Friday, November 25, 2011

What's On YOUR Christmas List?

“Found.  Upper denture in Home Depot parking lot.  Call xxx-xxx-xxxx.” 

I read that ad in our local newspaper.  It’s been a few weeks since I read it, but every now and then, for no apparent reason, I start thinking about it.  And then I start worrying about the person who is missing half their teeth and then I start wondering how that happened.  How could a person lose the whole upper portion of their teeth?   In the Home Depot parking lot.  Seriously.  Can you actually lose half of your teeth in a parking lot and not realize it?  Or not manage to find them if you do?

Was it the economy? 
I Tholth you noth tho buy that cheap theneric thenthure cream!  Thee?  The win blew them rith outh of my mouth!  Hey! You thquirrel!  Bring thothe back!

Was it an act of violence? 
I’m so sorry!  I didn’t mean to whack your head with this eight-foot plank but you did tell me to ‘look over there at that cute squirrel’, and I couldn’t see it without turning.  I didn’t hit you too hard did I?  Just a tap?  Wait … where are your (snort) teeth?!

Was it the weather?  We did have some snow around the time I read the ad.  Maybe this person cried out as they were falling on the ice, their denture popped out when they hit the ground, blended in with the blowing snow and was later plowed into a pile where it lay hidden until the warm snap a few days later when it was picked up by an honorable person who placed the ad.

I wonder if this mostly toothless person has seen the ad and called to retrieve their teeth. 

Hello.  I’m calling aboth the theeth.  Do you thill have them?

Let me check.  Hey Janelle!  The idiot who lost their teeth is on the phone.  Do we still have them?

I think I saw the cat carrying them around the other day.  Look under the couch … or in the cat  bed. 

Or maybe they don’t read the paper and they have been searching the Home Depot parking lot, alone, late at night.

Put the flashlight down and step over here sir. 

It’th okay offither.  I’m juth looking for my theeth.

Don’t joke with me, sir.  Tresspassing is a serious offense.

But I’m not trethpathing.  I loth my theeth.

Let's take a ride sir.  Watch your head.

Yesterday, as I was biting off pieces of turkey and homemade dinner rolls and pecan pie I wondered if they were alone for Thanksgiving, forced to eat mushy food.  Did they know what wine complements oatmeal?  It's worrisome.  But here’s what really worries me.  With only half their teeth, how did they grab that little pull tab on the wine bottle?

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Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Hey! Put Down That Fork!


This is the time of year we are all expected to think about what makes us thankful.   Not that we shouldn’t be thankful every day of our lives, but this week, because of THANKSgiving, the Hallmark Channel is being very insistent that we spend more time consciously coming up with heart-warming reasons why we are even more thankful this week than we were last week or will be next week.  

In some families it’s a tradition that as everyone is seated at the table, before anybody picks up a fork, they must state at least one thing they are thankful for.  Things like, “I’m thankful I wore my fat pants today”, or “I’m thankful Mom doesn’t make the gravy anymore”, or “I’m really thankful I’m not a turkey.”  This year Dean and I are spending Thanksgiving with Ryan, Leslie and the kids at Ryan’s parents’ house.  I don’t know if they follow that tradition, but if they do, I will be ready.

I am thankful that I can provide so much fun for Dean.  I’m happy my genetic defects can bring a smile to his face.  Next to watching my reaction when he shows me his latest garage sale purchase, I think his favorite form of entertainment is hanging back and watching as I turn left, or turn right, or go straight, after I’ve walked through a doorway.  Well, that’s not exactly what he likes.  What he really enjoys, the part that brightens his day, is when I turn back to look for him.  Because at that moment, with a big smile on his face, he says, “are you sure you want to go that way?  Because the office, store, car, elevator, bathroom, restaurant, water fountain, theatre (get the drift?) … is that way.”  And then he gets an even bigger smile on his face.  And sometimes … he almost laughs!

