Doo Doo Is Only A Food Group For Dogs

Remember a while back when I mentioned trying to hold up my post-Christmas-goodie butt during a yoga class? I wasn’t joking about that. During the holidays my body got used to eating cookies and desserts covered in whipped cream and candies and now it not only expects them, it grumbles and rumbles for them. But I’m putting a stop to that. I’m putting on the brakes even if it means I won’t be able to hear Sophie’s purring over my stomach growling. That means I’m trying not to eat between meals (other than a handful of raisins and raw almonds in the morning at work because sometime between 10 and 11 a.m. each morning I know if I don’t eat something I’ll have small key-shaped indentations in my forehead) and (sigh) I have given up my nightly glass of full bodied, fragrant, dry red wine. I’ve given it up during the work week anyway. Well, I’ve given it up during the work week except for Friday which is technically the weekend. Okay, I'm not giving it up on Sunday either. Sunday doesn’t count because that’s the weekend too. I guess if you want to be persnickety, I’ve given up my evening glass of oh so mellow, soothing red wine only Monday through Thursday.

In addition to no snacks and no less wine I’m trying to limit myself to one serving of whatever food Dean has prepared for our evening meal. Did you know I don’t have to cook any of our evening meals OR our weekend breakfasts? That means I also don’t have to plan the meals or shop for the food. All I have to do is eat what is prepared and then clean up what was used to prepare it. Cleaning up after Dean has been cooking is no small task but it’s still better than cooking it myself. It’s the best deal I’ve negotiated in the 38 years we’ve been married. It’s even better than the excellent deal I negotiated with him this winter which is this: if there is any snow or even one little frost crystal on my car windows on a work morning, he starts my car, warms it up and scrapes the windows. Let me tell you, some mornings there is a LOT of scraping

It wasn’t even hard to talk him into it. I think he just didn’t want to clean the garage so I could park there.

At first blush you might think I got the raw end of the parking deal but you’d be wrong. If I parked in the garage I would have to get into a cold car in the morning and when I came home at night, before I could pull into the garage, I would have to get out of a nice warm car, kick off all the loose snow from the wheel wells and brush off any snow on the car because “there will be no melting snow in our garage.” Know what that means? It means on snowy days I’d be standing in the driveway, kicking my car, and trying to brush off snow from one side and then running back to the other side to brush it off before it accumulated again on the side I just brushed off. I have a dent in the toe of one of my boots from kicking snow. It’s not fun. Because of this awesome deal I effortlessly negotiated, I can walk outside, get in a car all warmed up with scraped windows and when I come home at night I turn off the car, lock the doors and go in the house.

Anyway, to get back to my original point, I am trying to cut back on my food intake. That means I’m pretty hungry when dinner time rolls around. Especially if I’ve just gotten home from pilates or hot yoga. I’m not super picky about what I eat as long as it isn’t fish or asparagus or squash or raw broccoli or any kind of cauliflower or avocado or eggplant or tomatoes or olives or raw onions or mustard or ginger. So when I describe the dinner that was recently placed in front of me I do not want you to think I am whining or complaining or hard to please. I live with a cook and a valet. It doesn’t get better than that. But on this recent night, I had just come home from the gym and I was really hungry. I sat down at the table to a skillet containing a sauce-like substance that was approximately the color and consistency of baby poop that had been mixed with oh, I don’t know, maybe rotten yellow squash and a dab of green enchilada sauce. Floating in this thickened liquid were some French cut green beans and small white tofu-looking chunks that turned out to be boiled chicken. This concoction was not going to win any culinary presentation prizes but I was hungry so I wasn't complaining.  I was just happy I didn't have to do the cooking.

