Japan and Thailand

After C. picked us up and another obligatory round of hugging and laughing was taken care of, we went to the Japanese garden.  It closed at 5.  We arrived around 4:50.  So we peeked over the wall instead.

It was pretty.








Very Japan-esque.


We went to  Pok Pok for dinner.  Dear Lord above, was that good Thai food!  Imagine the best pad thai you've ever had. Take everything you know about Thai food in the U.S. Now forget all of it.

We had sil krohng muu yang - ribs marinated in whiskey, ginger, and Thai spices. Kai yaang - a roasted game hen with dipping sauces.  (I liked the vinegary one.)  The curry (kaeng om neua) was light and spicy, not heavy and milky. It was so good that we started dipping the other meats in the curry so we didn't wasted any. The papaya pok pok was cool yet very spicy.  We actually ordered to cool our mouths from the other dishes.  Poor planning on our part.  It was definitely the hottest dish we had.


Full bellies, delighted to be back together, we fell asleep scattered across C's apartment - a lovely start to a lovely week.

Staying Behind

Moving away is difficult.  Remaining behind seems like it may be even worse at times.

Because of a little snafu with a branch of the military last year, I ended up staying in The North for an extra year getting my master's degree instead of starting residency.  Most days I have a pretty cheerful outlook on it.  It may have taken me a month or so to get the outlook, but it's there now.  There have been many challenging things about this situation.  A medium sized one is the huge chunk of my friends who moved up, up, and away to start their residencies.  

Two of my best friends, J. and C., are in Chicago and Portland, respectively.  J and I promised to make a valiant attempt to get away together once a year.  She is infinitely more valiant than I, and so gave up a week of her vacation to meet me in Portland.  I gave up a week of studying and classes.  It was quite a sacrifice, but it had to be done.

I think when you haven't seen someone in awhile, they freeze in your mind. You maintain a snapshot of the way they were the last time you saw them.  That's why high school friends stay 18 and your great-aunt squeezes your cheek and tells you how much you've grown.  It's also why I really dislike funerals, but I digress.

The last time I saw J was at her wedding last fall.  My mental J was glowing and happy and beautiful.  The J I saw in the airport was tired and happy and beautiful.  Plus her hair was about six inches longer.  We squealed and hugged and laughed as women are wont to do when they reunite.

It took me two days to place what it was that was different about her.

She's a doctor now.

She has developed that lovely confidence in her abilities and decisions that make patients believe that you know best.  She's brilliant, of course, and that hasn't changed, and patients have always liked her.  (It's rather difficult to dislike the girl.)  But this...this is new.  I love it and am horrifyingly proud of her.  I am at the same time sad that I am missing out on a year of growing and developing as a physician.  It's a strange place to be.

Billy beer

My brother in law came up to visit DH and I a couple of weekends ago.  I really like that guy.  He's such a solid man.  Hard working, loyal, funny, resistant to change.  Everything my potential sister-in-law will love if he ever gets around to finding her.

M. and I had wasted a good hour of our lives one day watching VH1's "Best of I love the 70's".  It was our first introduction to Jimmy Carter's brother Billy and thus to "Billy Beer".  The slogan was (I may be wrong here), "I think it's the best I've ever tasted.  And I've tasted a lot."

The three of us were on our way to a micro brew party later that day and started talking about favorite beers we've had.  I'm not really a beer fan since I think most of it tastes like water that didn't make it through a properly functioning Brita system, but in Czech M. and I discovered something in common.  We loved Velkopopovický Kozel Cerny.  (It helped immensely that it was half the price of properly filtered water.)  DH prefers lighter beers and thus does not share our infatuation with this heavenly creation. (DH just informed me that he does NOT prefer light beers.  He prefers lagers.  I don't drink enough beer to know why this distinction is important, but the record has been set straight.) 

Talk naturally turned to our trip to Czech and the absurd amounts of alcohol that the locals consumed.

Which brings us back to M. who proclaimed, "People in America think they can drink.  They are wrong. Even if you took Billy Carter over to Prague - he'd never be able to hang.  And that guy looked like he was a serious alcoholic."

Unknown future sister-in-law, I'm glad you appreciate this guy as much as we do.


*Kozel picture is the property of Kozel's brewing company.  I did not take that picture.  I do love that beer though.  Sadly, it is unavailable in the U.S. as far as I know. 

Get off the plane

I thought there was an established etiquette about how to disembark from an airplane. These are the rules I thought were understood:  

Rule 1: We unload from the front of the plane to the back. Each row empties before the next row starts.  

This is slightly unfair as the people in the very front also got to board first. However, as they paid an additional couple hundred dollars to sit in plane seats with slightly more leg room and get free cheap alcohol, I can overlook this class seperation. This rule can be bent for the following subsets:

a) People who are in actual danger of missing their connecting flight. Few things are worse than dashing to your gate to watch your plane taxi away in front of you. These people can get off first. Pretending to have a close connection just to get off sooner is evil. I have faith these people will be punished at some point by actually having a close connection and missing it.  

b) People with screaming children. For goodness sake, let them off the blipping plane. They aren't making it more pleasant for anyone by staying on the plane, and if you had a bladder that small you would scream to go potty too.  

c) Medical emergencies and women who have decided to go into labor on the plane. They win. Always. It cannot be bent because you are in the back of the plane, impatient, and want to scurry off the plane in a sad attempt to 'win' by starting your three hour layover ahead of everyone else. 