I get lost a lot.  Not all of the time, and not everywhere, but some of the time and in unfamiliar places.  Okay, I get lost most of the time, pretty much everywhere.   And Dean knows that.  Except he forgot about my propensity to get lost the time we were leaving a pub in Edinburgh.   While we were having lunch in that quaint local pub he knocked over my filled-to-the-brim pint of cider.  It ran across the table, onto my lap, and down to the floor where it puddled in my purse and around my feet just as my first forkful of haggis, neeps and mash had almost reached my lips.  It was an accident, of course.  He couldn’t get the little plastic packet of ketchup to open and my glass of cider got in the way as he was tearing at it.  The liquid missed my lunch, mostly, so I was still able to eat, but I ate with a soaking wet right leg, while sitting in a small lake of cider.  It was a very quiet lunch.  

When we left the pub and I walked out the door and turned left, Dean didn’t wait, watch and grin, but immediately turned me to the right and toward our “home-away-from-home” so I could change clothes.   Except for the squishing sound of my wet boot and the grinding of my teeth it was a very quiet walk.   It wasn’t until a couple of weeks later that he told me he’d made me turn the other way and go back and change clothes because he thought I was “doing that martyr thing you do” and I was going to continue sightseeing soaking wet.  “Are you kidding?!  I thought I WAS heading toward the house to change clothes.  Do you think I WANTED to go sightseeing smelling like a barrel of fermented apples?”   I’m thankful he didn’t let me wander off in the wrong direction that afternoon, but probably not as thankful as he should be.

I’m thankful for my Kindle too.  A couple of weeks ago I “checked out” my first library book to my Kindle.  It was quick and easy.  The hardest part was remembering where I had put my library card because I had to use my actual library card number as my login.  I thought it was silly I couldn’t create a login/password so I wouldn’t always have to be digging for my card, but I suppose using the card number is better than trying to remember what special login/password combination I’d made up but then couldn’t remember and couldn’t get e-mailed to me because I’d changed my Internet Service Provider since then so I couldn’t open my old e-mail to get the login/password I’d made up ...  oh, wait ... that was my Skype account.

The next hardest part was calling the library to renew my library card because it had expired since I hadn’t used it for two years because I have a Kindle and 52 as-yet-unread free library-book-sale-books and I don’t go to the library anymore because I don’t need to and because, well, you know, I might get lost.  

Otherwise, it was just a matter of browsing through the available titles, picking the one I wanted to read, clicking a couple of buttons and watching a book magically appear on my Kindle fast and painless.  The only bad thing is I can only “check out” a library book for seven days.  So I’ve been trying to read really fast.  And I’ve been trying to lengthen my bedtime reading which is a bit risky because I’m not sure what will happen if I fall asleep and slobber drips down into the keyboard on a Kindle.   It is an electronic devise after all.  I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be quite as deadly as a blow dryer falling into a bathtub, but I don’t think trying to explain why I have a tiny keyboard burned into my cheek would be a whole lot of fun either. 

The bad thing is I can’t read a book in seven days.  I don’t think I’ve ever been able to read a book in seven days; probably because I like to read big, fat books.   When I was in high school I didn’t have a lot of money.  So when I bought a book, I wanted as many words as I could get for the little bit of money I had.  I chose my books by thickness and weight.  The books I read were so big that there should have been a disclaimer printed that said “publisher does not accept responsibility for pulled muscles.  Prior consultation with a personal trainer recommended before lifting.”   Or … maybe I was just a scrawny girl who needed to put her book down, get off the couch, go outside get some exercise and sun.

Even though my Kindle books aren’t big and heavy, I still like books with a lot of words.  And there is still a risk when reading them.  I think I should suggest to Amazon that the Kindle books they sell to libraries come with a disclaimer stating “publisher does not accept responsibility for suffocation resulting from falling piles of neglected laundry due to excessive amounts of reading over a seven day period.” Then they can be thankful to ME for precluding any lawsuits all those other library check-out Kindle readers may be contemplating.

I don’t think they’re worried about lawsuits though.  What I think is really happening is this.  I think it’s a cunning trick by Amazon to get Kindle readers to purchase more books.   I have come to this conclusion because seven days after I checked out the book, I received an e-mail saying my checkout period had expired.   The e-mail told me I could try to check it out again (providing that single digital copy had not already been checked out by somebody else) or I could click the blue link which conveniently took me straight to that very same book in Amazon available for purchase.

