there was.

****And that's without counting every swing. The spaces weren't big enough for that.

Meetings

2011-08-17T21:44:00.003-06:00

I'm thinking that with all of my busy, meeting-filled days* I might add this to my repertoire of nightly meals.

Craig is a meat and potatoes kind of guy so if I follow the recipe and fill the center with potato salad as it suggests, I don't see why it wouldn't be a hit.

Brought to you by the Joys of Jell-O cookbook.

*We don't have meetings.

Shaken up

2011-08-08T21:53:00.012-06:00

I'm not a big fan of coffee.* I should clarify that and say that I'm not a big fan of drip coffee. Give me an espresso in the form of a latte or a mocha and I'm all over it but drip coffee I guess I could do without.**

My intense like*** of lattes and/or mochas started the spring that I moved back to the Flathead and needed to get a job to make a little money since I was sure that, come the end of the summer, I would be moving to Portland or Seattle and getting a 'big' design job.**** I found a job as a barista/waitress/bus girl/dishwasher/kids-story-time-reader at a coffee shop in Whitefish and so began my foray into the world of espresso. It also began my foray into scones and Sobe energy drinks and Snickerdoodle cookies and gaining 10 pounds in one summer because I didn't quite understand the carb-connection (5*) but that's not what this story is about so we'll just push that memory aside and proceed. Push it aside. Put your shoulder into it and push it aside for goodness sakes!

Here's where I'm going with this . . .

My current favorite drink is a tall soy latte with no flavor and one shot (6*). I treat myself to them often and have come to really like the beverages created at a coffee shack that I pass on the way to work. Not too long ago I pulled up to the window and ordered my regular. The woman who was working, who I'd talked to many times before, tells me about an article that she recently read that talked about a barista's role when steaming soy milk. Apparently the protein in soy milk has a tendency to settle so a barista should shake the soy milk before steaming to better disperse the protein. Perfect. Not only am I a fan of lattes, I'm also a fan of protein.

She made my drink, I paid, pulled away, and headed to work. I took a sip and thought to myself "OH MY GOSH, THIS IS THE BEST LATTE EVER!"

Shaking the soy had made a noticeable difference! Not only had I been missing the protein but the FLAVOR! Incredible. I was on a mission to instruct every barista that I knew, and even those that I didn't, that you MUST SHAKE THE SOY. You must. It's imperative.

I headed out on my mission a few days later when I went to Starbucks. Placing my order through the drive-up window I asked if they could please shake the soy before steaming it. I like my protein dispersed. The woman on the other side of the speaker paused and said " . . . . . . uh . . . . sure."

Ha! Little did they know that I was teaching them the wonders of protein dispersement and that all of their soy-loving customers would rejoice because of my little tip! No doubt the corporate office would hear of the change and make it part of their training manuals.

I got my coffee, paid, pulled away, and took a sip. Hmm, marginal. I'm sure they didn't shake it. Starbucks snobs. That's the last time I go there.

Fast forward two more days and I find myself at my favorite little coffee shack on the way to work. I pull up to find a different girl working who says . . .

"You're the girl who gets the free coffee, right?"

I shake my head and say that I didn't think so. Unless I'd won some sort of coffee lottery I was paying for my drink.

She says, "I'm sure you are . . . you get the tall soy latte with one shot, right?"

We spend a couple of seconds establishing the fact I am the only person who gets that drink, wears glasses, and drives a dark car (7*) and she says . . .

"You get a free coffee. The girl who made your drink last time forgot to put the espresso in it!"

That would explain the intense soy flavor.

It would also explain why I didn't get the shakes from my latte that day.

I have to wear a disguise at Starbucks from now on.

*Which is amazing given the rate that my family drinks coffee. You'd think it was a basic food group.

**I hear the jaws of my family dropping to the floor. I'm so sorry I've disappointed you all.

***Because 'love' is overused and when it comes right down to it, I could actually live without espresso, I just choose not to.

****That was 11 years ago.

5*Carbs are not my friend.

6*Because with two the crazies come out.

7* The other person drives a white car. 8*

8* I made that part up.

The backyard

2011-08-01T21:23:00.005-06:00

Craig and I drove up to Glacier National Park yesterday in hopes of finding a hot dog for Hammie and decided that while we were there we would drive to the top of Logan Pass to see what we could see.

It was a spectacular day and the views, as they always are, were breathtaking.

Literally breathtaking. I'm not sure if it was because we were in the pickup, and could therefore see further over the side, but the heebie jeebies set in and I started counting backwards from 100* and practicing my deep breathing.**

I decided that I needed something to keep my brain occupied, because that edge (and it's really long drop off) was awfully close.

I started snapping pictures and playing a game of 'Find the Tourists.'***

The first sign that we were in the right area was written on the wall . . . of snow.

Craig and I both remarked that we felt like 'Desiree' was a nice 80's name.**** The game continued and off in the distance I spied a couple more lollygagging in the trees.5*

Further down the road we came upon this pack and I considered stopping to ask if I could grab something out of their cooler however I was outnumbered and the signs alongside the road say not to approach the wildlife.

And then I saw it. The elusive 'Moonroof Tourist.' This is a specimen not normally seen. 6* I was so shocked that I didn't have time to focus.

I'm guessing that she didn't have an issue with focusing, what with the roof to rest her elbows on and all.

Summer at the Park. It's awesome.

*I had to start over a couple of times.

**I was on this very road one week ago in a minivan and the heebie jeebies were nowhere in sight. I'm guessing the height of the vehicle accounts for 34% of the h.j.'s. It was a lowrider Caravan.

***It's a very easy game in GNP in the summer. It's almost unfair.

****I apologize to all of the Desiree's out there if I've offended them. The 80s were rad and I have nothing but good memories from that decade.

5*One should be especially wary of the lollygaggers. They are not to be confused with the Lollipop Guild.

6* They're all over the place.

Hot [diggity] dog

2011-07-20T22:06:00.008-06:00

I recently had one of the more odd interactions of my life and figured I'd share it.* Last Sunday, after meeting a few of my cousins for an incredibly frigid dip in Glacier National Park's Lake McDonald,** Craig and I decided to continue our adventure and drive further up Going-to-the-Sun Road. Something was in the air . . . no really, something was in the air and it was irritating the heck out of my left eye. So much so that I decided it would be the safe thing to do to pull over and rummage around in my purse until I found my eye drops.***

Since we were on a tight schedule (I either find my eye drops stat or itch my eye until I've irreparably harmed it) I let Craig do the purse rummaging. He asked twice if I was sure I wanted him looking around in it. I assured him it was fine and went back to rubbing my eye.****

So here we sat, on the side of the road. Craig had found the miracle drops in my purse (along with some gum wrappers, 83¢, and a concert ticket stub) and I was busy dropping in as many as the bottle said were allowed wondering what would happen if I put say, half the bottle in my eye.

With my glasses off (which translates into very, very poor vision on my part), and a half a bottle of eye drops running down the left side of my face, I see the blur of a pickup, traveling in the opposite direction, come to a stop in the middle of the road.5* A woman jumps out and runs across the road towards us. I'm thinking "what in the world?", Hammie is in the back barking, and Craig says "roll down the window." Forgetting the current state of my face and the fact that I still don't have glasses on (which means that in order for her not to be blurry she's got to get within 12 inches of the pickup) I roll down the window. She stopped in her tracks (6*) and then asked if she could give our dog a hot dog.

I kid you not.

Apparently there was a leftover frank from her lunch that afternoon and she wondered if maybe our dog would want it. As she grabbed it off the dash she warned me that it was a little crusty and as she handed it to me I noted that she was telling the truth. I promptly gave it to Craig while simultaneously thanking her and searching for my glasses so that I could be sure that what I was seeing was real.7* It was.

She sped off and Craig and I stared at each other wondering what had happened, why it happened, and how we felt about it. We broke up into discussion groups to take a deeper look at the situation but with one person in each discussion group the conversation was weak and we decided that it was best to eliminate that part of the seminar.

Instead, we looked at the dog, and then we looked at the other dog, and decided that it was in the best interest of our dog to not feed her the other dog because really, who knows where it came from?

We do know where it ended up.

On the side of the road.8*

*Because really, why not?

**Craig got in up to his toes and then spent the rest of the afternoon chipping the ice off of his feet.

***Or something to extract my itchy eye with.

****Lest you think that I only have one eye, I do have two. The right one has apparently decided not to jump ship this allergy season. Thank you, right eye. Thank you.

5*At least I think that's what I'm seeing but in the state that I'm in, I can't really be sure.

6*That might have been on the account of Hammie's barking and not so much the state of my face.

7*With eyes like mine you can't be sure.

8*I apologize right now for leaving the hot dog and the crusty bun on the side of the road. I've no doubt caused the humanization of a grizzly who will now rummage through campgrounds looking for dogs and crusty buns. That last part doesn't sound quite right does it?