Next to the skillet of goo there was a bowl of brown rice with a few raisins and sliced almonds mixed in. I scooped some rice onto my plate and added some of the baby poop mixture. I loaded up my fork but as I was about to take the first bite my stomach clenched, my nose wrinkled up and my mouth refused to open. I am somewhat ashamed to admit that my reaction was not a polite, “honey, what spices* did you use in this interesting concoction?”  No, what came out of my mouth (when I took the fork away and it would open again) was “ewwwwww … what is in this?! Ewwwwww. It stinks! Gross.” I think I might have even made some gagging noises. It smelled like vomit. I’m sorry but it’s true. It looked like a mixture of baby poop, rotten squash and green enchilada sauce and it smelled like vomit. I forced myself to take one bite but the sad truth is it tasted like a combination of baby poop and vomit. Not that I’ve eaten that specific combination of ingredients but if I ever did, I think it would taste like this sauce.

I was informed by my cook that I did not have to eat it. I could eat the leftover boiled chicken in the fridge. And there were apples. Dean ate not one, but two servings and then put some in a container for lunch the next day but I suspect he was just being stubborn and didn’t want to admit he had created a biohazard. As for me, I just figured he was trying to help me in my “shrink the butt” effort. I’m telling you, nothing gets rid of hunger quicker than the smell of vomit on your plate. I ate some of the boiled rice with raisins and almonds and followed it with a cup of lemon tea for dessert.

*Turmeric should be banned

WWGHASODTT
We Will Get Healthy And Strong Or Die Trying Tip

If you don’t eat a balanced diet you are not going to be healthy. Think back to your childhood when you used to eat crayons. What colors were your favorite? The bright ones, right? Healthy foods are bright, just like those brightly colored crayons you chewed on when you weren’t licking the glue off your paint brush.

If you click here you can play a game to help reinforce the importance of a balanced diet.



I've also provided you with a few suggestions for some colorful additions to your diet:


Green vegetables like broccoli, spinach, and romaine help to improve eye sight and the immune system. 

Red strawberries, cherries, tomatoes, and apples improve heart and brain function.

Yellow and Orange, as in grapefruit, cantaloupe, squash, and carrots improve the immune sytem.

Blue and Purple, as in blueberries, blackberries, grapes, eggplant, and plums reduce some cancers and keep memory sharp.


Special Note:  There are no beneficial baby poop colored foods.◦

Doo Doo Is Only A Food Group For Dogs

Being Warm Isn't All It's Cracked Up To Be

I was thinking about how some blogs have an actual theme. There are no big surprises about what you’ll find in each post because you know when you begin reading they will be about some specific topic – like goldfish or pancakes or shoe addiction or traveling with Grandma (no, I didn’t make those up). And then I thought about my blog and I wondered if it should have some kind of premise or focus instead of just rambling words sprawled over a computer screen with no apparent point. I mulled that over for a while and then I finally came to this conclusion. I can’t write a blog with only one theme, even if that theme is Dean and all of his eccentricities unique qualities and bizarre distinctive art projects. I would be bored. But it occurred to me, after even more deep thought, that maybe I should offer something useful and focused at the end of all the words I write for no reason other than because I can.

Therefore I have decided that since the title of this blog is “StilWELLian” I will end each post with a health-related tip. Beginning today and continuing until I run out of tips, become ill or incapacitated, or just plain get bored with this idea, you can look forward with even more eagerness to the conclusion of each post. Beginning today when you reach the end and click “X” it won’t be with relief. Well, it will probably still be with relief, but now you’ll also have the added benefit of a thoughtful suggestion meant to help keep you and yours as healthy as a horse and as fit as a fiddle. That’s not to say I have a horse. Even if I did, I probably wouldn’t know if it was healthy. And I never did learn to play an instrument, let alone a fiddle. Well, I did play a jew’s harp way back when I was young and sprightly, but as far as knowing how to tell if any fiddle is fit, I don’t know that either. However, I am not dissuaded by my lack of horse knowledge or musical ability so without further ado I bring you the first ever end-of-the-post We Will Get Healthy And Strong Or Die Trying Tip – otherwise known as WWGHASODTT (pronounced just the same as if you were sneezing.)

