(Frank Sinatra, 1961)
I'm really steamed. And not from the sauna that is my office. Last night on NPR there was a segment about a NASA expedition that would chart new territory. For the first time EVER a spacecraft was going to orbit two separate "worlds," (in reality they're actually asteroids) in one trip. The mission will be completed in the year 2015. Yes, the year two thousand and fifteen. That's EIGHT - one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight - years from now. Ok, I may have some of the facts mixed up . . . I really don't care if it only takes 15 days. Why, why, why do we need to orbit two obviously large asteroids? There was some verbiage on the segment about being able to see into our past . . . WHAT? I thought space exploration was the final frontier, the future, the vast unknown. You know billions and billions and billions of dollars are being spent on exploring . . . big huge rocks? Can orbiting these two asteroids give us the cure for cancer? AIDS? Wipe out abject poverty and starvation? Eliminate drugs? Crime? Will it lead to better pay for teachers or more funding for the arts in schools? Will it clean up the horrible mess our health insurance industry is in? Yeah, that's a big fat NO you're hearing me scream. Where's my blood pressure medicine?
Late in his life Harry T. was asked if he thought there would ever be an expedition to the moon. He said probably, but he could not imagine why. Ha! I seriously think the only reason we went to the moon in the first place was to keep up with the Jonesescheviks (aka Russians). The whole Cold War and all. My rocket's bigger than your rocket. Blah, blah, blah.
Yeah, I'm steamed. And just like Ralph Cramden of the Honeymooners used to say to his wife, "To the moon! One of these days, Alice!"
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
I'm Just Wild About Harry
(Judy Garland, 1939)
Tonight I finished ready David McCullough's mammoth book "Truman." It was 900+ pages with an additional 100 pages of footnotes, bibliography and index (I did NOT read that). It was completely fascinating and I found myself wishing I'd been born 40 years earlier so I could have had dinner at the White House with him and Bess. (Aside: When I was a wee young lassie, my dad used to reprimand me for cutting my dinner rolls. Apparently it's bad etiquette. He always used to ask me if I'd commit this flagrant act of impropriety if I were dining at the White House. I'd be like, like that's ever going to happen.)
So here are some interesting facts about HST:
* He didn't go to college.
* He enlisted in the army when he was in his early 30's during WWI.
* He didn't get married until he was 35, although he'd had his eye on Bess since childhood.
* He owned a haberdashery at 104 Main in KCMO (a haberdashery is not a place to smoke hash, which is what Tyler thought it was. A haberdashery sells men's dress accessories - ties, belts, shirts, hats, etc. The business failed after a couple of years.
* Except for the time he spent in Washington as Senator and President, he lived his entire married life in his mother-in-law's house at 219 Delaware in Independence. It was also the house he and Bess returned to after being President.
* He was vice president less than four months when he was sworn in as President after FDR's death.
* Within three months of becoming President he made the difficult decision to bomb Hiroshima and Nagasaki (millions of flyers were dropped weeks in advance, warning civilians to clear out.). Prior to his swearing in he had no knowledge the bomb existed (FDR kept him in the dark on many important issues.)
* During his second term, the country had a balanced budget and actually reduced the national debt for a couple of years.
* He was largely responsible for curtailing the escalation of the Korean War (and the spread of communism)with his refusal to drop another bomb, this time the H-bomb.
* He was instrumental in the founding of the United Nations and enacted several important civil rights laws.
* When he left the White House he had no pension and no job. The only thing that saved him from bankruptcy was selling the family farm in Grandview.
* He raised the $1.8 million needed for his presidential library himself (it was the first library of its kind).
* When his memoirs came out he signed 4,000 autographs in five hours.
So there you have it. I could have written that book in one page. But it probably wouldn't get a Pulitzer Prize, like McCullough's book did.
I'm adding him to my list of people on my "People I'd Like to Have at a Dinner Party."
Tonight I finished ready David McCullough's mammoth book "Truman." It was 900+ pages with an additional 100 pages of footnotes, bibliography and index (I did NOT read that). It was completely fascinating and I found myself wishing I'd been born 40 years earlier so I could have had dinner at the White House with him and Bess. (Aside: When I was a wee young lassie, my dad used to reprimand me for cutting my dinner rolls. Apparently it's bad etiquette. He always used to ask me if I'd commit this flagrant act of impropriety if I were dining at the White House. I'd be like, like that's ever going to happen.)
So here are some interesting facts about HST:
* He didn't go to college.
* He enlisted in the army when he was in his early 30's during WWI.
* He didn't get married until he was 35, although he'd had his eye on Bess since childhood.
* He owned a haberdashery at 104 Main in KCMO (a haberdashery is not a place to smoke hash, which is what Tyler thought it was. A haberdashery sells men's dress accessories - ties, belts, shirts, hats, etc. The business failed after a couple of years.
* Except for the time he spent in Washington as Senator and President, he lived his entire married life in his mother-in-law's house at 219 Delaware in Independence. It was also the house he and Bess returned to after being President.
* He was vice president less than four months when he was sworn in as President after FDR's death.
* Within three months of becoming President he made the difficult decision to bomb Hiroshima and Nagasaki (millions of flyers were dropped weeks in advance, warning civilians to clear out.). Prior to his swearing in he had no knowledge the bomb existed (FDR kept him in the dark on many important issues.)
* During his second term, the country had a balanced budget and actually reduced the national debt for a couple of years.
* He was largely responsible for curtailing the escalation of the Korean War (and the spread of communism)with his refusal to drop another bomb, this time the H-bomb.
* He was instrumental in the founding of the United Nations and enacted several important civil rights laws.
* When he left the White House he had no pension and no job. The only thing that saved him from bankruptcy was selling the family farm in Grandview.
* He raised the $1.8 million needed for his presidential library himself (it was the first library of its kind).
* When his memoirs came out he signed 4,000 autographs in five hours.
So there you have it. I could have written that book in one page. But it probably wouldn't get a Pulitzer Prize, like McCullough's book did.
I'm adding him to my list of people on my "People I'd Like to Have at a Dinner Party."
Monday, June 25, 2007
Summer in the City
(Lovin' Spoonful, 1966)
Not long ago I was demanding that a pox come upon the cold snap we had. Now I'm including this miserable, sweltering mess. It's 12:03, I'm in my office and I'm nearly dripping with sweat. It's SO disgusting. You'd think at this time of night it would be cooler, but not in MY office. I've got a fan blower on the air conditioning vent, a ceiling fan and a box fan trying to draw in cooler air from our bedroom. It's so obviously not working.
My office is just off our bedroom and was finished in 2000; I think in a prior life it was a steam sauna from the pioneer days. Or maybe hell. Ron doesn't think there's enough insulation in the walls. I just think there's not enough damn cool air. Each year he tries something new - more duct work, this blower on the vent, closing the bathroom vent to force more air in here. How about putting more insulation in the walls?
I think I'd be better off filling a tub with ice and putting a fan behind it. No, can't do that. I saw a CSI once where a man did that and the ice melted and ran down the floor to the wall where it encountered some faulty wiring. That guy's now permanently on ice.
You know what I'd kill for right this second? A motel room. I'd crank down the a/c so low that I'd swear I was at the North Pole. Bring on the Eskimo Pies.
Not long ago I was demanding that a pox come upon the cold snap we had. Now I'm including this miserable, sweltering mess. It's 12:03, I'm in my office and I'm nearly dripping with sweat. It's SO disgusting. You'd think at this time of night it would be cooler, but not in MY office. I've got a fan blower on the air conditioning vent, a ceiling fan and a box fan trying to draw in cooler air from our bedroom. It's so obviously not working.
My office is just off our bedroom and was finished in 2000; I think in a prior life it was a steam sauna from the pioneer days. Or maybe hell. Ron doesn't think there's enough insulation in the walls. I just think there's not enough damn cool air. Each year he tries something new - more duct work, this blower on the vent, closing the bathroom vent to force more air in here. How about putting more insulation in the walls?
I think I'd be better off filling a tub with ice and putting a fan behind it. No, can't do that. I saw a CSI once where a man did that and the ice melted and ran down the floor to the wall where it encountered some faulty wiring. That guy's now permanently on ice.