Chewing

2011-07-18T18:31:00.005-06:00

I like gum.* Probably not as much as my childhood best friend Kathleen did when she got her braces off the summer of 1986, (I'm convinced that she went through a pack a day, swallowing it as she went, while we were busy reciting the Blue Bell ice cream jingle and lines from 'The Trip to Bountiful'. Her body is no doubt still digesting it. I can still sing that jingle.**) but I do keep a good stock in my desk drawer.

Up until a few months ago I didn't have a favorite flavor . . . sometimes I was minty, occasionally I was fruity, and every great once in a while I tried to relive my 13th birthday when a neighbor boy gave me $1.00 worth of Dubble Bubble. It was a penny back then so for those of you who don't feel like doing the math, that's 100 pieces of gum. That's just about every 13 year old's dream. At least it was in 1988. These days they want cell phones, and iPads, and Justin Bieber. Life was so much simpler back then.

I say that I didn't have a favorite but that was before I found a little flavor made by Wrigley's.

And then they discontinued it.

And then I searched high and low through every grocery store that I entered but to no avail. So I turned to the WORLD WIDE WEB.***

Let's just all thank our lucky stars for amazon.com. A person can buy just about anything on that site, including a case of their favorite discontinued gum.****

And really, who doesn't like to buy their gum 12 packs of 12 pieces at a time?

I bet Kathleen would.

*Kind of a weird statement to start out with, don't you think?

**I bet that she can too.

***If this blog had sound that would be really loud.

****DISCLAIMER: If you look closely at the packaging you'll see that it contains Cardamom, an ingredient that claims to "Neutralize even the toughest breath odors.' I do not have tough breath odors. At least every time I do the 'breathe into the hand' test they're fine.

Maniac

2011-07-12T21:29:00.010-06:00

Walking through a local French boutique* recently I spied a t-shirt that I took a liking too. I also took a liking to the price. Honestly, who doesn't love a shirt for a penny less than $10? No friend of mine.

The shirt is an adorable** shade of green with a little advertisement on the front for my favorite road trip beverage (add in a York Peppermint Pattie and a bag of Combos and I'm good for miles).

I found it in the men's department while I was looking for something for Craig. The positive here is that because it is a men's tee the sizing is different. I don't have to be a 14-year-old girl to fit into a medium {insert angels singing here}. On the negative side, collars on men's shirts are a bit higher and tighter. Either that or I've got an undiagnosed condition in the neck area.***

I wore it once and decided that unless I wanted to tug at my shirt all day, I'd better find a solution. The plastic surgeon was completely booked out on neck reduction surgeries so I had to do the next best thing . . .

Yep, that's right. Watch our Jennifer Beals, this girl's a maniac!

*Tarjay. Target. The Bullseye store.

**I'm not convinced that colors can be adorable but it just sounded right.

***I'm going with the former and blaming the high and tight neckline on the manufacturer. My neck is just fine, thank you very much.

Parallel parking

2011-06-28T21:53:00.005-06:00

I saw this recently and it brought back memories of my own Drivers Ed experience.

No, I didn't wreck a minivan* . . . rather, it made me think of my behind-the-wheel time with Mr. Whatshisname who stored bologna sandwiches in the glove compartment of the sedan that we drove. There's nothing quite like having a guy in the passenger seat with his own brake telling you where to turn while eating a bologna sandwich. Add in some Wisconsin heat and humidity and you've got yourself a memory.

I wouldn't go back to being 16 if you paid me.**

*I did however fail my drivers test a couple of times. More on that later. Maybe.

**That might depend on the amount.

Heirloom

2011-06-21T21:11:00.007-06:00

My 89-year old Grandmother is transitioning to other living arrangements after living in her home for the past 37 years. As is typically the case in situations like this, Grandma will be unable to take all of her possessions with her to her new digs and so her children have taken on the task of deciding what to do with the items that Grandma hasn't already designated a recipient for.*

Along with determining where the traditional items will go, there are the miscellaneous things that don't necessarily fit into the 'heirloom' category. Things like this . . .

aah, the Joys of Jell-O 'cookbook'.** I've had my eye on this for years.*** I won't share too many recipes yet (that's a key word in this sentence) but I did quickly flip through the yellowed pages **** and found this tantalizing photo . . .

and then I read the recipe.

Although I realize that avocados are technically fruit, I don't think I'll be mixing one with my citrus-flavored jell-o anytime soon.

*She's very organized that way. Since I'm such a procrastinator I think I might start marking my possessions with the names of those I want to give them to right now.

**Can it be considered a 'cook' book when it's all about Jell-O? I think that's an oxymoron.

***Not really. Didn't even know such a thing existed.

****Judging by the number of jiggly salady/deserty dishes (5*) I've eaten in this house over the past 35 years, I think this was used quite often.

5*Most of which were delicious. Jell-O is an amazing, amazing thing/food/substance. Whatever.

Brave

2011-06-21T19:33:00.010-06:00

I have been horribly lax about posting as of late and I just have to say this; I have allergies.

It may seem like a gigantic stretch to blame my lack of creativity on an exaggerated immune response or reaction to substances that are generally not harmful*, but here's how it plays out. My eyes itch so that means that I can't type because my hands are otherwise occupied with rubbing them. My throat is scratchy and that means that I can't hear myself think over the sound of myself trying to 'itch' it by alternating between clearing it and swallowing really hard.** My nose runs so should I have a spare moment when my hands aren't busily rubbing my eyes, their next responsibility is holding a tissue.

Seasonal allergies, they're the best. Am I taking anything for them you ask? Nah. If I did I wouldn't have anything to complain about.***

I digress. Getting to tonight's post.

A little over a week ago the Relay for Life was happening in Whitefish and since I had never taken part, and because a few family members were doing it, I thought I'd join. What the heck.

The theme for this year was superheroes**** and to that end the team that my mom and I joined (more on that later) wore masks during the first lap. Adjusting to tiny little eye holes and figuring out foot placement was a bit of a challenge and let's just say I think we were all thankful that the track was four lanes wide and no one was questioning our sobriety. Isn't that right, Auntie B?

Wait, that came out wrong. No one would question her sobriety, or anyone's for that matter. It just worked with the picture. Never mind.

Mom and I finally figured it out and got so confident that we took a self portrait. While walking. Booyah! At least I think that's my mom; kind of hard to tell with the mask. Speaking of the mask, does she have hair covering her left eye? Sheesh, talk about a handicap when it comes to learning how to see through them. No wonder she was having trouble!

Auntie B. joined in the fun and we took another picture. It would appear that my Mom is still having trouble seeing out of the tiny little holes. At least I think that's my mom; kind of hard to tell with the mask.

We grabbed Auntie J. and took yet another picture.5* At this point I'm not sure if any of them can see out of their masks and I'm still questioning whether or not that's my mother; kind of hard to tell with the mask.

My mom and I joined Auntie B.'s work team for the evening. Well, 'evening' is a bit of a stretch. We joined her team for approximately the first lap and the group picture. My aunt works at a bank so I told her that when anyone questions who the two strangers are in the back row, she should just say that we were tellers who only lasted about 6 weeks. Embezzling will get you every time.

::::::::::::::::::::::

Along the lines of superheroes and cancer, late last week I was called to help out a friend. My good friend Chany recently found out that she'll be fighting her own battle with cancer. As a result of the treatment it's a certainty that she'll lose her hair and so to that end she decided that she wanted to have a little more control over when, and how, she lost it. So she asked me to help her buzz it off. Talk about brave. I have never held a pair of clippers in my hands let alone buzzed anyone's head!

I asked her no less than 987 times if she really wanted me to do this and was she absolutely positive that her hair was going to fall out. She went so far as to show me the drug reaction sheets for her chemotherapy and the side effects on 3 of the 4 included 'hair loss'. She's a thorough one.

So we grabbed a garbage bag to make a stylish poncho and away we went.

As I began to cut (to get it to a reasonable length to buzz) I found myself 'styling' it. Chany brought me back to reality with a 'it doesn't have to win any awards' comment. She's no nonsense.

We cut and then buzzed and tried to work as best we could with the left taper guard that was on the clippers, and when it was all said and done, she looked better than Demi Moore in G.I. Jane. Not to mention that she got to rock a mohawk for about 75 seconds.

She's a brave one.

*thanks, www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov

**I know you know what I'm talking about. Almost as if you were trying to scratch your throat with your tongue. It never works, and why I think it will is beyond me.

***Phillipians 2:14 . . . still working on my life verse.

****It was either that or Mardi Gras and since no one was flinging beads at us as we passed by, I'm sticking with superheroes.

5* I love these ladies.

Classy

2011-06-15T20:38:00.008-06:00

What do you do when you hit a deer with a semi and it cracks your fender?

You get a new one.

What do you do with the fender that's wrecked?

You turn it into a planter.*

Reduce. Reuse. Recycle.

*The 'You' here is used loosely and perhaps in the second person.**

**I am not the second person.

Pull!

