It's finally happened. I'm officially old. Not only am I home blogging on a Saturday night, sad enough in itself, but I have joined the ranks of the senile. I've never had a particularly good memory, which, while sometimes causing frustrations to my friends (we went there? really?) at least enables me to enjoy a book or film numerous times since I can't quite recall all the details.
But, despite my short-term memory, I've always thought that certain personal details were impossible to forget. I easily remember the names of my pets and my friends and places I went on vacation. I used to laugh at my mom for recording the names of all my teachers and classes in a childhood scrapbook. After being imprisoned with these people for an entire year, she expected me to forget them? I wish, right? I would like to get rid of most of my memories of Junior High, and most of school for that matter, but they stay right there, giving me my neuroses.
But today, while telling an anecdote about my eight grade Earth Science teacher, I found that I couldn't remember his name. Granted, Coach...Something wasn't a stellar educator or a mentor by any means. I remember playing lots of poker for Jolly Ranchers in his class. I also used his oft-granted "free time" to become top in the year in the card games Spit and Speed, vying for dominance with a loud girl named Rochelle.
Coach What's-His-Name was, like many teachers in rural Texas, a coach first, and a teacher second. I do remember that his dark brown hair was in the process of balding and that he seemed fairly gentle and soft-spoken for a coach. I remember he had once been a weatherman. I seem to recall that we made kites one day as a "science experiment". But his name is still lost in the recesses of my brain case.
I easily remember the names of other Texas coach/teachers I had. Coach Ledbetter designated boisterous students (I was not one) "spastic nimrods". Coach Blinko flashed a smile and called me "Blondie", making me want to punch out his gold tooth. Coach Thompson, pumped up on steroids, advised the class not to get hooked on nasal sprays. Coach Kennedy managed to waste an entire year on Texas History, of which I remember little other than the Alamo. There was also a particularly evil Coach Charles who I purposely re-arranged my schedule to avoid having as a teacher. (I'm not surprised I remember him; wickedness is branded onto the psyche. This guy had made my brother keep running during an asthma attack and given me detention for dropping an envelope with my name on it in the lunch room. No way was I going to submit to an entire year of World History with him. I won in the end, so there.) But the Science guy, who I did have class with for two whole semesters, is still coming up blank.
It doesn't really matter, of course. He hardly played a very important role in my education, and I hadn't thought about him in years. When my synapses finally fire and his name sparks up, I will shrug and go, "Oh yeah." I could even dig out my scrapbook and read in my mom's handwriting, "Eighth grade Earth Science: Coach ***". But it's not worth jostling the other blessedly hidden memories that might erupt from handling that scrapbook. It has pictures of me at age thirteen. Not nice.
So, I will just have to come to terms with my slowly rotting brain. I expect to soon be having conversations in which I talk about that recent movie, you know, the one based on that book--I think the cover was blue--starring that guy who's married to that woman from that show. You know, the one with the dog.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Ultra-caffinated
Fate recently poked me in the shoulder and insisted that I take a pilgrimage. An entire year had gone by without me traveling by plane--a new record for me--and the world was becoming unhinged. I had to restore the cosmic balance and hit the skies before Destiny took better aim and jabbed me in the eye instead.
I decided to venture to the Mecca of Mochas, the Garage of Grunge, the Bastion of Boeing itself: Seattle. My decision and Fate's poking might have been influenced just slightly by my parents, who live just south of that grand city, but it's best not to look too closely at these things. It ruins the magic of the universe.
No journey of atonement is complete without a little suffering, so the powers that be made sure that my trip took me through the lovely Salt Lake City airport, where I got to spend eight hours of penance. Not only was the entire building permeated with a Burger King grease smell, but a TV set to CNN was placed every five steps so there was no escaping the non-stop coverage of the Pope's visit to New York.
I'm sorry I haven't been to church in a very long time, but Purgatory is supposed to come much later.
Ahh, but relief for my pounding headache (grease smell + CNN + boarding announcements + do not leave your baggage unattended/report suspicious behavior/security threat orange/you deserve every bit of this suffering announcements = brain pain) was available. Starbucks, just down the stairs in Terminal E (you can ride the moving sidewalks to the escalator if you're tired), provided a latte full of caffinated goodness.
When I finally arrived at my Pacific Northwestern destination, it only seemed appropriate to give thanks to those makers of strong coffee by procuring an overpriced drink in the first ever Starbucks. My mom and I walked around downtown, passing no fewer than three coffee shops in some blocks. But Tully's was right out. Seattle's Best, while they have an excellent roast named after a cat--Henry's blend, can't be bad--was not on the agenda. Independent cafes weren't on my to-do list. My tour guide said "Original Starbucks", and nothing else would do.
Many other people obviously felt the same way, since the line stretched nearly out the door. Silly, really, that such a ubiquitous product could create a tourist trap, but that particular Starbucks must be one of the most profitable for the company. It had no seats or tables, so was hardly cozy, but it was mobbed. A group of buskers were singing outside, to make the wait more enjoyable. My latte was good, but I drank it in a city park down the street to get out of the way.
Fate, after dumping more punishment in the form of snow, hail, and sleet (in Seattle, in April. There were cherry blossoms and tulips out, but no spring is allowed for this Wyomingite), decided to relent. My journey home was smooth and trouble-free.
But I know better than to stay put for too long.
I decided to venture to the Mecca of Mochas, the Garage of Grunge, the Bastion of Boeing itself: Seattle. My decision and Fate's poking might have been influenced just slightly by my parents, who live just south of that grand city, but it's best not to look too closely at these things. It ruins the magic of the universe.
No journey of atonement is complete without a little suffering, so the powers that be made sure that my trip took me through the lovely Salt Lake City airport, where I got to spend eight hours of penance. Not only was the entire building permeated with a Burger King grease smell, but a TV set to CNN was placed every five steps so there was no escaping the non-stop coverage of the Pope's visit to New York.
I'm sorry I haven't been to church in a very long time, but Purgatory is supposed to come much later.
Ahh, but relief for my pounding headache (grease smell + CNN + boarding announcements + do not leave your baggage unattended/report suspicious behavior/security threat orange/you deserve every bit of this suffering announcements = brain pain) was available. Starbucks, just down the stairs in Terminal E (you can ride the moving sidewalks to the escalator if you're tired), provided a latte full of caffinated goodness.
When I finally arrived at my Pacific Northwestern destination, it only seemed appropriate to give thanks to those makers of strong coffee by procuring an overpriced drink in the first ever Starbucks. My mom and I walked around downtown, passing no fewer than three coffee shops in some blocks. But Tully's was right out. Seattle's Best, while they have an excellent roast named after a cat--Henry's blend, can't be bad--was not on the agenda. Independent cafes weren't on my to-do list. My tour guide said "Original Starbucks", and nothing else would do.
Many other people obviously felt the same way, since the line stretched nearly out the door. Silly, really, that such a ubiquitous product could create a tourist trap, but that particular Starbucks must be one of the most profitable for the company. It had no seats or tables, so was hardly cozy, but it was mobbed. A group of buskers were singing outside, to make the wait more enjoyable. My latte was good, but I drank it in a city park down the street to get out of the way.
Fate, after dumping more punishment in the form of snow, hail, and sleet (in Seattle, in April. There were cherry blossoms and tulips out, but no spring is allowed for this Wyomingite), decided to relent. My journey home was smooth and trouble-free.
But I know better than to stay put for too long.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
April Showers Bring May Snowmen
In Wyoming, April showers tend to arrive as snow. For the last few weeks, the mornings have been sunny, and the temperatures have gotten into the balmy forties before the clouds roll in bringing falling temperatures and light dustings of snow.
On my walks, I had started to see buds forming on trees, and green shoots were beginning to peek out of the soil in some front yards. The grass was still an unwholesome yellow-brown, and flower-beds were still covered in last years dead leaves, but I rejoiced at the occasional site of an adventuresome crocus poking out its orange or purple petals. (Crocus!)
For the most part, except for in the deep shadows of buildings I would avoid because of whatever might be lurking in those shadows, the snow had all melted from the ground in town. I had even started to see prairie dogs here and there (the lookouts saw me first, standing up on their hind legs, irresistably cute, those plague-ridden beasties), venturing out into the sunshine. I had put away my snow boots in favor of my long neglected sneakers. I had contemplated putting air in my basketball, as I could now see the courts. I even thought about rearranging my closet to put the skis in the back and bring the camping gear to the front.
As evident from the accompanying pictures, I'm glad I wasn't too hasty.
I woke up this morning to six inches of snow, and more was still coming down. The neighborhoods were filled with people shoveling the sidewalks and good-naturedly complaining about the hassle of the weather. An old lady saw me taking photos and told me she was taking pictures, too, to send to her grandson in Texas who would never believe snow in April. In Laramie, it could and has snowed in every month of the year.
A golden retriever romped in the drifts, while an Australian shepherd puppy broke away from his owner and ran gleefully down the walk. Robins sheltered under shrubberies, and my cats, wisely, stayed in bed.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Springiness
In honor of springtime, I painted a squirrel. I don't exactly know what a squirrel has to do with spring, since the fuzzy rodents seem to be around all the time, but I thought it was fitting nonetheless. Perhaps that advent of spring has simply brightened my outlook enough to convince me to get out my art supplies once again and attempt to add to my portfolio of masterworks.
So, spring. The sun definitely seems closer and warmer, or at least my current hemisphere seems more tilted in its general direction. In short, I seem to get warmer in the sunshine than I did in January. To put it another way, sun spots have re-entered the house and I, along with my cats, enjoy laying in them. To be clear, the sun feels more powerful than in the winter months. To be honest, I almost considered using sun screen the other day. To be fair, I don't think I really would have gotten sunburned. It is spring, after all, not summer.