WWGHASODTT

It is very important to exercise not only your body but all five senses on a daily basis. Push yourself to your edge but do not be a victim of peer pressure. Hearing loss, arthritis and cataracts will come soon enough.

Here are some examples of how you can keep your senses in good condition:

• Keep your nose clear of obstruction but do not honk unless you are prepared to feed the geese.

• Open your eyes wide and look left, right, up, down and all around. Note: If you live in a state with gentle breezes similar to ours and you are exercising those eye muscles outside, make sure you can find your way to a garden hose to wash out the bugs, dirt and bits of plastic bag that will attach to your eyeballs.

• Wiggle your fingers and toes to keep them limber, but not in front of a kitty with claws.

• Be adventurous in your food choices but do not lick rocks if you don’t know where they’ve been.

• Play your iPod but be smart about it. Start low and work up gradually to the point where it can be heard from five feet away.

Here’s how I chose to exercise my senses just last week:

• What’s that smell? Is it burning rubber? I’m not sure, but I think I smell burning rubber.

• The burning rubber smell can’t be coming from my cubicle space heater because I don’t see any flames.

• I can touch the space heater and my fingers aren’t burning or stuck to melting plastic.

• My mouth tastes like burning rubber. If it’s not my space heater maybe somebody burned popcorn in the microwave again.

• What did you say? The burning rubber smell IS coming from my cubicle? Really? Are you sure? Oh.

◦

Being Warm Isn't All It's Cracked Up To Be

Whooooo .... Meow .... Whoooooo .... Meo ..... Mmmmmmmmmm

Sophie could have been dinner the other night. There is a pair of hooters who like to sit in our neighbor’s tree – no, I don’t mean a couple of noses – and we hear “whooo, whoooo” just as it’s turning from dusk to dark. I left the patio door open when I went onto the deck to take a picture and about two minutes after I’d come back inside I looked over at the door and saw Sophie pacing back and forth. I thought I’d done a better job of sneaking out to take the picture this time because the owl just sat there looking in my direction instead of flying off which is what usually happens. But after seeing panicky kitty pacing I realized he was probably just distracted by the possibility of “Kitty

À la carte".

Our new deck rails have become the favorite place for doves, pigeons, sparrows and all kinds of birds to sit and sun themselves and leave small presents after they’ve gorged themselves from one of the birdfeeders in the yard behind us.

This morning we had a woodpecker on the deck. He was pretty but every time I see a woodpecker my first instinct is to run outside, spread my body in front of the house, look him in the eye and dare him to come near the wood siding with his beak. “Just try it Woody. I don’t care if you are one of the babies that grew up in the space between the siding and the wall inside our living room.”








I was thinking about another bird this afternoon when I was working on Pierce’s “baby” quilt and wondering how Leslie and Ryan could have known how much he would be like his middle name, Kestrel, when they named him. He’s small but fierce and when he circles Emerson and Myra before he dives in, grabs a toy and then swoops out, he is just like that small falcon that “hovers over its prey and then drops down on it”.

I still have hours and hours of quilting ahead of me but the piecing is finally finished. Here’s how I went about making it.

First I had to come up with a plan ...

... and then, since (as is apparent from my “plan”) I can't draw a bird, I searched on-line to find a line-drawing of a Kestrel ...

... which I traced it onto paper.

I had to find photos of kestrels so I could search for the perfect fabric ...




 









... and then it was just a matter of cutting the pieces, appliquéing them on ...











... adding the borders and ta da!

◦

Whooooo .... Meow .... Whoooooo .... Meo ..... Mmmmmmmmmm

You'll Wonder Where The Yellow Went



Guesses?



Lately I’ve been wondering why I do some of the things I do and worrying, just a teensy bit, that maybe some of those things might be seen as a bit odd. I’m not super worried because I know nothing I do is as eccentric as some of the things Dean makes but still, I am, on occasion, a bit concerned about myself.

