Not All Birdies Fly

The schools were closed Monday and Tuesday but Leslie and Ryan still had to work which meant we got to spend a couple of days with Emerson, Myra and Pierce.  Monday morning the fairy left them kisses for breakfast so we weren't forced to waste any time cooking and eating any healthy

breakfast stuff but could get right down to putting together Dean’s old Lionel train set.  It took quite a while to get the track together because as soon as the kids got one section connected,

another would pull apart.  Once they got the track together, they had to set the wheels of each car on it, just right, without having one car fall off when the next was attached.  But patience paid off and finally everything was connected and the train was ready to chug around the track.  Dean turned on the transformer, there was a humming noise, a spark, and then …………………………. nothing.  Everybody stared at the cars and tracks willing them to move but …… nothing.  Dean picked up the engine and stared at it, put it back down and stared at the wiring.  Then each kid picked up the engine, stared at it and put it back down.  They moved the cars back and forth by hand and offered suggestions while Dean tried to find a solution on the internet.  Finally we all shrugged, took the track apart and accepted defeat.

We managed to overcome our disappointment by putting on our snow gear, grabbing the sleds and heading out back.  I didn't know how solid the ice on the creek was so I stood at the bottom of the hill ready to throw my body in front of any sled that was headed for it but those sleds got going so fast that a face plant about halfway down the hill was usually the preferred point of exit.

After burning off all those calories we needed some lunch.

Bellies full we headed back out to build snow sculptures.  However, before we could begin building we had to test out the condition of the snow and the best way to check that was with snowballs.  Sunshine and warm temperatures had softened the snow to the perfect consistency for construction – sticky with just a little coating of ice.

Not quite so perfect for a snowball in the face though.

Creativity can be an emotional process so it wasn’t surprising that a snowball fight wasn’t the only battle fought that day.  In the midst of one animated discussion where Myra expressed to Emerson
her architectural vision — “I’ve got a great idea.  You’re just so arrogant you don’t want to listen!”
— Pierce spotted a bald eagle, which thankfully distracted her from pleading her case any further.  It flew so close I almost ducked.  As we were watching, another one appeared so we quickly built a bench to sit and watch them.

.

The next day began with another healthy breakfast and a plan to expand and improve our snow

menagerie but it was a little colder than the day before and the snow wouldn’t stick.  On top of that it was windy so it felt even colder.  The cold and wind (or barely noticeable slight breeze by Casper standards) didn’t keep Pierce and Myra from braving the wilds of the chokecherry “forest” or preventing Emerson from inspecting snow crystals.  Dean and I paced around pretending to touch up the previous day’s sculptures until we could bribe them with lunch at Perkins and a trip to the library.

There had been a lot of debate and discussion over the two days involving everything from the correct tint for frosting, television programming, preferential treatment (or not), and restaurant selection.  As we were seated at Perkins I conferred with Myra over the ability of her tiny stomach to hold a whole adult meal.  She pulled herself up tall(ish), squared her pointy little shoulders, looked me square in the eye, and with her nose in the air said, “I believe I am quite old enough to determine how much I can eat Nada.  And as I say this I am underlining old enough.”   Over the two days she spent with us, Myra's well of quips and comebacks never ran dry so rather than prolong the discussion I chose to keep my mouth quite shut.  In the end she chose to order a kids meal, and even though she was dismayed to see pancakes as her side instead of the toast she should have gotten, we were all relieved that she chose not to discuss that mistake with the waitress.  And as I write this I am underlining relieved.

◦

Not All Birdies Fly

They Call Me Martha

When we bought this house there was an old chicken coop out at the back of our property.  I thought it was picturesque.  Dean thought it was an eyesore.  It bugged him every time he looked at it.  

  

It is no longer there. 

In true Dean fashion, before he meticulously dismantled that charming haven for hantavirus, he pulled out and saved a couple of old windows that had been recklessly tossed in there years and years ago.  In true me fashion, I rolled my eyes and sighed when I saw him carrying them to the storage shed.   But then one day I saw something on Pinterest.  And then I remembered those old windows. 

One side looked like this.  

Dean made me paint it in case it was lead-based paint even though I told him I wasn't planning to chew on it.

The other side of the window looked like this.  The corks fit better on this side because it had a deeper ledge, and the wood stain complemented our kitchen cupboards, so that's the side I decided to show.

Who drank all that wine?!

I glued the corks on with Gorilla Glue and by the time I finished I was obviously getting either tired or bored.  Fortunately I could call on Mr. Meticulous to clean up my mess and if I ever try this again I'll use clear drying glue.  