Spring, while it might herald in the flowers (none yet in Wyoming, but I saw bloomin' for Cynthia in Colorado--why she gets her own shrubbery I'll never know. What's she like?) and the songbirds (I did see a few bazzin' robins and a barmy nuthatch that have returned from the south (Arizona? Mexico?)), also signifies the end of skiing season. I tried cross-country skiing the other day, and the bloody snow in the nearby mountains had melded into a bleedin' sheet of ice. I thought, blimey, I'm lucky I didn't fall down, but it wasn't for lack of opportunity. Downhill skiing is pretty near banjaxed, too, for all the record snowfall on the slopes. Most ski places shut down about this time of year regardless of the amount of snow left to play on, the bamsticks. Blast. I could keep skiing for months.
I skied the other week at Jackson Hole Resort and I shredded the place. I shredded some guy's face, too, but he totally deserved it. I knocked over an entire ski class, half of whom fell into the trees, uprooting a few of them. I felt a little bad about the trees. I totally got some serious air when I jumped out of that helicopter. (I was thankful they were flying that day. The whole time I was riding up the mountain in the gondola, while I was looking at the snow coming down, I could tell that the wind was blowing pretty seriously so I felt sure they wouldn't be flying. I said so, numerous times. I even checked my Blackberry to be sure that the weather I was seeing with my actual eyes matched the weather that the sensors were sensing.) I blasted down those Tetons; the powder was flying, and I skied so hard I pulverized my ski boot.
Seriously, after about four hours of beautiful turns on the super-steep slopes, all of a sudden I was totally having some serious trouble maneuvering. I seriously thought I was just getting tired and suggested a lunch break. My man and I went down to the Mangy Moose, which I seriously had to go to because of the terrific name and my man totally had to go to because they had seriously-fabulous Oregon Deschutes beer on tap. We had a quick burger which we ate totally ravenously because of all the energy we had used up with all the serious shredding. When it came time to buckle up my boots for another run, I totally discovered that the plastic on my right boot was completely shattered. I'm totally serious. The buckles had nothing left to pull together. I had seriously skied so hard and so awesomely that I had totally destroyed everything.
So, while I was bummed about having to replace my ski equipment, I was pretty psyched about replacing my ski equipment. I got to buy a new treat for myself, which I hardly ever do. I'm a big fan of the hand-me-down, because that means I have to work less and get more. It is nice, however, to have some brand new things once in a while. I hit a fabulous Spring ski sale (full of springiness) and got new boots and skis in the latest "so balanced just for women that they practically turn for you" style. They are called "Cool Minx Atomics" which I like the sound of (of which I like the sound, if you prefer).
So, with spring upon us and the ski season nearing a close, I had to try out my new gear. I went to the local ski place, which, after Spring Break wasn't even Wyoming crowded. I shredded that place, too. My new skis were so fast and fabulous that I felt like Lasse Kjus reborn. That's right, I'm a born-again Norwegian. What's more: for the first time ever, I did not fall one single time. In the past, sometimes I fell trying to stop or turn on a particularly steep bit. Sometimes I fell after hitting a chunk of ice or from looking at other people while not noticing that my skis had crossed. Sometimes I couldn't even figure out why I was suddenly on the ground. But not this time. I stayed on my feet for the entire day, like a pro.
Now I have the whole summer to forget all my skills. I have to put my Cool Minxes away for awhile and bring out a whole other set of muscles (with no awesome model name) for my summer activities. I went for a ten mile hike in Boulder this weekend, which included a climb up a peak and a snowy slide/hike down the other side. My knees, thighs AND calves were sore the next day. But I seriously totally shredded that blasted peak.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Brief Encounters with the Somewhat Famous
A thin, bleached-blond, highly-made-up, young woman occasionally comes to work at my place of employment. I haven't had the chance to talk to her about much besides work-related topics, but she has always reminded me of one of those girls in high school who thought they were going to make it on Broadway some day. She constantly emits a big smile, a bigger laugh (with perfect, dazzlingly white teeth, of course), and has a tinge of the phony about her.
This girl barely registered and certainly wasn't worth mentioning until a conversation I had with another coworker (one I'm actually friends with. Yes, I do have some friends.). My friend, who is quite droll, referred to Barbie as "Miss Wyoming". I laughed, seeing that as a perfect nickname for this girl. "No, seriously," she continued. "She's actually Miss Wyoming 2007. [Boss guy] was showing off a picture of her in a swimsuit and saying 'Look who I've got working for me.'"
Blatant creepy sexism aside, I thought this tidbit compelling. It explained her fake but cheerful friendliness, her bubbly attitude and the notion that she always looked as if appearing on stage. I wondered if she had a mantra which she repeated to herself. Something like, "smile smile, Miss Wyoming, smile smile..." Since then, she has not been working in my location, so I haven't had the opportunity to broach the subject. Although I'm not sure how I would. Perhaps something like, "So, have you heard of feminism?" or maybe, "I have to ask: what's your talent?" Given that it's Wyoming, it could be something like goat tying (no joke--what did those poor goat ever do, besides maybe eat some of your clothing) or pig wrestling.
But now I can say I once worked with a Miss Wyoming. For whatever that's worth. Perhaps a conversation opener at a party?
I can also say that I was once in Dan Rather's seat on an airplane. In the mid-'90s, I was sitting in Business Class through no fault of my own (like I've ever had an employer who would spring for that), and he came and hovered in the aisle near me. He had obvious plans to sit there, but I just smiled. No way was I giving up my premium seat. It turns out he had a seat in First Class, but was travelling with an associate (read: peon) who only travelled coach. He had hoped to meet for business talk in the middle--business class--but I had thwarted his plans. That made me feel pretty good, for some reason. I love messing with the privileged class.
Another anecdote I can relate, if we're talking about seeing famous people in unexpected places, comes from a trip to London back in 2000 or thereabouts. My man an I were walking in the expensive Knightsbridge district (near Harrods, although I'm not really sure why we were there. Just moseying through, I suppose) and I passed one girl on the street who looked slightly familiar. Then I passed another who looked exactly the same. The Olsen twins! Dressed in non-identical tan coats, and with a handler, the famous-for-I-don't-know-what-teenagers were right next to me on the British side walk. I have to admit, if they hadn't been nearly identical, I would never have recognized them. But still. The pre-anorexic, straight-to-video Olsen twins weren't a sight you see every day. Especially since I don't live near Hollywood. Or NYC.
Speaking of NYC, Richard Simmons once waved to me in Kennedy Airport. It was quite scary, actually. He's a bit freaky, and in his neon yellow overalls, he didn't look exactly stable. You know how crazy his hair is. He was being followed by an enormous bodyguard, which made me laugh. Who'd want to assault Richard Simmons? An unhappy customer shouting "Your Sweatin' to the Oldies 24 made me look stupid and I still didn't lose weight?"
As for airport stories, one time in DFW (that's Dallas, though why anyone would go there is a mystery), I saw the back and side of Rod Stewart's head. He was in a bar, and they had pulled down the metal grate over the storefront so that he could drink undisturbed. I was only a kid, but I came away with one impression: what an arrogant jerk. And I don't even like his music.
So, it's pretty obvious I don't have any really significant encounters with famous people. That's probably because I don't really like most people anyway, and just because they're famous doesn't mean I want to talk to them. Or ask them to pose for a photo. And I've never understood autographs, either. Who cares? My brother once got Gallegher's autograph on another plane trip, when I was a kid. I sat behind the famous fruit smasher. My mom insisted that he smelled like watermelons, but I think she was imagining things (or trying to be funny). I'm sure my brother did not make a fortune selling that signature on E-bay, so what was the point, really?
Besides, I can't beat my main man's famous people stories. He actually went to the movies with Julia Stiles. Okay, so she was about 13 and not really famous yet and the cousin of one of his friends, but still. She was in his car. And then, not even a year ago, he got taken to dinner by Dennis Lehane, writer of "Mystic River" and "Gone Baby Gone". So it's not quite Ben Affleck, but it's better than my lame stories. Richard Simmons. Come on.
This girl barely registered and certainly wasn't worth mentioning until a conversation I had with another coworker (one I'm actually friends with. Yes, I do have some friends.). My friend, who is quite droll, referred to Barbie as "Miss Wyoming". I laughed, seeing that as a perfect nickname for this girl. "No, seriously," she continued. "She's actually Miss Wyoming 2007. [Boss guy] was showing off a picture of her in a swimsuit and saying 'Look who I've got working for me.'"
Blatant creepy sexism aside, I thought this tidbit compelling. It explained her fake but cheerful friendliness, her bubbly attitude and the notion that she always looked as if appearing on stage. I wondered if she had a mantra which she repeated to herself. Something like, "smile smile, Miss Wyoming, smile smile..." Since then, she has not been working in my location, so I haven't had the opportunity to broach the subject. Although I'm not sure how I would. Perhaps something like, "So, have you heard of feminism?" or maybe, "I have to ask: what's your talent?" Given that it's Wyoming, it could be something like goat tying (no joke--what did those poor goat ever do, besides maybe eat some of your clothing) or pig wrestling.
But now I can say I once worked with a Miss Wyoming. For whatever that's worth. Perhaps a conversation opener at a party?