For example, last night during my hot yoga class I was in the down dog position. You know, it’s the one where your butt is trying to reach the ceiling, your head is trying to reach the ground and your arms and legs are quivering while you try to hold that post-Christmas-goodie butt up. While I was in this unnatural position a drip of sweat ran across my face, down the side of my nose and into my eye. I thought to myself, “what am I doing here? Why am I doing (drip) this to myself?” It made me wonder why this year I have chosen to dribble sweat for 75 minutes in a yoga class when last year I would flap my clothes and whine profusely during a 75 second hot flash?

This morning as I was making the bed I wondered why I feel unsettled if the opening of the pillowcases do not face the outer edge of the bed. Not one facing in and one facing out, or both facing in. No. Both pillowcase openings must face out.  Is that reason for concern? Every now and then when I’m making the bed I discover that during the night Dean has secretly flipped his pillow and I am somewhat unnerved knowing I slept part of the night with an open pillowcase facing me.  How could he do that? What if I wake up in the night and see an open pillowcase staring me in the face?  I might not be able to get back to sleep. I can’t even get him to turn over and stop snoring; how will I get that pillow flipped during the night?

I had no pillowcase issues in the Amazon because we slept in twin beds and no matter which way I placed my pillow, the opening of the pillowcase was always to the outside edge of the bed. Should I worry that a pillowcase pointed the wrong way causes me to be anxious, but I could watch from my bed in the Amazon as a 2-inch long beetle crawled up and over the wall to my sister’s side of the cabin and then sleep like a baby? (Of course, not wanting to disrupt my sister’s sleep, I felt it was wisest not tell her it was coming her way.)

Every time I curl up on the couch to watch TV and cover myself with one of the flannel blankets my mom made me I make sure the loose ends of the yarn she tied it with are on the underside – where I can’t see them. And when I’m finished watching TV and neatly fold the blanket, I always fold it so the side where the yarn was tied is in, never out. I wonder why I can sit on that couch without being bothered that I’m sitting in pieces of popcorn, cat toys, and bits of quilting thread but I can’t look at the ends of the yarn that tied a blanket. What’s with that?

A lot of times I wonder why I write this blog filled with mindless ramblings (actually I wonder more why anybody would read it) and a couple of days ago I was wondering why the heck it took me two whole hours to figure out how to add the “e-mail me updates” option for you (see it? … over there to the right … near the top) when I should have been spending that precious time checking the direction of my pillowcases or folding blankets – yarn ties in of course. I am hoping the “e-mail me” button will save you from the need to check this blog repeatedly to see if I have written a new mind-numbing post. That way you will have more time to dedicate to the serious task of straightening the spoons in your silverware drawer – and to wonder why you do it.◦

You'll Wonder Where The Yellow Went

Why Do Humans Have Ears?

This morning I was eating the tasty walnut/cinnamon popovers Dean made for breakfast, reading the paper and contemplating the sourdough baguettes and cherry scones* I was planning to bake after breakfast. As I was eating, reading and contemplating, I thought I heard a banging sound from somewhere in the house. I stopped chewing, listened more closely and heard it again, “Bang! Bang!” “What’s that sound?” I asked Dean. “What sound?”

The sound got louder and more frequent. “Bang! Bang! Bang!”  Dean added more jam to his popover and continued working on the crossword.  About the time I decided he was even more deaf than Shadow I threw down my popover and jumped up from the table determined to find out where the sound was coming from.

I started walking around the house trying to pinpoint the sound. The banging was coming from the basement. It sounded like a washing machine being thrown against the dryer during the spin cycle when the load is uneven. “Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!” But I wasn’t washing clothes. As I ran down the stairs I worried the furnace was on the verge of exploding and thought how lucky we were that it had warmed up and we weren’t still suffering through last weekend’s sub-zero temperatures. At the bottom of the stairs I turned left toward the sound and saw four legs, a butt, a tail waving joyously back and forth and a headless black body in the hallway.  Shadow had pushed her head completely through the kitty “door” and was somehow making that banging noise.  I yelled, “Shadow! What do you think you’re doing?!” The banging stopped, she pulled her head out, looked at me, and slunk up the stairs to Dean, who I can only assume by that time had moved on to another popover.

