Sunday, December 23, 2007
On The Level
Just a little extended family story...
A good friend and her mother would get a live tree every year. Every year the argument would begin over the straightness of the tree. It would almost come to blows and my mom or myself would often have to go around the corner to their house to assist in the straightening of the tree and the smoothing over of the arguments.
Fast forward many years. We all have families and our own tree traditions now. My mother said she was at a loss over what to get our friend as a Christmas gift. I suggested she get her a level for the Christmas tree. She found a small one that can adorn the tree as an ornament.
A good friend and her mother would get a live tree every year. Every year the argument would begin over the straightness of the tree. It would almost come to blows and my mom or myself would often have to go around the corner to their house to assist in the straightening of the tree and the smoothing over of the arguments.
Fast forward many years. We all have families and our own tree traditions now. My mother said she was at a loss over what to get our friend as a Christmas gift. I suggested she get her a level for the Christmas tree. She found a small one that can adorn the tree as an ornament.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Prices Paid
I woke this morning listening to sound bites from the most recent debate of Chief Executive hopefuls. Most of the talk blended into a painful reminder, along with the light on over the dresser, that it was time to get the day started. What finally shot my eyes open and started my a.m grumble was hearing the esteemed Senator from Illinois say "no toys from China for my kids this Christmas."
Thanks. Thanks for that. I just love when I have it pointed out to me what a bad mom I am. On a national broadcast, for all the world to hear, that I am going to soon be called up in front of the Superior Mothers Tribunal and dressed down for my consumer misdeeds.
"You bought a toy made in China, DIDN'T YOU?"
Yep, you caught me. I'm guilty. GUILTY! But, tell me this, Superior Mothers of the World, where exactly can I get that red metal diecast LIghtning McQueen race car that fits perfectly in my two year old's chubby hand? That very souped-up red racer that brings full-throttle joy to his entire being when he says "CARRRRRRRRR!" as he finds it wedge in the cushions of the couch after a painful two-day separation? It's the very toy that was on sale for 30% off at the nearby BigBoxORama made by a reputable company of the U.S. of A... that happens to have all their products manufactured in China. Tell me where I can buy a made-in-Thermopolis version of this same toy and I'll do it.
What? No such creature? So, what should America Consumer Mom do, as she's being hit with over 3000 advertisements a day? Avoid the purchase entirely so that there is no chance of any toxic substance possibly coming in contact with my child? I guess we can all rest easy knowing that our homes on our American soil are without any risk of toxic exposure...just don't look under your kitchen sink and certainly don't walk down the aisle at the BigBoxORama to find all the iterations of bottled cleaning products with the warning "Harmful If Swallowed" printed on every side of the bottle. For the sins of buying a toddler-handful of Lightening McQueen, I go through monster bags of Arm & Hammer Baking Soda, trying to wash away my sinful consumerism with the dollops of homemade raspberry jam and peanut butter on my countertops and battleship lineoleum from the 1950s. Don't tell me what toxins have been in that flooring. I just don't want to know.
I heard a powerful sermon this last Sunday in church from a retired minister that touched on these very topics of our small place in this very large, throbbing and suffering world. The recalls of potentially hazardous toys in this country miss most of the big picture. Eighty percent of toys made today for the US market are made in China. Wrap your mind around those numbers and then ask yourself "what about those making the toys?" What toxicity and dangers are those individuals, doing their best to make a yuan to feed their family, exposed to each and every day? I know that if tomorrow the American appetite for cheap, Chinese-made toys and products sold from Main Street to BigBoxORama dried up, other products for other markets would go into production overseas. We are all just cogs in the big, consumer-culture machine, no doubt, and I'm as culpable as the next over-stressed mom being pushed to her limits, driving the station wagon full of yowling toddlers who can't find their favorite car or BubbleHead Barbie.
Just thinking about this cycle has thoroughly depressed me and makes the Christmas spirit difficult to grasp. It's been a tough day due to the horrible dog that lives at my house. Problems with that animal that are beyond my control erupted into a full-blown, angst-inducing crisis. I screamed at him, I exiled him to the Siberia of our back yard. I shopped online for bark collars. I contemplated dogicide. I really wanted to do other shopping, shopping for me and only me, just to make a bad situation go away. Something stopped me. Retail therapy wasn't going to help and I knew it. I think a lot of that kind of therapeutic consumerism occurs this time a year, as we try to make up for a year of hurt feelings, inattentiveness, and general malaise by purchasing things we can or can't afford without a smidgen of thought of the item's origin or where the gift might wind up. Is that singing whatzit really going to repair or bolster that flagging relationship? Will the biggest whozit on the shelf equal a well-behaved fill-in-the-blank? Does it really need to wind up at the Powell Landfill before the next yard sale season? What horrible industrial accident or toxic exposure happened during its construction in Micronesia? Who really paid for its bargain basement price tag?