I can also say that I was once in Dan Rather's seat on an airplane. In the mid-'90s, I was sitting in Business Class through no fault of my own (like I've ever had an employer who would spring for that), and he came and hovered in the aisle near me. He had obvious plans to sit there, but I just smiled. No way was I giving up my premium seat. It turns out he had a seat in First Class, but was travelling with an associate (read: peon) who only travelled coach. He had hoped to meet for business talk in the middle--business class--but I had thwarted his plans. That made me feel pretty good, for some reason. I love messing with the privileged class.
Another anecdote I can relate, if we're talking about seeing famous people in unexpected places, comes from a trip to London back in 2000 or thereabouts. My man an I were walking in the expensive Knightsbridge district (near Harrods, although I'm not really sure why we were there. Just moseying through, I suppose) and I passed one girl on the street who looked slightly familiar. Then I passed another who looked exactly the same. The Olsen twins! Dressed in non-identical tan coats, and with a handler, the famous-for-I-don't-know-what-teenagers were right next to me on the British side walk. I have to admit, if they hadn't been nearly identical, I would never have recognized them. But still. The pre-anorexic, straight-to-video Olsen twins weren't a sight you see every day. Especially since I don't live near Hollywood. Or NYC.
Speaking of NYC, Richard Simmons once waved to me in Kennedy Airport. It was quite scary, actually. He's a bit freaky, and in his neon yellow overalls, he didn't look exactly stable. You know how crazy his hair is. He was being followed by an enormous bodyguard, which made me laugh. Who'd want to assault Richard Simmons? An unhappy customer shouting "Your Sweatin' to the Oldies 24 made me look stupid and I still didn't lose weight?"
As for airport stories, one time in DFW (that's Dallas, though why anyone would go there is a mystery), I saw the back and side of Rod Stewart's head. He was in a bar, and they had pulled down the metal grate over the storefront so that he could drink undisturbed. I was only a kid, but I came away with one impression: what an arrogant jerk. And I don't even like his music.
So, it's pretty obvious I don't have any really significant encounters with famous people. That's probably because I don't really like most people anyway, and just because they're famous doesn't mean I want to talk to them. Or ask them to pose for a photo. And I've never understood autographs, either. Who cares? My brother once got Gallegher's autograph on another plane trip, when I was a kid. I sat behind the famous fruit smasher. My mom insisted that he smelled like watermelons, but I think she was imagining things (or trying to be funny). I'm sure my brother did not make a fortune selling that signature on E-bay, so what was the point, really?
Besides, I can't beat my main man's famous people stories. He actually went to the movies with Julia Stiles. Okay, so she was about 13 and not really famous yet and the cousin of one of his friends, but still. She was in his car. And then, not even a year ago, he got taken to dinner by Dennis Lehane, writer of "Mystic River" and "Gone Baby Gone". So it's not quite Ben Affleck, but it's better than my lame stories. Richard Simmons. Come on.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Steve Lazmo and Other Nonsense
Steve Lazmo has requested that I blog about Jengo Fett.
May I just take this moment to point out that Steve Lazmo, who looks a bit like Steve Buscemi, insists on wearing a hamburger for a hat? I would never want to take any advice from this ketchup-covered guy.
I could also mention that Jengo Fett--a character from the horrendous Star Wars "prequels" developed by a money-grubbing George Lucas who couldn't leave well enough alone--is hardly worth my time. I mean, at least Boba (Jengo's son, Boba Fett) had a kickin' rocket pack.
When I lived in Aberdeen (the cool Aberdeen in Scotland, not the lame ones in Maryland or Washington State), I used to walk past a house with a life-sized cut-out of Boba Fett in the window. It was intimidating. He wore full body armor and had a laser gun of some sort, not to mention that rocket-propelled jet pack. But Jengo? He just looks like some random dude. Not cool at all. Why would I want to write about him and his army of clones?
This whole topic makes me look like a geek. It doesn't help that I am currently drinking water out of a glass with Darth Vader on it. And a Stormtrooper. And Grand Moff Tarken. It's probably also a bad sign that my cat, cuddled up next to me, is named Wookie.
I guess I am a geek. But does that mean I can only write about Ewoks?
But what else to write about? I could describe the weather again, because it's been pretty wack. Yesterday, the temperature was in the 50s here in Laramie, which felt strangely mild. When I drove an hour south to Fort Collins, Colorado, the 2000 foot plus drop in elevation changed the temp to 70-something. Girls were wearing tank tops and flip flops and other alliterative clothing items. It was so warm, I had to take my sweater off and put the air conditioning on in the car (which seemed a horrible anti-environmental thing to do).
But last night, it dumped snow again, and it is still snowing now. I went cross-country skiing in the mountains this morning and there had to be a least 8 inches of new snow up there. It was very nice, but confusing. How will I recognize spring when it arrives?
I guess I'll notice when flowers start to bloom and trees to bud. Right now everything is still brown (and white) and sleeping. I wonder if crocuses grow here and will push themselves up through the remaining snow. Daffodils would come next, but the environment here may not be right for them. High-elevation flower troubles, you understand.
I noticed that a nearby house also has a life-sized cut-out of a movie star in the window. It's Ahh-nold as the Terminator. Scary, but just not a cool as Boba Fett.
May I just take this moment to point out that Steve Lazmo, who looks a bit like Steve Buscemi, insists on wearing a hamburger for a hat? I would never want to take any advice from this ketchup-covered guy.
I could also mention that Jengo Fett--a character from the horrendous Star Wars "prequels" developed by a money-grubbing George Lucas who couldn't leave well enough alone--is hardly worth my time. I mean, at least Boba (Jengo's son, Boba Fett) had a kickin' rocket pack.
When I lived in Aberdeen (the cool Aberdeen in Scotland, not the lame ones in Maryland or Washington State), I used to walk past a house with a life-sized cut-out of Boba Fett in the window. It was intimidating. He wore full body armor and had a laser gun of some sort, not to mention that rocket-propelled jet pack. But Jengo? He just looks like some random dude. Not cool at all. Why would I want to write about him and his army of clones?
This whole topic makes me look like a geek. It doesn't help that I am currently drinking water out of a glass with Darth Vader on it. And a Stormtrooper. And Grand Moff Tarken. It's probably also a bad sign that my cat, cuddled up next to me, is named Wookie.
I guess I am a geek. But does that mean I can only write about Ewoks?
But what else to write about? I could describe the weather again, because it's been pretty wack. Yesterday, the temperature was in the 50s here in Laramie, which felt strangely mild. When I drove an hour south to Fort Collins, Colorado, the 2000 foot plus drop in elevation changed the temp to 70-something. Girls were wearing tank tops and flip flops and other alliterative clothing items. It was so warm, I had to take my sweater off and put the air conditioning on in the car (which seemed a horrible anti-environmental thing to do).
But last night, it dumped snow again, and it is still snowing now. I went cross-country skiing in the mountains this morning and there had to be a least 8 inches of new snow up there. It was very nice, but confusing. How will I recognize spring when it arrives?
I guess I'll notice when flowers start to bloom and trees to bud. Right now everything is still brown (and white) and sleeping. I wonder if crocuses grow here and will push themselves up through the remaining snow. Daffodils would come next, but the environment here may not be right for them. High-elevation flower troubles, you understand.
I noticed that a nearby house also has a life-sized cut-out of a movie star in the window. It's Ahh-nold as the Terminator. Scary, but just not a cool as Boba Fett.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Souvenirs
Although I enjoy traveling, and would like to do so more often, I rarely bring home souvenirs from my journeys. I don't like a cluttered home, so usually I pass up the trinkets and knicknacks that are sold in tourist shops in favor of spending the money on good meals or other memorable experiences. I don't care to have numerous items labeled with place names, just to prove that I've been there, so I don't have collections of spoons or shot glasses with the names of various cities or countries embossed on them.
Some exceptions exist. If, for example, someone were to offer to purchase a lovely item for me, I might choose a small piece of art or a painting. The item really has to stand out, though, for me to be interested. I have to find it unique enough to warrant looking at every day. I'm a pretty tough critic, unless it's got a monkey on it.
I tend to remember interesting trips and sights by pictures, so I admit to having a shelf full of photo albums detailing my adventures. You don't have to look at them if you don't want to, but they are very nice.
I do like to collect a souvenir or two from places I have lived. Spend a year or two somewhere and you have more time to naturally happen upon something worth buying. I have, for example, some Russian matryoshkas--the iconic, stackable, painted wooden dolls--from my time in Russia. I have a pretty painted mug with a thistle--the national symbol of Scotland--and a cute fluffy sheep magnet from my studies in Aberdeen. I also have a kickin' pair of green high top Doc Martens from downtown Amsterdam.
And now I have Chester, the Wyoming bear.
Two words: chainsaw art! You have to be impressed. And a little scared.
Chester greeted me when I came home from work one day. He seemed a natural addition to a Wyoming household.
I also have Eddie Lizard from Florida, scampering up my bedroom wall. He is from the St. Petersburg Saturday market, and finds Wyoming much too cold. I do miss seeing crazy lizards doing impressive push-ups on every sidewalk, and Eddie is a good reminder that every place has its charm.
My souvenirs from Oregon and Virginia are more lasting. Wookie was born feral in Veneta, Oregon. I think he looks happy to be a well-travelled indoor kitty.
Sammy was rescued from a shelter in Arlington, Virginia. She has since taken up sleeping, electronic music, and boxing.
Some exceptions exist. If, for example, someone were to offer to purchase a lovely item for me, I might choose a small piece of art or a painting. The item really has to stand out, though, for me to be interested. I have to find it unique enough to warrant looking at every day. I'm a pretty tough critic, unless it's got a monkey on it.