2011-06-06T18:44:00.004-06:00

:::: If the last entry on this blog was full of pictures and information, this one is guaranteed to be the complete opposite. ::::

For as long as branding has taken place it is my understanding* that, with the exception of the past three or so years (on account of the rain), after the work was done it was time to shoot trap up on one of the bluffs.

This year was turning out to be a banner year for trap shooting. Not only was the majority of the work done on Friday but by Saturday afternoon things were drying out and the skies were partially clear. The girls headed into town to go shopping (because that's the tradition) and the guys were talking about pigeons of the clay variety.

We expected them to be gone by the time we returned but they weren't. It turns out that it's a little hard to shoot trap without shotguns.

Maybe next year.

*Remember, I only have three years of experience. It's very limited in the grand scheme of things.

Leaving a mark

2011-06-02T19:51:00.021-06:00

::::::::There are a lot of pics in this post so I'll understand if you get tired of scrolling. Maybe..:::::::

Another Memorial Day Weekend has come and gone,

which means another Branding Weekend has done the same.

It was a long weekend spent east of the mountains and it was wonderful. The weather could have cooperated just a bit more but hey, it's Montana in May (June as I write) and we know not to expect much more.*

The work started early on Friday morning*** when we all jumped into our vehicles. As a result of the X-Games-worthy trick I did last year while riding the 4-wheeler, Craig thought it best for me to use a different rig this time around. One that, though just as powerful as the others, has seat belts. And a roll bar. I think it was a not-so-subtle hint about my driving.

Meet 'THE LONE RANGER' (You have to read that in a very deep voice)

(Get it?! It's a Ranger and it's the only one so it's 'THE LONE RANGER'! There may be some trademark infringement there but I'm thinking that as long as I don't wear a mask while driving it we should be in the clear. Besides, if I'm going to drive with a mask on I might as well go back to the 4-wheelers.)

Now, I must say that when we bought 'THE LONE RANGER', though it was used, it was in like-new condition. The attack on the seats only recently occurred. Recent as in Friday morning when Hazer (pictured below) decided that he didn't want to be away from the action happening in the corrals and decided to chew his way out of the vehicle.

Pssst . . . Hazer . . . it would have worked better to chew yourself off of your leash.

Oh well, we move on. I'm sure the next time you see 'THE LONE RANGER', it'll have a flashy center seat of silver courtesy of our friends at Duck® Tape.

The first order of business on Friday morning was to get all of the animals moving. It's awfully hard to brand if there are no calves in the corrals and it's even harder to brand when they're out and about grazing. The extension cords on those irons are not that long.

It was a cast of familiar characters this year, namely in the likes of little guys like this . . .

and these . . .

and mommas with their babies. I think this one believes that if she closes her eyes, we won't see her. It would appear she's passed that belief onto her child.

We also got to deal with the guy sporting the blue ear tags who belongs to the neighbor. He was so excited by the idea of a cattle drive that after pacing on his side of the fence for awhile he said the heck with it and jumped over to join us. I'm guessing he's not all there between the ears. 5*

And finally, my favorite****, the bulls.

Things got a little exciting when a couple of bulls stopped on the last hill before the corrals to fight. Me and 'THE LONE RANGER' steered clear and gunned it down the hill so as not to disturb them.

Once everyone was properly contained in the corrals, Craig went and got Nacho. Not nachos.

The sorting of the cattle required something a little more deft than a 4-wheeler; although with Nacho's weight gain this winter, it's possible the 4-wheeler might have won an agility contest.

Craig got to work sorting the cattle with just a point of his fingers, 8*

while Donna and Nada worked on their limbo skills,

and I played a game of 'Find Uncle Norm' in the photo.

In his defense, Uncle Norm is not a man of short stature; it's a big gate and Jeremy is extra tall.

Once the cows and bulls were separated from the calves, it was time to give shots and such to the adults before branding the little ones. There wasn't much to take pictures of so I put my camera in my pocket, and then I noticed this one coming down the line and experienced déjà vu . . .

The summer between my Sixth and Seventh grade year I decided that I wanted a perm. After one attempt that lasted a mere 4 weeks we tried again, this time using smaller rollers and leaving the solution on for longer than the Ogilvie Home Perm box recommended. We threw caution to the wind!

It worked.

Really well.

So well in fact that my hair showed signs of a perm in some stage until I cut it into a short bob toward the end of Eighth grade

It looked strikingly similar to this.

I wonder if she carries a pick in her back pocket.

When we were finished with the cows/bulls it was time to start branding. Though I'd like to show you pictures, it was time to get down to business. Nada pulled double duty as escort through the chute . . .

and shot-giver (with help from Lindie on the front).

Jeremy ran a chute, Kelly filled shots (with help from Riley), Tom ran a chute, Doug pushed, and Donna was just all over the place doing it all. Donna's good friend Linda joined us as the day's statistician writing down the number of each calf and asking questions like, 'What do you think of the situation in the Middle East?' and 'What is the probability that gas prices will go over $5.00 this summer?' and 'Do you believe that Mitt Romney's hair is real?'. All of their answers will be compiled and sent to the government.9*

Branding continued long into the afternoon as we realized that the storms to the west, that were threatening us with rain, weren't materializing.

We figured we'd better keep going as long as the weather would let us. I'm guessing this one wished it had started raining. I'll just let you know that Tom is not tickling this little guy's belly.

I could tell by the look on his face . . .

and his eagerness to leave the chute.

It turned out to be a long day but at the end of it we were done. The rest of the weekend was still to come and, though we had small jobs to do, there would also be time to do fun things. Things like shoot trap, go shopping, chase a calf named Tiny in an attempt to give her a hug, and cheer on the rubber ducks in our second annual race.

The weekend was just beginning.

Stay tuned.

*The current temperature is 48 degrees with a windchill of 34.**

**That windchill is a bit of a stretch but that's to be expected from this blog.

***Technically the work started on Thursday but I forgot my camera at the house that day so I have NO PROOF that I was actually working. For all you know I could have been working on my tan or looking for rattlesnakes.

****Completely said in jest.

5* Are any of them really?

6*I'm the newbie with only 3 branding in my coveralls.7*

7*They're big coveralls.

8*He's really, really good.

9* 6 out of 10 believe that peace will never be attained in the Middle East. 7 out of 10 have questions about Mitt's hair.

APB

2011-05-13T20:25:00.010-06:00

Growing up in my family, the writing of thank you notes was taken very seriously.* Along with fire drills and preparedness meetings we routinely took part in 'thank-you-note-drills'.** For those not familiar with these, here's how they work; participants hold their pens above their heads (similar to the youth group standard 'Bible Drills') and wait for the moderator to shout out a name and an event that might require a thank you note. For example - "Aunt Sharon! Christmas!" or "Your Grandma! Birthday!" The first person to finish their note–complete with proper salutation, sincere thanks, and appropriate signature–wins.*** Matches were loaded with the frustration of finding the right words and victory, when obtained, was always sweet. 5*

I bring all of this up to confess a recent failure in my writing of thank you notes . . .

Craig and I were married on January 1.

Our thank you notes were done and out the door around February 1.

Except one.

It's a crying shame.

Among the beautiful and thoughtful and beautifully thoughtful gifts that we received for our wedding was a set of four mugs. Said set of four mugs did not have a card attached to it. Of course a variety of scenarios could have played out here . . .

The giver of these mugs might have forgotten the card at home on the kitchen table.

The card might have fallen off on the way to the ceremony and is now lodged between the seats in the car.

There might never have been a card.

Another guest forgot the card to their gift, stole the card off of this gift and now everything is messed up.

So many possibilities.

What we do know though, is that this gift didn't have a card with it when we opened it and because of that we haven't been able to properly thank the person who gave it. That is problematic. Who knows, the giver of this gift might lay awake nightly wondering where in the heck his or her thank you note is.6* They might be so irritated about the whole thing that they've since vowed never to give another wedding gift. Of course there is the slim possibility that the giver of this gift might not care that they didn't receive a thank you note but I'm not sure that I want to take that chance.

So, here's where the 28 readers of this blog come in handy. Were you at my wedding? Did you give us a set of four, lovely, western-themed mugs? Do you have any idea who gave these to us? Would you just like me to write you a thank you note? I'm holding my pen above my head.

*100% true.

**95% not true. We didn't have thank you note drills or preparedness meetings. I do remember one fire drill.

***I just made that up but I'm thinking it might be fun.****

****My definition of 'fun' might be skewed.

5*At least I imagine it would be if there were such a thing as thank you note drills.

6*According to Miss Manners the bride and groom have one year to write thank you notes. We've got 8 months to crack this case.

A warning

2011-05-09T21:05:00.007-06:00

If you help out at your church . . .

And specifically, if you help out in your church's espresso bar . . .

And if you've volunteered to bring home the coffee-stained, milk-soaked rags each week so that you can wash them . . .

Don't leave them in your car . . .

Overnight . . . *

No good can come of it.**

*Let's all be thankful that we didn't experience record heat last night.