Really, I'm not trying to discourage support of a local economy during the holiday season. I'm just encouraging thinking. Think where your dollar is best spent. Think about the usefulness of what you are giving. Think about how long the life of the item will be and who will really have the joy from it. Enjoy advertising as entertainment. Need more encouragement? Go watch The Story of Stuff with Annie Leonard at www.storyofstuff.com and gain from the experience. Unfortunately, there is no single simple thing to do, because the problems facing our wide world just isn't simple. But everyone can make a difference and the bigger the action, the bigger the difference. By powering down, wasting less, talking to everyone about these issues, making your voice heard, detoxing the body, homes and the economy, plugging into the community, parking that car and walking, changing the paradigm of "more stuff is better!", and recycling... from the trash to elected officials that don't see the forests because all the trees have been cut down, and by buying green, fair, local, used and less. The little changes will begin to build into the big changes that are needed.
The disappointments of today will certainly improve for me as the holidays approach. I'll just be concentrating on knowing what is really important and what chaff can fall away. I'll write that note to say hello to someone I care about instead of feeling a panic to send something off that might never be taken from the shelf once it's placed there after it's opened on Christmas morning. I'll mend that funky sweater one more time before it goes to the discard heap. I'll accept my out of style shoes and install another florescent light bulb. I'll do my best not to murder the dog. And, I'll probably give the toddler that most intriguing and promising toy of all... an empty cardboard box.
Thanks. Thanks for that. I just love when I have it pointed out to me what a bad mom I am. On a national broadcast, for all the world to hear, that I am going to soon be called up in front of the Superior Mothers Tribunal and dressed down for my consumer misdeeds.
"You bought a toy made in China, DIDN'T YOU?"
Yep, you caught me. I'm guilty. GUILTY! But, tell me this, Superior Mothers of the World, where exactly can I get that red metal diecast LIghtning McQueen race car that fits perfectly in my two year old's chubby hand? That very souped-up red racer that brings full-throttle joy to his entire being when he says "CARRRRRRRRR!" as he finds it wedge in the cushions of the couch after a painful two-day separation? It's the very toy that was on sale for 30% off at the nearby BigBoxORama made by a reputable company of the U.S. of A... that happens to have all their products manufactured in China. Tell me where I can buy a made-in-Thermopolis version of this same toy and I'll do it.
What? No such creature? So, what should America Consumer Mom do, as she's being hit with over 3000 advertisements a day? Avoid the purchase entirely so that there is no chance of any toxic substance possibly coming in contact with my child? I guess we can all rest easy knowing that our homes on our American soil are without any risk of toxic exposure...just don't look under your kitchen sink and certainly don't walk down the aisle at the BigBoxORama to find all the iterations of bottled cleaning products with the warning "Harmful If Swallowed" printed on every side of the bottle. For the sins of buying a toddler-handful of Lightening McQueen, I go through monster bags of Arm & Hammer Baking Soda, trying to wash away my sinful consumerism with the dollops of homemade raspberry jam and peanut butter on my countertops and battleship lineoleum from the 1950s. Don't tell me what toxins have been in that flooring. I just don't want to know.
I heard a powerful sermon this last Sunday in church from a retired minister that touched on these very topics of our small place in this very large, throbbing and suffering world. The recalls of potentially hazardous toys in this country miss most of the big picture. Eighty percent of toys made today for the US market are made in China. Wrap your mind around those numbers and then ask yourself "what about those making the toys?" What toxicity and dangers are those individuals, doing their best to make a yuan to feed their family, exposed to each and every day? I know that if tomorrow the American appetite for cheap, Chinese-made toys and products sold from Main Street to BigBoxORama dried up, other products for other markets would go into production overseas. We are all just cogs in the big, consumer-culture machine, no doubt, and I'm as culpable as the next over-stressed mom being pushed to her limits, driving the station wagon full of yowling toddlers who can't find their favorite car or BubbleHead Barbie.
Just thinking about this cycle has thoroughly depressed me and makes the Christmas spirit difficult to grasp. It's been a tough day due to the horrible dog that lives at my house. Problems with that animal that are beyond my control erupted into a full-blown, angst-inducing crisis. I screamed at him, I exiled him to the Siberia of our back yard. I shopped online for bark collars. I contemplated dogicide. I really wanted to do other shopping, shopping for me and only me, just to make a bad situation go away. Something stopped me. Retail therapy wasn't going to help and I knew it. I think a lot of that kind of therapeutic consumerism occurs this time a year, as we try to make up for a year of hurt feelings, inattentiveness, and general malaise by purchasing things we can or can't afford without a smidgen of thought of the item's origin or where the gift might wind up. Is that singing whatzit really going to repair or bolster that flagging relationship? Will the biggest whozit on the shelf equal a well-behaved fill-in-the-blank? Does it really need to wind up at the Powell Landfill before the next yard sale season? What horrible industrial accident or toxic exposure happened during its construction in Micronesia? Who really paid for its bargain basement price tag?