I tend to remember interesting trips and sights by pictures, so I admit to having a shelf full of photo albums detailing my adventures. You don't have to look at them if you don't want to, but they are very nice.
I do like to collect a souvenir or two from places I have lived. Spend a year or two somewhere and you have more time to naturally happen upon something worth buying. I have, for example, some Russian matryoshkas--the iconic, stackable, painted wooden dolls--from my time in Russia. I have a pretty painted mug with a thistle--the national symbol of Scotland--and a cute fluffy sheep magnet from my studies in Aberdeen. I also have a kickin' pair of green high top Doc Martens from downtown Amsterdam.
And now I have Chester, the Wyoming bear.
Two words: chainsaw art! You have to be impressed. And a little scared. Chester greeted me when I came home from work one day. He seemed a natural addition to a Wyoming household.
I also have Eddie Lizard from Florida, scampering up my bedroom wall. He is from the St. Petersburg Saturday market, and finds Wyoming much too cold. I do miss seeing crazy lizards doing impressive push-ups on every sidewalk, and Eddie is a good reminder that every place has its charm.
My souvenirs from Oregon and Virginia are more lasting. Wookie was born feral in Veneta, Oregon. I think he looks happy to be a well-travelled indoor kitty.
Sammy was rescued from a shelter in Arlington, Virginia. She has since taken up sleeping, electronic music, and boxing.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Drive-thru Services
I really dig espresso shacks. Common throughout the west, these little booths can provide a tasty boost (a booth boost!) on a long drive, with the added convenience of not having to leave the car. I quite missed espresso shacks during my time in Florida, especially when I was doing crazy things like driving to Key West on a lark. No, on the east coast you have to find a Starbucks or Dunkin' Donuts if you want a good coffee kick. I'd rather drink soda than rot-gut gas station coffee.
Espresso shacks are usually locally-owned and can provide quite unique coffee flavors. They are generally stashed in easily accessable parts of parking lots, near a main road, with a window on both sides so that the barista can help two customers at once. In Oregon, they were so plentiful that I was even able to satisfy a craving for a latte on a camping trip! In some towns, if you saw one too late to stop, you only had to drive a few more blocks to find another one.
While I've passed a few of these shacks in Laramie, I haven't visited any of them. I prefer to save my cash for when the caffeine is crucial to driving on the open road. More than once I've stopped at "The Humble Bean" in Fort Collins, Colorado, after a long day of hiking with an hour's drive more to go. In Bozeman, Montana, I picked up a needed boost at a crowded shack that offered five espresso shots to the brave of heart. There's a lot of open road in Montana.
Other drive-thru services don't impress me as much. I've used the drive-up window at the bank, but I usually don't need banking services while in my car. I'll admit to partaking of fast-food drive-thrus on occasion, but if I'm desperate enough to eat fast food, I've probably been driving so long I'm also desperate for the loo and have to go inside anyway.
Wyoming and Colorado have one more drive-thru service that I've never encountered before. Drive-thru Liquor Stores. No joke. The first time I saw one I thought I had misread the sign, but they are actually quite widespread. Now, on first reflection this sounds like a bad endorsement of driking and driving. Actually, on second and third reflection, it still does. I know it's cold outside, but if you have to get out of the car to get your groceries (no drive-thru Safeway so far), then you probably ought to be able to walk to get your booze as well.
I have yet to try this newfound drive-thru option. I just find it too weird, and I don't know if I would know what to ask for at such a window. "Do you have a nice red wine, not too expensive, but tasty?" "Ahh, excuse me, what's your microbrew selection?" "I'll have a bottle, no, two, of your best champagne." I suppose the idea is probably more along the lines of grabbing a quick case of Bud before the game/rodeo/stockshow/hunt.
I have enough trouble with drive-up windows anyway. I once scraped my side view mirror pretty badly on an espresso shack ledge in Sisters, Oregon. So I misjudged a little. I also have trouble with tollbooths when you have to get close enough to throw the coins in or push a button. Can you imagine trying to maneuver that sort of thing under the influence? Or even while thinking about alcohol?
And I'm sure the hooch doesn't come with a chocolate-covered coffee bean on top.
Espresso shacks are usually locally-owned and can provide quite unique coffee flavors. They are generally stashed in easily accessable parts of parking lots, near a main road, with a window on both sides so that the barista can help two customers at once. In Oregon, they were so plentiful that I was even able to satisfy a craving for a latte on a camping trip! In some towns, if you saw one too late to stop, you only had to drive a few more blocks to find another one.
While I've passed a few of these shacks in Laramie, I haven't visited any of them. I prefer to save my cash for when the caffeine is crucial to driving on the open road. More than once I've stopped at "The Humble Bean" in Fort Collins, Colorado, after a long day of hiking with an hour's drive more to go. In Bozeman, Montana, I picked up a needed boost at a crowded shack that offered five espresso shots to the brave of heart. There's a lot of open road in Montana.
Other drive-thru services don't impress me as much. I've used the drive-up window at the bank, but I usually don't need banking services while in my car. I'll admit to partaking of fast-food drive-thrus on occasion, but if I'm desperate enough to eat fast food, I've probably been driving so long I'm also desperate for the loo and have to go inside anyway.
Wyoming and Colorado have one more drive-thru service that I've never encountered before. Drive-thru Liquor Stores. No joke. The first time I saw one I thought I had misread the sign, but they are actually quite widespread. Now, on first reflection this sounds like a bad endorsement of driking and driving. Actually, on second and third reflection, it still does. I know it's cold outside, but if you have to get out of the car to get your groceries (no drive-thru Safeway so far), then you probably ought to be able to walk to get your booze as well.
I have yet to try this newfound drive-thru option. I just find it too weird, and I don't know if I would know what to ask for at such a window. "Do you have a nice red wine, not too expensive, but tasty?" "Ahh, excuse me, what's your microbrew selection?" "I'll have a bottle, no, two, of your best champagne." I suppose the idea is probably more along the lines of grabbing a quick case of Bud before the game/rodeo/stockshow/hunt.
I have enough trouble with drive-up windows anyway. I once scraped my side view mirror pretty badly on an espresso shack ledge in Sisters, Oregon. So I misjudged a little. I also have trouble with tollbooths when you have to get close enough to throw the coins in or push a button. Can you imagine trying to maneuver that sort of thing under the influence? Or even while thinking about alcohol?
And I'm sure the hooch doesn't come with a chocolate-covered coffee bean on top.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
No Degrees
The temperature outside currently stands at 0 degrees. While I know this distinction is quite arbitrary--after all, in Celsius it is a frigid but unexciting -18 degrees--the big, round zero still grabs my attention. Zero degrees makes sense in Celsius, since it divides freezing from above freezing. Zero degrees Fahrenheit just seems bloody cold.
When I went to work this morning it was 1 degree (Fahrenheit). I greeted the Texan vet Kris, who wishes more and more every day he was back in his native mild, humid climate, with this info. He said, "I guess that's better than no degrees." He was trying to put a positive spin on it, since he was headed outdoors for a miserably chilly day of cow vaccinating.
No degrees seems like it should describe a bland landscape in which it wouldn't matter if you wore long or short sleeves because the temperature was just so unremarkable. No degrees should be so irrelevant that no one noticed or thought to mention it at all, like in a personalized climate-controlled room or in the setting of a suspenseless novel. No degrees sounds boring, but harmless.
In reality, no degrees is pretty uncomfortable. Any exposed skin becomes sore and red (don't forget your gloves!) and your nose hairs start to crystallize. When the temperature hits zero, the wind chill numbers dive so far into the negative that they just don't matter any more. What is the difference between a wind chill factor of -22 and -32? They both just mean it's time to go inside.
No degrees also gets me thinking of one of my numerous shortcomings, the lack of letters after my name. I am surrounded by DVMs and MDs and CVTs and my own dear man Johnny BAMAMFA that my own little BA seems quite pathetic. But, I guess as in temperatures, one degree is better than none.
I still would rather bundle up for the cold than try to escape the heat. Besides, the last conversation I had with people pining for the warmth of Florida or Texas devolved into a discussion of pests and nasty creatures. Florida: mosquitoes, no-see-ums and palmetto bugs (giant flying cockroaches--don't let the pretty name fool you). Texas: scorpions and fire ants and tarantulas and more (giant) mosquitoes. Wyoming: no bugs for at least six months of the year. Because of things like zero degree temperatures. I may have to wear five layers, but at least all of those layers are bug-free.
When I went to work this morning it was 1 degree (Fahrenheit). I greeted the Texan vet Kris, who wishes more and more every day he was back in his native mild, humid climate, with this info. He said, "I guess that's better than no degrees." He was trying to put a positive spin on it, since he was headed outdoors for a miserably chilly day of cow vaccinating.
No degrees seems like it should describe a bland landscape in which it wouldn't matter if you wore long or short sleeves because the temperature was just so unremarkable. No degrees should be so irrelevant that no one noticed or thought to mention it at all, like in a personalized climate-controlled room or in the setting of a suspenseless novel. No degrees sounds boring, but harmless.
In reality, no degrees is pretty uncomfortable. Any exposed skin becomes sore and red (don't forget your gloves!) and your nose hairs start to crystallize. When the temperature hits zero, the wind chill numbers dive so far into the negative that they just don't matter any more. What is the difference between a wind chill factor of -22 and -32? They both just mean it's time to go inside.
No degrees also gets me thinking of one of my numerous shortcomings, the lack of letters after my name. I am surrounded by DVMs and MDs and CVTs and my own dear man Johnny BAMAMFA that my own little BA seems quite pathetic. But, I guess as in temperatures, one degree is better than none.