**The windows will remain open until the milk aroma finds its way out.

The next generation

2011-04-28T18:38:00.008-06:00

Unless a person has been on the moon for the past 2 weeks, it's a given that most people are aware of the wedding ceremony that is taking place in the wee hours of the morning tomorrow.* It's been one of the news stories that the major media outlets have spent their time covering.** Given my fascination with the royals as a child, I for one haven't minded the debate on whether or not Kate will wear her hair in a chignon or down. These are the stories that matter people! Only slightly less important is which tiara she'll wear.

In honor of the impending nuptials, I've copied the letter (complete with misspellings and present day commentary) that I wrote as an eight-year-old to the woman who would have been the future Princess' mother-in-law.

There's just something so honest*** about eight-year-olds.

:::

Dear Princess Diana,

How are you I'm fine. My name is Angela. I'm eight years old. I'm sending you a picture of myself. We have a dog named Bess and a cat named Squeak. I have a older sister named Lacey. She has blond hair and green eyes. The school I go to is called Elemantry School. Its very nice my teachers name is Mrs. Hall. She's very nice. I've seen your face on magizines I think your very pretty so is your husband. (I guess I didn't want to make him feel left out) And baby. My boyfriends name is Jeff (he was way cuter than Charles) I hope to see your house some day in my life. I also hope to see the inside (whoa! stalker!)

I'm doing good in school. I made a doll and she is filled with rice. If I ever come over I'll bring her. I also have a cabbage patch kid. His name is Jan Clark. He's black and bald. He has a red jogging suit and white tenishoes. Then all bring him. He's really cute. My room is almost always dirty. But when its clean it looks lovely. My doll with rice doesn't have any hair right now. She's going to be a chinese doll. Shes going to have a black bun. She has a blue dress and a apron with flowers. Did you like the part were I thought you were very very very pretty?(No doubt she called security at this point)

I have a friend from England her name is Jakie F. thats why I know your address (Britian's homeland security has probably been trailing Jakie F. since they received this letter in '83) I wanted to wright to you cause I was bored. I have a grandma and shes 83. I've had a rash (uh, um...) they think it might be the measles or it might just be a reaction to the medicine I've been on. I think it's just been a reaction. (Self-diagnosing at an early age) My parents are very nice. I read a book and it was called a day to remember. And it was about your wedding it must of been beautiful. All those horses. I saw your dress. And the carrige you got to ride in. It was lovely. I saw your ring it was pretty. (I told you I loved the jewelry part)

I'm going to send you my address so you can wright back. I hope you like my letter. My mom thinks its wonderful (What else could she say? I was telling the Princess about my rash!!) So do I. (Wow. Humble) Here's my address and picture.

Love Angela

PS. write back

:::

Were I to write this same letter today I'm pretty sure I'd leave out the part about the rash. I'm guessing that was the reason she never wrote back.****

Off to bed. I'm getting up at 3:00 a.m..

*With technology these days I wouldn't be surprised if the moon was now in my network. I imagine it would be considered roaming.

**Just a bit of sarcasm there for all of those who are tired of the nonstop coverage.

***And slightly embarrassing.

****Can you blame her?

Direction

2011-04-19T20:45:00.005-06:00

A sign in the small town of Cascade. Apparently a lot of people were getting lost on their way to Ray's house.

Home improvement

2011-04-19T20:22:00.008-06:00

I've spent my last two weekends doing a little bit of home improvement in the form of painting. Our house is small and in an attempt to lighten it up, and in turn make it appear bigger,* I decided to paint all less-than-1,000-square-feet** of it the same color.

In addition to the bonus space that we're gaining–at least in my head–by lightning the wall color, I figure that I can be sloppier if I paint it all one color. There are no corners or accent walls to be mindful of and really, who's going to notice the smudges on the edges of the ceiling?

One area that I am paying attention to is the floor. In the past my prepping skills were never quite professional enough and it cost me dearly. I resolved to make sure that didn't happen again.

Apparently no one told her.

Half-way through my day of painting, and three minutes after I'd turned my back to tape off the next wall, Rose jumped up on the piano bench and right into the tray of paint. As cats are wont to do, she jumped right back out and proceeded to run through all less-than-1,000-square-feet of our home leaving her mark– quite literally–in every single room.

I laughed while taking a few pictures and then it dawned on me . . .

paint does eventually dry and I had some cleaning to do.

*I'm thinking if I paint the inside of my closet I can fool myself into believing it's a walk-in. That's some serious trompe-l'oeil.

**I love our little house and want nothing else at this time, except maybe some more storage.***

***At least I don't need to make up an excuse when I'm asked why I don't buy the 96-count box of toilet paper at Costco.****

****No one has ever asked me that.5*

5*I would be uncomfortable if someone asked me that.

Terminology

2011-04-19T20:18:00.001-06:00

Maybe cross winds isn't descriptive enough.

Tiptoe

2011-04-05T20:25:00.006-06:00

Since this winter has been seemingly never-ending in the Flathead, I decided that I would invest in something beautiful the last time that I was in the grocery store.

I blame this decision on my mother who routinely 'invests in something beautiful' at the grocery store.* I used to think it was a waste of money. I now see the error of my ways.

I chose the French Tulips since I've got two semesters of French, and a 'drive and learn French CD' under my belt. I figured I could talk to them with my limited vocabulary and help them thrive in my northwest Montana home.

'Est-ce que le livre est sur la table?'

'Oui, il est sur la table.'

(Is the book on the table? Yes, the book is on the table.)

This is the type of conversation that flowers thrive on.

The flowers were gorgeous and each time I came home my daily-intensifying dislike of winter lessened if only slightly.

And then one day I came home to Rosemary's** handiwork.

How do I know it was Rosemary? She doesn't like the French.

*At least it's less expensive than the jewelry store.

**Rosemary is a Siamese and I have no idea if she does or doesn't like the French. She doesn't speak English.

The old west

2011-03-20T19:51:00.016-06:00

I spend a little bit of time reading a few blogs. Some are written by people I know; others are written by people that I don't know but would like to; and still others are random blogs that I find when clicking the 'Next blog' button at the top of the page. I only do that when I'm looking for a little adventure.

Anyway, this past weekend I met a woman who falls into the second category. She's got a little blog going on.

The Pioneer Woman herself was making an appearance in Great Falls and wouldn't you know it, that's only a 4 hour drive from where I live. The stars were aligning.*

Craig and I met up with friends and switched vehicles; the guys went their way, the girls went their way, and everyone lived happily ever after.

Kelly, Kim, and I found our way to the venue and stood in line with eager anticipation of the night ahead. We also spent the time practicing our basketball defense skills by occasionally 'boxing out' our fellow attendees who seemed to think that if they inched forward gradually we wouldn't notice their attempt to cut in front of us in line. Not so fast, ladies. Not so fast.

The doors opened at 6:30 and like shoppers the day after Thanksgiving we all made a mad dash inside. Thankfully there were no reports of trampling. Unfortunately, there were no reports of flat screen TV's being sold at ridiculously low prices. I might lodge a formal complaint after I'm done writing this.

Alright, back to my story. At the end of the mad dash we ended up with great seats and were set for the event. And then we waited. And then I realized that I was sitting in the third row of who knows how many rows. And then I realized that I was sitting on an inside aisle. And then I remembered that I sometimes get anxious in crowds. And then I got anxious in a crowd. So I took a picture and tried to be nonchalant.

And then I freaked out.**

To pass the time, and calm my crazy brain down, I concentrated on my boots and the fabulous carpet.*** And then I noticed my neighbors' boots and I considered leaning over to tell her that we weren't at a motorcycle convention. To each her own.

Before I knew it, the Pioneer Woman herself was being introduced. Right before my very eyes she was up on the stage and right in front of me were two people with silver hair, one who was slightly balding. It was amazing.

She gave a speech, complete with slides, which lasted just a little over 42 years.

Once her presentation was over it was time for the book signing. Pen ready, books open, and thoughts of 'what am I going to say', 'maybe we'll become best friends', 'I'm sure she'll invite me down to her ranch for Christmas' (along with other completely realistic scenarios) ran through my head while I waited.

:: Quick side note here ::

The Pioneer Woman's story goes a little something like this - city girl meets cowboy, marries him, lives on his ranch, and lives happily every after. My story goes a little something like this - town girl meets cowboy, marries him, will someday live on the ranch, and will live happily ever after. I can't help but compare. I especially can't help but compare her superior photography skills with mine. Here, let me show you . . .

Who doesn't love a photo of the underside of ones own chin. Amazing composition here.

How about this one? This must have been right before I fell over.****

There is absolutely no blur here, further proof that you can run and take pictures at the same time.

Thank goodness that someone else took this one or the entire evening would have been ruined.

:: End of side note ::

So at the end of it all, I was able to quickly say hello to Ree Drummond, let her know that I loved her blog, and shared that I too had met and married a cowboy (and didn't know the first thing about ranching). She smiled and laughed and wished me a lifetime of happiness. And then she gave me a wedding present. 5*

*I wish the stars had aligned just slightly closer together.