Rule 2: Help old people, small people, and people carrying small people with getting luggage down.  

Don't look blankly at the four foot eleven eighty year old woman who is struggling to open the overhead compartment. Help her. Or else you deserve to have items that may have shifted during takeoff and landing fall on your head. Karma, my friend. Enjoy the reverse Samsonite logo tattoo on your forehead.  

Rule 3: If you have luggage stored more than two or three (although three is pushing it) overhead bins behind your seat, you have to wait to get it. You cannot elbow your way back through the crowds. This is only acceptable if you may miss your connection. See Rule 1. I understand it may not be your fault it is so far back. Maybe some other doofuses filled up the bins around you with their winter coats so you had to use one farther away. I understand, but I don't care. Wait.  

Rule 4: When it is your turn, get off the plane.  

This one sounds easy. It is apparently not. Please look for your keys/makeup/cellphone/flask, fix your hair/makeup/nails, and text/email your spouse/lover/friend/archnemesis after your feet have hit the actual airport carpet. Not in the plane aisle and, for heavens sake, not in the jetway as soon as you get off the plane. This makes me (and most everyone behind you) think thoughts that involve bodily harm to your person. I have to then repent of those thoughts. Which makes me angrier at you.  

Those are the main ones. Four rules. Teach your children, your friends, your sister. I'm pleading with you.

Curses

My last interview of the season was this week. I am suspicious that this interview was cursed.  

Courtesy of another two inches of snow and a flight that left ages before snowplows ventured out again, I had to drive on rather slick roads. Courtesy of the woman in the red Suburu who felt the need to drive recklessly in both of our lanes at 4:30 this morning, I missed my exit. Courtesy of my abysmal sense of direction, I got hopelessly lost immediately after this. All of this added up to having to park in the airport at the exhorbiant rate of twenty American dollars a day. I like to say it like that... American dollars. As opposed to un-American dollars. They only accept patriotic cash at my airport.  

(On a side note, I just found a bay leaf in my pocket. No idea why it's there.)  

Back to my disasterous trip. I made it to the airport a little too close to the check in deadline and had a lovely discussion with the counter man about the advisability of printing my boarding pass in spite of that. I dashed to my favorite security checkpoint and slipped past the brimming Casual Traveler aisle down the empty Expert Traveler aisle. A middle age couple in Hawaiian shirts proceeded to berate me for cutting in line. I tried to explain to them that it wasn't cutting - there were two lines. Like at the grocery store - just because my line is moving faster doesn't mean I cut. It means you picked the wrong line. And that you probably have a huge carry-on, a laptop in a separate bag still zipped up, shoes that don't slip off, none of your liquids out in a bag yet, a winter coat and a fleece still on, a huge purse, and a backpack that you are planning on stuffing your purse into to qualify for the "one carry-on, one personal item" rule. You earned the slow line. I said it in a much nicer way though.


Boarded the plane on time (hooray!), and then sat on the tarmac for 45 minutes waiting on deicer. Deicer is an important part of the flying experience when one lives in The North. Except someone must have forgotten to place a refill order. They ran out of deicer. I would understand this if I were flying out of Hawaii; I imagine they have little to no need for deicer. Running out during a freak snow storm is acceptable.


However, I live in The North. We haven't seen grass in my neighborhood since November. There is a solid two feet of snow on my yard. My side road has been covered in snow and ice since December. I don't know if the pavement underneath even exists anymore. When we live in a place like this, there is no excuse for running out of deicer. We should have deicer stockpiled somewhere.


The only explanation: Cursed.

Ready for kids?

DH and I aren't yet blessed with munchkins.  I am still able to enjoy the bliss of sleeping in on weekends, the joy of spontaneous vacations, and the indulgence of indulging myself.

DH is gone on his annual President's Day weekend fishing trip, so it was just me and Pup last weekend.  She started my day bright and early 3 a.m. Friday morning by barking her pretty red head off to be let out of her kennel. I sleepily rolled over and opened the door.  She excitedly jumped on the bed.

And promptly threw up.

On my bed.

At 3 a.m.

I was displeased. She looked miserable, but I hardened my heart and put her back in her kennel.  It wasn't as difficult as one might think.  I changed the sheets and blankets, rinsed out the gross ones, and crawled back into my chilly but clean bed.  All was well until approximately 5:37 when she started barking again.

I wasn't taking any chances.  I let her out of her kennel and walked her around in the snow outside just in case she had to use the bathroom or, heaven forbid, throw up again.  She took this opportunity to make friends with the neighbors by barking at a rabbit under their window.  We're quite popular in the mornings, Pup and I.