I still would rather bundle up for the cold than try to escape the heat. Besides, the last conversation I had with people pining for the warmth of Florida or Texas devolved into a discussion of pests and nasty creatures. Florida: mosquitoes, no-see-ums and palmetto bugs (giant flying cockroaches--don't let the pretty name fool you). Texas: scorpions and fire ants and tarantulas and more (giant) mosquitoes. Wyoming: no bugs for at least six months of the year. Because of things like zero degree temperatures. I may have to wear five layers, but at least all of those layers are bug-free.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Superstar Skiing
Today, while downhill skiing at a local resort, I got brief taste of what it might be like to live the lifestyle of the rich and famous. Well, a bit. I didn't get chauffeured in a stretch limo or have slope-side champagne and caviar. I didn't have a facial to protect my delicate skin from the elements or have access to a mountain chalet with a fire to warm my toes. I wasn't serenaded by live music or escorted around by Lasse Kjus (excellent Norwegian skier and what I shout when I complete a perfect ski move or manage some serious speed. I like to exclaim something in my joy, and "Nibbles!" or "Prong!" isn't suitable in this situation.)
I did have the slopes almost all to myself.
It’s Monday, and the scheduling gods favored me with the day off (never a bad thing on a Monday. Or any day, come to think of it.) The sky, clear and blue on a beautiful, sunny day, seemed to beckon me to the mountains. I never ignore that call (unless I have to be responsible and go to work or something).
Yesterday's dreary grey skies brought six inches of new powder to the nearby resort. Monday kept most people in town. It wasn't even Wyoming crowded, which is what I've been calling the small groups occasionally encountered out and about in this least-populated state. When I went cross-country skiing during a University ski team practice, it was Wyoming Crowded (a dozen people in view and numerous cars in the parking lot). Opening day for the latest Harry Potter movie this summer was Wyoming crowded (one theater, lots of eager fans). I'm sure the rodeos are Wyoming crowded (minus me).
Today, I never once had to stand in a lift line or avoid a downed snowboarder on the slopes. I didn't have to listen to punks yelling at their buddies or children screaming about the cold. I didn’t even get hit in the head by an errant ski pole.
It was fabulous. I skied for hours and had a blast. I even had a chance to ski through fresh powder for the first time. It was like gliding on air. My Atomics (thanks again, Dee) cut through the snow like nuclear missiles without the fallout. I felt like a star.
And on the drive home? Prongs! A very large herd, too. Wyoming crowded.
I did have the slopes almost all to myself.
It’s Monday, and the scheduling gods favored me with the day off (never a bad thing on a Monday. Or any day, come to think of it.) The sky, clear and blue on a beautiful, sunny day, seemed to beckon me to the mountains. I never ignore that call (unless I have to be responsible and go to work or something).
Yesterday's dreary grey skies brought six inches of new powder to the nearby resort. Monday kept most people in town. It wasn't even Wyoming crowded, which is what I've been calling the small groups occasionally encountered out and about in this least-populated state. When I went cross-country skiing during a University ski team practice, it was Wyoming Crowded (a dozen people in view and numerous cars in the parking lot). Opening day for the latest Harry Potter movie this summer was Wyoming crowded (one theater, lots of eager fans). I'm sure the rodeos are Wyoming crowded (minus me).
Today, I never once had to stand in a lift line or avoid a downed snowboarder on the slopes. I didn't have to listen to punks yelling at their buddies or children screaming about the cold. I didn’t even get hit in the head by an errant ski pole.
It was fabulous. I skied for hours and had a blast. I even had a chance to ski through fresh powder for the first time. It was like gliding on air. My Atomics (thanks again, Dee) cut through the snow like nuclear missiles without the fallout. I felt like a star.
And on the drive home? Prongs! A very large herd, too. Wyoming crowded.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Christmas Survey
Nothing says Christmas like a survey. Feminist Chick decided to send this questionnaire to me with the instructions that I forward it on to everyone in my address book. Rather than subject people to more junk email (and I'm not following instructions anymore, anyway, since I'm thirty and can do whatever I want now), I copied it onto my blog for people to peruse only if they wish. Consider it a Christmas gift.
1. Wrapping paper or gift bags? Neither. Why kill all those trees and create landfill waste? Reduce, reuse, re-wrap, and recycle. I like to use cloth (unbleached and woven from organic alpaca wool) wrapping that can also be used as towels, bedding or clothes. But if I did have to choose between the two, I would pick wrapping paper because it is so pretty and fun to rip.
2. Real tree or artificial? Real, provided it comes from a tree farm (see my last blog post). Evergreen trees smell so nice.
3. When do you put up the tree? I would like to put up the tree about a week before Christmas (around my birthday), but they are usually cut so early that I need to get one sooner to get it into some water.
4. When do you take the tree down? As soon as possible post Christmas. Nothing's quite as over as Christmas, and I HATE seeing Christmas decorations in January.
5. Do you like eggnog? I doubt it. I've never tried it because it sounds disgusting. Aren't there raw eggs in there? What about salmonella or botulism? I mean, risking disease with cookie dough is one thing, but a raw egg drink? Ick. I'm not from around here, anyway.
6. Favorite gift received as a child? Anything Star Wars related. Not the ridiculous new movies by loony George Lucas with his goofy CGI effects, but the old ones with the Ewoks. That's it, favorite gift: Ewok Village.
7. Do you have a nativity scene? No way. I'm evil and a heathen. But I did read in the paper about someone searching for their Jesus figure that had been stolen from their yard. Now there's a Christmas carol in the making.
8. Hardest person to buy for? Santa.
9. Easiest person to buy for? My cats. Christmas ribbon does the trick.
10. Worst Christmas gift you ever received? A kick in the face.
11. Mail or email Christmas cards? Mail. I love the postman. Platonically.
12. Favorite Christmas Movie? "Scrooge" with Albert Finney and Sir Alec Guinness as a horribly overacted Marley. "I Hate People" is my favorite song of all time.
13. When do you start shopping for Christmas? Not until December if I can help it. I hate shopping (and people).
14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas present? Reduce, reuse, re-wrap and recycle.
15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? Cookies. I make some wicked cookies, if I do say so myself. I think it helps to rock out while baking. Not only do I put on big band and Bing Christmas CDs, but Metallica and the Arctic Monkeys really produce results.
16. Clear lights or colored on the tree? Well. I used to like colored lights, but my man convinced me of their pedestrian nature. My white lights are nicely bourgeois.
17. Favorite Christmas song? The one with the horse whip. Or "Bring Back My Stolen Jesus".
18. Travel at Christmas or stay home? Whatevs. I like to travel all year long, so at Christmas it might be better to stay home and avoid the crowds (see answer to #12 or 13).
19. Can you name all of Santa's reindeer? Of course. Dancer, Dasher, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Jolsen, Donner, Blitzen, Rudolph, Osama, Pinko, and Jaggeroth.
20. Angel on the tree top or a star? Neither. I like to see a bare branch up there.
21. Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning? Morning. Patience is a virtue (and avarice a deadly sin). Watch out or you'll get nothing but a lump of coal.
22. Most annoying thing about this time of year? People forgetting my birthday.
23. What I love most about Christmas? The postman. He might bring presents.
24. Do you buy gifts for your pets? Of course. They would be sad if I forgot them. They especially like playing with ribbons, wrappings and boxes and ignoring their new toys.
25. Have you ever been Christmas Caroling? Yes. I went Christmas caroling with my brother's Cub Scout troop when I was young. I was that annoying little sister they couldn't get rid of (but I wasn't going to miss out on the hay ride and free cookies).
26. Hot chocolate or Hot Apple Cider? CHOCOLATE is always the answer.
1. Wrapping paper or gift bags? Neither. Why kill all those trees and create landfill waste? Reduce, reuse, re-wrap, and recycle. I like to use cloth (unbleached and woven from organic alpaca wool) wrapping that can also be used as towels, bedding or clothes. But if I did have to choose between the two, I would pick wrapping paper because it is so pretty and fun to rip.
2. Real tree or artificial? Real, provided it comes from a tree farm (see my last blog post). Evergreen trees smell so nice.
3. When do you put up the tree? I would like to put up the tree about a week before Christmas (around my birthday), but they are usually cut so early that I need to get one sooner to get it into some water.
4. When do you take the tree down? As soon as possible post Christmas. Nothing's quite as over as Christmas, and I HATE seeing Christmas decorations in January.
5. Do you like eggnog? I doubt it. I've never tried it because it sounds disgusting. Aren't there raw eggs in there? What about salmonella or botulism? I mean, risking disease with cookie dough is one thing, but a raw egg drink? Ick. I'm not from around here, anyway.
6. Favorite gift received as a child? Anything Star Wars related. Not the ridiculous new movies by loony George Lucas with his goofy CGI effects, but the old ones with the Ewoks. That's it, favorite gift: Ewok Village.
7. Do you have a nativity scene? No way. I'm evil and a heathen. But I did read in the paper about someone searching for their Jesus figure that had been stolen from their yard. Now there's a Christmas carol in the making.
8. Hardest person to buy for? Santa.
9. Easiest person to buy for? My cats. Christmas ribbon does the trick.
10. Worst Christmas gift you ever received? A kick in the face.
11. Mail or email Christmas cards? Mail. I love the postman. Platonically.
12. Favorite Christmas Movie? "Scrooge" with Albert Finney and Sir Alec Guinness as a horribly overacted Marley. "I Hate People" is my favorite song of all time.