Really, I'm not trying to discourage support of a local economy during the holiday season. I'm just encouraging thinking. Think where your dollar is best spent. Think about the usefulness of what you are giving. Think about how long the life of the item will be and who will really have the joy from it. Enjoy advertising as entertainment. Need more encouragement? Go watch The Story of Stuff with Annie Leonard at www.storyofstuff.com and gain from the experience. Unfortunately, there is no single simple thing to do, because the problems facing our wide world just isn't simple. But everyone can make a difference and the bigger the action, the bigger the difference. By powering down, wasting less, talking to everyone about these issues, making your voice heard, detoxing the body, homes and the economy, plugging into the community, parking that car and walking, changing the paradigm of "more stuff is better!", and recycling... from the trash to elected officials that don't see the forests because all the trees have been cut down, and by buying green, fair, local, used and less. The little changes will begin to build into the big changes that are needed.
The disappointments of today will certainly improve for me as the holidays approach. I'll just be concentrating on knowing what is really important and what chaff can fall away. I'll write that note to say hello to someone I care about instead of feeling a panic to send something off that might never be taken from the shelf once it's placed there after it's opened on Christmas morning. I'll mend that funky sweater one more time before it goes to the discard heap. I'll accept my out of style shoes and install another florescent light bulb. I'll do my best not to murder the dog. And, I'll probably give the toddler that most intriguing and promising toy of all... an empty cardboard box.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
A Little Back And Forth
A little spam situation has cropped up in my small world. My name, written correctly with accurate email attached, has been used in a Nigerian-style lotto spamscam. I've had a few nasty emails in reply, but this one brought out the smarty-pants in me. Thanks to a fellow up North for the concise explanation that went into the exchange that went something... well exactly... like this...
On Nov 18, 2007, at 4:35 PM, E---- M----- wrote:
Try again bi*%h with this stupid scam. F@%K YOU!
E---- M-----
E---- M----- Advertising & Design Associates
Of course, I had to reply...
My name was appropriated by some scammer. I hope you can tie down you spam guard a bit better so you don't have to resort to profanity and the anger you obviously can't keep in check.
Don't reply to spam... it only validates your email address for the next spammer. I'm sure your clients appreciate your flowery language in your p.r. work.
Do your best to get your brain around this information:
Spam malware doesn't send e-mail addresses back to the original spam author - there's no need, as the malware has an e-mail engine built right into it. The point of the malware is to hijack the victim's computer and then send out spam e-mails to the addresses in that user's address book, and/or access a remote list of addresses to pick from. To mask the infected computer, the malware will not use the e-mail address of the person's computer that is actually infected - the malware will select a random name from the address book and use that as "from". With a hijacking of a person's computer to do the dirty work, ie theft of services, the spammer is not directly exposed.
Signed/
The random, real person/not-spambot at the receiving end of your good wishes,
Justine L------
P.S. God bless!
Okay, I know the "God bless!" was a little over the top, but it's been a long weekend and I'm a wee bit cranky. Then again, maybe it was worth the wince to ratchet it up a tad.
To his credit, Mr. Potty Mouth-Name Calling Advertising Professional wrote back...
My sincere apologies. I get no less than twenty to thirty scams a day and I sick and tired of them! I have tried all types of spam guards to no avail. I feel that people who resort to stealing from othere who work hard to earn their money do not deserve language any better than that which I used in my reply. Thanks to your email I will no longer reply to the scammers. Once again, I apologize for the language used, it was not intended for your eyes. Thanks for the spam malware info.
E---- M-----
E---- M----- Advertising & Design Associates[/quote]
So, dear readers, I ask you this... Am I a good witch or a bad witch? Think he'll give me a freelance gig doing some ad copy? Should I send him a Christmas card? Discuss.
On Nov 18, 2007, at 4:35 PM, E---- M----- wrote:
Try again bi*%h with this stupid scam. F@%K YOU!
E---- M-----
E---- M----- Advertising & Design Associates
Of course, I had to reply...
My name was appropriated by some scammer. I hope you can tie down you spam guard a bit better so you don't have to resort to profanity and the anger you obviously can't keep in check.
Don't reply to spam... it only validates your email address for the next spammer. I'm sure your clients appreciate your flowery language in your p.r. work.
Do your best to get your brain around this information:
Spam malware doesn't send e-mail addresses back to the original spam author - there's no need, as the malware has an e-mail engine built right into it. The point of the malware is to hijack the victim's computer and then send out spam e-mails to the addresses in that user's address book, and/or access a remote list of addresses to pick from. To mask the infected computer, the malware will not use the e-mail address of the person's computer that is actually infected - the malware will select a random name from the address book and use that as "from". With a hijacking of a person's computer to do the dirty work, ie theft of services, the spammer is not directly exposed.
Signed/
The random, real person/not-spambot at the receiving end of your good wishes,
Justine L------
P.S. God bless!
Okay, I know the "God bless!" was a little over the top, but it's been a long weekend and I'm a wee bit cranky. Then again, maybe it was worth the wince to ratchet it up a tad.