Back inside where I snuggled up under the blankets, and she settled in at the foot of the bed for about five minutes.

Then she threw up.

On my bed.

Again.

I was out of clean sheets and patience, we were both miserable, and all I could think was "she's only a dog ... what on earth will I do with children ... I don't think I'm allowed to put them in a kennel."

Just looking for the pharmacy

I miss my patients today.

Taking this year off to get my masters degree has been fabulous ~ I've gotten to cook and play and hang out with my family.  I've finally caught up on my sleep. Although that will go straight back out the window come July, I appreciate every single day that I get to snuggle under my pierzyna, sip steaming hot tea, and watch snowflakes fall outside my bedroom window.

I miss my patients today though. They make me laugh and make me cry.  They infuriate me, and they break my heart.  I'm bored without them.

Once last spring I was rounding with my attending, and a healthy looking man approached us.  He had a prescription in his hand.

"I'm looking to get this filled doc."

My attending took it and gave it a quick once over.  He handed it to me to read then gave it back to the gentleman.  "The pharmacy is on the second floor."

The guy happily headed toward the elevators.

Through his laughter my attending told me, "The pharmacist will know exactly what to do with him.  On to the next patient."

The script had read:  "MOFEEN   1 lb."


*We warned the pharmacy. The script was confiscated and destroyed.  I do not know what became of the gentleman.

Oh la la!

There's a new love in my life.

He's strong, flashy, and cooks like a dream. He stands out from my usual crowd. He's making Valentine's dinner this year - the famous bouef bourguignon from Julia Child's cookbook.

He's my new Le Creuset French oven.

Isn't he a hottie?  DH surprised me with this hefty beauty for my birthday.  I have a feeling he and I will be very happy together.

Must be the butter

I love to cook.  Baking....baking, I'm not so good at.  It's all so very precise.  "Measure 14.2 grams of flour and 1.3 grams of salt."   Blech, I say.

I have plenty of preciseness in my chosen profession.  I am very precise when tying flies or when building furniture. I cook when I need to stop thinking. Cooking should not be about preciseness.  It should be about smells and tastes and textures and adventure and daring. Most of my favorite dishes I know by heart and have made my own.  A little more cayenne pepper here, a dash of turmeric there.  The recipe is merely a starting point from which you can throw yourself headfirst off the cliff.

Not that all my cooking adventures have ended well.  There is the infamous case of "The Purple Chicken".  Usually, however, it works out famously rather than infamously.

Baking is an entirely different matter.  Crusty French breads, rich challah and babka, flaky croissants - I adore them all.  I have been more than willing to pay a little more for the masters of flour and egg to make these heavenly creations for me so that I am not crushed by the failures coming out of my oven that I dare not call 'homemade bread'  This winter though, I have some time on my hands.  I have decided to learn to bake.

It is not going well. Today there were "The Croissants."

"The Croissants" actually had their start this weekend.  The detrempe has to sit in the refrigerator for 24-48 hours immediately after it is made. Apparently it needs a time out.  Detrempe is a fancy French term that I think means sticky water yeast butter flour goo.  One would normally cover the sticky ball of dough that one shoves in the back of the fridge.  However, the book I'm using does not mention this step.  I was committed to actually following the recipe this time.  I didn't cover it.

I should have covered it.

Two days after I made the detrempe and had almost forgotten it existed, I pulled it out.  There was a thin hard dough-exposed-to-cold-air crust on the top.  Yuck.  I took a sharp knife, had DH hold the bowl, and sliced off the grossness.  Underneath it was golden, yeasty, yummy-smelling dough.  It was ready for the butter. 

Step 15 in this process is to make a butter block.  Croissants take a lot of butter.  No, I mean a lot.  Three sticks.  Fourteen croissants.  You figure it out.  I used my lovely cherry rolling pin (thanks Grandma!) and a scalpel to roll out and square up my butter block.  I don't have a pastry knife people.  I have a scalpel.  This is how my kitchen works.  

Then you take the detrempe and plop the butter block on half, fold it, let it rest, roll it out, fold it, let it rest, roll it out, fold it...you get the point.  You do this until you have 81 layers of thin, buttery, doughy goodness.  At this point, I'm supposed to roll it out v..e...r...y...c..a..r..e..f..u..l..l..y so the layers don't tear, cut triangles, and magically shape them into croissants.  Mine weren't quite croissant shaped.  They were more straight line than C-shaped.  But they were done.

After all of this, you let the croissants "proof" for 2-3 hours.  This has something to do with proving that you haven't killed the yeast.  Not a problem in my kitchen.  The yeast in that little red jar know they better pull their weight or it's off to the compost pile for them.  I met DH for lunch while the little yeast soldiers did their work. The soldiers got a little overzealous. 

When I came back, the croissants had not doubled in size.  They had tripled.   The croissants were all scrunched together in one tiny little pan trying to elbow each other out for more real estate.  I did what any baker would do.  I stuck them in the oven. I had low hopes for these guys, but I refused to waste all that butter.  We were going to eat them.  DH ate that purple chicken.  He would choke these down too because he loves me. Forty minutes later, I had enormous golden croissants.  