**Freaked out is a little much. I did however pretend that there were only three rows in the whole place and I was actually in the back row, not close to the front. I'm a genius.

***Why is it that hotels, convention centers, and some churches have gigantically-patterned carpet in usually hideous colors?

****Nerves.

5*Alright, alright I paid for it and told her what to write. Whatever.

Kids

2011-03-06T21:41:00.009-07:00

As I've chronicled on this blog before, I have two cats. Let me state for the record (for the 76th time) that I am not a crazy cat lady. I do not have screen-printed sweatshirts, my car is not emblazoned with bumper stickers that say 'I (heart) Siamese', and I do not collect figurines. At least not cat figurines.

Craig, of course, was well aware of the baggage that I would be bringing into this marriage. He was also aware of the cats.* His princess, Hammie, was even more aware after spending a few weekends at my previous home with myself and 'the girls.'

With the exception of a couple of moments with the cats, Hammie has been a very gracious hostess for the past 3 months.

Until this past Tuesday.

However, maybe the fault lies with the cats. {gasp}

Vera in particular. {gasp, gasp, choke, gasp**}

Let me set the stage. Okay, I'm back.

No really, here's what happened. Hammie was minding her own business in the living room when Rose decided she was a little too close for comfort and initiated an escape off of the couch and toward the back room. This set into motion Hammie's herding instincts and she sprung from her spot after Rose. That set into motion Vera's bullying instincts and she came from OUT OF NOWHERE to reach Hammie's nose in about 4 nanoseconds. She used her brief travel time to puff up to 6 times her original size and now faintly resembled a puffer fish. There was a quick staring contest underneath the coffee table*** and then a surprising retreat by Hammie onto the couch.

Vera however doesn't know the definition of retreat and proceeded to show her displeasure toward Hammie by growling from the hall and flicking her gigantic tail.

She continued her antics, albeit without the puffy tail, by voicing her opinions while she wandered around my side of the bed all night long. Giving her food at 2 a.m. did not soothe her. A trickle of water from the bathroom faucet**** at 4:15 a.m. didn't make a difference. My attempt to pet her while I slept accomplished nothing other than to irritate my allergies 5*. She was mad and spent all night letting me know it.

I awoke the next morning with an appreciation for mothers who have to tend to sleepless babies and made a decision about Craig and I's future family plans. We'll be adopting.

A 24 year old.

*I'm cracking myself up with that one.

**If you know Vera, it's really not all that surprising.

***Craig won.

****Her absolute favorite.

5*The visual I'm presenting is perhaps one I'd rather you didn't have.

Layer cake

2011-02-21T19:36:00.020-07:00

Last weekend I made the trip over the mountains with Craig to do things like feed the cows (You're not fooling anyone #533, we can see you) . . .

and help doctor the babies, which included giving out hugs on my part.

Since spring is a long way off*, doing the aforementioned jobs required a lot of preparation in the form of dressing and it has nothing to do with Bleu Cheese.**

In order to stay cozy warm*** layers were the key to an outfit. Easily 20 minutes each morning was spent putting on every layer and adjusting the sleeves (or legs) of the bottom-most garment so that it wasn't riding high in your armpit (or elsewhere) after putting another layer on top of it. What isn't factored into those 20 minutes are the frequent breaks needed to catch your breath after attempting to bend over and put your boots on. Carhartt coveralls added to layers does not equal flexibility. Simple math there.

To give you an idea of my outfit Friday afternoon, here I am modeling no less than 6 layers.

The black jacket that I was wearing proved itself to be too light for the elements so on Saturday I donned what I have now dubbed 'the worlds biggest coat'.**** It is so gigantic that I caused a minor eclipse when I went outside and stood in front of the sun.

I waddled away from the sun so that Craig could get a beyond-flattering picture of me in my new outfit.

Even better.

What's amazing is that Craig had on the same number of layers as I did and you tell me, does he look like he's put on 50 pounds overnight? Noooooo! Life is so unfair.

After all of my modeling we got down to business and had a bonfire where we roasted hotdogs and marshmallows and sang 'Row, Row, Row Your Boat' in a round. That's a lie, it's a cattle ranch so we had hamburgers.

Seriously though, we did get down to business which included feeding the bulls . . .

(Ugh, here they come)

(You've got a little something on your face mister)

...and giving one little girl a ride on the 4-Wheeler Express; it's a shuttle service for the ranch crowd.

This one was fairly new and it was a long walk to the pen so we picked her up along the way.

Unfortunately the basket isn't large enough for her mother so she had to walk. We're working on larger baskets and really big 4-wheelers to haul the both of them.

Speaking of 4-wheelers, my already-tarnished track record is getting more grim. Saturday afternoon the one I was driving decided it was done and quit working. After the incident last May I'm about one 4-wheeler away from being banned altogether. This is not the way to impress your new in-laws.

Maybe I'll take a lesson from the Corrientes 5* and head south. 6*

I'm sure I could hitch a ride. After all, I don't have a 4-wheeler to use.

*At least it seems like. For goodness sake where IS the sun?!

**Sorry, that was incredibly lame.

***Cozy warm is darn near impossible when it's 8 degrees outside.

****I'm going to write a musical called "Angela and the Amazing Not-So-Technicolor Dream–But it's Warm–Coat!". There's a Tony in my future I just know it.

5* Or as I like to call them 'The Mexican Contingent'

6* As it turns out they only went as far south as that tractor with the bales on the back. Lightweights.

Snapshots

2011-02-07T22:26:00.014-07:00

I've been meaning to write something about our wedding but between the moving and unpacking, and teaching Vera how to get along with Hammie, and coaxing Rose out from under the bed, it just hasn't happened. So tonight, since it's already waaaay past my bedtime and Craig is over the mountains, I figured I'd stay up late and put up a few photos. I can get through Tuesday on a few hours of sleep right?

Here goes . . .

(Quick sidenote, all photos were taken by my cousin Molly of Be Still Photography. They're copyrighted. Don't take them. Not that you'd want them but just in case.)

Me getting ready. We went 'Hollywood glamour' style.

Craig getting ready. Apparently they went more 'frat party' style.

Just a little something that my 8-year old self wanted sewn into her wedding dress. I made her proud.

One of the winners of the 'toughest person of the day' award. Jenn became a mother for the second time 11 days before this photo was taken.

The other winner of the 'toughest person of the day' award. Nada became a mother for the first time 8 days before this photo was taken.* I'd like to show you her face but Craig wishes that she remain anonymous.

Winner of the 'best hair of the day' award.** Sheesh. That's the last time I invite her hair to my wedding.

Here we are about 10 seconds before I kicked my shoes off*** and about 20 seconds before I considered turning around to ask my mom for her chair. Also right about the time that Misty started formulating a plan on how she was going to catch me when I fell.****

Dad the moment that he decided he couldn't wait for dinner and went after Craig's boutonniere.

Craig with his parents and sister and brother-in-law. What's goofy is that there wasn't anything in the blanket that Tom was carrying. Kind of awkward. 5*

My parents and I laughing in the face of hypothermia. It was a balmy 10 degrees.

Me serenading Craig with 'Wind Beneath My Wings'.7*

The guys.

The girls.

The wedding party with lighting courtesy of 1962.

Instead of a garter toss we had a 'rub the bunions' contest. Misty won. Lucky girl.

My purple boots.

Just a picture that I love.

Our first dance. 8*

The end. 9*

*And I complained about my shoes hurting.

**And the most.

***Very discreetly under my dress.
****I didn't faint but there was a quick second I thought it was a sure thing. I just dug my toes into the carpet instead.

5* Oh alright, there was a very small baby in there. Very small and very, very cute.6*

6* She wins the award for the 'youngest guest in attendance'.

7* Probably not.

8*And so far we're living happily ever after. I don't expect any different. :)

9*Or maybe it's just the beginning. Awww.

Cartographger

2011-01-31T21:09:00.004-07:00

I will admit that the years I spent living alone were not filled with nights of ironing. Granted, I did own all of the necessary tools but they didn't see the light of day all that often. In fact, I'm pretty sure that on numerous occasions I determined which clothing to donate to Salvation Army by whether or not it would ever need ironing.

Lest you think that I routinely walked around looking like a topographical map let me assure you that I didn't . . . I just bought stock in spandex and pretended that I was in a 1980's Jane Fonda workout video.*

Life changed this year** and among the many differences, the amount of ironing that I've done in the past 4 weeks has got to be one of the biggest.

I married a cowboy.

Cowboys are not known for their wrinkled Wranglers, in fact, quite the opposite. It became obvious fairly quickly that the old 'spritz-water-on-it-and-throw-it-back-in-the-dryer-for-5-minutes' would no longer work.***

What does work is this . . .

I'm pretty sure it's going to be my new best friend. I also think that I'm going to have to invest in some maps.

