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.

I wish you hadn't asked me that.

I hate answering questions for people.

Because then other people feel the need to answer the questions too.

And I think the other people are wrong.

And then another murder gets tacked onto my rap sheet.

Which invites more questions.

It's a vicious cycle.

Smoke 'em if you got 'em

Today I went to the national tobacco document depository.

Up until a week ago, I didn't know we had a national tobacco document depository.

It's in a warehouse in a semi-bad neighborhood. There are no signs outside. The windows are darkened. Almost all of the interior doors have signs reading "keep out, authorized personnel only" just in case you were getting any ideas after finally finding the building and getting past the security. I think it's their way of welcoming you.

I had a special tour of the warehouse. They have over 800 million paper documents stored in the back. In paper boxes. Thank goodness for that no smoking in the workplace law - that back room looks like really good tinder.

The settlement made all of the records in the depository public. All of the records except those locked in the top secret room of which I was not allowed to learn the location. The tobacco company is paying for this, so they kindly gave the public computer systems to search the documents.

Except the documents aren't digital.

Thus, the computer system is used to look up the box the document is in, and then a worker has to go get the box for you. After you look through the box, they have to look at all the documents in that box to make sure you didn't sneak anything out (or in). Then the box is replaced in that serial killer haven warehouse.

Not a terrible system. At least you can search the documents by date, and when the search item is clicked on a preview of the document is typed up for you.

Except you can't. And it doesn't.

You can search for advertisements - and you get a list of all advertisements, advertising plans, internal advertising campaigns, etc for the tobacco company chosen. However, you don't know what is what. You just get a list of numbers that correlate to papers that are related to advertising. I think it's their way of saying "ha ha, suckers".

I did find by accident one handwritten note that said, "My kids want to be cigarette cartons for Halloween this year." Took me four boxes to find that one memo.

I have never appreciated Google more.

Not my toy story

I can't claim this story. I wish I could, but I am not male, nor do I have children, so I'm pretty sure people would call me out on it.

My friend is beautiful. Curly brunette hair, enormous blue eyes, thick dark eyelashes, and perfect teeth. He is one of the prettiest men I have ever met in person. (His prettiness is slightly exceeded by his brother-in-law's. I'm pretty sure minor Greek deities would stop to stare at that guy.) He is also married to one of the most adorable women I have ever met. Blonde, petite, gymnast. Nothing more needs to be said. They, as would be expected, have two ridiculously cute children - one blonde, one brunette. The whole family is absurdly gorgeous.

Last week, my beautiful friend took his beautiful child number one to see Toy Story at the movie theatre. To get into the spirit of things, they were both dressed as Buzz Lightyear. Beautiful child was super excited as only a three-almost-four year old can be.

They arrived at the theatre. The guy selling tickets looked them up and down.

"Two for Inglourious Basterds?"

One of those days.

I would have been very happy staying in bed this morning.

It was cold outside. It was raining. And it was very grey. I pulled myself out from under the pierzyna and padded down the hall. 54 degrees. Still no heat.

Hot shower, hot breakfast, hugged my puppy, headed to class.

Fell down the stairs. Moccasins and wet wood reduced the coefficient of friction to something close to zero. Skinned knees and grass stained tush are not a novel occurrence in my life, so I picked myself up and headed to the Jeep.

The Jeep had low air in its tires. The car was undriveable secondary to its run-in with the tree and subsequent hot-dog bun appearance. DH took the only umbrella because he secretly thinks it's funny when my hair gets really fuzzy in the rain. Plus blue is his favorite color, so he likes it when my fingers lose all circulation from the cold.

I walked in the rain.

There was a crazy woman walking on the sidewalk in front of me. I probably shouldn't call her crazy. She was wearing a walking boot, a purple trash bag wrapped around her waist, and a red nylon bag over her head. She was pushing an empty stroller. So instead of crazy we'll go with Susan. DH said she was probably homeless. I don't think she was homeless. It was a really nice trash bag.

I didn't want to pass her in case she got ideas about running me down with the stroller, so I trailed behind. It was a poor decision on my part.

You see, Mr. Bus Driver had the same idea I did. He was trailing behind Susan for about three blocks ~ just enough time for the rain to soak through my shoes and give my hair a nice halo effect. Then Mr. Bus Driver decided to blow past Susan and I on his merry way to the bus stop a block ahead of us.

There was a large muddy puddle along that route.

Susan laughed so hard at drenched, muddy, shivering me that she had to sit down in her stroller.

I laughed too. All I could think was "if only I had wrapped up in a trash bag."

Hot Dog anyone?

My mom has a story about her first brand new car. It was a Cougar. Sexy and shiny and all hers. She parked it under the only tree in the hospital parking lot so it would be shaded. Sometime during her shift, the tree fell on it. Hot dog bun car.

I parked my baby car under the lone tree by the sidewalk outside my house. It was still pretty warm, and I don't like the dash to get too hot. Sometime during my Southern food cooking spree a cold front moved in complete with straight line winds, and that idiotic tree fell on my car. Hot dog bun car.

Like mother, like daughter I suppose. Why couldn't I have inherited her height instead?