They were amazing. 

Holy smokes, were they amazing.  It was like eating buttered air.  Warm, flaky, close-your-eyes-they-were-so-good buttered air. 

I can't wait to see what they taste like when I get them right.

Poor helpless me

In general, I love being competent.  I have little time for the helpless female role.  The other day, however, I wished I were more of the damsel in distress type of girl.

It was snowing and freezing, but I was on a mission.  I needed to get to Wal-Mart, the doggie park for my darling Pup's don't-drive-me-crazy exercise, Sam's Club, the grocery store, and the library.  All those stops and a two and a half hour window in which to do them.  Not a problem.  Until I got to my car.

Stuck on ice in the driveway behind my landlord's van.

Three flat tires.

No windshield wiper fluid.

Gas gauge hovering above E.

At this point the damsel in distress music should have begun, but I pointed out earlier I'm not really the type.  I put pup in the car, switched my heels for those infamous snow boots, and chipped out the snow and ice to get traction to get around the van.

I knew there was an air pump at the gas station a block down on the corner.  I inched the car there only to be greeted by a large "Out of Order" sign covering the air pump.

Sigh.

I filled up with gas and topped off the wiper fluid.  Then I inched back out onto the road.  I knew there was another service station three blocks up.  I very, very slowly drove that way.  The man in the car behind me was less than appreciative of this fact and did not seem to care one whit that my tires were flat.  He honked his horn at me. Continuously.

For three blocks.

This is why I sometimes think being competent is overrated.  DH would never have let this sort of thing happen if I were the helpless maiden type.  He would have puffed out his manly chest, checked everything, and taken care of all problems beforehand so his dainty little wife wouldn't have to dirty her pretty hands. I explained this theory to my neighbor and revealed my new plan to be helpless.

He smiled and in his darling Polish accent informed me, "That's good idea Q, but no one who has met you will buy it."

Boots

I've been "transplanted" to the North now for almost five years.  All those cliches about time flying are true.  It seems like just a couple of months ago DH and I had piled everything into our cars (and my father-in-law's trailer) and headed off on the grand adventure of medical school.  I was reminiscing this weekend about our first months here in the tundra and how living in the North has been rather an adjustment.

Fabulous shoes are a distinct weakness of mine, a harmless but expensive flaw that I share with many of the female population.  I can't say the entire female population because I have been treated to viewings of truly terrible shoes in my lifetime.  Usually at Wal-Mart after 10 p.m.  What is it about Wal-Mart and nighttime that brings out the fashion victim in so many people?

I had oodles of beautiful shoes when I moved North. Stilettos, sandals, espadrilles, cowboy boots, biker boots, flip flops.  I did not have winter boots.  These are winter boots:

Ugly, aren't they?  They are Sorel boots, tested to -40 F.  I didn't know those kind of temperatures existed in the populated world.    I also didn't know these boots (or anything like them) existed. So when my Northern-born-and-bred friends told me to get boots after I slipped and fell (multiple) times in my first Northern snowstorm, I took their advice.

I bought beautiful boots.  Buttery chocolate colored suede boots.  Four inch heel boots.  Fabulous boots.  They looked a little more like this: 

They are NOT winter boots.  This explains why I fell twice more on my way to class the next day while proudly wearing my new purchase.  I skinned my elbow,  I bruised my bum, but they were fabulous.  My friends assured me of this after they recovered from their giggling fit.  I protested heartily that I had taken their advice.  I bought boots!  Why was I still falling?  They then each grabbed an arm, man-handled me back to my Jeep, and took me shopping to learn what Northern winter boots were.  

I now am the not-so-proud owner of a fully insulated, very warm, waterproof, disgustingly practical pair of winter boots.  (And I kept the beautiful ones.  I accept my weakness.)

*Boots are Sorel and Louboutin, respectively.  Images are from brands' respective websites.

Telephone fly

I've been practicing my fly tying skills lately. This pleases DH inordinately. He claims that for every fly I tie, I save him $1.50. Having compared my flies to some of the ones in the stores, I seriously doubt this. It does keep me occupied over the winter though, so I appreciate his cheerleading.

I really want to tie the "telephone fly." It's a beauty of a wet fly - all blues and reds and flash.  If I were a trout (or even a bass or salmon) I'd be all over that fly.

I fished with it on a couple of the loughs in Northern Ireland and had great success. It brought in my very first Irish trout, a sweet little rainbow that put up a heck of a fight. My guide gave me the fly to commemorate the catch. The next day he gave me a list of the materials to tie it.

The story behind the fly is that some guy called his friend from the pub where he had been celebrating an excellent day of fishing.  He gave his friend explicit directions for how to tie the amazing fly he had been using all day.  The friend, being an accommodating sort of fellow, tied a half dozen or so of the flies for him.  The pub guy said 'thank you very much lad, but this is nothing like my old fly".  A few weeks later the guy was on Lough Carra and decided to try the fly.  Ten fish later, he was back in the pub calling his friend. "Tie up more of them flies," he said. "What flies?" the friend asked.  "You know lad.  The telephone flies."