That’s pretty cunning.  Tempt people with a free Kindle book check-out, give them seven days to get engrossed, and then poof!  take the book away and send them to the Amazon storefront.  I, however, am even more cunning.  I have figured out that as long as I do not turn on the Kindle wireless option the book does not disappear.  So there, Amazon!  I not only beat you at your own game but I have discovered one more thing to be thankful for sneaky genes.  Dean’s not the only one grinning now.

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Saturday, November 19, 2011

Spock Isn't The Only Melder

I’ll bet you didn’t know Dean and I can communicate without uttering a word.  We can.  That’s what happens after you’ve been married longer than you’ve been alive ... or maybe it just feels that way.  Anyway, one of the things that happens when you've been married as long as we have is that you know what the other one is thinking without them saying a word.  That’s why when Dean says “Ah!” I know he’s spilled a hunk of meat or some other chunky type of easily removed food on his shirt.  (I'm not sure how to write the Ah! other than to say you should be pronouncing the A the same as in cat but also down in your throat; say it out loud now … Ah!  Got it?) When Dean says “AAAAhhhhhh!”  I know he’s spilled some tomato sauce or salsa, or something that will require soaking, on his shirt.  When he says “AAhhh! … come here Shadow,” I know he’s spilled something on the kitchen floor while he’s cooking.  When he says “AAAAAAAAAAhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!” I know what he’s spilled is even too much for Shadow to handle and I’ll be wiping down cupboards and mopping the kitchen floor.

So today, while I was cleaning the house, vacuuming up the cat fur, dog fur, flakes of dry skin (which increase exponentially when winter strikes) and other miscellaneous chunks of dirt, and I yelled, “AhhhhhOhhhhhhhhh!!!!” really loud (pronounced just like it’s written) our nonverbal communicative skills told him exactly what I was saying.   “Suck up your earring?”  Well, nonverbal communicative skills and the fact that earlier I had said to him “I really hope I find my earring today.”    

I’d been searching for my earring since we’d gotten home from Edinburgh.  It was one of my favorite pairs of earrings and I’d worn them every day we were there.  When I got home, after 11 hours of flying and a four hour drive home, as I walked through the kitchen on my way to the bedroom, I took off the earrings and laid them on the kitchen counter.  Why?  Who knows.  I blame jetlag.  I could have easily worn them 15 seconds longer and taken them off in the bedroom and put them away but I didn’t.  

The next morning, when I got up, only one earring remained on the counter.  Apparently the kitties thought I’d brought them a shiny new toy.  They probably felt they deserved it because they didn't have as many toys as they used to.  I'd been noticing some of their toys had gone missing but I figured they’d just gotten thrown into the bins of toys we keep for the grandkids.  If I’d been a little less lazy and looked for those toys earlier, there might have been other things on the counter more tempting  to them than my earring.  Come on, don’t wrinkle your nose.  You know your cats are also walking around on the kitchen counter, sleeping on the kitchen table, and licking the butter.  Maybe your cats are sneaky and don’t do it when you’re around, but you know that  cat fur in the butter had to get there somehow.  

I looked everywhere I could think of for that earring ― under the rugs, under the bed, under the couch.  I even pulled out the refrigerator.  I half expected to see it fall out of the sheets when I did the laundry last weekend because we regularly wake up with kitty toys under the blanket ― but no earring.  

So,  I decided while I was cleaning the house today I would also inspect and vacuum all the hot air registers in the floor just in case while they were playing floor hockey with my earring, it slipped down the grate.  I stuck my nose down 11 holes in the floor searching for a silver earring and then listened carefully for a rattle in case I sucked it up with over a year’s worth of dead spiders, fur balls and grit.  No earring.  I knew it had to be somewhere because it had not appeared in the kitty litter ― not yet anyway.  

As I was cleaning our bedroom floor I decided to move the dresser away from the wall, just in case my earring was hiding there.  I didn't find my earring, but I did find the mother-load of kitty toys.  