To his credit, Mr. Potty Mouth-Name Calling Advertising Professional wrote back...
My sincere apologies. I get no less than twenty to thirty scams a day and I sick and tired of them! I have tried all types of spam guards to no avail. I feel that people who resort to stealing from othere who work hard to earn their money do not deserve language any better than that which I used in my reply. Thanks to your email I will no longer reply to the scammers. Once again, I apologize for the language used, it was not intended for your eyes. Thanks for the spam malware info.
E---- M-----
E---- M----- Advertising & Design Associates[/quote]
So, dear readers, I ask you this... Am I a good witch or a bad witch? Think he'll give me a freelance gig doing some ad copy? Should I send him a Christmas card? Discuss.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
The Difference Of A Year
What a difference a year makes. As I took Chuckles' picture this morning after a kitchen haircut, I found a picture taken exactly a year ago today.
In the kitchen.
I guess we spend a lot of our time in the kitchen...
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
This is my daughter...
...that is outside right now, playing "Fighting-Peter-Pan-Hide-and-Go-Seek" with two of the little boys from the neighborhood. I keep looking outside and seeing her standing over the boys, like Boudica in her fury. I can only imagine what the rules, if any, might be.
Earlier, she was sitting on the front step with the older of the boys, playing dolls. It was very sweet and reassuring to me to see that. This little fellow is mildly autistic and my daughter had been unkind to him earlier today as we walked home from school. As she was walking, holding hands with a friend who I was watching this afternoon, she spun around and said to him "Why are you following me?" in an horribly snotty voice.
I spun around and busted her hard. "You apologize to C.C. RIGHT NOW! Tell him you are sorry and thank him for walking home with you!" She did, promptly. All this occurred in front of her friend, who's a much bigger girl than mine, though the same age. I hope, probably a foolish hope, that such behavior isn't the only product of starting school.
But, all must be forgiven and something must have been learned by today's episodes for as the sun is setting, she's out playing Peter or Wendy or Hook (not sure who she is channeling at the moment).
Do you think it's hard to play such a game... in pink metallic high heels?
Earlier, she was sitting on the front step with the older of the boys, playing dolls. It was very sweet and reassuring to me to see that. This little fellow is mildly autistic and my daughter had been unkind to him earlier today as we walked home from school. As she was walking, holding hands with a friend who I was watching this afternoon, she spun around and said to him "Why are you following me?" in an horribly snotty voice.
I spun around and busted her hard. "You apologize to C.C. RIGHT NOW! Tell him you are sorry and thank him for walking home with you!" She did, promptly. All this occurred in front of her friend, who's a much bigger girl than mine, though the same age. I hope, probably a foolish hope, that such behavior isn't the only product of starting school.
But, all must be forgiven and something must have been learned by today's episodes for as the sun is setting, she's out playing Peter or Wendy or Hook (not sure who she is channeling at the moment).
Do you think it's hard to play such a game... in pink metallic high heels?
Monday, September 10, 2007
Autumn Fluctuation
Okay, we have officially entered the time of year in Wyoming where anything might happen weather-wise.
A few days ago it was in the 90s and I was running the air conditioner in the kitchen.
Yesterday, it was drizzly and I put the glass insert into the storm door that has the cat hatch. Too nippy to have the screen-only over night.
As soon as I went to bed last night I had two lard-ass cats sleeping on my legs, snuggling with all their might. The old cat was snuggled in with Chuckes.
This morning I had to run the furnace because it was 36 degrees. The kids were up just after 6 complaining that they were cold. Hot chocolate all around.
The sun is out now, the air is crisp, the sky is periwinkle, there is a nice breeze and I'm going to go pick some apples. We may see a high of 74 by the time school lets out.
Ahhhhh, AUTUMN. Those tomatoes in the back yard better get a move on, as should the pumpkins
A few days ago it was in the 90s and I was running the air conditioner in the kitchen.
Yesterday, it was drizzly and I put the glass insert into the storm door that has the cat hatch. Too nippy to have the screen-only over night.
As soon as I went to bed last night I had two lard-ass cats sleeping on my legs, snuggling with all their might. The old cat was snuggled in with Chuckes.
This morning I had to run the furnace because it was 36 degrees. The kids were up just after 6 complaining that they were cold. Hot chocolate all around.
The sun is out now, the air is crisp, the sky is periwinkle, there is a nice breeze and I'm going to go pick some apples. We may see a high of 74 by the time school lets out.
Ahhhhh, AUTUMN. Those tomatoes in the back yard better get a move on, as should the pumpkins
Friday, September 07, 2007
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Twenty Years On In 4.5 Minutes To A B-52s Soundtrack
I won't be able to attend the twentieth reunion of my graduating high school class from that little town, at the Sierra Nevada foothills, surrounded by citrus groves, in the hot hot San Joaquin Valley... from where I originate in Central California.