Normally the kitty food looks like this:

I went into the laundry room to assess the damage and discovered she had somehow managed to remove the lid from the tin of kitty food, latched onto it with her teeth, drug it over to the opening in the door and had been tenaciously trying to pull that tin through the small opening meant only for kitties. I’m sure the only reason she was trying to get the tin through the opening was because the level of the food was too low and her tongue was too short.

In the interest of full disclosure I had to recreate the dog head in the kitty “door” photo and Shadow was not interested in cooperating. During the actual event, her head was pushed through the hole all the way to her doggy shoulders.

Dean is sure Shadow will be totally confused now because she was in the doghouse and then we coaxed her to do the very thing that put her in the there. She's in the doghouse alright, but I think she was confused well before we recreated that photo.  Think about it. She stuck her head in a small hole in a door, held on to a metal tin with her teeth and banged it into a door – over and over and over and over – like she has had some kind of psychological condition.  Now she's just confused about why her ears are ringing and her head hurts.

*Best ever Scone Recipe from my daughter, Leslie

Heat oven to 375 degrees

1 large egg

1/4 cup heavy cream

1/4 cup buttermilk

1 teaspoon vanilla

2 cups flour

1/3 cup sugar

2 teaspoons baking powder

1/4 teaspoon salt

6 tablespoons butter

2/3 cup fruit

Line cookie sheet with parchment paper
Whisk egg with cream, buttermilk and vanilla
Place flour, sugar, baking powder, salt and butter in food processor and mix.  (or use your hands if you're like me and don't have one).
Put flour mixture in a large bowl, add liquid to a well in the center and stir.
Add fruit

Form into a 8 or 9-inch round, cut into wedges.  Brush with a mixture of 1 egg and 1 tablespoon cream and sprinkle with sugar.

Place wedges on cookie sheet

and bake 15 minutes.



◦

Why Do Humans Have Ears?

Wilbur Only Reads Webs

I’ve been feeling a bit piggy lately, especially after the five pounds of cookies and candy I’ve eaten over the last month or so but I’ve been a happy pig because I received a Kindle for Christmas.  A Kindle is like magic. You wish for a book, click the magic payment button, open the Kindle and there it is. I love clicking the button, opening the magic book and seeing my wish come true. And the best part is, lots and lots of those magic payment buttons say $0.00. Jane Austen? Free! Bronte? Free! P.G. Wodehouse? Free! Really! I know. It’s even better than opening your desk drawer at work and finding a small candy bar buried under post-it notes.

I like to read a bit. Novels, preferably, but I also read biographies, histories, the funnies, the newspaper, cereal boxes. I even read directions and sometimes I read them right in front of Dean just so he knows how it’s done. A long time ago I thought I wanted to be a nurse so I read all about the human body and diseases and really complicated science stuff. I should have read more about practical things though, like “how to muffle the moaning of a very ill patient while you replace their urine-soaked sheet because you accidentally dipped it into the bedpan you were removing”. Eventually I figured out that the population of sick and ailing people would be better served if I read about Florence Nightingale instead of trying to be her. So I set out on a new career path – English Literature. I paid the university lots and lots of money and they not only let me read lots and lots of books but gave me a paper that qualified me to sell burgers at McDonalds or shelve books at the library, or if I was really lucky, sell books at B. Dalton.

I always read at bedtime and I always read when I eat lunch at work. I even have a room named after me at work. Really. I’m not kidding. “Cathy’s Room” is what they call it. It’s a little room filled with locked cabinets for super-secret papers nobody really cares about and bookshelves with large 3-ring binders filled with stuff nobody would want to read – not even me. But this little room, where the light is never on unless I am eating lunch, has a little table and two chairs so I can set my lunch on a flat surface, prop my feet on a chair, kick back and eat and read for 30 whole minutes, completely undisturbed. I am such a reader that when it was recently discovered that “Cathy’s Room” was going to be converted to an office, my fellow employees got together, stood in front of the door to “Cathy’s Room” and chanted

“save * the * room”, “save * the * room”. Not really. But I see the tears glistening in their eyes as they smile bravely at me when I’m walking down the hall now. Excuse me a moment while I get a tissue.