Turns out searching the toy bins for kitty toys wouldn’t have made a difference anyway, and if it wasn’t for my missing earring we wouldn’t have clean hot air registers which I’m sure will keep us much healthier this winter because we won’t be breathing in all the small particles of fur and skin that would have been blowing out of the vents, so we’ll be able to do more skiing, which will make us even more healthy and fit, which will give me more energy, so I might feel like cleaning the vents more often, and cleaning under the dresser more often, and hey … do you think the kitties hid my earring on purpose so I’d do a better job of cleaning and find their toys?

Anyway, I pulled out the toys and swept the pile of dirt over into another growing pile of dust and dirt so I could vacuum it up.   Somehow during all this sweeping I unknowingly swept up my earring.  I think it must have been so covered in fur balls that I didn’t see it until just before I moved the nozzle of the vacuum in front of it and swwwoooooped it up.  The good thing is it was just a little too heavy to make it all the way to the bag but was lying in that place where the bag attaches to the vacuum so I didn’t have to sit outside on a snow-covered deck sorting through all the dead spiders and dead skin and fur and really, really gross stuff I’d been vacuuming up.






And now the kitties think it’s Christmas, I have my earring back and everything is peaceful.  At least until the kitties learn to open drawers with their tiny little teeth ...






or I hear “AAAAAAAAAAhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!” from the kitchen and I have to dig out the mop again.

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Thursday, November 17, 2011

Alice and the Queen Play Croquet

Thanksgiving is looming and that’s gotten me thinking about last Thanksgiving, which reminded me of turkey feet, which reminded me of chicken feet, which reminded me I am a chicken murderer.  Yes, I am a chicken murderer.  I murdered a chicken.  I murdered an unsuspecting, innocent chicken.  I am a cold-blooded chicken murderer.  

I had pretty much forgotten about my chicken murdering past until the nearness of Thanksgiving started me thinking about a phone call we’d received from Abby last year.  For some reason, this year, remembering that phone call has dredged up a memory I’d just as soon forget.  A memory of an event so distressing it’s caused permanent damage to my mental wellbeing.

The call came on Thanksgiving Day.   Abby had decided, even though Ecuador does not celebrate Thanksgiving, she was going to make a traditional dinner for favorite husband, some friends and favorite husband’s mother.  She was cooking her very first Thanksgiving dinner and she had a question.  “Does your turkey have feet?  Because my turkey has feet.”   Once I determined that she meant the cold, severed, in-a-bag with the giblets kind of feet, not the strutting around, head-bobbing, gobbling, live turkey kind of feet and I had stopped laughing I answered, “Why, no.  Our turkey has a neck and a heart and a liver and a gizzard, but we do not have feet.”  

But I’m not laughing now.  Because remembering Abby’s turkey feet has taken me back to a traumatic day in my past.  A day that began full of hope and good intentions but ended in guilt and sorrow and death.  The day I became a chicken murderer. 

I have tried to erase the memory of that day.  I’ve tried not to remember the innocent blinking of those golden chicken eyes as I chased her (or him, I was never sure) down.  I’ve tried to forget the way she tipped her head to one side with that questioning chicken look when I grabbed her.  And up until now I’ve done a pretty good job of forgetting it.  I’ve done such a good job it’s been years since I’ve thought about the day I murdered a chicken.  But for some reason, this year, thinking about Thanksgiving and those turkey feet has brought back that memory and all its gory details. 

The murder occurred at “the ranch.”  We had moved there thanks to an evil landlord and our decision to live with free range mice rather than city-bred cockroaches (which is another whole story.) As long as we were living at “the ranch” we figured we should make the most of our ranching experience.  So early in the spring, Dean mail-ordered some tiny baby chicks and rigged up an ingenious way to incubate them







 





until they were old enough to brave the outside world of badgers, owls, hawks, 












 and little girls.  

Luckily for us, just before we began our life on “the ranch” we had shot four antelope.  Well, not we.  Dean shot three and I shot one (but that’s another whole story which involves tongues and tears and babies, a field dressing book, and oh, dang it, another bad memory) so we had plenty of meat to eat during the winter and spring.   And we had a nice wood stove to cook it on.    