*Outright lie

**For the better

***Dang it.

Sticky

2011-01-11T20:47:00.007-07:00

The great migration continues and I've made a bit of progress in the last couple of days.* The number of unpacked boxes is decreasing and life is slowly getting more normal.** One of the biggest adjustments has been in the pet department.

As is well known (if you've read this blog for any length of time) I was a single girl with cats*** before I became a Mrs and Craig was a single guy with a dog.**** The combining of our pets has been interesting but thankfully not too eventful unless you count the three times that Hammie has practiced her impression of a great white shark leaping out of the water to catch a seal (or a Siamese named Vera in this case).6*

Other than the hairy Great White things have stayed pretty quiet - until this morning and Hammie wasn't even in the house. What was in the house was a sticky mouse trap that Vera found in the utility closet. The sight of a cat with one foot slightly stuck frantically trying to shake herself free is hard to explain. It's a whirlwind. A tornado. A hurricane. Simply frightening. I chased her around the house which only made matters worse–not only was she running from whatever was stuck to her hind leg but now she was running from me.

My efforts to grab her were futile however she did manage to shake herself free after completing her second lap around the fireplace. Unfortunately freeing herself of the trap didn't rid her hind foot entirely of the goo. That became evident as she walked across the room toward me, sticking to the floor on every third step.

*If cramming dirty clothes into a plastic tub, and then sitting on it to insure that the lid closes is considered progress, than I'm a pro.

**That's probably a relative term.

***Just to be clear I did not collect kitty figurines and I have never owned a sweatshirt with an appliqued cat on the front.

****Which is apparently more socially acceptable even though there's a curio cabinet full of dog figurines in the house. 5*

5* That's a lie.

6* She's 0 for 3 at this point. Thankfully.

Air

2011-01-05T21:18:00.005-07:00

The wedding is done* and I've moved (literally) to the next thing . . . schlepping** all of my earthly belongings the 7 blocks from my house to Craig's. The melding of our two houses has gone really well*** and so far we've been able to problem-solve with the best of them. Our main issue at this point is deciding which of the 10 pillows on the bed we're going to have to part with. At my house I slept in a full-sized bed and reasoned that 4 pillows for 1 head was adequate. Craig has a king-sized bed and routinely uses 6 pillows to cradle his noggin. It's a serious problem with serious results (5*).

Ten pillows makes for a great pillow fight but a restful nights sleep it does not; especially if you awake to find yourself stuck under 1 of 10 said items, it's as if a large, extra-dense cotton ball is not-so-gently resting on your face. It's even more terrifying to find yourself stuck under 2 or more of them. I'm considering wearing a snorkel to bed just to assure a constant stream of air (6*).

The combining of our lives will continue to be interesting I'm sure but I have no fear that we'll get it all figured out. Especially if I resort to the snorkel.

*Perhaps a blog coming soon.

**That's my Yiddish coming out.

***Granted, it's only been 4 days but if the next 40+ years is anything like this week has been we'll be golden.****

****At this point the rose-colored glasses are glued to my face.

5*I'm seeing a lifetime of chiropractic bills and that's a problem.

6*That'll be exciting!

Tomorrow

2010-12-31T23:10:00.004-07:00

I'm getting married tomorrow,

a bigger day I've never had,

for I'm getting married tomorrow,

don't worry, I'm not wearing plaid.*

*Only because I couldn't find any in ivory.**

**That's a lie, I didn't even look.

Out of alignment

2010-11-29T22:10:00.002-07:00

It's been a dry spell here but that's not for lack of content or trying. I've got more content than I know what to do with. As I thought, wedding planning is full of hilarity*. I've dealt with a still-to-be-determined accent over the phone**, blue fondant roses***, decision paralysis****, and so much more. The posts could be endless if I had 27.5 hours in my day or if I didn't need to take so much gol darn time eating. Sheesh.

The latest dose of fun however has had nothing to do with wedding planning but rather technology. It would appear that after a certain number of charges, the battery in an Apple laptop may or may not begin to bulge. Yes, it bulges. Who knew that batteries could bulge but oh, they bulge alright. 5*

I was beginning to think I was losing my mind after noticing a significant difference each day in the height of my computer. After all, what exactly is it that is bulging in there? Will it eventually pop one day? Has anyone been maimed by a bulging battery? Has Dateline ever done an exposé on this phenomenon? Enquiring minds want to know! So, after a quick search with my battery-less laptop 6*, I did discover that they indeed do bulge eventually. No one has been maimed. Dateline has not done an exposé (c'mon Anne Curry). If you're not under warranty, Apple doesn't replace them (!). I'll be shelling out a bit o'cash to replace it.

I suppose the alternative of not having a laptop to design thank you cards and menus 7* for the big day would be worse. I think my hilarity would turn into something far worse.

*Or that could be my brain slowly detaching from the rest of my body.

**Note to self, don't try to make a 'quick' call while at your desk if the person answering the phone may or may not speak broken English.

***The fountains and staircases are still in the running for the cake. If only I could find a blown-glass-swan-in-a-heart cake topper.

****HELLO two brooches because I couldn't decide on one. Buh-ling, buh-ling.

5* Bulge is a word I don't often use so I'm using the heck out of it tonight. Bulge.

6* Thank goodness for power adaptors.

7* There will be no menus because everyone is familiar with Slim Jims.

Consultations

2010-11-17T19:42:00.004-07:00

In not-so-surprising news this week, Prince William announced his engagement to long-time girlfriend Kate Middleton. Since I spent the better part of my adolescence fixated on his mother's clothes and jewelry, and the better part of a week writing her a letter when I was in the 3rd grade, I will admit to reading* about the upcoming nuptials.

Since I too am planning a wedding,** I was especially interested in a recent statement that was made by someone in some office in the corner of a castle somewhere in England . . .

In a statement on Wednesday, his office said: "Prince William and Miss Middleton have spent the morning in meetings with Household staff about the wedding. An announcement about venue and date will be made in due course after other Members of the Royal Family, Mr. and Mrs. Middleton and the Government have been consulted."

After reading that I'm wondering if Craig and I jumped the gun by not consulting the government about our venue. I guess I never thought to ask how President Obama feels about log lodges.

This could be bad.

*With moderate interest

**I'm sure we've got similarly-sized guest lists

A little prick

2010-11-08T21:38:00.004-07:00

What do the District of Columbia, Georgia, Indiana, Massachusetts, Mississippi, Montana, and Oklahoma have in common? Or according to one website just D.C., Mississippi, Montana, and sometimes New York depending on your race*? I'll give you a hint, it's not land mass, state birds, or vowels.

In each of the aforementioned states you must get a blood test before getting married. I live in one of those aforementioned states. I like the word aforementioned**

A little medical history for you (don't worry, it'll be short). I was born in a hospital 35 years ago. That was the longest I have ever spent in a hospital. The end.

I have been very fortunate to not have had any major medical issues or illnesses and I am thankful for that all of the time.*** In fact, I can think of only two major medical issues and neither of them were all that bad. The first was the Ripley's-Believe-It-Or-Not-Sized Hives that descended on me in college. You know it's bad when the doctor takes one look at you and laughs while you sit on the paper-coated table. That's not a good sign.

The second happened while trying to do my duty and give blood to the American Red Cross. Apparently I had a case of super-clot-itis that semester and after trying multiple times on each arm it was obvious that they weren't getting any blood out of me. Here I was wanting to freely give of my O Positive and the universe wouldn't let me. They finally had to quit trying because I exceeded the acceptable time limit. Fine. I'll just keep it all to myself.

Well, keep it until this past Saturday when I made an appointment to get my blood drawn for my marriage license. With my limited medical history, and not having had a shot since oh, forever, I had no idea how I'd react. Would I be nervous? Would I punch the phlebotomist? Who knows, it could be my normal reaction to shots and I just wouldn't know it since I hadn't had a needle stuck into my arm since the lady from the Red Cross dug around while trying to find my veins.**** (I think I just grossed myself out).

I filled out the appropriate paper work, headed to the lab, and waited. A very friendly, experienced-looking girl walked me into the blood drawing area and I felt calm . . . until another girl, previously unseen, informed me that she was a student phlebotomist and would I mind having her draw my blood. A student. My calmness was momentarily replaced with high anxiety, sweaty palms, and flashbacks of the lady at the Red Cross . . . and then it passed. After all, what's the worst that could happen? As it turns out, nothing. Nothing bad could happen. This girl did a great job, just a little prick, and it was over.

It almost made me want to go donate blood.

Almost.

*Only for sickle cell in African and Hispanic American couples.

**Although I always leave out the first 'e' and have to go back and correct it.

***Really, ask my family about how I loathe being ill. Ask about 'the streak'. I'm super proud.

****Just thinking about that makes the insides of my elbows hurt.

San Francisco - Part 3

2010-10-26T21:34:00.013-06:00

Somewhere in the middle of choosing which stamps best match our invites and which vegetable best matches ham, I've completely let go of blogging. I don't like it. The letting go, not the blogging . . . so I'm sitting down to write the third installment about San Francisco two long and very full weeks ago. It may not be long though because I need to research cake flavors and bulk flower prices AND make it to bed in 15 minutes. I am woman, hear me roar. Or something.