You know what I'd kill for right this second? A motel room. I'd crank down the a/c so low that I'd swear I was at the North Pole. Bring on the Eskimo Pies.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Found A Peanut
(author unknown)
Yesterday Ron convinced me to go look at the SoHo lofts downtown. It's something we've done from time to time, all the while never having the tiniest inkling of ever buying one. Well, Ron thinks he'd like it, but I'd give him two weeks. After that, he'd be stalking grass and trying to get at the neighbor's bonsai trees on the 18th floor patio. We like the green-ness of suburbia too much. And all the shopping.
Anyway, we got downtown and parked in the library parking lot. If you haven't been to the library downtown, you MUST visit. It's really a stunning building and has some fun stuff for kids to do. Anyway, we walk across the street to what Ron says are the SoHo lofts, even though the sign says "Library Lofts" (which I point out to him, not quite as nicely as I could have). We asked a nice lady. Affirmative. We were in the wrong place. After we found the correct lofts, we realize that we'd already seen them (start taking notes on your life soon after age 40). We were feeling a little hungry so Ron says, "Let's go to the Peanut. They've got great BLT's." Sounded good to me. And they were REALLY good. It was quite a place, though. The trio behind us was knocking back raspberry tea and vodkas and smoking up a storm, using the excuse that's it's noon somewhere in the world. The whole joint looked like a good stiff breeze would topple it. They had very cool bar artifacts, if you're into that sort of thing. There was this large spherical thing - I don't know what it was (maybe a light) that had the Anheuser-Busch Clydesdales running around it. Ron said he'd love to have that thing. I asked him where exactly that might fit in our decorating scheme and he said he'd put it in the basement (yes, that's the perfect place for it). They had old photographs of KC from the 30's and a flock of decoy ducks flying upside down? Our waitress would never win the Waitress 500, but the menu warned us that this was not a fast food establishment. She was, however, very pleasant and the chef personally brought us our meal. Not many places can boast that service. I think the waitress was in the can.
All in all, it was an enjoyable lunch at the Peanut. It's good to break the bonds of strip malls and cookie cutter subdivisions once in awhile and journey into the bowels of the city for an alternative dining experience. Next on our list: Church's Fried Chicken at Linwood & Main. Ummm, do they deliver?
Yesterday Ron convinced me to go look at the SoHo lofts downtown. It's something we've done from time to time, all the while never having the tiniest inkling of ever buying one. Well, Ron thinks he'd like it, but I'd give him two weeks. After that, he'd be stalking grass and trying to get at the neighbor's bonsai trees on the 18th floor patio. We like the green-ness of suburbia too much. And all the shopping.
Anyway, we got downtown and parked in the library parking lot. If you haven't been to the library downtown, you MUST visit. It's really a stunning building and has some fun stuff for kids to do. Anyway, we walk across the street to what Ron says are the SoHo lofts, even though the sign says "Library Lofts" (which I point out to him, not quite as nicely as I could have). We asked a nice lady. Affirmative. We were in the wrong place. After we found the correct lofts, we realize that we'd already seen them (start taking notes on your life soon after age 40). We were feeling a little hungry so Ron says, "Let's go to the Peanut. They've got great BLT's." Sounded good to me. And they were REALLY good. It was quite a place, though. The trio behind us was knocking back raspberry tea and vodkas and smoking up a storm, using the excuse that's it's noon somewhere in the world. The whole joint looked like a good stiff breeze would topple it. They had very cool bar artifacts, if you're into that sort of thing. There was this large spherical thing - I don't know what it was (maybe a light) that had the Anheuser-Busch Clydesdales running around it. Ron said he'd love to have that thing. I asked him where exactly that might fit in our decorating scheme and he said he'd put it in the basement (yes, that's the perfect place for it). They had old photographs of KC from the 30's and a flock of decoy ducks flying upside down? Our waitress would never win the Waitress 500, but the menu warned us that this was not a fast food establishment. She was, however, very pleasant and the chef personally brought us our meal. Not many places can boast that service. I think the waitress was in the can.
All in all, it was an enjoyable lunch at the Peanut. It's good to break the bonds of strip malls and cookie cutter subdivisions once in awhile and journey into the bowels of the city for an alternative dining experience. Next on our list: Church's Fried Chicken at Linwood & Main. Ummm, do they deliver?
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Little Shop of Horrors
(Alan Menken, 1982)
One of the things that gives me secret delight is trying to come up with completely bizarre combinations of items when I go shopping at places like Walgreen's or Target. Tonight at Target we bought chocolate, cat litter, a new welcome flag and tiki torch fluid. One of my favorite combos was tampons, lighter fluid, chocolate (seems to be a recurring theme, eh?) and Tylenol PM. Again, it's SO pathetic that it takes SO little to amuse me.
We also visited HyVee tonight, not our regular grocery store but it was close to Target . . . Ron was looking for some random faucet thing (at HyVee? He found it) so I was kind of wandering a previously unexplored area of the store. I looked up at the aisle directory and this is what it said:
Adult Undergarments
Candles
Feminine Hygiene
Girl Scout Supplies
Nylons
Girl Scout Supplies? I did a double take because I thought it said "Girl Scout Cookies" and I was sure as hell going to get some Thin Mints - do you know how good those would taste "out of season"? Then I did a full body double take and was compelled beyond all reasoning to go down that aisle and see what the "supplies" were. I'm not sure what I was expecting - maybe s'mores kits? They had the whole outfit - kicky little beret, socks, the sashes where you sew all the merit badges. They had brownie stuff, too. And something called "Daisy Girls"? But no Thin Mints. Damn.
One of the things that gives me secret delight is trying to come up with completely bizarre combinations of items when I go shopping at places like Walgreen's or Target. Tonight at Target we bought chocolate, cat litter, a new welcome flag and tiki torch fluid. One of my favorite combos was tampons, lighter fluid, chocolate (seems to be a recurring theme, eh?) and Tylenol PM. Again, it's SO pathetic that it takes SO little to amuse me.
We also visited HyVee tonight, not our regular grocery store but it was close to Target . . . Ron was looking for some random faucet thing (at HyVee? He found it) so I was kind of wandering a previously unexplored area of the store. I looked up at the aisle directory and this is what it said:
Adult Undergarments
Candles
Feminine Hygiene
Girl Scout Supplies
Nylons
Girl Scout Supplies? I did a double take because I thought it said "Girl Scout Cookies" and I was sure as hell going to get some Thin Mints - do you know how good those would taste "out of season"? Then I did a full body double take and was compelled beyond all reasoning to go down that aisle and see what the "supplies" were. I'm not sure what I was expecting - maybe s'mores kits? They had the whole outfit - kicky little beret, socks, the sashes where you sew all the merit badges. They had brownie stuff, too. And something called "Daisy Girls"? But no Thin Mints. Damn.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Leaving on a Jet Plane
(Peter, Paul and Mary, 1969)
A year ago yesterday, Tyler and I left KC to rendezvous with Ron in Milano for a three-week trek through Italia. Our first night, we stayed in Parma, home to both the famous cheese and ham. We walked to a lovely restaurant and dined al fresco. It was there I made my first "I'm a dumb American" blunder. After our bread had arrived I asked Ron if I should dip my bread in the balsamic vinegar first or the olive oil. He gently pointed out the balsamic vinegar was actually the wine he'd ordered. In my own defense, it was in a squatty little carafe, not at all like the one we bought at Pottery Barn. The food was really divine. Tyler and I both had white rice with spring pea sauce and pancetta and Ron had rabbit, I think. We finished it off with some parmesan cheese. Not a big fan. Love the stuff grated on just about anything, but popping in a hunk of it is SO less satisfying than a double dipped chocolate cone from DQ. Italians aren't big dessert people, although tiramisu and profiteroles are pretty tasty. They tend to like their sweets in their pastries. Ron and I found a wonderful tiny bakery in Castelnuevo Beradenga, just a few miles down the road from our villa (doesn't that sound wonderfully pretentious?) We hit it a couple of times a week and brought home sackfuls of melt-in-your-mouth morsels to have with the morning shot of adrenaline.
The coffee is sta-RONG! I always had mochas, but Ron aways bellied up to the bar and once had a triple espresso. Actually it was a single - he just had three of them in a row. He would stir his quarter inch of black gold and then hand the spoon to me to lick. I thought I'd eventually get used to that bitter, slightly grainy taste. But, nope. Didn't happen. Made a face every time.