Unfortunately, from now on, every time I roll my eyes and sigh when Dean saves some other hunk of wood or chunk of metal I know he will remind me of how happy I was he didn't throw those corks away and point out to me that if he hadn’t saved those windows …  But it’ll be worth it.....I hope.

Ta Da!

◦

They Call Me Martha

Merry Christmas!

I hope the joy of the day lasts longer for you than Santa's gift to Angus.

◦

Merry Christmas!

Beard Baubles Aren't Just For Men

“Boys,” we said, “let’s go skiing.”  

We aren’t as close to cross country skiing here in Sheridan as we were in Casper.  Instead of a 20 minute drive from our house to the trails it’s now about a 45 minute drive — for most people.  For us, when Dean spots a rock or what he thinks looks like a rock, he reflexively lets up on the gas.  And if he actually talks about that supposed rock he might have just seen … well, let’s just say, if driving slower saves gas, we get up that mountain for next to nothing.  It was foggy on the drive up to the ski trails which pretty much prevented Dean's rock gawking, but the low visibility and discussions of the shrouded trees made him drive even slower so I had plenty of time to take some pictures as we crept up the mountain.  

We didn't know exactly where the trails were.  All we knew was that when we’d checked out the spot last winter (stupidly leaving our skis behind) there’d been cars parked alongside the highway where the trails began.  So when we saw a trail sign a short distance off the highway we figured that was the place.   The boys were in dog heaven but we were a bit taken aback by the lack of a groomed trail.  

We strapped on our skis and broke trail for a short distance.  As we trudged along Dean kept mumbling about how he didn’t think we were at the right place but I pointed at the sign on the fence saying, “but there’s a sign on the fence.” He refused to be convinced.  He decided we should get back in the car, and drive further up the highway.  He’s all for exercise but he has his limits. 

Turned out he was right and about three minutes up the highway were the real trails, which had been groomed …. before it had recently snowed.  So we still had to break trail a bit but at least the trails were wide and easy to follow.  And we only fell once.  Which is pretty good considering we had to cross a small creek and we had two 90-pound snow-crazed dogs running near us.

We’re planning to head back up that way this afternoon because we really need to hear something crunching other than peanut brittle between our teeth and feel the glide of something other than frosted cookies going down our throats.  

◦

Beard Baubles Aren't Just For Men

First Is Better Than Last But Last Is Better Than Nothing

Have you wondered why most people run the Turkey Trot?  I'll tell you why.  It's the gloating.  Don’t act surprised.  You know people don’t drag themselves to the Turkey Trot because they want to wheeze, gasp for air and become too tired to even wipe the snot from their nose because they think it’s good for them.  Or because it will give them an excuse to eat more.  Heck no.  They do it because they want to be able to gloat that THEY did it and YOU did not. 

Dean and Angus and I ran our first ever Turkey Trot Thanksgiving morning.  And by that I mean we ran until we got to any snow-covered pavement where we would slow down to a brisk walk.  Don’t let this photo fool you. It was a balmy 50 or so degrees so there were lots and lots many a few one or two places where the snow had melted off the pavement.  Anyway, walking on the snow parts was a safety issue.  I’d already slipped on the ice at home and introduced my right hip to the sidewalk so I was “running” injured.  Otherwise I’m sure we could have kept up our swift pace and finished the 2.8 miles right alongside those three sweaty guys who lapped us twice.  And just so we’re clear, I ran it because I knew it would be good for me.  I would never dream of gloating. 

Friday night the mild temperatures continued as we participated in another first for us – the Sheridan Christmas Stroll – where all the townsfolk who don’t have the fortitude or get-up-and-go to run the Turkey Trot stroll up and down Main Street and support the local businesses by eating cookies ... 

 drinking hot chocolate .....

riding the trolley ...

 and the train ...

visiting with Santa and shopping  – all to the accompaniment of Christmas music.

  Our evening ended with a burst of color in the sky ...

and a stroll back to the car ...

where somebody started a snowball fight which ended when an errant snowball found Myra’s face and she saw her own burst of color.

◦

First Is Better Than Last But Last Is Better Than Nothing

Amazons Like Young Girls

I’m gonna make this short and sweet because I know all of you are busy entering your Black Friday shopping locations into your GPS and mapping out your strategy in order to get the best possible deals you can as you attempt to complete your Christmas shopping all in one longer-every-year day.  

STOP!  There is another option. You can still get a deal AND you can do it while you eat that third piece of pie as you watch Bob Hope sing White Christmas.  Or is it Bing Crosby?  Anyway, before you throw down that turkey leg and drive off with whipped cream lipstick, take a breath, click here and read this. 

 Oh, right.  I know.  You’re busy doing your Black Friday stretches, squats and bicep curls in preparation for the shopping battle.  Let me give you the highlight. 