 I think it may be beyond my modest fly-tying capabilities, but I am willing to attempt it. I'll let you know how it turns out. For now, it will be bead head pheasant tails for me.

Anybody have a match?

DH is reading a handbook for guides right now. Some of the advice is excellent, like how to splint a broken bone or start a fire if you only have wet kindling. Some is less than excellent.

"Honey, how would you get a snapping turtle to let go of your finger?"

"Shoot it," I promptly responded. (P.E.T.A, I know we will never be friends. Let's just face that fact now.) "Why would you have a snapping turtle on the end of your finger anyway? What kind of idiot sticks their hand in a snapping turtle's face?"

"Well, that's not what the guide book says," DH replied.

My interest was piqued. Perhaps there was an excellent way to get a snapping turtle to let go of your finger of which I was unaware. Perhaps P.E.T.A and I could end our long standing feud and share a beer.

"You're supposed to light a match and stick it under its chin. Or you can poke a stick in its nose, but they say that takes too long."

I sat there for a moment and pondered this. First off, a snapping turtle can break a broom handle in half when it bites. I've never been bitten by something that can snap a broom handle in half, but I would wager it hurts. I pictured myself with ten pounds of angry turtle attached to my hand. In that situation, I seriously doubted my ability to calmly pull a match out of my pocket, strike it successfully, and then stick my non-turtle-attached hand next to the angry turtle's chin.

As I was about to comment on this excellent advice, DH spoke up again.

"It also says that if you are attacked by a cougar or bear or lion, you should spit in its mouth. That makes it stop long enough for you to run away. No one can argue with that. If it works, you just saved your life. If it doesn't, you aren't going to be around to write in and contradict them."

I looked at DH.

"P.E.T.A. isn't going to like that."

For sale: one rattlesnake

My little cousins called DH and I a couple of days ago. They are near and dear to my heart (as is all of my family), but they call in spurts. The littlest guy, D.J., calls about five times a day for a couple of days, then won't call for a week or so.

This time they were so excited they could hardly speak. The only punctuation in their speech was exclamation points.

"Guess what guess what we caught a rattlesnake it's a little one we're going to give it to the nature conservatory or the zoo or something we had a gun but we caught it isn't that cool!"

"You caught a what?"

"A rattlesnake he's little and we have him in the 4-runner!"

"Wait. You have a rattlesnake....in your car. Is it alive?"

"Yeah yeah he's alive and in the 4-runner in a sack in a container and we caught him!"

"Why didn't you kill him?" (My apologies to you P.E.T.A. people out there, but my cousins are young. I would prefer the snake they apparently have in their car be dead. It would have little qualms about making them dead. Plus, there is not a Rattlesnakes for the Ethical Treatment of Humans to protect my cousins.)

"We had a gun and we were gonna shoot it 'cause it was gonna bite us but it was cold and slow so we caught it and now we have it and it has two rattles on its tail and big teeth isn't that cool!"

"So let me make sure I understand this. You two were out somewhere with a gun. You found a rattlesnake. It tried to bite you. So instead of killing it, you caught it, and now it's in a sack in your car. And it's still alive."

"Yeah but dad was with us he had the gun it's okay and we're taking it to the conservatory or we could send it to you do you want it we can mail it hey dad can we mail it to Q!"

"Oh dear Lord."

I called my aunt to make sure they weren't pulling my leg. They weren't. They actually have a real live rattlesnake in their SUV. I told them to kill it or give it to the conservatory. I also may have told them it was illegal to mail a rattlesnake to me. Rattlesnakes and explosives cannot cross state lines.

*Snake image is not mine.  It is from http://sdssnake.com/Rat.htm  Thank you!

Snow devils

We had finally gotten the majority of the cabin to a reasonable temperature. The ice had started to melt off the inside windows, only the bedrooms still had ice crystals on the floor, and it was comfortable if you were wearing long sleeves, a sweater, and some sort of shoe. We were a happy foursome, our friend B., who reminds me of Bear Grylls, having snowshoed over later that night.

DH braved the cold that morning to drill a hole through the ice so we could have water to wash the dishes. We were boiling snow to get drinking and cooking water. I had no idea that so much snow produced so little water. Talk about little reward for lots of effort.

B. and DH ventured out to start the sauna. Sauna is something my island friend had introduced me to back at the beginning of medical school. I fell completely in love with the whole concept, and fully intend to install one in my home at some point. The island sauna is an exterior feed, which means someone has to go outside of the building to put more wood in the fire. Another fabulous summer plan that is more challenging in the winter.

While they were working on that C. and I started cooking. Brie, fig preserves, and french bread made an excellent snack. Paella, homemade herbed bread, apple crisp with fresh whipped cream. We tucked the ragout de chevreuil (venison stew) in the oven. It called for a full bottle of wine, but we decided we would only share a cup of our wine with the stew. We had pulled that wine two miles across the lake. It was going accompany dinner, not be in the dinner. (All of the food was amazing, for those who wonder about such things.)