It's hard to believe that it's been a full twelve months since we were there. Ron opened our last bottle of Italian wine tonight and we're on our last bottle of olive oil we brought back. We have little reminders of our travels throughout the house. I have to say, though, that a half an hour ago I was sitting on the patio with Ron (watching bats again) and he said - for at least the hundredth time this year - that life doesn't get any better than this. And he's right. Italy was fabulous, but we have a pretty nice villa-ette, wine stateside isn't that bad, I make a mean pesto and grilled chicken pizza, and I can make a fool of myself just as easily here as I can abroad. And it's so much cheaper.
A year ago yesterday, Tyler and I left KC to rendezvous with Ron in Milano for a three-week trek through Italia. Our first night, we stayed in Parma, home to both the famous cheese and ham. We walked to a lovely restaurant and dined al fresco. It was there I made my first "I'm a dumb American" blunder. After our bread had arrived I asked Ron if I should dip my bread in the balsamic vinegar first or the olive oil. He gently pointed out the balsamic vinegar was actually the wine he'd ordered. In my own defense, it was in a squatty little carafe, not at all like the one we bought at Pottery Barn. The food was really divine. Tyler and I both had white rice with spring pea sauce and pancetta and Ron had rabbit, I think. We finished it off with some parmesan cheese. Not a big fan. Love the stuff grated on just about anything, but popping in a hunk of it is SO less satisfying than a double dipped chocolate cone from DQ. Italians aren't big dessert people, although tiramisu and profiteroles are pretty tasty. They tend to like their sweets in their pastries. Ron and I found a wonderful tiny bakery in Castelnuevo Beradenga, just a few miles down the road from our villa (doesn't that sound wonderfully pretentious?) We hit it a couple of times a week and brought home sackfuls of melt-in-your-mouth morsels to have with the morning shot of adrenaline.
The coffee is sta-RONG! I always had mochas, but Ron aways bellied up to the bar and once had a triple espresso. Actually it was a single - he just had three of them in a row. He would stir his quarter inch of black gold and then hand the spoon to me to lick. I thought I'd eventually get used to that bitter, slightly grainy taste. But, nope. Didn't happen. Made a face every time.
It's hard to believe that it's been a full twelve months since we were there. Ron opened our last bottle of Italian wine tonight and we're on our last bottle of olive oil we brought back. We have little reminders of our travels throughout the house. I have to say, though, that a half an hour ago I was sitting on the patio with Ron (watching bats again) and he said - for at least the hundredth time this year - that life doesn't get any better than this. And he's right. Italy was fabulous, but we have a pretty nice villa-ette, wine stateside isn't that bad, I make a mean pesto and grilled chicken pizza, and I can make a fool of myself just as easily here as I can abroad. And it's so much cheaper.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Paradise by the Dashboard Lights
(Meatloaf, 1977)
OK, I'm pretty sure it wasn't the same kind of paradise alluded to in the song and it wasn't by the lights of the dashboard . . . it was candlelight on the patio and it was more of a Eden-like paradise. Tonight Ron invited me to a show on the patio. It was a show of bats. About 8:45 every night these creatures of the night take flight in our back yard. Tonight it was only two, but Ron said he'd seen a flock of four earlier in the week. They fly really fast back and forth, in and out and it's really hard to figure out just how many there are. To see them, you really have to throw your head back, so there I am in our patio furniture, legs up on the table face to the sky with my mouth dropped open (it just seems to happen naturally when your head's at that angle). As soon as I realized that bats drop guano, I clamped my mouth shut, but after awhile gravity took over and it was gaping wide open. Fortunately, no guano glopped on me. I may have to get a surgical mask if this becomes a regular habit.
Bats . . . I used to be scared to death of bats. I was a rabid fan of "Dark Shadows," a 60's Gothic soap opera. In the summer I'd hide in our basement because we had a sub-zero window air conditioner and it was dark to watch Dark Shadows religiously, unbeknownst to my mom. The acting was horrible, even for a soap opera, and the plots were, of course, sinister and twisted (although I don't think there was any coffin-hopping going on). For awhile I totally believed that vampire bats could make the long trek from Transylvania to Missouri and end up in my bedroom in the dead of night. An updated version of the show re-emerged in the 80's and of course I watched it. I got Kate hooked on it and we used to threaten/tease Tyler with a visit from Barnabas, the main vampire, if he didn't behave. (We also use to tell Tyler that the stuffed buffalo head at the old Darryl's on Metcalf was going to come down off the wall if he didn't sit still in his chair. Sometimes the similarities between me and Roseanne Barr are eerily disconcerting . . .).
I was talking to my friend Steve tonight on the phone and said we were watching bats and he told that he'd been in a bat cave in the Ozarks where there were so many bats that when they started flying around they couldn't see the opening of the cave they'd just entered. And they were flying into him all the time - shuuuuuuuddddddddderrrrrrrrrr.
Anyway, I've since lost my fear of bats, at least when they number less than four. Or when they come with a Chris O'Donnell "Robin".
OK, I'm pretty sure it wasn't the same kind of paradise alluded to in the song and it wasn't by the lights of the dashboard . . . it was candlelight on the patio and it was more of a Eden-like paradise. Tonight Ron invited me to a show on the patio. It was a show of bats. About 8:45 every night these creatures of the night take flight in our back yard. Tonight it was only two, but Ron said he'd seen a flock of four earlier in the week. They fly really fast back and forth, in and out and it's really hard to figure out just how many there are. To see them, you really have to throw your head back, so there I am in our patio furniture, legs up on the table face to the sky with my mouth dropped open (it just seems to happen naturally when your head's at that angle). As soon as I realized that bats drop guano, I clamped my mouth shut, but after awhile gravity took over and it was gaping wide open. Fortunately, no guano glopped on me. I may have to get a surgical mask if this becomes a regular habit.
Bats . . . I used to be scared to death of bats. I was a rabid fan of "Dark Shadows," a 60's Gothic soap opera. In the summer I'd hide in our basement because we had a sub-zero window air conditioner and it was dark to watch Dark Shadows religiously, unbeknownst to my mom. The acting was horrible, even for a soap opera, and the plots were, of course, sinister and twisted (although I don't think there was any coffin-hopping going on). For awhile I totally believed that vampire bats could make the long trek from Transylvania to Missouri and end up in my bedroom in the dead of night. An updated version of the show re-emerged in the 80's and of course I watched it. I got Kate hooked on it and we used to threaten/tease Tyler with a visit from Barnabas, the main vampire, if he didn't behave. (We also use to tell Tyler that the stuffed buffalo head at the old Darryl's on Metcalf was going to come down off the wall if he didn't sit still in his chair. Sometimes the similarities between me and Roseanne Barr are eerily disconcerting . . .).
I was talking to my friend Steve tonight on the phone and said we were watching bats and he told that he'd been in a bat cave in the Ozarks where there were so many bats that when they started flying around they couldn't see the opening of the cave they'd just entered. And they were flying into him all the time - shuuuuuuuddddddddderrrrrrrrrr.
Anyway, I've since lost my fear of bats, at least when they number less than four. Or when they come with a Chris O'Donnell "Robin".
Monday, June 18, 2007
One
(Three Dog Night, 1969)
So here's a rundown of numerical things we saw in Colorado . . .
Three - number of coyotes we saw
324 - number of t-shirt shops in Estes Park
20 - a more realistic number of t-shirt shops in Estes Park
14 - number of bighorn sheep we saw
250 - estimate of how many elk we saw
Nine - number of baby elk we saw
One - number of ADHD baby elk we saw (he kept running in circles and kicking up his heels)
34 - number of new muscles I discovered
a billion - number of idiot tourists we saw approaching the wildlife
Four - number of idiot teenagers we saw hop onto a rock in the middle of a roaring river to get their picture taken, even though there was a sign that said "Swift Water - It Will Kill You"
Two - number of people we saw making out in the park
One - number of Hummers we saw painted to advertise a realtor who encourages you to fire her if you don't like her
Seven - number of people in a family with quads - they were the best behaved three-year old quads I've ever seen (like I have anything to compare it to). And the mom looked like a supermodel. Of course.
85 - number of times we drove through RMNP (at least)
Zero - number of times I fell into the water - a freakin' miracle
Five - number of times I almost wet my pants laughing with Tyler
Twelve - number of times Tyler went to sleep with "Lemony Snicket" playing
Three - number of layers a hornet made in his nest, located on our cabin doorframe, while we were there
Nine - number of fish Ron caught (but a TON more got away)
8,329 - number of times I wished aspens would grow in Kansas
So here's a rundown of numerical things we saw in Colorado . . .