Anyway, I read. And I read more than one book at a time. And because I read more than one book at a time, and because I now have a Kindle, I am in the midst of a dilemma. I have my “Cathy’s Room” lunch book at work.

I have my bedtime reading book on the nightstand.

 I have stacks of “waiting to be read” books.

And now I’ve started a book on the Kindle. I don’t know where to keep the Kindle or when to read it. I can’t replace the lunchtime book with the Kindle because what if I spill food on it? If I read the Kindle at bedtime, when will I finish the bedtime book? Should I carry it with me and read it whenever I get a few moments? Should I go to bed even earlier and first read the Kindle and then the bedtime book? If I don’t know when and where I’m going to read the Kindle, how will I know where to find it when I want it? How can I fit three in-progress books into my life?

I’m in hog heaven wallowing in books but I need help. I need suggestions. And I need recommendations for more books to download using that magic Kindle button.

◦

Wilbur Only Reads Webs

Hasta La Próxima Vez

Sleeping has been less than ideal at our house for months. Shadow likes to begin pacing at 5:15 a.m. almost every morning. She’s more reliable than an alarm clock. Clickety-clickety-click to the bedroom door and back to the bed; stand and look at Dean. Clickety-clickety-click to the bedroom door and back to the bed; stand and look at Dean. Back and forth. Back and forth. 

Don't let those big, sad eyes fool you. 

Get the picture? You’d think I would just gently nudge Dean awake as soon as I hear the first clickety because I know it isn’t going to stop until he gets up and shuts her out of the bedroom, or takes her outside, or feeds her, or all three. But I’m just so dang considerate. I don’t want to be the one to wake the poor guy up. I suffer through it hoping Dean will wake up on his own and deal with her. Or, miracle of miracles, she’ll stop. Some mornings she thinks it’s funny to tease me. Clickety-clickety-click to the door and back to the bed; stare at Dean, and then there’s a big dog-sigh and she lies down in her bed. Like an idiot, I believe her pacing has ended but just as I’ve started to doze off again – clickety-clickety-click to the door and back to the bed; stand at look at Dean.

I don’t want to get up at 5:15 in the morning. I don’t even really want to get up at 5:45 a.m. which is when my toenail-less, inorganic, not-annoying alarm clock starts beeping. If I wanted to get up at 5:15 a.m., I would have set my alarm for 5:15 a.m. Worse than that, Shadow has never learned how to keep track of her days, even if there aren’t holidays to confuse her. It doesn’t matter to Shadow – or Dean for that matter – if it’s Saturday or Wednesday; they are up at the same time. But I can tell you – it matters to me. Weekends are for sleeping in; even if it makes me seem like a lazy slug because by the time I crawl out of bed Dean’s taken Shadow for a walk, read the paper, done the crossword, heard most of NPR’s morning show and has all the breakfast ingredients laid out and ready.

I am convinced Shadow’s nighttime pacing is her own brand of passive/aggressiveness and she’s punishing me. She lies on her pillow and pretends like she’s sleeping but I know, in between those fake snores she’s listening to Dean and I talk and plotting her revenge against me. I know she hears me mention, very nicely I might add, that I don’t feel it is in her best interest to receive anything other than those dried chunks of Whole Grain Corn, Chicken By-Product Meat, Animal Fat (preserved with mixed tocopherols and citric acid) and other nutrition items like “clinically proven antioxidants for a healthy immune system”. I’m pretty sure those yips are not from dreaming, but involuntary reactions to her fear Dean will actually listen to me and that the nightly treats and head-petting during dinner is coming to an end. Like that would ever happen. 