It is a tradition to wear bathrobes to the sauna, no matter how cold it is. However, it was also - 39F outside. In a concession to the weather, we put full winter gear over our swimsuits, and bathrobes over the winter coats. We looked ridiculous.

The sauna was a heavenly 180F. After about 10 minutes inside, I worked up my courage. I was going to continue the tradition and make a snow angel. I took a bracing drink of the cava we had stuck in a bucket of snow, shoved my feet in my boots, and ran outside. Steam poured off my skin.

Deep breath.

Jump.

That was a stupid idea.

I went first, but I was not alone. B. had decided to join me. He, however, was going to dive in head first. Apparently when he heard me screaming unrepeatable words, he thought a second too long about it. You can't think when you are doing something that ridiculous. You just do it. He did a nice normal jump in and promptly jumped back out. Didn't even wave his arms around. Wimp.

I sprinted back to the sauna leaving a perfect snow angel and a stream of vulgar language behind.

I really thought the snow would be warmer than the air. They claim that it's an insulator. I think they are lying. My skin didn't stop burning for almost thirty minutes. I suppose that's what I deserve for attempting a 220 degree skin temperature change in under a minute.

*******************

(Just kidding, B. ~ He is much tougher than I am in the cold department. He's one of those Polar Bear Club guys. You know, the crazy ones who jump in the iced over lakes on New Year's Day. That is a whole different level of crazy. However, there are also trained medical personnel there to rescue you from self induced hypothermia. That makes it slightly less crazy. Only slightly.)

New Year's Freeze

New Year's Eve is probably the most over-hyped holiday we celebrate. Rushing from one party to the next, drinking bad sparkling wine while avoiding sloshing glasses threatening your outfit, crushing rooms full of sweaty strangers shouting resolutions for the next year which they will promptly break the next day. It's an exhausting night that usually has only a thin veneer of glamour left after the clock strikes twelve.

However, we are developing a new New Year's tradition. A dear friend of mine currently living in the Northwest has a darling island cabin in a lake near Canada. It is remote, secluded, and incredibly peaceful. It is also a two mile kayak or ski to get there from shore, depending on the season. In the summer, it's a delightful trip across cool glassy waters. In the winter, it can be a peaceful ski across expanses of white ice and snow. It can also be a bitter ski with howling winds, cracking ice, and dangerous conditions. My favorite New Year's was spent skiing across the lake, building a roaring fire in the cabin, making and eating a delicious meal, taking a sauna, and drinking champagne.

So when C. called and said, "Hey, I think I can fly in for three days. Do you want to do New Year's at the cabin?" it was the easiest yes I have said in awhile. Bear in mind that the weather forecast for the weekend was a balmy -17 F.

Groceries were bought, skis were borrowed, and we were set. I picked up C. from the airport and DH from his work. We got a slightly later start to the day than planned, so it was decidedly dark by the time we got to the lake. Not a problem. I've skied across this lake in the dark before. It was also -27 F without windchill. Slightly more of a problem seeing how I am a total wimp when it comes to the cold.

Three pairs of pants. Four shirts. Two pairs of gloves and a pair of mittens. Long underwear. Two hats. One scarf. Three pairs of socks. I was ready.

Fifteen minutes and about 1/2 of mile later, I was so not ready. Did I mention that it was FREEZING? Or that there was no wind block since we were skiing across a lake? Or that we had brilliantly decided to bring the dog with us, but the boots we picked up at Cabelas for her were too large, fell off, and filled with snow? Or that she was now refusing to walk because her paws were freezing and she was shaking? Or that we had to pull a sled across the lake with all of our supplies on it? Or that the lake was apparently only partially frozen so that every few steps you broke through the top layer of ice to water underneath which promptly froze when you pulled your ski out of the water? Or that this quickly built up to two inches of ice on the bottom of your skis? Or that it is difficult to ski with two inches of ice on the bottom of your skis?

I was pretty sure I was going to die.

However, I was not going to let anyone else know this. I refused to be the weeny who quit halfway across the lake. When my friend turned and asked if I was okay, I said, "Sure, keep going." At this point DH and I were taking turns carrying the dog inside our coats to help keep her warm. Thank goodness she's small for her breed.

We had made it about a mile and a half across when my fingers and toes stopped hurting. This was a big problem. For all you Southerners, pain is a good thing when you are cold. When the pain goes away, you have to start worrying more about frostbite. It's significantly harder to be a surgeon when you have no finger tips. I stopped to put in another set of hand warmers and check the color of my fingers. Still red, not black.

C. turned and started yelling at me. "We cannot stop again. You will die. Do you understand me? People die when it is this cold. YOU WILL DIE."

It is not good when someone else tells you what you have secretly been thinking for the past mile, particularly when it concerns your imminent demise. We pushed on. In my mind, I cursed her father for picking the island that was farthest away from shore. Remote is fine and dandy in the summer, but in the winter is a whole different story. We finally made it to the cabin, almost 2 hours after we started. Fire was built, cocoa was drunk, and heaters were lit. We found out the next day that the temperature got down to -40 F that night.