Three - number of coyotes we saw
324 - number of t-shirt shops in Estes Park
20 - a more realistic number of t-shirt shops in Estes Park
14 - number of bighorn sheep we saw
250 - estimate of how many elk we saw
Nine - number of baby elk we saw
One - number of ADHD baby elk we saw (he kept running in circles and kicking up his heels)
34 - number of new muscles I discovered
a billion - number of idiot tourists we saw approaching the wildlife
Four - number of idiot teenagers we saw hop onto a rock in the middle of a roaring river to get their picture taken, even though there was a sign that said "Swift Water - It Will Kill You"
Two - number of people we saw making out in the park
One - number of Hummers we saw painted to advertise a realtor who encourages you to fire her if you don't like her
Seven - number of people in a family with quads - they were the best behaved three-year old quads I've ever seen (like I have anything to compare it to). And the mom looked like a supermodel. Of course.
85 - number of times we drove through RMNP (at least)
Zero - number of times I fell into the water - a freakin' miracle
Five - number of times I almost wet my pants laughing with Tyler
Twelve - number of times Tyler went to sleep with "Lemony Snicket" playing
Three - number of layers a hornet made in his nest, located on our cabin doorframe, while we were there
Nine - number of fish Ron caught (but a TON more got away)
8,329 - number of times I wished aspens would grow in Kansas
Talk to Me
(Robin Macy, 1994)
I was up late last night. Three in the morning, to be exact. Don't ask why. Ok, I was putting together a book of our Colorado pictures. If I got paid for all the books I've done on Italy, Tyler and now Colorado I could retire a semi-unimpoverished woman and buy that lovely Wyandotte mobile home we've had our eye on. Don't scoff. It's a double-wide, with built-in plastic flower boxes (and plastic flowers).
Anyway, I didn't wake up until Kate called me at 10:30 this morning. I stumbled into my office and answered the phone, mumbled a few words and hung up. Then I called Ron to see how his first day back at work was going. He, in turn, asked me how I was doing (because it's what I've trained him to do) and I mumbled some more words. "What did you say?" he asked. "I'm sorry, I don't have my contacts in and I can't talk when I can't see." "Good," he said, "leave 'em out. I'll throw away your glasses, too!"
Although I laughed at the time, I'm starting to get a little bitter about his comment. He may say I talk too much, but he'd miss this voice of mine. Maybe I'll go on a voice strike and not speak for a week, like Duane in "Little Miss Sunshine." Everyone who knows me is now rolling on the floor and holding their sides because of the uncontrollable laughter that's convulsing their bodies. I know I could do it. But I'd have to have some kind of accident to put me in a coma.
I was up late last night. Three in the morning, to be exact. Don't ask why. Ok, I was putting together a book of our Colorado pictures. If I got paid for all the books I've done on Italy, Tyler and now Colorado I could retire a semi-unimpoverished woman and buy that lovely Wyandotte mobile home we've had our eye on. Don't scoff. It's a double-wide, with built-in plastic flower boxes (and plastic flowers).
Anyway, I didn't wake up until Kate called me at 10:30 this morning. I stumbled into my office and answered the phone, mumbled a few words and hung up. Then I called Ron to see how his first day back at work was going. He, in turn, asked me how I was doing (because it's what I've trained him to do) and I mumbled some more words. "What did you say?" he asked. "I'm sorry, I don't have my contacts in and I can't talk when I can't see." "Good," he said, "leave 'em out. I'll throw away your glasses, too!"
Although I laughed at the time, I'm starting to get a little bitter about his comment. He may say I talk too much, but he'd miss this voice of mine. Maybe I'll go on a voice strike and not speak for a week, like Duane in "Little Miss Sunshine." Everyone who knows me is now rolling on the floor and holding their sides because of the uncontrollable laughter that's convulsing their bodies. I know I could do it. But I'd have to have some kind of accident to put me in a coma.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Papa Don't Preach
(Madonna, 1986)
My dad would probably be mortified to know that I've linked that song to him on Father's Day. Come to think of it, though, he probably doesn't know the song, so . . .
I had to use it because my papa was a preacher. And a pretty good one, at that. He was born right before the Depression (1928), the youngest of fourteen children. No, it's not a typo. His oldest sister was 18 when he was born. Let's see if I can name them all: Hazel, Marjorie, Garnett, Alice, Esther, Charlotte, Herbert, Jack, Dub (short for Double E "Elmer Enoch"), John and Jim (my dad). That's only 11, but I know two (maybe three) died in infancy.
His dad left the family when my dad was five, so my grandmother (whom I never knew) was a contemporary of the Old Lady Who Lived In A Shoe (with so many children she didn't know what to do). By the time my dad was in school, the older ones had left home. My grandmother, Stella, worshipped FDR because he instituted so many work programs which, in turn, provided the older kids with jobs so they could send money home to make ends meet. My dad has wonderfully poignant stories of growing up in a really poor household. One day his mom received some money from one of dad's siblings and was able to buy a couple of pork chops. She doled out the small portions to my dad, uncle and two aunts, cautioning them to not eat too much or too fast because they hadn't had much to eat in awhile and their stomachs wouldn't be used to such rich food.
Another favorite is that dad, already honing his preaching skills, would go downtown to the park and "sermonize" all the out of work old men sitting around. After imparting his words of wisdom (he was all of six or seven), he took up an offering. When he got home, his brother, John, was appalled and made him take it all back.
Despite the challenges he faced growing up, my dad went to college, obtained both a Masters and PhD and has had careers in the ministry, politics (first as a state representative and then as MO state treasurer for eight years), and education, serving as president of two colleges in MO. Not bad for for a kid who, for the first eight years of his life, thought his name was "Shut up." (I don't know if that's really true, but in a house with a zillion kids . . . ?)
One of my most vivid memories early in life was in the church my dad was pastoring in Marshall, MO. I remember singing "This Is My Father's World," totally thinking I was singing about my dad. I also remember going through a stage when I was TERRIFIED of robbers. My kindergarten boyfriend, Brett, told us at "show and tell" that the bowling alley his dad bowled at had been broken into. I had nightmares for months. I'd wake up and see a robber (dressed like a cowboy) in my doorway. My parents put an army cot in their bedroom and more often than not I'd wind up on it before daybreak. Sometimes my dad would take me for a walk in the middle of the night (it was probably only about 10:00) to try and show me that there wasn't anything to be scared of. When we got back, we'd sit on the porch swing and drink orange juice. I remember my mom telling my dad that he was making it too much fun. Who wouldn't want to roam around the neighborhood after all the other kids were in bed and have snacks afterwards? I finally outgrew my fear, but I missed those father/daughter walks and talks.
I have tons and tons and tons of great memories about my dad. And I let him preach to me any time he wants (which is never). Now that's a GREAT dad!
My dad would probably be mortified to know that I've linked that song to him on Father's Day. Come to think of it, though, he probably doesn't know the song, so . . .
I had to use it because my papa was a preacher. And a pretty good one, at that. He was born right before the Depression (1928), the youngest of fourteen children. No, it's not a typo. His oldest sister was 18 when he was born. Let's see if I can name them all: Hazel, Marjorie, Garnett, Alice, Esther, Charlotte, Herbert, Jack, Dub (short for Double E "Elmer Enoch"), John and Jim (my dad). That's only 11, but I know two (maybe three) died in infancy.
His dad left the family when my dad was five, so my grandmother (whom I never knew) was a contemporary of the Old Lady Who Lived In A Shoe (with so many children she didn't know what to do). By the time my dad was in school, the older ones had left home. My grandmother, Stella, worshipped FDR because he instituted so many work programs which, in turn, provided the older kids with jobs so they could send money home to make ends meet. My dad has wonderfully poignant stories of growing up in a really poor household. One day his mom received some money from one of dad's siblings and was able to buy a couple of pork chops. She doled out the small portions to my dad, uncle and two aunts, cautioning them to not eat too much or too fast because they hadn't had much to eat in awhile and their stomachs wouldn't be used to such rich food.
Another favorite is that dad, already honing his preaching skills, would go downtown to the park and "sermonize" all the out of work old men sitting around. After imparting his words of wisdom (he was all of six or seven), he took up an offering. When he got home, his brother, John, was appalled and made him take it all back.