Back in May I found out I'd be running* in the 7th annual Nike Women's Marathon. Strictly a lottery marathon I knew I'd have to take advantage of the opportunity which meant committing to a running plan and not to the DQ Blizzard of the month club.

I logged the miles (some weeks better than others) and felt reasonably prepared that I could at least gut it out. I'd already determined that I would be no match for the Kenyans, or anyone of any color that is fast, but that's alright.

We arrived the Thursday before Sunday's race and were immediately bombarded with images of the marathon as only a large city can do. Where else can you have a 5 story banner on an incredibly large department store? Certainly not in the Flathead Valley.

When I found out about my spot in the run I immediately booked a hotel as close to the start as I could. Dealing with pre-race jitters is one thing, battling them while trying to find a parking spot in an unfamiliar city is a whole different ball game. I've never been good at ball sports.

Since I was able to get a hotel about a block from the start that meant we were in the thick of the action all weekend long. One of the more memorable sights was the wall at Niketown. Looking at it from a distance I wondered what all the commotion was about and why people were taking pictures of a black and pink wall . . .

and then I walked up to it.

Listed 12 or so feet high**, and probably 30 feet wide, were the names of all 20,000 participants in alphabetical order. Having a middle-of-the-alphabet name comes in handy at a time like this since I don't usually travel with a pair of stilts.

Saturday afternoon came and I quit walking and put up my feet. I also tried on my rally cap for proper fit. I'd like to blame the following picture on the 'Jersey Shore' marathon that Craig and I spent the better part of Saturday afternoon watching. My brain had rotted out by the time this photo was taken.

A good nights sleep was in order and then lo and behold, the moment I'd been training for had arrived. Ready or not, here it came. In a time when anxiety could have ruled my brain I felt wholly unaffected. In fact, I had to remind myself that I was about to run 26.2 miles and maybe I should be a little nervous about the entire undertaking. I tried to scare myself into some uneasiness but it didn't work. I was standing in a crowd of 20,000 total strangers and felt as cool as a cucumber. That actually could have been the breeze which later turned into a downpour come to think of it.

Being a block from the actual start made it hard to hear what was going on but at 7:00a.m. the gun went off and away we went. Slowly. Fourteen minutes later I had finally crossed the start line and my own run had begun.

I started the run plugged into my iPod and rocking out to whatever tunes were playing. I decided though to unplug and enjoy my surroundings . . . the sound of the ocean, people cheering (including Craig at miles 11 and 15), women running with friends around me, and the noise of my own breath as my body propelled me on.

The views were amazing and unforgettable, and had I been like most women I saw, I would have run with my camera tucked safely into my pocket so that I could stop and take pictures. I figured the weight of a camera over 26 miles might be a little much and decided to take pictures with my brain instead.

The rain started at about mile 5 and continued the rest of the way, making for a very wet run*** but I guess that's part of the adventure.

Not a person who would ever call a marathon 'easy' the time really did fly by and before I knew it I was nearing the finish. Amazingly, the whole thing had only taken 58 minutes and 29 seconds.****

My San Francisco story had come to a close and I felt incredibly blessed as I crossed the finish line. A great experience in a great city in a honor of a great person.

(I'm pretty sure Craig teared up taking this last picture. That would explain the bluriness, right?)

*Open for interpretation

**I'm really bad at measurements so perhaps that's 15'?

***It also made for a fantastic cold on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of the following week.

****I'm only going by what the clock says.

San Francisco - Part 2

2010-10-24T17:15:00.014-06:00

So my promise of continuing this the next day was a couple of days late. And I apologize. Profusely. Here's the next installment of my San Francisco trip . . .

There are a couple of slight differences when traveling from a valley of 80,000 to a city of over 800,000, one of which is not rush hour traffic. You should see this valley at 5:00 pm on a weekday, or any day in front of the Super WalMart for that matter.

All kidding aside, there are some great things about going to a large city and getting a bit of culture be it in the food, the language, the sights, or the people.

The people, more than anything, are what struck me about San Francisco. All shapes and sizes, colors and languages, lifestyles and economic backgrounds surrounded us each time we walked down the street. It was wonderful and overwhelming all at the same time.

One group of people in particular stood out to me . . . those who were asking for money. Some played instruments, another sculpted copper wire into figurines, and a few danced while we waited in line for the cable car. One of our personal favorites was the man who pretended to be a statue and stood on a small box with a cup extended in one hand. The only problem was that he didn't have the best balance and so his 'statue' was constantly moving. We chuckled each time we saw him and threw in our change.

There were others that we saw and each time I wondered how they got there, what circumstances happened, and what their names were. I did meet Chanel while waiting for the cable car who very politely went down the line and asked each person for money. I asked her name and she showed me the tattoo of it on her arm. We met Milton who sat in front of our hotel, and this man, who has played the trumpet since 1959 and who sits at the end of the cable car line and plays while people wait. Those binders in his lap are full of sheet music. He takes requests and you're free to sing along.

His bunny, for obvious reasons, also appreciated when people chipped in.

One of the more creative 'artists' had to be this guy near Fisherman's Wharf.

Not only had he found a tree in San Francisco, he used it scare the living daylights out of people. Watching from the safety of the other side of the street we couldn't help but notice how many people weren't suspicious of a 'bush' sitting in the middle of the sidewalk and would walk right up to it, only to scream in horror when that guy popped out.

Recognizing that we wouldn't be any more observant than any one else, we made sure to stay away from that side of the street.

Another memorable resident of the streets was the guy who let his dog do all of the work. Granted, the sign wasn't really blurred out but for goodness sake, this is a family blog.

The dog's name is Nugget and each night his owner had him out there in some get up with a similar sign. Judging by the tupperware of dollar bills and the crowd that surrounded him each night, I'd say Nugget really cleaned house.

And finally, though I don't think this guy was looking for any money he sure made his rounds. I ended up seeing him 3 times, in 3 locations, in the 4 days that we were there.

I didn't see any reason to blur out his sign.

San Francisco - Part 1

2010-10-21T19:59:00.008-06:00

I sat down thinking that I would write one post about our time in San Francisco and then I realized that there was just too much. Too much to condense. Too much to show. Too much say. And then I got a headache from all of the stress and considered closing my laptop and doing my dishes instead. Common sense got a hold of me in the nick of time and here I am, laptop open and dishes in the sink, ready to write at least a little bit about our time in the City by the Bay.

Craig and I left the comfort zone of our mountains, uncrowded sidewalks, and saltine cracker-colored valley, and hopped a quick 2 hour flight on Thursday afternoon.

After the excitement of seeing the Golden Gate Bridge from the air had worn off, and before landing, we made a plan to hide in the overhead compartments and take the plane to it's next destination (which, fingers-crossed, was back to Missoula).

Flight attendants can be a tough bunch though and we picked up our carry-on luggage plane-side and made our way to the BART. *

Stepping out of the BART tunnel onto Powell Street was an altogether different world. Mostly because there were only 7 trees, all of which you can see in this photo.

You know you're in a big city when there is nary an eye batted at you while you drag your luggage behind you the 6 blocks to your hotel. Should I ever decide to take my rollerboard for a stroll here at home, I'm betting there'd be a couple of weird looks and possibly even an appearance in the local police blotter.** People report the darndest things.

We did eventually make it to our hotel and were completely amazed when we saw the view from our room.

So amazed in fact that we bartered for a new room with a better view. The front desk staff eventually caved to our demands and upgraded us to a higher floor. Then they let us pay $20 more a night to be 6 floors higher.

I guess it was a win-win.***

We spent the first day wandering around and familiarizing ourselves with our surroundings. This was, after all, going to be our home for the next 4 days so we better know where the nearest Tiffany & Co. was.

Turns out it was less than a block away. Turns out they actually don't serve breakfast at Tiffany's. Hmm. Since I don't want it to be breakfast by the time I get this post done, I'll pick this up tomorrow and tell you about the people and the places and the Jersey Shore marathon that Craig and I got sucked into watching. We're not proud about that.

*A mass transit train system that travels through tunnels under the city. It was here that I wished I hadn't watched all those action movies that show trains getting stuck in tunnels and eventually being engulfed in a gigantic fireball. Darn you, Jerry Bruckheimer.

**That might be extreme.

***At least that's what I tell myself.

Crowded

2010-10-18T20:43:00.002-06:00

Craig and I returned today from San Francisco where I ran in the Nike Women's Marathon. Here's a pic from yesterday morning's start and this wasn't even the front of the line! If you can find me I'll give you a million dollars and my house.* To say it was a bit crowded is an understatement . . . it took me over 14 minutes to even reach the official start.