It was a heck of a start to the weekend.

Roping a Deer

***This is not my story. This may not even be a true story. However, I after reading it, I thought it needed to be posted. Thank you to whoever this happened. You made my day.***

I had this idea that I could rope a deer, put it in a stall, feed it up on corn for a couple of weeks, then kill it and eat it. The first step in this adventure was getting a deer. I figured that, since they congregate at my cattle feeder and do not seem to have much fear of me when we are there (a bold one will sometimes come right up and sniff at the bags of feed while I am in the back of the truck not 4 feet away), it should not be difficult to rope one, get up to it and toss a bag over its head (to calm it down) then hog tie it and transport it home.

I filled the cattle feeder then hid down at the end with my rope. The cattle, having seen the roping thing before, stayed well back. They were not having any of it. After about 20 minutes, my deer showed up-- 3 of them. I picked out a likely looking one, stepped out from the end of the feeder, and threw my rope. The deer just stood there and stared at me. I wrapped the rope around my waist and twisted the end so I
would have a good hold.

The deer still just stood and stared at me, but you could tell it was mildly concerned about the whole rope situation. I took a step towards it, it took a step away. I put a little tension on the rope .., and then received an education. The first thing that I learned is that, while a deer may just stand there looking at you funny while you rope it, they are spurred to action when you start pulling on that rope.

That deer EXPLODED. The second thing I learned is that pound for pound, a deer is a LOT stronger than a cow or a colt. A cow or a colt in that weight range I could fight down with a rope and with some dignity. A deer-- no chance.

That thing ran and bucked and twisted and pulled. There was no controlling it and certainly no getting close to it. As it jerked me off my feet and started dragging me across the ground, it occurred to me that having a deer on a rope was not nearly as good an idea as I had originally imagined. The only upside is that they do not have as much stamina as many other animals.

A brief 10 minutes later, it was tired and not nearly as quick to jerk me off my feet and drag me when I managed to get up. It took me a few minutes to realize this, since I was mostly blinded by the blood flowing out of the big gash in my head. At that point, I had lost my taste for corn-fed venison. I just wanted to get that devil creature off the end of that rope.

I figured if I just let it go with the rope hanging around its neck, it would likely die slow and painfully somewhere. At the time, there was no love at all between me and that deer. At that moment, I hated the thing, and I would venture a guess that the feeling was mutual. Despite the gash in my head and the several large knots where I had cleverly arrested the deer's momentum by bracing my head against various large rocks as it dragged me across the ground, I could still think clearly enough to recognize that there was a small chance that I shared some tiny amount of responsibility for the situation we were in. I didn't want the deer to have to suffer a slow death, so I managed to get it lined back up in between my truck and the feeder - a little trap I had set before hand...kind of like a squeeze chute. I got it to back in there and I started moving up so I could get my rope back.

Did you know that deer bite?

They do! I never in a million years would have thought that a deer would bite somebody, so I was very surprised when ... I reached up there to grab that rope and the deer grabbed hold of my wrist. Now, when a deer bites you, it is not like being bit by a horse where they just bite you and then let go. A deer bites you and shakes its head--almost like a pit bull.. They bite HARD and it hurts.

The proper thing to do when a deer bites you is probably to freeze and draw back slowly. I tried screaming and shaking instead. My method was ineffective.

It seems like the deer was biting and shaking for several minutes, but it was likely only several seconds. I, being smarter than a deer (though you may be questioning that claim by now), tricked it. While I kept it busy tearing the tendons out of my right arm, I reached up with my left hand and pulled that rope loose.

That was when I got my final lesson in deer behavior for the day.

Deer will strike at you with their front feet. They rear right up on their back feet and strike right about head and shoulder level, and their hooves are surprisingly sharp. I learned a long time ago that, when an animal --like a horse --strikes at you with their hooves and you can't get away easily, the best thing to do is try to make a loud noise and make an aggressive move towards the animal. This will usually cause them to back down a bit so you can escape.

This was not a horse.. This was a deer, so obviously, such trickery would not work. In the course of a millisecond, I devised a different strategy. I screamed like a woman and tried to turn and run. The reason I had always been told NOT to try to turn and run from a horse that paws at you is that there is a good chance that it will hit you in the back of the head. Deer may not be so different from horses after all, besides being twice as strong and 3 times as evil, because the second I turned to run, it hit me right in the back of the head and knocked me down.

Now, when a deer paws at you and knocks you down, it does not immediately leave. I suspect it does not recognize that the danger has passed. What they do instead is paw your back and jump up and down on you while you are laying there crying like a little girl and covering your head.

I finally managed to crawl under the truck and the deer went away. So now I know why when people go deer hunting they bring a rifle with a scope - to sort of even the odds..

What's in a PIN?

I don't know my PIN number.