Despite the challenges he faced growing up, my dad went to college, obtained both a Masters and PhD and has had careers in the ministry, politics (first as a state representative and then as MO state treasurer for eight years), and education, serving as president of two colleges in MO. Not bad for for a kid who, for the first eight years of his life, thought his name was "Shut up." (I don't know if that's really true, but in a house with a zillion kids . . . ?)
One of my most vivid memories early in life was in the church my dad was pastoring in Marshall, MO. I remember singing "This Is My Father's World," totally thinking I was singing about my dad. I also remember going through a stage when I was TERRIFIED of robbers. My kindergarten boyfriend, Brett, told us at "show and tell" that the bowling alley his dad bowled at had been broken into. I had nightmares for months. I'd wake up and see a robber (dressed like a cowboy) in my doorway. My parents put an army cot in their bedroom and more often than not I'd wind up on it before daybreak. Sometimes my dad would take me for a walk in the middle of the night (it was probably only about 10:00) to try and show me that there wasn't anything to be scared of. When we got back, we'd sit on the porch swing and drink orange juice. I remember my mom telling my dad that he was making it too much fun. Who wouldn't want to roam around the neighborhood after all the other kids were in bed and have snacks afterwards? I finally outgrew my fear, but I missed those father/daughter walks and talks.
I have tons and tons and tons of great memories about my dad. And I let him preach to me any time he wants (which is never). Now that's a GREAT dad!
Saturday, June 16, 2007
(They Tried To Make Me Go To) Rehab
(Amy Winehouse, 2007)
Yes, even the Martin family is not immune to the rehab scene. See, I've kind of been in rehab. The second week we were in Colorado, Tyler did an intervention on me (rather rudely, I might add, but then all interventions have a bit of a sting, don't they?). Apparently, I BANG the keys of his computer. Actually, I've been accused of BANGING the keys on my computer, too, making me a habitual BANGER. I argued that he was hearing the click, click, click of my beautifully polished acrylic nails. He insisted that I was BANGING too hard on his darling little Mac. I tried to say that it was just my style, but I said I'd quit if it was that important to him. And I tried. So, so hard I tried. I'd do okay for a little bit, but then I'd slip and end up BANGING again. We argued about it every day. It finally got so heated that I swore I'd never touch his precious computer again, not even if he begged and pleaded me to. That's when rehab came in. After a week of not BANGING, I'm back home. Don't tell anyone, but I'm BANGING the hell out of my computer right now . . . and it feels sooooooo good. Ok, that sounds really bad, but you all know it's just the keys, right?
I'm posting some of my favorite shots from our trip.
Yes, even the Martin family is not immune to the rehab scene. See, I've kind of been in rehab. The second week we were in Colorado, Tyler did an intervention on me (rather rudely, I might add, but then all interventions have a bit of a sting, don't they?). Apparently, I BANG the keys of his computer. Actually, I've been accused of BANGING the keys on my computer, too, making me a habitual BANGER. I argued that he was hearing the click, click, click of my beautifully polished acrylic nails. He insisted that I was BANGING too hard on his darling little Mac. I tried to say that it was just my style, but I said I'd quit if it was that important to him. And I tried. So, so hard I tried. I'd do okay for a little bit, but then I'd slip and end up BANGING again. We argued about it every day. It finally got so heated that I swore I'd never touch his precious computer again, not even if he begged and pleaded me to. That's when rehab came in. After a week of not BANGING, I'm back home. Don't tell anyone, but I'm BANGING the hell out of my computer right now . . . and it feels sooooooo good. Ok, that sounds really bad, but you all know it's just the keys, right?
I'm posting some of my favorite shots from our trip.
Monday, June 11, 2007
I Can See Clearly Now
(Johnny Nash, 1972)
When we're on vacation we always try and select one trashy show to watch. Most years it's been "Cops," but recently the plethora of trashy shows has given us a whole snorkle to choose from. The other night we happened upon "Dr 90210." It's about plastic women dying to become more plastic and who are willing to pay big bucks in an effort to achieve perfection. Silly, lost women. Don't they know all they have to do is come to Jesus? And then, when they die, they'll be perfection in ways they can only begin to imagine. That's what keeps me goin' and out from under the knife.
As they head into a surgery for a breast augmentation ON AN EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLD Tyler and I notice that below the "Operating Room" sign is BRAILLE! Who wants anyone who is visually impaired in an operating room? Oy!
Which led me to question again why drive through ATM's have Braille? I suppose it's there for walk-ups, but I have to think that it would be a rare occurrence. I started thinking about all the other places I wouldn't want to see Braille. The only one I could come up with is a gas pump. And maybe the cockpit of an airplane.
When we're on vacation we always try and select one trashy show to watch. Most years it's been "Cops," but recently the plethora of trashy shows has given us a whole snorkle to choose from. The other night we happened upon "Dr 90210." It's about plastic women dying to become more plastic and who are willing to pay big bucks in an effort to achieve perfection. Silly, lost women. Don't they know all they have to do is come to Jesus? And then, when they die, they'll be perfection in ways they can only begin to imagine. That's what keeps me goin' and out from under the knife.
As they head into a surgery for a breast augmentation ON AN EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLD Tyler and I notice that below the "Operating Room" sign is BRAILLE! Who wants anyone who is visually impaired in an operating room? Oy!
Which led me to question again why drive through ATM's have Braille? I suppose it's there for walk-ups, but I have to think that it would be a rare occurrence. I started thinking about all the other places I wouldn't want to see Braille. The only one I could come up with is a gas pump. And maybe the cockpit of an airplane.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Jailhouse Rock
(Elvis Presley, 1957)
Today Ron and I were browsing in a mountain home decor shop and the shop's phone rang. I was close enough to the counter to hear the man who answered thank the caller for an update. "Oh," I thought, "it must be an update on an ill friend or family member." Then, in a loud voice, the man announced, "Everybody, I have news. PARIS HILTON IS BACK IN JAIL. Let's have some applause." And everyone cheered and applauded.
What is wrong with this world? There are soldiers (and civilians) dying in Iraq every day. There are unspeakable things happening in Darfur, the Sudan and hundreds of other places in this world. Numerous families like Kelsey Smith's are learning what it's like to lose a loved one in a senseless tragedy. And yet on every news channel the top story is this unimportant story accompanied by the tear stained face of Paris Hilton as she realizes she's actually going to be held accountable for her actions. Poor, poor Paris. My heart doesn't even open up an itty bitty crack for you.
I happened to watch a segment on Anderson Cooper tonight and he pointed out that exactly 35 years ago today perhaps the most iconic picture of the Vietnam war was taken - the one of the young girl running down the road naked (I think because her village had been sprayed with napalm, but I might be wrong). The same photographer that took that picture also took the picture of a sobbing Paris Hilton. Anderson said something like "Both images show raw emotion." HOW DARE HE compare the suffering of that young Cambodian girl with Paris Hilton's suffering. Bad form, Anderson, very bad form.
It is such a sad commentary on the mentality of our country, isn't it? We can't seem to get enough of the car wreck lives of the likes of Lindsay, Paris, Britney, Anna Nicole . . . they're identifiable by their first names like they're everyone's best friend. I'd almost be willing to take a class on The Psychology of Idiot Young Girls Who Seem Hell Bent on Dying an Early and Senseless Death. But, then I'd just be feeding the frenzy, wouldn't I?
Today Ron and I were browsing in a mountain home decor shop and the shop's phone rang. I was close enough to the counter to hear the man who answered thank the caller for an update. "Oh," I thought, "it must be an update on an ill friend or family member." Then, in a loud voice, the man announced, "Everybody, I have news. PARIS HILTON IS BACK IN JAIL. Let's have some applause." And everyone cheered and applauded.
What is wrong with this world? There are soldiers (and civilians) dying in Iraq every day. There are unspeakable things happening in Darfur, the Sudan and hundreds of other places in this world. Numerous families like Kelsey Smith's are learning what it's like to lose a loved one in a senseless tragedy. And yet on every news channel the top story is this unimportant story accompanied by the tear stained face of Paris Hilton as she realizes she's actually going to be held accountable for her actions. Poor, poor Paris. My heart doesn't even open up an itty bitty crack for you.