I'm sending this along, just as an update-slash-explanation about where I evaporated to after graduation. I didn't go into my history of education, employment, romance, foreign countries visited, marriage, infertility, business operations, medical operations, respiratory arrest, children, time-wastes, books read and unread, political and social affiliations, movies memorized and other less than ideal cocktail-hour conversations. I'll just have to save all that for the tell-all book.
So do I appear as self-involved as I feel after putting this little life-log together?
WAIT, don't answer that...
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Did Princess Di Ever Paint Her House?
Everyone, at least everyone that I talk with, is busy. Really busy. Driving about, picking up Junior or Princess, mowing the yard and forgetting to turn on the sprinklers, bailing the dog out of canine jail for squirrelicide, and trying to squeeze as much as possible into the daylight hours before collapsing in a heap. Okay, not everyone is doing those particular things but now you know what I’ve been doing recently. With summer truly here, along come the visitors – usually from out of state to this exotic remote area of Wyoming. For the first time in a few years, I won’t be traveling with my family to my point of origin in the Central Valley of California but will be hosting friends from both the Eastern and Western seaboards for their taste of the Wyoming wildlands. As an American, and a transplanted Californian in Wyoming, I feel I have a concept, somewhat, of the vastness of this chunk of North America that I call home. My friends? Not so much. I am not embellishing when I tell on some of my friends who thought they could drive from Los Angeles or Paso Robles or Half Moon Bay and that they would arrive in Wyoming by dinnertime of that same day. That misconception of where exactly to find Wyoming is not exclusive to the far Westerners. A friend in North Carolina wanted to road trip from New York to Wyoming for a brief vacation before retuning to graduate school. A pow wow with Google maps had her finding the cheapest tickets she could from Salt Lake City for her visit in August. By now, she’s been braced for the full day of driving she’ll have before she experiences the Big Horn Basin on her path to Yellowstone and the onslaught of new friend-frantic toddlers.
My husband and I used to joke that Powell might actually be the center of the universe; we’d calculated that for most of the destinations we wanted to go, we would have to drive or fly about 1300 miles. At a least a couple of sunsets to get where we needed or wanted to be. I was absolutely SHOCKED when I went to my old pal Google Earth to see that from my doorstep to my mother’s it was merely 800 miles. As the crow flies. But, I can’t fly like the proverbial crow so by car it would take about...1300 miles to drive the kids to Grandma’s house and her swimming pool and what used to be the center of my pre-Wyoming universe. Distance and travel is easily taken for granted now, with a couple hundred miles drive to the nearest zoo easily accomplished in one day. Of course, today's easy travel isn't at all what I expected it to be by this point in my life. When I was 8, I was absolutely sure that by the time I was nearing 40 I would be zipping around the country, and probably nearby countries, with the ease of the Jetson family. I am still profoundly disappointed this isn't so and I don't have my lightning-quick rocket car. I accept that I won't be zipping over to the Bahamas for dinner tonight., but I'm certainly not happy about it. And, I'll probably never have a dog named Astro.
All this talk of mileage and impending travelers brought me to thinking about Princess Diana. These thoughts have been easily encouraged by the the British government's inquiry still not being finalized, the fantastic movie The Queen about the time of her death and its impact on the British Royal Family, and a concert scheduled for July 1st by her now adult sons. My thought patterns don’t always take the most direct route like the aforementioned crow or rocket car. It’s been nearly 10 years since Diana Spencer’s short life ended after a very short trip from the Paris Ritz to the scene of that horrible car accident. She’d led a whirlwind life, had a not-too-good marriage, bucked tradition and found herself in a horrible scenario that brought all the previous triumphs and tragedies to a stop. She appeared, to a young wife like myself, as though she was reassembling herself into an independent woman with a future as a serious activist, putting her full notoriety to work for some worthwhile and world-altering charities. She wasn’t showing up on a reality television show in an effort to mortify her former in-laws but was getting world leaders to see the possibility of a world without landmines, AIDS patients having enough resources to live on and possibly survive their illness and homes for those without them. These were the thoughts I was having about her and her situation last week as I was lying on the porch over my front step, painting and repairing some damage just under the roofline. I’d gotten out all the tools I thought I would need; a gallon of paint and primer, the aluminum extension ladder and a foam hop scotch game of my daughter’s, since I couldn’t find the kneepads that I know are somewhere in the netherworld that is my garage. Up the ladder I went, having to lie on my back to paint a small, weatherworn area under the eaves. A neighbor drove by and was on the verge of razzing me, when I assured him, at the top of my lungs, that I would NOT be doing this on anyone else’s house. I was so close to being finished when I heard the first loud crack of thunder. An ominous and fast moving Wyoming cloudburst moved over the top of me. I did manage to get that little bit of work finished before I was toasted like a marshmallow, first by sun and then by lightning, but I had to put off the remainder of the house painting for another couple of days. The next time I was up the ladder I got to thinking about Princess Diana again. Did she ever paint her own house? Granted, her home at Kensington Palace was a bit more to maintain than my 760 square feet, but maybe she did get a wild hair now and again to crack open a gallon of exterior latex and trim out the palace fascia. In reality, she probably hired folks that hired folks that hired folks to do that particular job.