Anyway, now that I'm back and can cross 'marathon-training' off of my to-do list I should have a little more time for blogging. After all, the only other thing I've got going on is planning a wedding. Easy, breezy, beautiful Cover Girl.***

Seriously though, I took bunches of pictures in San Fran so stay tuned. Really. I promise.

*If you can find me in less than 3 minutes, I might throw in the siamese too.**

**Actually, probably not on that one.

***I have a feeling their lawyers are going to contact me about this.

Finding the time

2010-10-10T23:10:00.001-06:00

If I can ever find the time between work, wedding planning, and getting ready to run a marathon a week from today, I would totally be blogging. There are a number of posts percolating in my brain so stay tuned. I promise I'm not gone forever.

House Guest

2010-10-02T22:12:00.005-06:00

I've had a guest staying at my house the last couple of days and it's been going just fine. We get along well, the conversation is easy, and she likes to go on walks which is good.

Vera however has taken it upon herself to let me know at all times, in a variety of volumes, her extreme displeasure with the entire situation. Here she is lecturing me about the hardships she's suffered since having a dog in the house.

Rosemary hasn't left the top of the refrigerator but I'm guessing based on Hammie's reaction to the cats, and her knowledge that said cats have claws, that's okay with her.

*I've started calling her 'Rosie the fridge sitter'

On the market

2010-09-26T21:47:00.007-06:00

This week has been one of the busier ones in recent memory, at least in my head. My head is swimming as I try to think of work and wedding plans and weekends and anything else that starts with a 'w'. * Ironically enough, a 'w' of it's own added itself to my week just today . . . water heater.

My house is old. In fact, it's now 7 years older than when I bought it at the ripe age of 102. With houses of this age come a variety of items that fall under the general term "character"*** and while it's a wonderful, wonderful little house, I'm always slightly nervous that I'm going to come home and find that one of the support beams located in the crawl-space-of-terror has finally given way underneath the weight of the piano and I'm going to have to descend the creepy carpet stairs to find my piano folders from junior high. I'm sure it's going to happen.

However, that's not where I'm headed with this post. Sunday's problem started early. Well, if I'm honest it started months ago when I realized that my showers were significantly less hot and thus significantly less long. I figured something was up but I kept pushing it to the end of my mental to-do list since I had much more important things to do.****

It couldn't be pushed away any longer after it became apparent that there was absolutely NO hot water. Not one drop so I went to church without a shower and served coffee with a smile, all the while sure that people were preoccupied with my greasy hair. I was.

As luck would have it my neighbor is a friend of Craig's, who invented a little do-dad for cleaning out the calcium deposits in water heaters, who also happened to be outside when we pulled up after a post-church breakfast. 5* He was only too happy to help as his afternoon chores included mowing his lawn.6*

He and Craig braved the scary shag stairs and got to work trying to remedy the problem. Hammie was equally as nervous as I was about the larger-than-life hobo spiders that I'm sure live down there and the mysterious sleeping bag in the corner.7* Now that I've put two and two together, perhaps there's an actual hobo that lives down there. That would explain a few things.

Anyway, because the water heater is in the crawl-space-of-nightmares, draining it was no easy task. At least that's what I hear from Craig.8* They tried a variety of hose configurations coupled with the blower from a shop vac but unfortunately the climb was too steep and gravity was their enemy. They resorted to buckets and I resorted to wiping up the water that I was constantly spilling (my job was to meet Craig halfway and go dump it outside).

When it was finally emptied of all of it's COLD water, my neighbor set to work with his handy-dandy tool and cleaned out all of the calcium build up while I went and bought new elements. A few inches of calcium cleaned away and it's as good as new. I guess I don't have to sell the house after all.

*Not really, my writing just worked out that way but while we're at it, let's add 'wife' to that list.**

**I'll quit now.

***Also known as sloping floors and poor insulation.

****There's not much that doesn't instantly become more important than a home project.

5*Breakfast instantly became more important than my lack of hot water. I have no shame.

6*Perhaps lawn mowing is at the bottom of his list.

7*That is not an exaggeration.

8*All kidding aside, I did help with this task . . . I'm not totally lame.

Manicure

2010-09-19T20:41:00.007-06:00

One particular semester in college, when sitting on the porch of my rented victorian was considered a busy day, I spent a lot of time doing my nails. I was an art major after all so I convinced myself that somehow it was part of my education. Made sense to me.

Anyway, as most of my hobbies go I went great guns for a bit and then like a shooting star I was gone. Burned out. No more painting of the nails. I let myself go in the nail department and it wasn't pretty. Hang nails and rough edges galore. Chips and cracks that Sally Hansen probably wouldn't go near.

Things are changing though and tonight I dusted off my manicure kit and grabbed my Essie bottle of 'Adora-A-Ball' polish.

After all, it would be unfortunate to have people looking at my hands and not be able to get past the unsightly cuticles.

He asked and I said 'Yes'.

I'm thinking that wedding planning is going to provide some serious blog fodder.

Lunch date

2010-09-16T21:25:00.009-06:00

A funny thing happened on my way to the office Tuesday. Heading back from town after lunch I pulled on to the narrow two-lane road that runs in front of our building. As I rounded the first corner I floored it (because I'm always doing that) and that's when my coworker, Mary, pulled out in front of me. What the? Alright then Mary, we'll race but I've got to tell you, you're driving a wagon.

My racing plans were quickly dashed when Mary slowed to a stop in front of me. Because I'm not totally irresponsible, and since Mary wants to drive a wagon and not a two door, I decided to take it easy too. Besides, how often does a person get to stop in the middle of the road for no apparent reason?*

As it turns out, Mary had a good reason for stopping, actually three . . . two cocker spaniels and a goat. I'll let you digest that picture for a bit. Mary, being the animal lover that she is, spied two cocker spaniels and a goat out for a great adventure on a Tuesday afternoon. The only problem was that their great adventure was taking place on the road. The road that leads to the highway. The road that a lot of dump trucks drive on. The road that girls with Subarus test their acceleration on. You get the picture and Mary didn't want to see the picture that could have been taken had the great adventure not been rerouted so she stopped. And so did I. And so did our coworker Ry. And then our coworker Brad, and well, it was a regular rodeo.

Mary had done a great job of corralling the spaniels, which I'm thinking wasn't too hard as one of them only had three legs (the picture is getting better isn't it?), and now everyone's attention was on the goat. However, the goat's attention was on the dogs and it was a little distraught over the fact that his buddies (or maybe her babies) were in the back of Mary's Subaru. So distraught in fact that all it could do was bleat and run around in circles successfully eluding capture by no less than 8 adults.

People in cars that didn't care about the fate of someone else's pets** slowly passed and wished us a luck with a wave of their hand, at least I think that's what that meant. The one hold-your-breath-moment came when a semi approached the chaos. It crawled along but the goat, in it's frenzy, wasn't sure what to do and though I didn't want to, I imagined that the only thing worse than seeing a goat run over, was seeing a goat run over slowly. I couldn't stand the thought so I rummaged around in my brain and pulled out my cattle herding skills which consisted of chasing the goat across the road and into the ditch all the while yelling 'Git!, Git!' and waving my arms like I was on fire. It wasn't pretty but it worked. In fact the goat was so freaked out that it collapsed in fright. Truth be told it collapsed under the weight of the big guy from Jersey who was also helping with the 1st Annual Whitefish Stage Spaniel/Goat Rodeo.***

All's well that ends well and after trying repeatedly Mary finally got ahold of the owner who arranged to pick up her menagerie at the office . . . but not before we took a group picture.

Yes, that cocker spaniel has a mohawk and yes, so did his three-legged buddy. I'm thinking the goat might have been in charge of the clippers.

*Those who drive in rush hour traffic in any city in the country need not answer that.

**The goat had a collar. Albeit a collar with no information but someone cared enough to put it on at least.

***I'm designing a logo right now.****

****No I'm not.

Wide

2010-09-12T21:58:00.003-06:00

It's street legal I'm sure.

Lies

2010-09-06T22:09:00.004-06:00

Today I celebrated a birthday, which happened to be mine, by filling my day with family and friends and filling my brain with denials that I was really turning 3!. Where does the time go? I swear that last year I was 27, and last week I'm sure I turned 30. Now here I am turning 3! and well, I'm not sure how I feel about that. But I digress.

My big day started out a little manic* but mellowed quite nicely and I spent the majority of the day with Craig and my parents. Part of it though, was spent in the Catholic school parking/recess lot playing basketball. Actually, Craig and Jeremy played and I tried to make sure that I didn't get beaned in the noggin while talking to Kelly.**

After a few games of '21', they decided to try their hand at dunking. Jeremy is very tall with long legs to propel him vertically so he did fine.

Craig, though not as tall with legs not as long actually had time before he slammed the ball into the hoop to look my way, give a wink, and say 'watch this Love' . . .

. . . or not.

*Have you ever found yourself stuck in an item of clothing? So stuck that your choices were to cut yourself out of it or wear it forever? Neither have I.

**You've got to watch out for her.