But there comes a time when a hunk of antelope meat on your plate every night tends to make you look at the fat, fluffy chickens your daughter has named Frank and other chicken-like names in a whole new light.










 



Living on a ranch where I saw more antelope in one day than I saw people during my twice-monthly trips to town, I began to feel myself drawn to the ways of the pioneers.  I began to feel I not only should but could be self-sufficient.  Over the winter I’d not only chopped wood for the stove without cutting off my toes but I’d figured out how to keep us all warm without burning the kitchen chairs when we ran out of that wood.   









 






 I’d not only washed our clothes but also our kids in a tin tub in front of the stove.  








 

Heck, I even knew how to safely get to the outhouse when there was a big bull staring at me and blocking the way.

Early in the summer the day came when I’d had enough antelope meat to last a lifetime (and I mean that literally; not one bite of antelope meat has passed my lips since our sojourn on the ranch).  It was only logical that I decided I not only should, but could, butcher a chicken for dinner.  So one beautiful summer day, I decided that when Dean came home from work that night after his 40-mile drive, I would surprise him with nice chicken dinner completely butchered, gutted and cooked by me.   “If I can’t kill the animal, I shouldn’t be eating it,”  I said to myself.  Really.  I said those exact words.

I must tell you that previously Dean had researched chicken butchering in preparation for the day we would want to eat a chicken.  And he had already butchered one so I knew how it was supposed to be done.  There was no death by head chopping or neck wringing on “the ranch.”  No sir.  Dean’s carefully researched technique involved a broom handle and was not only humane, but had the added advantage of allowing the pin feathers to be plucked more easily and completely from the compassionately executed chicken.

On this beautiful summer day I walked out into the yard with Leslie, who was only 3 ½ years old.  I wish I could tell you where Abby was during the slaughter but I don’t remember.   She was only 15 months old so I hope she was safe in her crib napping, not wandering around during the slaughter, but ... I just don’t remember.   I think the trauma of what was about to happen was already beginning to send me into chicken-murdering shock.  

Leslie and I went outside and I found the broom handle and laid it carefully on the ground where I was planning to execute the chicken for our evening meal.  Next to the instrument of death I laid the hatchet because, of course, at some point the head must go.  Then Leslie and I somehow managed to catch a chicken, but frankly, I don’t remember that part either. 

I held the poor chicken by the legs and laid it on the ground so that it was stretched out in front of both Leslie and I, belly down.  My heart started to beat faster and my hands were shaking.  Leslie was standing quietly, staring intently at the chicken.  I felt a little bit like throwing up but I had that chicken on the ground and the broom handle was in my hand and I was determined to cook a chicken dinner.   I kept repeating my mantra in my head, “if I can’t kill the animal I shouldn’t be eating it.  If I can’t kill the animal I shouldn’t be eating it.”   

With the chicken lying on the ground, eyes blinking, I took a big breath.  I laid the stick firmly across the chicken’s neck and held it down with my foot.  Then before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed those legs even tighter and bent them up and back as far as I could. 

That was supposed to kill the chicken.  Humanely.  But when I let out my breath, opened my eyes and looked, the chicken was lying limp on the ground ― and the eyes were still blinking.  How could the eyes still be blinking if the chicken was dead?  “Oh,no!  Oh, no!  It’s not dead.  It’s not dead,” I wimpered.  I didn’t know what to do.  The chicken just kept looking at me.  I didn’t know if I’d killed it or paralyzed it.  Maybe it was hurting and in pain but it couldn’t move and get away from me.  All it could do was lie on the ground and blink its eyes.

Then I started crying.  Leslie’s eyes got huge and she looked from me to the chicken.  Me … chicken … me … chicken.    I grabbed the broom handle, laid it on the neck and pulled the legs up again.  But the chicken eyes were still blinking at me.   Why are they still blinking?  By this time I’m almost sobbing and walking back and forth toward the limp lump of feathers, then away toward the limp lump of feathers, then away trying to figure out what to do.   Is it dead?  If it’s dead why are its eyes blinking?  Is that normal?  Will it stop if I wait?  Should I go ahead and pluck and gut?  Or is it gut and pluck?  Leslie, still staring at the chicken, is trying to comfort me.  “It’s okay, Mom.  It’s okay, Mom.  Don’t cry Mom.”  