I happened to watch a segment on Anderson Cooper tonight and he pointed out that exactly 35 years ago today perhaps the most iconic picture of the Vietnam war was taken - the one of the young girl running down the road naked (I think because her village had been sprayed with napalm, but I might be wrong). The same photographer that took that picture also took the picture of a sobbing Paris Hilton. Anderson said something like "Both images show raw emotion." HOW DARE HE compare the suffering of that young Cambodian girl with Paris Hilton's suffering. Bad form, Anderson, very bad form.
It is such a sad commentary on the mentality of our country, isn't it? We can't seem to get enough of the car wreck lives of the likes of Lindsay, Paris, Britney, Anna Nicole . . . they're identifiable by their first names like they're everyone's best friend. I'd almost be willing to take a class on The Psychology of Idiot Young Girls Who Seem Hell Bent on Dying an Early and Senseless Death. But, then I'd just be feeding the frenzy, wouldn't I?
Thursday, June 7, 2007
The Sign
(Ace of Base, 1993)
There are signs posted ALL over RMNP that say "It is illegal to feed or approach the wildlife." Do people adhere to these strongly worded edicts? Noooooooo sireeeeeeee Bob. The first year we came here we wanted to get a bull horn and announce "Please step away from the wildlife." Now I want an air horn. I want to scare the pants off stupid people who would walk right up the elk and ask for an autograph if they weren't afraid they'd get spit on. Oh, wait, that's camels.
Anyway, I mentioned this dark desire to Ron tonight as we saw a group of three people about 15 feet away from a pretty large herd. He thought it would be great if I could hide in a thicket of aspens and time my blasts to coincide with the shutter clicking. I pointed out that if I did that I would be approaching the wildlife. So he said I should just lay out in the field and wait for the wildlife to approach ME. There are no signs posted that prohibit that sort of behavior. I'm game and I know the elk are (game, that is).
Ron and Tyler got to go to a millionaire's lair the other night. Our woodcarver friend, Jeff, invited them to a guys' night out with some of his church buddies. The ranch spans 165 acres, has five homes and a lake. You can fish, kayak, shoot arrows at one another, ice fish and skate (weather permitting), go ATV-ing and barbeque on a state-of-the-art grill. One building is completely dedicated to games - video, foosball, air hockey, pool, pinball and upstairs is a honkin' home theater. The place is fully stocked with all the requisite gear needed to indulge in these activities. Tyler said the fridge in the game house took up a whole wall. The guy who owns it was a founder of both Blockbuster and Boston Market. Ironically, Ron worked on both of those projects back in the day. This particular property (he owns 32 properties all together) is reserved for "God's work." So this group of guys head out there three or four times a year to smoke cigars, burn steaks and share their faith. I'm guessing it's also used for retreats and conferences.
Ron had told me that they'd be home early, so I started listening for the car about 11:00. At 11:30 I was convinced that they were in a ditch, hideously mangled and surrounded by salivating wolves. By 12:00, they were careening off a cliff in the park. By 12:30, when they got home, I was a mess (duh). A few tears even slipped out before they could tell me about the amazing time they had.
I thought all this blogging would drain my imagination, but nooooooooo sireeeeeeeee, Bob.
There are signs posted ALL over RMNP that say "It is illegal to feed or approach the wildlife." Do people adhere to these strongly worded edicts? Noooooooo sireeeeeeee Bob. The first year we came here we wanted to get a bull horn and announce "Please step away from the wildlife." Now I want an air horn. I want to scare the pants off stupid people who would walk right up the elk and ask for an autograph if they weren't afraid they'd get spit on. Oh, wait, that's camels.
Anyway, I mentioned this dark desire to Ron tonight as we saw a group of three people about 15 feet away from a pretty large herd. He thought it would be great if I could hide in a thicket of aspens and time my blasts to coincide with the shutter clicking. I pointed out that if I did that I would be approaching the wildlife. So he said I should just lay out in the field and wait for the wildlife to approach ME. There are no signs posted that prohibit that sort of behavior. I'm game and I know the elk are (game, that is).
Ron and Tyler got to go to a millionaire's lair the other night. Our woodcarver friend, Jeff, invited them to a guys' night out with some of his church buddies. The ranch spans 165 acres, has five homes and a lake. You can fish, kayak, shoot arrows at one another, ice fish and skate (weather permitting), go ATV-ing and barbeque on a state-of-the-art grill. One building is completely dedicated to games - video, foosball, air hockey, pool, pinball and upstairs is a honkin' home theater. The place is fully stocked with all the requisite gear needed to indulge in these activities. Tyler said the fridge in the game house took up a whole wall. The guy who owns it was a founder of both Blockbuster and Boston Market. Ironically, Ron worked on both of those projects back in the day. This particular property (he owns 32 properties all together) is reserved for "God's work." So this group of guys head out there three or four times a year to smoke cigars, burn steaks and share their faith. I'm guessing it's also used for retreats and conferences.
Ron had told me that they'd be home early, so I started listening for the car about 11:00. At 11:30 I was convinced that they were in a ditch, hideously mangled and surrounded by salivating wolves. By 12:00, they were careening off a cliff in the park. By 12:30, when they got home, I was a mess (duh). A few tears even slipped out before they could tell me about the amazing time they had.
I thought all this blogging would drain my imagination, but nooooooooo sireeeeeeeee, Bob.
A Mighty Wind
(Mitch & Micky, The Main Street Singers, 2003)
Have you ever heard the wind howl? I mean really howl? You cannot begin to imagine what it sounds like outside our cabin. It's blowing the blinds inside the cabin and the windows are completely shut. I imagine it's what Dorothy heard as she made her way back to the farmhouse. I'd go outside right now and try stomping on the cellar door but I'm afraid I'd end up representing the Lollipop Guild.
And . . . it snowed today. June 6. The upper elevations got 18 inches - of SNOW! The mountains were already snowcapped, but you can see the dusting of new snow from where we are. We contemplated stealing our neighbor's supply of firewood but Ron wouldn't let us. He'll be sorry when he finds out his bed's been shoved in the fireplace. With him in it.
I was flipping through channels tonight and came across a special on John Denver. Of course I parked myself in front of the tube and Ron promptly went to bed. Tyler hung with me for a couple of songs and then fell asleep. It's freaky what that music does to me. I think it's been proven that smell and music are two of the highest memory triggers. My eyes started stinging the second I heard "Thank God I'm A Country Boy." The program was part of a PBS pledge drive and I swear if I'd been alone I would have pledged money to the Denver PBS station. Why? Because his music makes me lose my reasoning capacity. And I could have gotten two free CD's of his music. Tyler said it would be cheaper to go buy the cds at the oldies cd place. Wise guy. I asked him to promise to have "Annie's Song" sung at his wedding. He almost spewed his water across the room. Maybe he'll go for "Sunshine on My Shoulders."
On a much sadder note . . . we all were devastated to hear about Kelsey Smith. I was mad, sad, scared . . . As a parent I don't how you even begin to recover from something like that. I suppose a good place to start would be to rely on God's grace and acceptance that I should not lean on my own understanding, and the hope everlasting of His heavenly kingdom that has many, many rooms. What an awesome God He is.
Have you ever heard the wind howl? I mean really howl? You cannot begin to imagine what it sounds like outside our cabin. It's blowing the blinds inside the cabin and the windows are completely shut. I imagine it's what Dorothy heard as she made her way back to the farmhouse. I'd go outside right now and try stomping on the cellar door but I'm afraid I'd end up representing the Lollipop Guild.
And . . . it snowed today. June 6. The upper elevations got 18 inches - of SNOW! The mountains were already snowcapped, but you can see the dusting of new snow from where we are. We contemplated stealing our neighbor's supply of firewood but Ron wouldn't let us. He'll be sorry when he finds out his bed's been shoved in the fireplace. With him in it.
I was flipping through channels tonight and came across a special on John Denver. Of course I parked myself in front of the tube and Ron promptly went to bed. Tyler hung with me for a couple of songs and then fell asleep. It's freaky what that music does to me. I think it's been proven that smell and music are two of the highest memory triggers. My eyes started stinging the second I heard "Thank God I'm A Country Boy." The program was part of a PBS pledge drive and I swear if I'd been alone I would have pledged money to the Denver PBS station. Why? Because his music makes me lose my reasoning capacity. And I could have gotten two free CD's of his music. Tyler said it would be cheaper to go buy the cds at the oldies cd place. Wise guy. I asked him to promise to have "Annie's Song" sung at his wedding. He almost spewed his water across the room. Maybe he'll go for "Sunshine on My Shoulders."