13. When do you start shopping for Christmas? Not until December if I can help it. I hate shopping (and people).
14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas present? Reduce, reuse, re-wrap and recycle.
15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? Cookies. I make some wicked cookies, if I do say so myself. I think it helps to rock out while baking. Not only do I put on big band and Bing Christmas CDs, but Metallica and the Arctic Monkeys really produce results.
16. Clear lights or colored on the tree? Well. I used to like colored lights, but my man convinced me of their pedestrian nature. My white lights are nicely bourgeois.
17. Favorite Christmas song? The one with the horse whip. Or "Bring Back My Stolen Jesus".
18. Travel at Christmas or stay home? Whatevs. I like to travel all year long, so at Christmas it might be better to stay home and avoid the crowds (see answer to #12 or 13).
19. Can you name all of Santa's reindeer? Of course. Dancer, Dasher, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Jolsen, Donner, Blitzen, Rudolph, Osama, Pinko, and Jaggeroth.
20. Angel on the tree top or a star? Neither. I like to see a bare branch up there.
21. Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning? Morning. Patience is a virtue (and avarice a deadly sin). Watch out or you'll get nothing but a lump of coal.
22. Most annoying thing about this time of year? People forgetting my birthday.
23. What I love most about Christmas? The postman. He might bring presents.
24. Do you buy gifts for your pets? Of course. They would be sad if I forgot them. They especially like playing with ribbons, wrappings and boxes and ignoring their new toys.
25. Have you ever been Christmas Caroling? Yes. I went Christmas caroling with my brother's Cub Scout troop when I was young. I was that annoying little sister they couldn't get rid of (but I wasn't going to miss out on the hay ride and free cookies).
26. Hot chocolate or Hot Apple Cider? CHOCOLATE is always the answer.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Tis the Season
While I may be a humbug about Thanksgiving and it's assorted icky foods, I am positively cheerful when it comes to Christmas. I like Christmas songs and movies and cookies. You can't go wrong with Bing Crosby and some hot chocolate. And, with my current location, a white Christmas isn't too far-fetched.
So, while I have no decorations for other holidays (I'd like to see you try to put up pink Valentine hearts in my house), I do have ornaments and decorations full of Christmas holiday cheer.
My collection of ornaments makes me smile. I have favorite animals like moose and puffins, glass balls passed down from my grandmothers, and ornaments from Alaska, Amsterdam and, most recently, Centennial, Wyoming (a bison with a Christmas bow!) How can a grizzly hugging Santa because of a fish present not make you laugh?
Last weekend I decided to get a Christmas tree. I've not had one in years, since it just didn't feel right in Florida. I once considered decorating a palm tree, but those are hard to come by in apartment-size and they have too few branches for all of my ornaments. And I'm not that kooky.
I was surprised to find that Laramie did not offer many tree purchasing options. I discovered that many people enjoy cutting their own from a nearby woodlands. For ten dollars, you can get a permit to cut a tree in the national forest. For zero dollars, you can even go up to a remote part of the forest and illegally cut a tree. That seems more like Scrooge than Bob Cratchett, but there you go.
I didn't really like this do-it-yourself idea, because when I go for a hike in the woods I'd rather not see stumps of removed trees. I also worried about how one would choose a tree from an entire forest. What if I removed a chipmunk's winter stash? What if I snatched an owl's favorite tree? I couldn't live with the guilt.
So I bought a farmed tree from a nursery. It came from Wisconsin, which is a weird place for a tree to come from (cheese, maybe, but trees?), but at least I supported a farmer and left the forest alone.
Decorating was fun, and was helped along by Wookie, who also tried to eat the tree, to little effect. He enjoys the commotion and loves trying to knock ornaments down, so I put soft ones and bells on the lower branches especially for him. 
Sammy's only Christmas joy is ribbon, and since I wasn't wrapping presents, she declined to help with anything and removed herself from the situation.
The tree turned out great and the house is ready for Santa. Unfortunately, he will not be able to get down the chimney because some nasty soul blocked it off. Because you wouldn't use a fireplace in Wyoming, would you?!?
I can't leave him any milk and cookies because of the Wookie (abandoned food is fair game)and I can't leave the window open because it's about 12 degrees outside. I will just have to believe that Santa can overcome these tiny issues and bring some splendid gifts anyway. I've been mostly good this year. Really.
So, while I have no decorations for other holidays (I'd like to see you try to put up pink Valentine hearts in my house), I do have ornaments and decorations full of Christmas holiday cheer.
My collection of ornaments makes me smile. I have favorite animals like moose and puffins, glass balls passed down from my grandmothers, and ornaments from Alaska, Amsterdam and, most recently, Centennial, Wyoming (a bison with a Christmas bow!) How can a grizzly hugging Santa because of a fish present not make you laugh?
Last weekend I decided to get a Christmas tree. I've not had one in years, since it just didn't feel right in Florida. I once considered decorating a palm tree, but those are hard to come by in apartment-size and they have too few branches for all of my ornaments. And I'm not that kooky.
I was surprised to find that Laramie did not offer many tree purchasing options. I discovered that many people enjoy cutting their own from a nearby woodlands. For ten dollars, you can get a permit to cut a tree in the national forest. For zero dollars, you can even go up to a remote part of the forest and illegally cut a tree. That seems more like Scrooge than Bob Cratchett, but there you go.
I didn't really like this do-it-yourself idea, because when I go for a hike in the woods I'd rather not see stumps of removed trees. I also worried about how one would choose a tree from an entire forest. What if I removed a chipmunk's winter stash? What if I snatched an owl's favorite tree? I couldn't live with the guilt.
So I bought a farmed tree from a nursery. It came from Wisconsin, which is a weird place for a tree to come from (cheese, maybe, but trees?), but at least I supported a farmer and left the forest alone.
Decorating was fun, and was helped along by Wookie, who also tried to eat the tree, to little effect. He enjoys the commotion and loves trying to knock ornaments down, so I put soft ones and bells on the lower branches especially for him. 
Sammy's only Christmas joy is ribbon, and since I wasn't wrapping presents, she declined to help with anything and removed herself from the situation.The tree turned out great and the house is ready for Santa. Unfortunately, he will not be able to get down the chimney because some nasty soul blocked it off. Because you wouldn't use a fireplace in Wyoming, would you?!?
I can't leave him any milk and cookies because of the Wookie (abandoned food is fair game)and I can't leave the window open because it's about 12 degrees outside. I will just have to believe that Santa can overcome these tiny issues and bring some splendid gifts anyway. I've been mostly good this year. Really.
Monday, December 03, 2007
More Animal Paintings and Some Unnecessary Memories
Yeah, I know--another pronghorn. I can't help it; they are such interesting creatures that I can't resist painting them. I am still excited that they are easily spotted right outside of town. I shout, "Prong!" and point from the car every time. It's kind of like "Nibbles!" with me. It's almost a compulsion.
I also painted a wood duck, with a little artistic brightening of colors. I haven't seen one in a while, so I gave myself some fudge room. (Mmmm, a fudge room.) If a wood duck could duck, would it? I think so.
Finally, I painted a majestic eagle to appease anyone who might be monitoring my internet activity. The bald eagle is the mightiest, strongest and best creature and can beat anyone else in the world. Now, stop calling me a pinko just because I don't like traditional Thanksgiving foods. Or barbeque.
The eagle was a bit difficult to paint because it brought back haunting memories of elementary school. All students were forced to attend these hideous gatherings called 'pep rallies' where the high school cheerleaders would chant rhymes and the football team would try to look tough and the K-12 crowd would yell at top volume from the bleachers. When I got old enough, I would hide in the library, but before I became so clever, I would draw the eagle mascot on a piece of paper and write "Go Big Green" or "Kill the Pirates" or some other violent slogan to wave from the stands. Looking back, this odd Friday ritual must have helped turn me into a non-football playing pacifist and a crowd-hater. It at least started my suspicions regarding organized groups of mindless followers.
So, in an effort to forget troubling memories of school and preserve what's left of my sanity, this will be my one and only bald eagle painting. Hang those Texas Eagles. Good thing they weren't the Prongs.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Here's Lookin' at Ewe
Today at work I met a sheep in dog's clothing. This deluded farm creature had a thick, shaggy coat of wool and a blanket to wear on top of that (just like the many dogs in coats I saw today), but no, the barn would not do for her day at the vet. Dale the sheep made herself at home in a dog run, contentedly munching hay from her make-shift manger and watching people through the bars.
I never did get a good answer to why she was allowed indoors; she was quite a bit larger than most house pets. I heard people refer to her as a "lamb", but they were "kid"ding themselves (wait, that's a goat. Whatever. I'd love to see a goat in a dog kennel, too...). Dale was no Easter baby. She had substantial girth and would run you over in a stampede, make no mistake.
I did enjoy the barnyard smell of hay and earth that Dale brought into the building, especially compared to dirty, stanky dogs. She also appeared a lot calmer and quieter than many of the canine guests who seem to think manic barking is a great form of entertainment.
The unusual kenneling situation brought out the worst of puns in people. Actual overheard conversation: "Someone's here to see ewe." "What a baaaad joke." Maybe it was just the oddity of having an outdoor animal inside, but Dale brought out a lot of silliness in my coworkers. And all she had to do was stand there.
I never did get a good answer to why she was allowed indoors; she was quite a bit larger than most house pets. I heard people refer to her as a "lamb", but they were "kid"ding themselves (wait, that's a goat. Whatever. I'd love to see a goat in a dog kennel, too...). Dale was no Easter baby. She had substantial girth and would run you over in a stampede, make no mistake.