Now enter a new sleep challenge – Sophie.

 The first few days of timidity have vanished. It wasn’t long until she was quite at home stalking and jumping at any and all middle-of-the-night menacing blanket movements. She’s a smart girl, though. When she realized those nighttime activities were getting her shut out of the bedroom she altered her bedtime modus operandi. Now she begins by walking on the bed around my head. After a bit of walking on my head she sticks her nose right next to mine, sniffs, sometimes licks my face and then lifts a paw and rubs it on my face. My bleary brain’s first thought is “how nice and soft her paws are” … until a little claw comes out which wakes me up enough to remember where those paws have been. There is a bit more cheek-rubbing from her and paw removal from me until she gives up, curls up next to me and goes to sleep – until she wakes up and decides she needs to chase that twitching thing at the end of her kitty butt.

I tell you all this because I want to impress upon you how much I relish sleeping in when I am not required to drag my sorry body out of bed for work after a disrupted night of toenail clicking and kitty love . I want you to be suitably impressed when I tell you that when we were in the Amazon, while I was on vacation and I could have slept in, I got up and went on an early-morning bird watching tour while Dean slept in.

Yes. Me. The person who lives to sleep in on the weekend. It was 5:15 a.m. and I was the one who got up – not Dean. Me. I was not the slug this time. Uh uh. Nope. I got up, quietly got dressed while Dean snored under his mosquito net, and crawled into a canoe, before breakfast, before coffee, and even before the weaver birds woke up.

Consequently I was wide awake and filled with energy when we headed out for the forest walk after breakfast.

Unfortunately being energetic didn’t seem to improve my balance. I’d just taken a photo of the chocolate marshmallow fluff we were walking through

when I discovered that it not only looked soft and fluffy, it felt nice and fluffy.

After dinner we went piranha fishing and caiman watching. Here’s how you fish for piranha. Take a small hunk of meat, push it onto a dull, rusty hook which is hanging on a string from a stick. Take the end of the stick, stir up the water

and wait for the fish to bite. As soon as you think you see the hook being pulled down, pull back on that stick so hard that the hook goes flying back and nearly takes out the eye of the person in the canoe next to you. If you get a fish on the end of your hook, squeal with excitement.

We all squealed. Well, everybody but the woman from Germany. And Dean. But his eyeball precision was beyond compare.


There was no chance for Dean to redeem himself in the fishing department because the next morning, after we watched the monkeys eat fruit outside the dining area,

 

our Amazon adventure came to an end.














During the 3 ½ days we were there the water level in the lake and river had dropped so much that Jonathan and Christie were able to take part in the not-seen-in-the-brochure, but specially added just for them, “push the canoe for the old folks” experience.

We had one last night with the newlyweds once we were back in Quito and the next morning we split up

among our respective airlines and made the trip home. Little did I know my adventure had not quite come to an end. We had barely made it through the Quito airport security and arrived in the gate area when my name was called.  Along with a few others, I was led down a hall, through a door, and down some stairs. I had no idea why I was one of the group, where we were going or why we were going there and I had a fleeting fear I might never been seen again, but I followed, just like a lemming. I was glad to discover the walk led outside to an added security check, not a cliff – or a jail. I was mentally running down what I’d packed while I stood in front of the table holding my suitcase. Was it the smell of my stinky, slimy swamp-mud covered pants that drew their attention to my suitcase? It went better for me than the lady from Japan who stood next to me and spoke just enough Spanish to repeatedly tell the security guys, “no tengo llaves. Mi esposo tiene llaves.” Which translates to, “you idiots. I don’t have the key to my suitcase. My husband handles those details. If you wanted the key to the suitcase you should have invited him to your little security party.” Other than a “lost” bag in Houston, the rest of the trip was, as they say, nothing to write home about.

Now it’s time to begin planning our next trip. Who’s up for the Avenue of the Volcanoes?

Adios!

◦

Hasta La Próxima Vez