The chicken eyes just kept blinking and blinking and blinking.  So finally I grabbed the hatchet and picked up the still-not-dead chicken, eyes blinking at me, accusing me, and laid the neck across the chicken-head-whacking stump.  And I whacked it off.  There is blood on the stump and on the ground and the chicken head is lying in the dirt while the rest of the body is dangling from my hand.   Leslie is closely inspecting a headless lump of feathers and a severed chicken head and she is still trying to comfort me.   “It’s okay, Mom, it’s okay, Mom.”   I’m crying even harder … but at least the eyes aren’t blinking anymore. 

I was not only a chicken murderer.   I was a chicken torturer. 

I know I hung the now unquestionably dead chicken up in the special chicken-plucking place and I plucked it.  And I know I gutted it in the special chicken-gutting place.  I know I cut it up.  And I know I fried it.  And I know we ate it for dinner.  But I have never remembered one thing past the whacking off of the head.   In 29 years since that awful day, I have remembered absolutely nothing of what happened after I chopped off the head of that chicken.   Not that I particularly want to remember it.  But it is a little disconcerting to know I can't, even if I try.  Which I don't.  Not anymore anyway.  I used to try.  To remember.  Because I couldn't believe that I could have done something so, well, memorable, but I couldn't remember it.  But I don't try anymore.  It's pointless. I believe I have PCMML – Post Chicken Murdering Memory Loss.

The thing is, you just never know what may bring back a forgotten memory.   You may think you’ve managed to bury the memory of a disturbing experience but it could be it’s just hiding; not surfacing until years later.  And you never know what might reawaken that memory.  It could be something as innocuous as … a phone call … about turkey feet. 




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Saturday, November 12, 2011

I Say Beatles Are Good Insects. Do You Say No?


Near the end of our trip to Edinburgh I asked everybody what their favorite part had been.  As it turned out, the conversation took a winding turn and I didn’t get a turn to say what I'd liked best.   That was actually a good thing though, because at the time, I really didn’t know what my favorite part had been.  I do know now though.   Hey!  Wipe that smug look off your face.   Drinking Strongbow or Magners or Guiness or Stella was not my favorite thing.  Well, not my absolutely, top of the list, nothing-in-the-world-is-better-than-this favorite thing anyway.  Geez.   I’m kind of hurt.




My favorite thing wasn’t the Scottish wildlife ...














or the Scottish countryside ...





or the architecture.

 





No.  My  favorite part was that we all came home together.  My favorite part of the whole trip was not saying goodbye to anybody.   Nada.  Aaon duine.   That’s right.  Not one person.  Nobody.     


 



I wasn't saying goodbye but I did say a lot of hellos.  I said an excited “Hi!” to Leslie when we picked her up for the four-hour drive to the airport.  The drive that took place a whole day early so we could miss the October snowstorm heading our way.
 I said a friendly “hello” to the British Airways lady who checked us in. 

 I said a very tired “hello” to the rude and cranky sourpuss customs guy in London.  He berated us all because we didn’t fill in an exact street address for where we were staying in Edinburgh.   “When that form says address it means exact address.   It doesn’t mean just a city.  If they didn’t want an exact address it wouldn’t say address.”   In my exhausted state I began searching for a pen to fill it in but he told me, “I"ll let it go this time but just make sure you don't ever do it again.  He wrinkled up his nose like I'd been on a plane for nine hours without a toothbrush and dismissed me with a disgusted wave of his hand.   I did not say goodbye to him when I left his “kingdom”.  I just wanted to get away from him before he found something else to yell at us about.   It was a relief to finally get to say a “hooray, you made it! Hello!” to Abby in the London terminal after we escaped from the little dictator.