On a much sadder note . . . we all were devastated to hear about Kelsey Smith. I was mad, sad, scared . . . As a parent I don't how you even begin to recover from something like that. I suppose a good place to start would be to rely on God's grace and acceptance that I should not lean on my own understanding, and the hope everlasting of His heavenly kingdom that has many, many rooms. What an awesome God He is.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Rocky Raccoon
(Beatles, 1968)
Tonight Ron and I were sitting outside our favorite paper/card/ink pen/irreverent magnet store, minding our own business, when a bushy raccoon came careening around the corner like the lead car in the Indy 500. Ron reacted like I do when I see a mouse - he dang near hopped up on the bench. It was quite funny, although Ron failed to see the humor of the situation.
It reminds me of another humorous story involving Ron, a dog and a prayer vigil. "Ah," you're thinking, "this will be good."
We were taking part in a 24-hour prayer vigil and were scheduled to pray at our church from 1:00-2:00 a.m. As we walked outside our home in the wee hours of the morning, we were greeted by a semi-large dog of questionable breed. He was wagging his tail, so I started down the stairs, talking to the dog in a friendly manner. Ron, who had just come outside, ordered me to stop and come back up on the porch. I know my jaw dropped and I said, "Excuse me?" Ron said, "Do you know that dog?" I found this extremely funny and proceeded to approach the dog. Ron, again ordered me to get back on the porch. He obviously was acquainted with this dog and knew that I was in grave danger of having my hand severely licked.
We finally got in the car (without petting the dog) and it was silent as a tomb. Ron was still irked at my unsubmissive wifely behavior and I was trying to prepare myself for the hour of prayer. About a half mile from the church I started giggling. It quickly turned into one of those honking, gasping, tear rolling laughs. Ron saw nothing even remotely funny about it. I finally managed to get out "Do you know that dog?" He shot a deathray my way and yelled, "Well, did you?" By this time I was screaming laughing and I was pretty sure I would never be able to focus my thoughts on the Almighty. Thankfully, Ron finally started laughing, too, and by the time we reached the church we had calmed down enough to keep the prayer vigil going. I had already decided that if I got the giggles during our prayer time that I would chalk it up to laughing in the Spirit.
Tonight Ron and I were sitting outside our favorite paper/card/ink pen/irreverent magnet store, minding our own business, when a bushy raccoon came careening around the corner like the lead car in the Indy 500. Ron reacted like I do when I see a mouse - he dang near hopped up on the bench. It was quite funny, although Ron failed to see the humor of the situation.
It reminds me of another humorous story involving Ron, a dog and a prayer vigil. "Ah," you're thinking, "this will be good."
We were taking part in a 24-hour prayer vigil and were scheduled to pray at our church from 1:00-2:00 a.m. As we walked outside our home in the wee hours of the morning, we were greeted by a semi-large dog of questionable breed. He was wagging his tail, so I started down the stairs, talking to the dog in a friendly manner. Ron, who had just come outside, ordered me to stop and come back up on the porch. I know my jaw dropped and I said, "Excuse me?" Ron said, "Do you know that dog?" I found this extremely funny and proceeded to approach the dog. Ron, again ordered me to get back on the porch. He obviously was acquainted with this dog and knew that I was in grave danger of having my hand severely licked.
We finally got in the car (without petting the dog) and it was silent as a tomb. Ron was still irked at my unsubmissive wifely behavior and I was trying to prepare myself for the hour of prayer. About a half mile from the church I started giggling. It quickly turned into one of those honking, gasping, tear rolling laughs. Ron saw nothing even remotely funny about it. I finally managed to get out "Do you know that dog?" He shot a deathray my way and yelled, "Well, did you?" By this time I was screaming laughing and I was pretty sure I would never be able to focus my thoughts on the Almighty. Thankfully, Ron finally started laughing, too, and by the time we reached the church we had calmed down enough to keep the prayer vigil going. I had already decided that if I got the giggles during our prayer time that I would chalk it up to laughing in the Spirit.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Ain't No Mountain High Enough
(Diana Ross, 1973)
Oh, my feet are sore, sore, sore. Today Tyler took me on a hike that made me realize that I have passed the age when activities such as this are invigorating and exciting. I feel pretty much dead and mutilated. Ok, it wasn't that bad, but the spring chicken in this body has definitely turned into one tough old bird. Tonight I just want to soak my feet and wrap up in a big blanket. How sad is that?
For about the first five times we came to Estes Park we stayed pretty much on one side of the park. Then, one year, our accommodations were on the west side, closer to the Fall River entrance. It was then we were introduced to bighorn sheep. Or, I should say, the concept of bighorn sheep. We would go daily (sometimes multiple times during the day) to try and see them. There's an area called Sheeps Lake that has vitamin rich mud that lures the sheep down from their lofty mountain perches. Ron was determined to see them and would sneak off at 6:00 to try and catch them. This was before he became an ad for Orvis and took up flyfishing. Now he sneaks off to try and catch fish, which most days also prove to be elusive.
Anyway, back to the silly sheep. We had maybe seen one from about a mile away. At least Ron says it was sheep. Personally I think it was the backside of some hiker answering nature's call, unaware that he was being mistaken for a bighorn sheep. BUT WAIT! This trip we've not only seen bighorn sheep, we've seen them on two separate occasions! The first time was our first day here and we came around the corner to the Sheep's Lake area and there they were! I thought Ron would start hyperventillating and wreck the car, but he was nonplussed. I took that as a sign. Don't keep Ron Martin waiting or he'll just move on to some other obsession. Like he did with the fish.
Today, we saw something really remarkable - something we'll probably never ever see again. A bonafide showdown between four bighorn sheep and a coyote, There were two ewes and two yearlings taking their OneADay mud supplement and a coyote approached to within about six feet, They locked eyes and stared each other down for about three minutes and then the coyote turned and walked away, finally settling about 50 yards away. He kept a watchful eye on the foursome, who resumed their feeding, although at least one of the two ewes kept the coyote in sight the whole time. We left before the sheep made their way back across the highway and up to safer ground. It was cool.
I'm almost finished with "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee" and plan to watch the HBO special tonight. I hope it's an accurate representation of what really happened. If it was produced by white men I have my doubts. I'm also now reading "Truman," by David McCullough, a mammoth book of nearly 1,000 pages about the President from Missouri. I was a little disappointed because I thought it was going to be about that movie with Jim Carrey. I guess my first hint should have been the picture of Harry Truman on the cover. Hee hee,
I'm dying to upload some awesome pictures but Tyler's Mac doesn't have a program to resize photos. So much for Macs being all that. It'll just have to wait until I get back home to my sweet little Dell. I guess that makes me the farmer.
Oh, my feet are sore, sore, sore. Today Tyler took me on a hike that made me realize that I have passed the age when activities such as this are invigorating and exciting. I feel pretty much dead and mutilated. Ok, it wasn't that bad, but the spring chicken in this body has definitely turned into one tough old bird. Tonight I just want to soak my feet and wrap up in a big blanket. How sad is that?
For about the first five times we came to Estes Park we stayed pretty much on one side of the park. Then, one year, our accommodations were on the west side, closer to the Fall River entrance. It was then we were introduced to bighorn sheep. Or, I should say, the concept of bighorn sheep. We would go daily (sometimes multiple times during the day) to try and see them. There's an area called Sheeps Lake that has vitamin rich mud that lures the sheep down from their lofty mountain perches. Ron was determined to see them and would sneak off at 6:00 to try and catch them. This was before he became an ad for Orvis and took up flyfishing. Now he sneaks off to try and catch fish, which most days also prove to be elusive.
Anyway, back to the silly sheep. We had maybe seen one from about a mile away. At least Ron says it was sheep. Personally I think it was the backside of some hiker answering nature's call, unaware that he was being mistaken for a bighorn sheep. BUT WAIT! This trip we've not only seen bighorn sheep, we've seen them on two separate occasions! The first time was our first day here and we came around the corner to the Sheep's Lake area and there they were! I thought Ron would start hyperventillating and wreck the car, but he was nonplussed. I took that as a sign. Don't keep Ron Martin waiting or he'll just move on to some other obsession. Like he did with the fish.