My head of muddled thoughts continued as I kept painting in preparation for the summer’s houseguests; shopping lists for the market, plans for activities to keep the toddler and almost-kindergartener busy during the lengthy summer, who is due to the vet for their shots and whether I can get the dog neutered...again. But, for some reason, my mind kept rolling back to Diana and all the things she probably never did for herself. Being the mother of the future king and the ex-wife of the other future king would certainly put a crimp in one’s heading to the hardware for a sanding block and a tub of the new magenta colored spackle. Now, that spackle is something that goes to the heart of any princess. It goes on MAGENTA! It’s almost like frosting the house. All the fun is over when it dries and turns white, but for a brief time I felt like Hansel and Gretel would show up and I could say “little mouse, little mouse... who is nibbling on my house” from up atop my extended ladder. (Thankfully I, being me and not a princess of world reknown, was able to do my little bit of home improvement without having a coterie of paparrazi on Vespas revving their engines. Maybe not having rocket cars available is a good thing.) Maybe all these thoughts of what the princess didn’t get to do cuts to the quick of the fascination with celebrity; knowing that Diana, Princess of Wales, probably never painted her own home made what I was doing seem oh-so-exotic. Who needs yachts and billionaire boyfriends and the drudgery of wealth when I have my little frosted house on the corner, under the fluffy crabapple tree? Nope, I sure don’t need the wealth or the unhappiness that seems to accompany it. I’ll stick with my backyard garden raspberry patch, the kids' chalk drawings on the freshly painted walls, and the beauty of the summertime Wyoming sunsets. I will do my best to be generous in sharing all of this fun I plan on having with our friends as we explore Yellowstone and the Basin in the coming weeks. I’ll keep the bug spray and the sunscreen at the ready and hope that the good works Diana did in the final days of her life brought her comfort and happiness. I hope the upcoming concert in London enriches her charities even more to continue their valuable work. I'm sure her worries wouldn’t have been lessened by opening a can of paint but I know mine has by a combination of Ponderosa Tan and Pre-Mix white for the trim.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Monday, July 09, 2007
Beartooths & Roosevelt Chuckwagon
Our friends Peat, Zoe, Henry and Ella came to town last week for an adventure in Yellowstone. These photos came from the drive over Beartooth Pass to Roosevelt Country in Yellowstone National Park and a chuckwagon dinner. Mmmmm, steak.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Karmic Fireworks
Our goofy, homebody orange tabby, Dinger, went missing sometime during the night on Tuesday, June 26. He wasn't gone very long before I knew something had gone afoul. His buddy, Mack, was yowling at the back door about midnight and wouldn't come in the cat hatch. I opened the door in the dark, scolded Mack for being in p.i.t.a and assumed Dinger was on his heels. Mack climbed directly into our bed and pretty much didn't leave it for a couple of days. The old cat, Pink, also climbed into the bed and hung on tight. Hardly any food was touched in the cat silo and no Dinger. I called, checked the usual hidey-holes and did my best not to panic. Later, on Wednesday morning, I happened upon an injured dog outside our back fence. I called the public safety officer about the dog and my missing cat. I had pictures printed up by that afternoon:
I kept Scott updated via instant messenger and walked with the kids hollering "here....kitty, KITty, KITTY KITTY" up the alleys and streets on the way to swim lessons. No sign of him. We drove around in the car, doing the same thing. I kept telling the kids that we had to help Dinger, that it was getting awfully hot and he needed to be home.
By the second day I had another, better picture ready. I had had a message from a woman at the medical clinic saying "I saw the picture of your cat but there wasn't a description." Huh? How 'bout orange-furry-cat? errrrrrrrr.....
Scott picked up prints at the evil Big-BOX and made some color copies that I took anywhere and everywhere that was high traffic; the hardware store, the coffee shop, the video store, the lumber yard, the farm and ranch supply, the local vets. I emailed anyone that lived in the vicinity and told the recipients to pass the word along. I went to the animal shelter and saw 18... EIGHTEEEN... adult beautiful cats but the Dinger wasn't one of them. The days were getting hotter, progressively, and I was doing my best not to be the fatalist that I am to my DNA. I continued to search, noticing that each time we got in the car Chuckles would say "Ding...HELP!"
Our good friends arrived from California on Saturday and the clock was ticking. We had reservations for Yellowstone beginning on Tuesday and another worry, beyond Dinger trapped somewhere dehydrating to death, was that he might come home injured and I wouldn't be here to get him to the vet.