Hesitating on a purchase shows your willingness to go elsewhere and may get a retailer to sweeten the pot. Web research firm Baymard Institute found that 68% of online shopping carts are abandoned after initial click-throughs. Retailers are desperate to convert those carts into sales, so in many cases they’ll offer a better deal to get you to buy, says Phillips.

Coupon site Rather-be-shopping.com found 17 well-known retailers(including Bed, Bath & Beyond, Macy’s, and Williams-Sonoma) that offered coupons (ranging from 20% off to free shipping) to customers who left their carts.

Don’t want to pay full price on those towels from Pottery Barn? Log in to your Pottery Barn account and put them in your cart. Within a few days, you may get an email offering them at a lower price.

Don’t believe me?  Abby bought a comforter from Amazon.  She left hers in her cart for a while because she wanted to discuss it with Jorge first.   When she went back to her cart to purchase it, the comforter price had dropped $10.00 from its original price! After she got the comforter, she liked it so much I decided to replace my own I’m-too-embarrassed-to-tell-you-how-old-my-dust-mite-infested-comforter-is with the same one.  I went to Amazon and the comforter had gone back up to its original price.  I waited a few days and it finally dropped $8.00 and I bought it.  Even though it was still $2.00 more than Abby had paid I was so excited to think this shopping cart price change thing actually worked for me that I sent my final confirmation e-mail to Abby. 

 She responded “I win.” What?!  That's not what I was expecting.  It turns out she had decided to purchase a second comforter and had apparently left hers in the cart longer than I did and it had dropped $14.00 from the original price in her cart! 

So if you have a few days to wait, and you would rather shop from the comfort of your home as you sip a glass of wine, give this a try.  And if it you think it isn’t working for you…………..well……………have another glass of wine and wait a little longer.  It will.  Or ask Abby to put it in her cart.  I think Amazon likes her better.

Happy Thanksgiving and Safe Shopping!

◦

Amazons Like Young Girls

Eternal Vacation

Here's what I've learned about retirement so far:

• Everybody who goes to the Y in the morning is old.  I don't mean the nobody-in-their-right-mind-should-even-be-awake-yet time of the morning.  I mean the slept-in-had-a-cup-of-coffee-and-read-the-paper time of the morning.  

• Old people at the Y love to play pickle ball.  They are crazy for pickle ball.  There are benches of old geezers sitting in the gym just waiting for their turn to play pickle ball.  

• Until three short weeks ago I did not even know what pickle ball was.

• I do not want to play pickle ball now.  

• When I play pickle ball I will know I am really old.

• Having more time doesn't mean I clean more often.

• Everybody who goes to the dog park during the daytime is old.

• The dog park is to old geezers what the bar scene is to the young.

• I'm good at wasting time.

◦

Eternal Vacation

Johnny Traveled With a Suitcase

For months this is how I imagined I would commemorate today – our first official day of retirement in our new home..............................................

As dusk turns to night, Dean and I somberly walk toward a fire ring made of rocks I’d stolen borrowed from his heap gently cared-for-collection.  Flames gently dance in the cool air, giving off diamond-like sparks which are reflected in the sadness of our eyes.  Angus sits quietly between us as we join hands.  We look at each other.  I speak a few heart-felt words and, as we wipe away a tear, I gently toss the duffel that has been with us through the last two years of back and forth between Casper and Sheridan onto the fire.  Chemical fumes engulf us, we choke.  We clutch at each other.  Angus nearly falls into the fire in mid-sneeze and his fur begins to smolder.   Sadness turns to panic as Dean throws dirt on Angus and I run for the hose. 

Screeeeeech……rewind……………. 

As dusk turns to night, Dean and I somberly walk toward a fire ring made of rocks I’d stolen borrowed from his heap gently cared-for-collection.  Flames gently dance in the cool air, giving off diamond-like sparks which are reflected in the sadness of our eyes.  Angus sits quietly between us as we join hands.  We look at each other.  I speak a few heart-felt words and, as we laugh out loud, I hurl the duffel that has been with us through the last two years of back and forth from Casper to Sheridan onto the dirt next to the fire ring.  We stomp on it like crazed old people.  Angus begins barking and jumping around us.  We whoop and cheer as we kick it around the yard.  Angus grabs the duffel with his jaws and begins running all through the yard, stopping now and then to shake it like a stuffed bunny.  We cheer him on excitedly.  He leaps across the fire ring, the duffel catches fire and as he circles through the yard chemical fumes fill the area and engulf us.  We choke.  We clutch at each other.  Angus nearly falls into the fire in mid-sneeze and his fur begins to smolder.   Sadness turns to panic as Dean throws dirt on Angus and I run for the hose.