I did enjoy the barnyard smell of hay and earth that Dale brought into the building, especially compared to dirty, stanky dogs. She also appeared a lot calmer and quieter than many of the canine guests who seem to think manic barking is a great form of entertainment.
The unusual kenneling situation brought out the worst of puns in people. Actual overheard conversation: "Someone's here to see ewe." "What a baaaad joke." Maybe it was just the oddity of having an outdoor animal inside, but Dale brought out a lot of silliness in my coworkers. And all she had to do was stand there.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
High Altitude Pie Troubles
I woke up on Thanksgiving morning, not to cook the turkey or make the stuffing--because I had decided to forgo those troublesome dishes--but to make the pies. Pie, to me, is the root of Thanksgiving tradition, after the actual gratitude. Keep your yams, cram your cranberries, stuff your stuffing, but don't forget the pie.
So, Thursday morning, I carefully crafted flaky pie crust from my grandmother's recipe. I made a delectable, professional-looking chocolate tart. I whisked together the ingredients for a delicious pecan pie, my only official Thanksgiving dessert. Why eat a boring pumpkin pie, when you can have corn syrup, nuts and butter? Cooked fruit is generally squashy and nasty, anyway, so cherry, apple and blueberry pies are right out. I mean, I'd eat an apple struedel if it came with a free trip to Central Europe, but otherwise give me something with either chocolate or nuts. Or both.
Anyway, the pie looked great and went into the oven for its hour of blissful baking. I set about making some salad for the feast and some homemade bread, which turned out fantastically. I had done research about baking at 7200 feet, and learned that most breads and baked goods came out dry at this elevation. I had easily mastered the technique of adding more moisture to my culinary delights, and my scones have never been better.
This pecan pie was a different kettle of fish. Well, for starters, there was no fish in it, although that was probably a good thing. But, not a half an hour into the baking, I started to smell something burning. Now, as a moderately successful baker, I know that one can't constantly open the oven door to peek at one's masterpiece because that can affect the stable oven temperature and cause poor results. So, I had let the pie bake unchaperoned, which turned out to be a huge mistake. By the time I investigated the cause of the smokey smell, my pie hadst runneth over. At 350 degrees (Fahrenheit, obviously) and 7200 feet (not metres), my pecan pie had boiled.
All I could do was exclaim loudly as Karo syrup turned my oven into a burnt candy factory. The pie had turned inside out, and smoke billowed into the kitchen. I had to open the window even though it was only about 10 degrees (Fahrenheit, again) outside.
I turned the oven off and did the only thing I could think of: I called my parents. My dad answered, and when I told him I had a pie emergency, he immediately put my mom on the phone. Unfortunately, my mom's boundless wisdom in kitchen matters stopped short at about 680 feet. Her advice included cleaning the oven as soon as possible and trying to salvage the pecans, which are quite expensive.
My main man and I tackled the quickly hardening corn syrup. He scraped layer after layer off of the bottom of the oven, while I tried to then remove the pie innards from our spoon and spatula scraping tools. That burnt candy was extremely hard and very sharp. It had become especially congealed on one plastic spatula, and as I tried to pry it off, it ripped a large gash in my thumb. This was no paper cut; a portion of skin was missing entirely, and it bled for over ten minutes. It still hurts now when I flex my poor little thumb. High altitude candy can be dangerous.
Once the bulk of the unexpected spillage had been removed (no animals were harmed in this disaster, except for me and my thumb), I returned the pie to the oven at a lower temperature. Although more of a pecan crumble by the time it was served, it was still quite tasty and acceptable to my guests. They weren't just being nice, either, because both pies were completely devoured during our two days' celebration, along with our main course of bangers and mash. With a few turkey cutlets on the side.
So, Thursday morning, I carefully crafted flaky pie crust from my grandmother's recipe. I made a delectable, professional-looking chocolate tart. I whisked together the ingredients for a delicious pecan pie, my only official Thanksgiving dessert. Why eat a boring pumpkin pie, when you can have corn syrup, nuts and butter? Cooked fruit is generally squashy and nasty, anyway, so cherry, apple and blueberry pies are right out. I mean, I'd eat an apple struedel if it came with a free trip to Central Europe, but otherwise give me something with either chocolate or nuts. Or both.
Anyway, the pie looked great and went into the oven for its hour of blissful baking. I set about making some salad for the feast and some homemade bread, which turned out fantastically. I had done research about baking at 7200 feet, and learned that most breads and baked goods came out dry at this elevation. I had easily mastered the technique of adding more moisture to my culinary delights, and my scones have never been better.
This pecan pie was a different kettle of fish. Well, for starters, there was no fish in it, although that was probably a good thing. But, not a half an hour into the baking, I started to smell something burning. Now, as a moderately successful baker, I know that one can't constantly open the oven door to peek at one's masterpiece because that can affect the stable oven temperature and cause poor results. So, I had let the pie bake unchaperoned, which turned out to be a huge mistake. By the time I investigated the cause of the smokey smell, my pie hadst runneth over. At 350 degrees (Fahrenheit, obviously) and 7200 feet (not metres), my pecan pie had boiled.
All I could do was exclaim loudly as Karo syrup turned my oven into a burnt candy factory. The pie had turned inside out, and smoke billowed into the kitchen. I had to open the window even though it was only about 10 degrees (Fahrenheit, again) outside.
I turned the oven off and did the only thing I could think of: I called my parents. My dad answered, and when I told him I had a pie emergency, he immediately put my mom on the phone. Unfortunately, my mom's boundless wisdom in kitchen matters stopped short at about 680 feet. Her advice included cleaning the oven as soon as possible and trying to salvage the pecans, which are quite expensive.
My main man and I tackled the quickly hardening corn syrup. He scraped layer after layer off of the bottom of the oven, while I tried to then remove the pie innards from our spoon and spatula scraping tools. That burnt candy was extremely hard and very sharp. It had become especially congealed on one plastic spatula, and as I tried to pry it off, it ripped a large gash in my thumb. This was no paper cut; a portion of skin was missing entirely, and it bled for over ten minutes. It still hurts now when I flex my poor little thumb. High altitude candy can be dangerous.
Once the bulk of the unexpected spillage had been removed (no animals were harmed in this disaster, except for me and my thumb), I returned the pie to the oven at a lower temperature. Although more of a pecan crumble by the time it was served, it was still quite tasty and acceptable to my guests. They weren't just being nice, either, because both pies were completely devoured during our two days' celebration, along with our main course of bangers and mash. With a few turkey cutlets on the side.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Fizzy Problems
1. I'm not British. Oh how lovely to have a proper English accent or a charming Scottish brogue and a sharp, dry wit! I'd get to call people bloody gits and watch brand new episodes of "Doctor Who" and live to a soundtrack of Franz Ferdinand, the Fratellis and the Arctic Monkeys and other cool bands that I've never even heard of because I'm on this side of the Pond. I'd walk on the moors and then have a spot of tea and be inspired by great authors and maybe haunt an old castle by a loch. But I can't do that as an American. I'd just be a poser.
2. I'm a poser. I enjoy using foreign slang. I have an alter ego who gives cheerful customer service and answers the phone. I sometimes wear a University of Oregon hat, as if I ever went there.
3. I don't know any goats. What life is complete without a goat friend?
4. I haven't had my distemperament shot. This should probably be major problem #1, since it would explain why I'm such a grumpy git. This vaccine--in dogs, at least, according to a slightly ignorant customer at work--dramatically changes one's temperament. It's what creates loyal dogs from crazy puppies, or what turns sweet young dogs into vicious beasts. I guess this explains why vaccination protocols can be such a contentious subject.
5. I haven't had my distemper shot, either. Maybe I've already caught the virus. I might be the first human case on record. I feel a little funny.
6. I can only grow cacti and now one of them has gnats.
7. I'm completely mental and should be banjaxed.
2. I'm a poser. I enjoy using foreign slang. I have an alter ego who gives cheerful customer service and answers the phone. I sometimes wear a University of Oregon hat, as if I ever went there.
3. I don't know any goats. What life is complete without a goat friend?
4. I haven't had my distemperament shot. This should probably be major problem #1, since it would explain why I'm such a grumpy git. This vaccine--in dogs, at least, according to a slightly ignorant customer at work--dramatically changes one's temperament. It's what creates loyal dogs from crazy puppies, or what turns sweet young dogs into vicious beasts. I guess this explains why vaccination protocols can be such a contentious subject.
5. I haven't had my distemper shot, either. Maybe I've already caught the virus. I might be the first human case on record. I feel a little funny.
6. I can only grow cacti and now one of them has gnats.
7. I'm completely mental and should be banjaxed.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Furry Notions
Sometimes I think I would prefer having fur rather than this silly skin. Although I like wrapping up in fuzzy, comfy clothes, I hate the process of changing. Maybe that's one reason why I hate shopping: changing rooms. I just really dislike pulling garments on and off. I also dislike the nasty carpets in most changing rooms that make me feel like I will pick up diseases and fungi if I'm not wearing socks. I would much rather have a nice furry coat that would keep me warm at all times and not have to be removed.
There's another problem, I guess. I have an affliction I like to refer to as TATs. Temperature Adjustment Troubles. When I get cold, I have trouble warming up. When I get hot, it feels like I will never cool off. I constantly add and remove layers in order to achieve some average temperature that never arises. If I drink a hot cup of tea, I have to throw my sweatshirt out the window. If I eat some ice cream, I have to add two pairs of socks for every scoop. I'm tired of clothes.