On Sunday the 1st we headed over to a big lake at the base of the Big Horn Mountains for a fireworks display. Big booms, awfully windy, a large crowd and a goofy soundtrack including Gloria Gaynor's I Will Survive. Maybe that was a bit of a message and, because I was tired, I was missing the point. On the drive back in town in a long stream of cars, I spotted a Corgi/Corgi mix standing on the yellow line in the center of the busy two lane highway. We immediately flipped around and headed back for it. We turned around again without seeing it. Almost in the exact spot was that bat-eared black dog hugging the yellow line with cars zipping past. Again we pulled over, I hopped out and called to it. It came right over to the driver's side and Scott boosted it in. It jumped right into the back seat with the kids, gave Augusta a big gooey kiss and faced forward. I pulled it into my lap and got a tongue bath. We got back on the road and headed for the town of Lovell's police department. We first found the Fire Department, which had sponsored the night's fireworks display, got directions and headed for the P.D. A very nice officer took the story, didn't recognize the dog, which sat attentively in my arms, and told us to call in a few days to check on it. Scott asked how long the dog had, in custody, since we will be leaving town Tuesday for the park. That plucky little dog didn't survive a string of full-sized cars just to be euthanized due to not being claimed. The officer told me to call tomorrow. I will definitely be calling tomorrow to check on the Psychopoodle's new playmate, the Crazedcorgi. In the meantime, our friends were driving through unfamiliar territory and I'd called their phone and left a couple voicemails with directions back to our house and news of the side trip to the police department. I got a call back telling me they'd missed the turn off, gotten a little lost, but still managed to beat us home. When they got here they saw an orange tabby dart into the cat door.
I'd not allowed myself to cry but when I heard of the Dinger sighting, a big gooey tear smeared up my glasses. The odds of another orange tabby showing up and heading in the house were slim, but I did my best to not get my hopes up. When we got home the Psychopoodle was pitching a fit in the front yard and cats were darting, but it was certainly the tubby Dinger diving for the recesses of our bed.
Scott said, as I sat in the backyard giving Dinger and his worried housemates some freshly picked cat nip, "I don't go for a lot of this spiritual stuff, but our finding that dog must have had something to do with Dinger's return." Who'd have ever thought that dog and cat karma might be intertwined. Not me. At least not until Sunday night.
I've blathered on long enough that now Dinger is bored with the story and just gave me one of these:
Think he's probably ready to sleep this bender off?
Thanks to all the positive thoughts that helped send this wayward feline home.
He appears healthy, though a wee bit sketchy. I wish he could tell what he's been up to...
I kept Scott updated via instant messenger and walked with the kids hollering "here....kitty, KITty, KITTY KITTY" up the alleys and streets on the way to swim lessons. No sign of him. We drove around in the car, doing the same thing. I kept telling the kids that we had to help Dinger, that it was getting awfully hot and he needed to be home.
By the second day I had another, better picture ready. I had had a message from a woman at the medical clinic saying "I saw the picture of your cat but there wasn't a description." Huh? How 'bout orange-furry-cat? errrrrrrrr.....
Scott picked up prints at the evil Big-BOX and made some color copies that I took anywhere and everywhere that was high traffic; the hardware store, the coffee shop, the video store, the lumber yard, the farm and ranch supply, the local vets. I emailed anyone that lived in the vicinity and told the recipients to pass the word along. I went to the animal shelter and saw 18... EIGHTEEEN... adult beautiful cats but the Dinger wasn't one of them. The days were getting hotter, progressively, and I was doing my best not to be the fatalist that I am to my DNA. I continued to search, noticing that each time we got in the car Chuckles would say "Ding...HELP!"
Our good friends arrived from California on Saturday and the clock was ticking. We had reservations for Yellowstone beginning on Tuesday and another worry, beyond Dinger trapped somewhere dehydrating to death, was that he might come home injured and I wouldn't be here to get him to the vet.
On Sunday the 1st we headed over to a big lake at the base of the Big Horn Mountains for a fireworks display. Big booms, awfully windy, a large crowd and a goofy soundtrack including Gloria Gaynor's I Will Survive. Maybe that was a bit of a message and, because I was tired, I was missing the point. On the drive back in town in a long stream of cars, I spotted a Corgi/Corgi mix standing on the yellow line in the center of the busy two lane highway. We immediately flipped around and headed back for it. We turned around again without seeing it. Almost in the exact spot was that bat-eared black dog hugging the yellow line with cars zipping past. Again we pulled over, I hopped out and called to it. It came right over to the driver's side and Scott boosted it in. It jumped right into the back seat with the kids, gave Augusta a big gooey kiss and faced forward. I pulled it into my lap and got a tongue bath. We got back on the road and headed for the town of Lovell's police department. We first found the Fire Department, which had sponsored the night's fireworks display, got directions and headed for the P.D. A very nice officer took the story, didn't recognize the dog, which sat attentively in my arms, and told us to call in a few days to check on it. Scott asked how long the dog had, in custody, since we will be leaving town Tuesday for the park. That plucky little dog didn't survive a string of full-sized cars just to be euthanized due to not being claimed. The officer told me to call tomorrow. I will definitely be calling tomorrow to check on the Psychopoodle's new playmate, the Crazedcorgi. In the meantime, our friends were driving through unfamiliar territory and I'd called their phone and left a couple voicemails with directions back to our house and news of the side trip to the police department. I got a call back telling me they'd missed the turn off, gotten a little lost, but still managed to beat us home. When they got here they saw an orange tabby dart into the cat door.