This has had very little effect on my life because I hate carrying cash. The germ load on money skeeves me out a bit. I haven't used my debit card in months. DH needed me to bring him some cash a few days ago. Not a problem.

Except I don't know my PIN number.

I knew how to solve this. I would have my bank change my PIN over the phone. 'Why not just pop into a nearby branch and do it in person?' you might be wondering.

Because I am stubborn. I memorized my account number eight years ago (which by the way, is way longer than a PIN). I refuse to learn a new account number. Thus, I refuse to change banks. This is despite the fact the closest branch of my bank is two states away.

So I pull out my phone, google the bank, and am quickly connected with Tim. He suggests I come into a branch. I tell him I don't have time for a 400 mile road trip.

"Okay," says Tim," we just have to ask some security questions, then I can ask my manager for approval, then I can call you back in a couple hours."

This is not helpful for my 'need cash now' problem, but I reason I should probably know my PIN in general, so I agree.

"Mother's maiden name. Grandfather's name. Last four of your social. Birthday. Account number. Favorite cartoon character. Number of siblings. "

Easiest quiz I've ever taken.

"Great, just two more. At what branch did you open this account?"

"When I was 16? That's over ten years ago. It was one of three." I named all three.

"So we can't accept that as a correct answer." He paused. "Moving on, what was the last thing you used your debit card for?"

"Oh, I paid my X credit card bill from that account yesterday."

"That wasn't a debit transaction. You did do that, but it doesn't count. What was the last debit transaction?"

"Do you mean something I had to use my PIN for?"

"Yes."

"You do realize we're doing this because I don't know my PIN. The one you guys reset last spring when my card was stolen in Spain and you sent me this new card. Which I have never used as a debit card...... because I don't know the PIN. "

"Yes. "

He didn't reset the PIN for me. Seems I failed the security check. Yet people used my old card with no trouble in Spain. Thieves apparently know more about me than me.

Maybe they can tell me my PIN.

Onions

Goodness- the tenth of December and nary a blog from our daring heroine. What on earth could have happpened?

Could it be a marvelous combination of overbooking and idiocy? That is a distinct possibility.

I'm on a plane to Florida right now. This is super exciting for a few reasons. One - winter has set in up North with the kind of fevered zeal that got the Crusades kicked off. Two - I'm not in first class, but I am in an exit row and someone has stolen the seat in front of me. Hello leg room! Three - I'm interviewing tomorrow.

One tiny little flaw in my day. The man sitting next to me apparently bathes in onion juice. It is possible that he also uses onion toothpaste.

He wants to chat.

So I've resorted to answering questions in monosyllables and holding my breath. I'm also wearing headphones even though I'm not listening to my iPod in hopes that he will give up and turn his pungent attention to the guy on his right.

Back-up plan: ask overly personal questions.

We'd never make the Saturday Evening Post cover

I was at home awhile back and went fishing with my grandfather. For those of you who don't know him, you really should. This guy is awesome.

We were walking the creek bank and hoping for a bite. The creek holds mainly rock bass, perch, and a few small mouth. There is also the occasional snapping turtle or water moccasin, but we don't really fish for those. We bring a pistol for them. They are particularly vulnerable to lead poisoning. It would be a great Norman Rockwell kind of moment if I could say that we were talking and sharing stories, but my grandpa isn't much of a talker. Luckily for him, I am.

I was chattering on about school, surgery, fishing, how to make soap, my dog - pretty much anything that crossed my mind. My grandpa once told me that if any thought got stuck in my head it would die of loneliness since all the other thoughts had escaped through my mouth. Apparently, I have a problem just "being" sometimes when I'm with someone I love.

The fish were ignoring my best attempts to catch them, so I started skipping rocks. I took my time to find the perfect round, flat, smooth creek stones. I eyed the water movement, tested the wind, and flicked my wrist.

Thunk.

I stink at skipping rocks.

I hit the only stinking boulder in the middle of the creek. The rock never even hit the water.

My grandpa looked at me and chuckled.

(It is imperative you add a thick Southern accent in your mind to the next part.)

"Did I ever tell you 'bout the time we were down here fishin'? It was after a big rainstorm, banks were half washed away. Fishin' was no good, just silt and mud, but it was nice to be out. Cotton was just aways down there, and did he let out a hollar. He found an arm or leg or something stickin' outta the bank. Found a whole guy down there, skeleton ya know, just in the creek bank. We figured it was an Indian buried there. We've got mounds all over here, and the rain just washed him out. "

I was thrilled. "Did you call the police? Or the archeology people? Or the newspaper? Did they take pictures. Where is he now? Were there more? Maybe he was murdered. Was he murdered? Were there artifacts?"

My grandpa looked me over consideringly, and said, "Well now, didn't see a need. I reckon he washed down the river. You best get back to fishin'. It's gettin' on dark soon."

That is a key difference between the two of us. He found a skeleton and left it. It had been there before him and would be when he was gone. If I found a skeleton, and I would call everyone I knew, make sure someone took a picture of me next to it giving a thumbs up, and then try to get it put in a museum.

His way might be better.