If I only had a furry outer layer, I could be the next Bigfoot. I could live out in the woods and scare people for fun. The biggest problem with that scenario (besides the lack of a naturally growing fur coat) is that my feet are decidedly average in size. They can hardly be described as big by any stretch of the imagination, and if I had to put on prosthetics in order to leave the big, scary prints, that would defeat the point of not having to change clothes.
Not that I mind being wrapped in cozy comfort. I love wearing soft, warm clothes that have plenty of room to move and pockets to put my cold hands in. Unfortunately, women's clothes generally provide little comfort and next to no pockets. Women are expected to dress for 'the occasion' which seems to mean wearing stupid shoes that are impossible to walk in and having nowhere to stash your wallet.
I like winter clothes more than summer clothes. I prefer soft sweaters and fuzzy fleeces to shorts and tank tops. Cold weather can be conquered with the addition of layers. Hot weather is impossible to beat. There is only so much that you can take off and still be considered decent. I mean, a bikini top is only appropriate in certain situations, unless you're Britney Spears.
I don't really know why I dislike changing clothes so much, but I do. Take my work for instance (please?). The large animal techs and doctors have to change into overalls when they go out to the barn. COMMUNAL overalls. Ick. I don't shop at thrift stores because I can't stand the thought of shared clothes cooties (and I don't have the patience to dig through bins). Anyway, they have to change off and on throughout the day, because they are expected to look nicer (wear khakis) when dealing with small animals. The dogs and cats don't seem to care, but presumably the clients do.
I would go mad(der than I already am) if I had to change so often. I hate even putting on jeans after taking a shower. I would wear pyjamas all day if they weren't ridiculously covered in sheep and penguins. Changing back and forth all day long would be a nightmare. Today I drew blood from a horse and wore my khaki scrub pants. Ha. I'm a rebel with the cause of LIMITED CLOTHING CHANGES.
The horse didn't mind that I didn't wear overalls. He didn't even try to kick me when I stuck a big needle in his neck.
Today I also pulled some porcupine quills out of a Malamute's snout. He had a lovely fur coat that looked cozy and warm. He didn't comment on my khakis, but he was pretty drugged up at the time.
There's another problem, I guess. I have an affliction I like to refer to as TATs. Temperature Adjustment Troubles. When I get cold, I have trouble warming up. When I get hot, it feels like I will never cool off. I constantly add and remove layers in order to achieve some average temperature that never arises. If I drink a hot cup of tea, I have to throw my sweatshirt out the window. If I eat some ice cream, I have to add two pairs of socks for every scoop. I'm tired of clothes.
If I only had a furry outer layer, I could be the next Bigfoot. I could live out in the woods and scare people for fun. The biggest problem with that scenario (besides the lack of a naturally growing fur coat) is that my feet are decidedly average in size. They can hardly be described as big by any stretch of the imagination, and if I had to put on prosthetics in order to leave the big, scary prints, that would defeat the point of not having to change clothes.
Not that I mind being wrapped in cozy comfort. I love wearing soft, warm clothes that have plenty of room to move and pockets to put my cold hands in. Unfortunately, women's clothes generally provide little comfort and next to no pockets. Women are expected to dress for 'the occasion' which seems to mean wearing stupid shoes that are impossible to walk in and having nowhere to stash your wallet.
I like winter clothes more than summer clothes. I prefer soft sweaters and fuzzy fleeces to shorts and tank tops. Cold weather can be conquered with the addition of layers. Hot weather is impossible to beat. There is only so much that you can take off and still be considered decent. I mean, a bikini top is only appropriate in certain situations, unless you're Britney Spears.
I don't really know why I dislike changing clothes so much, but I do. Take my work for instance (please?). The large animal techs and doctors have to change into overalls when they go out to the barn. COMMUNAL overalls. Ick. I don't shop at thrift stores because I can't stand the thought of shared clothes cooties (and I don't have the patience to dig through bins). Anyway, they have to change off and on throughout the day, because they are expected to look nicer (wear khakis) when dealing with small animals. The dogs and cats don't seem to care, but presumably the clients do.
I would go mad(der than I already am) if I had to change so often. I hate even putting on jeans after taking a shower. I would wear pyjamas all day if they weren't ridiculously covered in sheep and penguins. Changing back and forth all day long would be a nightmare. Today I drew blood from a horse and wore my khaki scrub pants. Ha. I'm a rebel with the cause of LIMITED CLOTHING CHANGES.
The horse didn't mind that I didn't wear overalls. He didn't even try to kick me when I stuck a big needle in his neck.
Today I also pulled some porcupine quills out of a Malamute's snout. He had a lovely fur coat that looked cozy and warm. He didn't comment on my khakis, but he was pretty drugged up at the time.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Nibbles Johnson Returns
The mushrooms in the forest are long gone, but I've still been given a chance to cry "Nibbles!" This little guy and his buddies were the highlight of my Halloween. Well, that and all the left-over peanut butter cups. I enjoyed watching the gradual destruction of all the neighborhood pumpkins, and I was greatly amused when they started sampling mine. Even better, they ate the whiskers off the cat-o-lantern first. It's like us eating the ears off a chocolate bunny.
Very few trick-or-treaters came to the house, even though it's in a nice little neighborhood. Perhaps the half eaten pumpkin was just too scary. That's okay, because I don't like answering the door anyway.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Cross-Country Skiing
Today, I went cross-country skiing for the first time in three years. The sun shone brightly on the snow from a brilliantly blue sky, and my sweaty struggles to get uphill with long skinny boards attached to my feet made the twenty-five degree weather seem not so cold.
Okay, so I often slid backwards trying to go upslope and I admit to falling on a few of the downhills (I know that the snow was about five inches deep, because I managed to expose the dirt on one masterful face-down slide), but I still had fun. I picked an easy trail only ten minutes from home, which had numerous loops through the aspens and pines. I was impressed with how remote the area seemed, since the interstate passed quite close by. The snow must have muffled most of the sound, because everything was just beautiful.
After my thighs gave out from skiing, I wasn't ready to go home yet. Still warm from my battle with the hills, I decided to take a hike in an area that had received a little less snow. There was only and inch or two near the Vedauwoo rocks, so I hiked a few miles in my new snow boots.
They worked great, in case you were wondering. My toes stayed toasty and dry.
The icicles clinging to the rocks created an unexpected touch, and the entire wintery scene felt very peaceful. I saw rabbit prints in the snow, and a few birds hopped about braving the cold.
I guess not all the birds migrate south. While hiking the other day, I saw a bald eagle soaring effortlessly overhead, and not long later a golden eagle glided over my car as I drove home. The sparrows still come to my bird feeder, and the pigeons still roost in the falling down roof of a neighborhood house.
I'm glad I won't be going south for the winter, either. Today made me excited for winter sports. I look forward to getting on snowshoes and downhill skis again.
I'm planning to take a lesson on cross-country skiing techniques.
Okay, so I often slid backwards trying to go upslope and I admit to falling on a few of the downhills (I know that the snow was about five inches deep, because I managed to expose the dirt on one masterful face-down slide), but I still had fun. I picked an easy trail only ten minutes from home, which had numerous loops through the aspens and pines. I was impressed with how remote the area seemed, since the interstate passed quite close by. The snow must have muffled most of the sound, because everything was just beautiful.
After my thighs gave out from skiing, I wasn't ready to go home yet. Still warm from my battle with the hills, I decided to take a hike in an area that had received a little less snow. There was only and inch or two near the Vedauwoo rocks, so I hiked a few miles in my new snow boots.
They worked great, in case you were wondering. My toes stayed toasty and dry.
The icicles clinging to the rocks created an unexpected touch, and the entire wintery scene felt very peaceful. I saw rabbit prints in the snow, and a few birds hopped about braving the cold. I guess not all the birds migrate south. While hiking the other day, I saw a bald eagle soaring effortlessly overhead, and not long later a golden eagle glided over my car as I drove home. The sparrows still come to my bird feeder, and the pigeons still roost in the falling down roof of a neighborhood house.
I'm glad I won't be going south for the winter, either. Today made me excited for winter sports. I look forward to getting on snowshoes and downhill skis again.
I'm planning to take a lesson on cross-country skiing techniques.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Soup Addendum
My last post needed photo evidence, but the photo upload function was busted. I waited until the blog geeks fixed the system (because I sure didn't know how to) and added these pictures.
Meticulous attention to soup details resulted in a masterpiece of a meal last night, perfectly warm and soothing and colorful.
Today is a coffee and biscuit kind of day. For me, anyway. The squirrels prefer to eat my neighbor's front porch pumpkins. I guess the little critters need all the calories they can get, and they probably have little understanding of holiday decor. I agree with them, though. Snow dangling from decorative cobwebs makes them seem more sad than spooky.
Looks like I may have my first white Halloween in years, and a white Christmas can't be too far fetched. Despite the winter wonderland, I'll forgo washing my hands and face and hair in snow. I'll leave that to Rosemary Clooney.
Meticulous attention to soup details resulted in a masterpiece of a meal last night, perfectly warm and soothing and colorful.
Today is a coffee and biscuit kind of day. For me, anyway. The squirrels prefer to eat my neighbor's front porch pumpkins. I guess the little critters need all the calories they can get, and they probably have little understanding of holiday decor. I agree with them, though. Snow dangling from decorative cobwebs makes them seem more sad than spooky.
Looks like I may have my first white Halloween in years, and a white Christmas can't be too far fetched. Despite the winter wonderland, I'll forgo washing my hands and face and hair in snow. I'll leave that to Rosemary Clooney.
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