I'd not allowed myself to cry but when I heard of the Dinger sighting, a big gooey tear smeared up my glasses. The odds of another orange tabby showing up and heading in the house were slim, but I did my best to not get my hopes up. When we got home the Psychopoodle was pitching a fit in the front yard and cats were darting, but it was certainly the tubby Dinger diving for the recesses of our bed.
Scott said, as I sat in the backyard giving Dinger and his worried housemates some freshly picked cat nip, "I don't go for a lot of this spiritual stuff, but our finding that dog must have had something to do with Dinger's return." Who'd have ever thought that dog and cat karma might be intertwined. Not me. At least not until Sunday night.
I've blathered on long enough that now Dinger is bored with the story and just gave me one of these:
Think he's probably ready to sleep this bender off?
Thanks to all the positive thoughts that helped send this wayward feline home.
He appears healthy, though a wee bit sketchy. I wish he could tell what he's been up to...
Monday, June 11, 2007
Reading Rut
I'm stuck. I've found myself in a reading rut and I'm not sure what to do about it. Yes, I know I should just grab a book and get going, but I am without direction. I began John Grisham's A Painted House because it was here. A couple chapters into it, I laid it down and went outside to paint my house. I don't think that was the author's point.
I've been trudging through Son of A Witch for months now. Months. It's almost like when I read John Irving's A Widow For One Year and it took me a bloody year to read it. And I paid retail for it. Double drat. I really enjoy Mr. Irving's books, but not for that length of time.
Looking at the table next to my bed, I have a Don DeLillo, a thick chunk of a book called Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, The Dress Lodger by Sheri Holman, Simplicity's Simply the Best Sewing Book and Olivia and the Missing Toy. I also have Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. I see Dumbledore's hand and Harry's glasses in the book jacket illustration and I sit here longing for the last installent of the Rowling epic. It all just comes down to me sitting here, twiddling my thumbs as I await young Mr. Potter on his final adventures.
I guess I should grow up and read something deep and life-altering.
OR I should just wait for July.
I've been trudging through Son of A Witch for months now. Months. It's almost like when I read John Irving's A Widow For One Year and it took me a bloody year to read it. And I paid retail for it. Double drat. I really enjoy Mr. Irving's books, but not for that length of time.
Looking at the table next to my bed, I have a Don DeLillo, a thick chunk of a book called Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, The Dress Lodger by Sheri Holman, Simplicity's Simply the Best Sewing Book and Olivia and the Missing Toy. I also have Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. I see Dumbledore's hand and Harry's glasses in the book jacket illustration and I sit here longing for the last installent of the Rowling epic. It all just comes down to me sitting here, twiddling my thumbs as I await young Mr. Potter on his final adventures.
I guess I should grow up and read something deep and life-altering.
OR I should just wait for July.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Turning Five
This took place while I was still sleeping, so Big Daddy related this story when I woke...
So, this morning about 6, I heard little feet get up, run to the bathroom (light on…1…2…3…light off), then out to the living room.
I dragged myself out of bed to try to head off trouble. I found Augusta curled up in a ball under a blanket, sniffing a little, and when I sat down next to her the sobbing started up for real.
"What is it? Did you have a bad dream?"
*sniff* "I didn't turn five."
"Huh?"
*looks cross* "I didn't turn five in the middle of the night."
"Sure you did. Yes, you're my five-year-old girl now."
*more sobs*
Finally, she got up off the couch and backed up to the wall where we tick off how tall she is. I thought, "ah," and got a pencil to make the mark.
"Stand up very straight. Look straight ahead. Heels against the wall."
*Dad makes mark, doesn't cheat*
"See? You're this much taller than you were before."
=========
1/4 inch and all is well.
Happy Birthday, little girl!
So, this morning about 6, I heard little feet get up, run to the bathroom (light on…1…2…3…light off), then out to the living room.
I dragged myself out of bed to try to head off trouble. I found Augusta curled up in a ball under a blanket, sniffing a little, and when I sat down next to her the sobbing started up for real.
"What is it? Did you have a bad dream?"
*sniff* "I didn't turn five."
"Huh?"
*looks cross* "I didn't turn five in the middle of the night."
"Sure you did. Yes, you're my five-year-old girl now."
*more sobs*
Finally, she got up off the couch and backed up to the wall where we tick off how tall she is. I thought, "ah," and got a pencil to make the mark.
"Stand up very straight. Look straight ahead. Heels against the wall."
*Dad makes mark, doesn't cheat*
"See? You're this much taller than you were before."
=========
1/4 inch and all is well.
Happy Birthday, little girl!
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