Today, we saw something really remarkable - something we'll probably never ever see again. A bonafide showdown between four bighorn sheep and a coyote, There were two ewes and two yearlings taking their OneADay mud supplement and a coyote approached to within about six feet, They locked eyes and stared each other down for about three minutes and then the coyote turned and walked away, finally settling about 50 yards away. He kept a watchful eye on the foursome, who resumed their feeding, although at least one of the two ewes kept the coyote in sight the whole time. We left before the sheep made their way back across the highway and up to safer ground. It was cool.
I'm almost finished with "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee" and plan to watch the HBO special tonight. I hope it's an accurate representation of what really happened. If it was produced by white men I have my doubts. I'm also now reading "Truman," by David McCullough, a mammoth book of nearly 1,000 pages about the President from Missouri. I was a little disappointed because I thought it was going to be about that movie with Jim Carrey. I guess my first hint should have been the picture of Harry Truman on the cover. Hee hee,
I'm dying to upload some awesome pictures but Tyler's Mac doesn't have a program to resize photos. So much for Macs being all that. It'll just have to wait until I get back home to my sweet little Dell. I guess that makes me the farmer.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Laughing
(The Guess Who, 1969)
Well, we’re here, happily ensconced in our cabin/suite. A fire is crackling in the fireplace and there’s a thunderstorm quietly raging outside. It’s heaven on earth.
There are times when I start laughing and nearly lose my life. I can’t stop, I can’t get a breath and it’s funnier than hell. Tonight I bought a book thong, a really cool type of bookmark that is made of waxed string and really beautiful beads on either end. Tyler reminded me that he and Kate tried to make them one year when I couldn’t find any in my favorite EP bookstore. The next day they got a new shipment in and I remember saying “Praise the Lord,” because, despite their best efforts, the Kate and Tyler thongs were pretty pitiful. I told Tyler (tonight) that their thongs looked like they were made at a sheltered workshop. (WARNING: the following is quite possibly politically incorrect - I apologize in advance). For those of you who don’t know what that is (as Tyler didn’t) it’s a place where mentally challenged people work, usually assembling stuff. “Comb and brush sets,” I said. “Comb and brush sets?” asked Tyler. Then, in one of those moments when the brain becomes completely disemboweled and hears something that clearly wasn’t said, he said, “Gary Coleman has comb and brush sets?” There I went. In seconds I was honking and gasping for air, with tears streaming down my face. If you’ve never laughed like that you should really try it. Just hang around Tyler and me for an hour or two.
Well, we’re here, happily ensconced in our cabin/suite. A fire is crackling in the fireplace and there’s a thunderstorm quietly raging outside. It’s heaven on earth.
There are times when I start laughing and nearly lose my life. I can’t stop, I can’t get a breath and it’s funnier than hell. Tonight I bought a book thong, a really cool type of bookmark that is made of waxed string and really beautiful beads on either end. Tyler reminded me that he and Kate tried to make them one year when I couldn’t find any in my favorite EP bookstore. The next day they got a new shipment in and I remember saying “Praise the Lord,” because, despite their best efforts, the Kate and Tyler thongs were pretty pitiful. I told Tyler (tonight) that their thongs looked like they were made at a sheltered workshop. (WARNING: the following is quite possibly politically incorrect - I apologize in advance). For those of you who don’t know what that is (as Tyler didn’t) it’s a place where mentally challenged people work, usually assembling stuff. “Comb and brush sets,” I said. “Comb and brush sets?” asked Tyler. Then, in one of those moments when the brain becomes completely disemboweled and hears something that clearly wasn’t said, he said, “Gary Coleman has comb and brush sets?” There I went. In seconds I was honking and gasping for air, with tears streaming down my face. If you’ve never laughed like that you should really try it. Just hang around Tyler and me for an hour or two.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Jesus Freak
(DC Talk, 1995)
Ok, a Jesus freak is not what immediately came to mind tonight as Ron and I drove by Old Shawnee Town in, of course, Shawnee (new and recently improved with an awesome pool). The carnival was in full swing, with ferris wheels, merry-go-rounds and enough cotton candy to give the whole town a ca-razy sugar high. I told Ron we should go because it would give me something good to write about. He kept on driving. "Ha!" I thought to myself. "I have enough carnival memories to write a whole novel. So there." Actually, they're not carnival memories, but Missouri State Fair memories. Growing up, we lived only thirty minutes from Sedalia, the home of the MO State Fair. We made the trip there frequently to shop and go to the orthodontist. I remember seeing a sign in this one yard that said "Rooms for Fair People." I totally thought it was a racist sign. Not even kidding. Anyway, my dad was a state representative and each year they had one day designated as "State Representative Day" or something of that nature. We got to go on all the rides free! And go to all the sideshows, too. That's where the "freak" comes in. Most of them were really pathetic and I remember thinking what a sad life it must be to travel from state to state, sitting in a really hot, dark tent and having people come in and just stare and point and whisper behind their hands. Ugh. The one freak I really remember was a drug addict. He was a pale, skinny guy with thin hair and red-rimmed eyes. Scared me straight for sure. Until I realized that he probably HAD to be high all the time (this was, of course, years later, when I understood what being high meant). As I was weighing my career options in my senior year of college, I briefly contemplated being a drug addict freak in a traveling show. But I got married instead. I think it was a good choice.
One of the other great things about the state fair was getting to see Bobby Goldsboro and Bobby Vinton (not in the same year - that would have sent me over the moon into the stratosphere) in concert. And the best - THE CARPENTERS! I love the Carpenters almost as much as I love John Denver. I think I liked them because Karen's vocal range matched mine perfectly; we had kindred voices. I knew (know) all the words to "We've Only Just Begun," "Close to You," "Superstar," "Rainy Days and Mondays" - just about all of them. I swear I honestly thought my life could not get any better when I saw them. I use the term "saw" loosely, because even though it was State Rep Day we still had "you're really just like everybody else" seats.
So, as we drove past the blinking lights and hordes of people toting sticky-faced kids, strollers and funnel cakes I was overwhelmed with this thought: keep on driving, Ron, keep on driving. Nothing will top my adolescent state fair escapades. Besides, I hear they're looking for a drug addict freak and business has been kinda slow lately . . .
Ok, a Jesus freak is not what immediately came to mind tonight as Ron and I drove by Old Shawnee Town in, of course, Shawnee (new and recently improved with an awesome pool). The carnival was in full swing, with ferris wheels, merry-go-rounds and enough cotton candy to give the whole town a ca-razy sugar high. I told Ron we should go because it would give me something good to write about. He kept on driving. "Ha!" I thought to myself. "I have enough carnival memories to write a whole novel. So there." Actually, they're not carnival memories, but Missouri State Fair memories. Growing up, we lived only thirty minutes from Sedalia, the home of the MO State Fair. We made the trip there frequently to shop and go to the orthodontist. I remember seeing a sign in this one yard that said "Rooms for Fair People." I totally thought it was a racist sign. Not even kidding. Anyway, my dad was a state representative and each year they had one day designated as "State Representative Day" or something of that nature. We got to go on all the rides free! And go to all the sideshows, too. That's where the "freak" comes in. Most of them were really pathetic and I remember thinking what a sad life it must be to travel from state to state, sitting in a really hot, dark tent and having people come in and just stare and point and whisper behind their hands. Ugh. The one freak I really remember was a drug addict. He was a pale, skinny guy with thin hair and red-rimmed eyes. Scared me straight for sure. Until I realized that he probably HAD to be high all the time (this was, of course, years later, when I understood what being high meant). As I was weighing my career options in my senior year of college, I briefly contemplated being a drug addict freak in a traveling show. But I got married instead. I think it was a good choice.
One of the other great things about the state fair was getting to see Bobby Goldsboro and Bobby Vinton (not in the same year - that would have sent me over the moon into the stratosphere) in concert. And the best - THE CARPENTERS! I love the Carpenters almost as much as I love John Denver. I think I liked them because Karen's vocal range matched mine perfectly; we had kindred voices. I knew (know) all the words to "We've Only Just Begun," "Close to You," "Superstar," "Rainy Days and Mondays" - just about all of them. I swear I honestly thought my life could not get any better when I saw them. I use the term "saw" loosely, because even though it was State Rep Day we still had "you're really just like everybody else" seats.
So, as we drove past the blinking lights and hordes of people toting sticky-faced kids, strollers and funnel cakes I was overwhelmed with this thought: keep on driving, Ron, keep on driving. Nothing will top my adolescent state fair escapades. Besides, I hear they're looking for a drug addict freak and business has been kinda slow lately . . .
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