When we left Edinburgh on that last morning, the bus driver who took us to the airport said goodbye but I didn’t.  I said “thank you.”  The pilot on the plane said goodbye but not me.  I said, “thank you! (for not crashing the plane).”  The very friendly U.S. customs lady said hello AND goodbye.  I said “thanks!” for not being like Mr. London customs and wished the London guy had gone to the same customer service training she must have attended.  The shuttle driver who took us to the hotel where our car was parked said “bye bye” but not me, I said, ... nothing.  I was too tired.














When we got home I said hello to the kids.  

























Some of the people I work with said hello to me in their own special way. 












 I really love saying hello.  So does Abby.  Look.  Even Dean is almost smiling.  He likes saying hello too.
 



But Friday I had to say goodbye.  And none of us like that.  Doesn't Dean look sad?


 
I tried to forget how to say that goodbye word   juh ... ooo ... duh ....buh ... eee? I tried to remove it from my vocabulary.  Goodbye?  What?  What'd you say?  I don't understand what you're saying.  Never heard of the word.  I tried to pretend like I wasn’t going to have to use it.  I pretended like we were still on vacation together. 

 







But it didn’t work.  I had to finally say it.  And I didn’t like it. 
























So I pretended like I hadn’t said it.  And now I'm just thinking about when I can say hello again.  We’re all waiting.  Seven weeks and four days …


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Saturday, November 5, 2011

Haggis and Guinness and Mash Oh, My!

It was 5:30 a.m. when I gave up trying to sleep and got up on this Saturday morning because my body still thinks it’s on Edinburgh time and was ready to tuck in to a wee bit o’ haggis and a pint.
 
Since I did not buy that nice round roll of sheep innards  I saw in the duty free store on the way home, and I think Dean might worry about me even more if I tipped back a glass of Guinness or Strombow and became leggless that early in the morning ...  








 
Home sweet home.






... instead I decided to remember our week in Edinburgh.














I remember walking ...and walking ... and walking.
 











We walked to a castle ...






Edinburgh castle
































which made us thirsty.


















We walked to a palace.

Holyrood Palace



















The Abbey at the palace










That made us thirsty too.









We hiked up Arthur's seat





































Why take the easy way when you can choose the route with a steep dropoff on one side?  Thanks, Dean.























All that hiking made us not only thirsty, but ...
















also hungry.















 We took a train to Stirling ...

















and walked ...











Stirling Castle






to another castle ...



















before we went to a wedding. 





















We were hungry and thirsty there too.








 


Al's parents




There were some surprise guests
Lesley's mom
 

























After the wedding Leslie and Abby spent the night in Stirling ...















and the next day they walked to the Wallace Monument.




















 






They were really thirsty after that.










Dean and I took the train back to Edinburgh and on our walk "home", about 10:30 at night, as I was taking pictures, a gentleman stopped me along the way and said, "you're getting dark photos aren't you?"  "Well, yes, I am," I said.  He asked for my camera, and trusting Wyoming girl I am, I handed it over to him.  Next thing I know he'd jammed it into his sporran, took off running and that's the last I saw of it.  Dean took off running after him but it had been a long day and he was filled with wedding food and drink and his poor body just didn't have the sprint capability.  He made a valiant effort but it was a lost cause.  I was a bit worried what would happen if he DID catch the guy.  Would there be fistacuffs?  Would his suit be ruined?  How would I get us home if his eyes were swollen shut and he couldn't show me the way?  Would I get to see the inside of a Scottish hospital?  

If it wasn't for the view as Mr. Camera's kilt flew up when he spun around and ran down the street I would have been much more upset.






Not really.  He wasn't wearing a kilt.

Okay.  He wasn't wearing a kilt and he didn't steal my camera.

He just put it on the program setting, mumbled things to himself as he clicked about 25 different settings, and then took this photo. 




When he handed my camera back to me, instead of photos like this ...










 I got this. 















And this.






And this.  

Thank you mystery man!













Walking all those miles on cobblestone and bumpy brick streets to see cemeteries ...



















and churches ...
























 











 and monuments ...


 


required alot of energy.  We were happy we had a lovely "home" to kick back and rest our tired bodies.


















We were tired when we got there and tired when we left.











But we were never too tired to eat.


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