I'll only be a second.

Ladies and gentleman, I have seen a breakthrough.

It is perfect for those times when you see the forbidden prime parking real estate directly outside the door of a business and then note the next closest parking is a whole twenty spaces away. Who has time to walk twenty parking spaces? We are busy. We are important. We are only going to be inside for a second.

Introducing the 30 second parking sign.

This a real sign in a small town in the northern U.S.. It is strictly enforced by the 30 second parking meters along this stretch of sidewalk. How much does 30 seconds cost you? A nickel.

How much is the ticket for going over your alloted 30 seconds? Thirty-five dollars.

So enjoy your prime parking place. Revel in your superiority over the guys who have to walk twenty feet. Just don't revel too long. You've only got a second.

New phone

My new phone (whose parent company is not named Pear or Grape) is fantastic. I have the new phone because I managed to destroy four other phones since January, and I convinced DH that I would take extra good care of this one.

Sucker.

Truthfully, I am being extra careful with it. I even bought a super-heavy-duty-only-cockroaches-and-this-case-will-survive-a-nuclear-attack protective case for it. There are three layers of plastic. Two screen covers. A rubber cover encases the plastic covers. It's sand proof, dog proof, and oven and freezer resistant. Oh yeah.

Here's hoping it lasts more than a month.

Paul Bunyan

I met real live lumberjacks awhile back. Muscle flexing, ax wielding, flannel wearing lumberjacks.

Okay, so they were wearing safety pants, sleeveless shirts, and protective eyewear, but the muscles and axes were there. It was the Lumberjack Days championships. (Yes, it's a real event... a side effect of living this far north.) Wood chips were flying, saws were buzzing, poles were scaled, and axes were hurtling through the air. Lumberjacks are hot.

It was also the Dock Dogs championship. Crazy dogs take flying leaps off the dock, grab a bar seven feet in the air, and land with a huge splash in the pool below. My pup is a little crazy and loves water. I decided that she should watch the dogs compete. After all, kids learn by watching. Why can't dogs?

So there I am, holding my dog up to watch other dogs jump into the water. Stupid? Absolutely. Did I care? Absolutely not - until the nice cameraman decided to get an up-close-and-personal shot of the crazy lady holding up her dog. I tried charm, pleading, and threatening, but he would not be budged. It was going to be on TV.

At least it's not a popular channel.

And it continues...

What shall we choose for my misadventure two of J.'s wedding day? I think we'll go with my beloved spouse.

The bridal party's day started bright and early at eight a.m. - at least for the females. I secretly think males wake up on the day of their wedding, shower, shave, watch football/basketball/golf, take a nap, watch more sports, then wander down to the ceremony site thirty minutes before the wedding begins. The little devils still manage to look devastatingly handsome, which is completely unfair.

Since I was in the wedding and DH was coming as "designated reception mingler", he was under strict instructions to arrive no later than 4:00 p.m for the 4:30 ceremony. Unfortunately for him, there was some sort of catastrophe that closed the road to the gardens. He called me in a panic.

"Tell J. I'm sorry, but this cop is being a total *bad word* and won't let me through." He moved the phone away from his mouth.

"What if I just drive through? What are you gonna do?" He moved the phone back.

"Apparently, he's going to arrest me if I drive through. "

We gave him (and the many other guests who were being held up) alternate directions and had the coordinator postpone the wedding. Forty-five minutes passed. There was a wedding scheduled after Mrs. Darcy's, so we couldn't wait any longer. Out traipsed the wedding party down the hill, the girls clutching the arms of the men to keep from toppling over in their heels.

From behind us we heard "thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump." As one, we turned.

There was DH and the usher sprinting toward us from the parking lot.

DH slapped my tush as he ran by. "Look great babe. See you in a few J. - you look great too!"

At least the man knows how to make an entrance.

Don't pull my hair

My best friend got married this past weekend. She was beautiful, as was to be expected, and the wedding was wonderful. It did not, however, go off without some hiccups in my world. (Luckily, my world was way down on the list of important things that day. J.'s world was top priority, as it should have been.)

Hiccup one was my hair. The stylist, a darling gay man who practices his updo skills on drag queens, took one look at my hair when I walked in and started shaking his head.

"Curls." He grabbed a handful of hair. "Thick curls."

Then, ladies and gentleman, he took a blow-dryer AND a brush to my hair. I haven't brushed my hair whilst it was curly since I was in my early teens. He now looked aghast at the halo of frizz that he had created. Diana Ross had nothing on me.

He threw me in hot rollers for awhile, then started twisting and tugging. I no longer had curls. I had knots - twisted ropes of hair tied into knots. It was cool, I'll give him that. It also took me forty-five minutes to get undone when I came home that night. DH helped me pull out all the bobby-pins (68), and my hair didn't move. The knots had to be untied, unrolled, and washed out with conditioner. Just a word of advice for you stylists reading: if the hair is curly, just leave it curly. There is no need to attempt to make it follow the straight hair rules. It doesn't want to follow those rules. It is a hair government anarchist.

Either way, hair went up, make-up went on, and dress was wiggled into. We'll call that adventure one of the day.