Screeeeeech……rewind…………….  

It's good to be home.

◦

Johnny Traveled With a Suitcase

Walking Backward Through My Mind

Jorge was visiting family in Florida recently and when Abby forwarded me a photo he’d sent of his view during lunch one day 

it reminded me of Ecuador, which reminded me of fish, which reminded me of feeling like crap, which reminded me of labor and childbirth, which reminded me of my children which reminded me of Ecuador again.

Way back when I was in labor with Leslie, as the waves of contractions became stronger and more frequent, my desire to have more than one child became weaker and weaker.  Siblings are overrated.  I’m never doing this again.  Never, never, never, never.  Of course Dean had no idea I’d made the decision we were going to be a one-child family because, since I didn't speak for about six hours, all this was going on in my head.  Not that it mattered.  He had about as much control over whether I was going to have any more children as he’d had over whether I was going to have any children.  But then, not long after I’d told the nurse, I’ve had enough.  I’m not doing this anymore!  I wrapped my arms around Leslie, and as the pain-free glow of new motherhood intensified, the memory of the past few hours instantly receded.  That wasn’t so bad.  I can do this again.  I just need to get that breathing figured out so my hands won’t curl into claws when I hyperventilate. 

A couple of years later, because my memory was still wiped clean of those hours of labor before Leslie’s birth, and because I was still blissfully unaware that parenting was a roller coaster ride beyond compare— right after I raised my head from the delivery table, glared at my dutiful Mormon doctor and said, How could you have done this to your wife eight times? — Abby was born.  Who knew 28 years later, the little girl who once didn’t even want to move four blocks to a new house, would move to Ecuador.

Four times I joyfully planned a trip to see Abby and arrived in Ecuador filled with excitement, blissfully ignorant of the lurching and plummeting that lay ahead for my stomach.  Who knew every time I visited I was going to get sick.  And that each time, I’d get a little sicker.  On my first trip the worst of my suffering was over within two or three hours.  Unfortunately it was the two or three hours on my way home during my layover in Panama where the bathroom had a constant line of women snaking out the door waiting for their turn at one of the too-few stalls.  Try telling your intestinal tract to wait your turn when it’s insisting you get in there now! 

A few months later as I prepared for our trip to Ecuador for Abby & Jorge’s wedding, I was so happy to welcome Jorge to the family that the memories of my little affliction in Panama weren’t even a blip on my radar.  There were a couple of blips during the wedding ceremony but the reception, where I politely ate every last bite of my shrimp cocktail (because that’s what a good mother of the bride does even though that mother of the bride really hates seafood) was perfect.  Since nobody else puked up shrimp cocktail later that night, and I felt fine the next morning, I decided I was allergic to shrimp.  And even if I’m not, I am going to use that excuse for the rest of my life.

A year later when we visited Ecuador again I stayed far away from shrimp.  But at one point I thought I was going to be choking down some fish because that’s what a good mother-in-law does when her new son-in-law’s eyes light up with joy after stumbling upon a remote fish stand where you can eat fish so fresh their big eyes are still blinking in surprise.  I’d been feeling a bit queasy even before we discovered that fish stand and when a very nice woman showed us how she prepared the fish for cooking  ...

... I began to anxiously prepare my stomach for this delicacy by furtively scoping out the best spot to quietly puke my guts out without offending her.   Fortunately she told us there was no extra fish for us to eat since she was expecting a large tour group shortly so I was able to postpone the inevitable until the middle of the night, and by morning I was feeling much, much better.

A year after that, memories of my illnesses once again barely a flicker in my memory, and again blissfully unaware of what I was in for, I was ready to visit Ecuador again.  True to form, on this trip I got sicker than the last trip.  Only this time I wasn’t just a little sicker.  I was a lot sicker, for a lot longer.  One minute I was sleeping peacefully and the next my knees were banging onto a cold, hard bathroom floor.  I felt like the snake I’d seen a few days earlier — one minute minding his own business, swimming tranquilly in the ocean, and the next, grabbed by a grubby eight year old hand and slammed, over and over and over, like a whip, onto the hard beach.  

During that volcanic vomiting, bed shaking chills, and fever, I laid curled in a ball in the hotel thinking,  I don’t think I can come here again … I’m pretty sure I can never come here again … never, never, never, never. 

I didn’t know then that I had taken my last trip to Ecuador.  Five months later Abby moved back to the States and six months after that Jorge followed her.  So now we don’t need to travel to Ecuador to see them.  But that photo of the beach in Florida reminded me of Ecuador and what a beautiful country it is, and how friendly and courteous and happy the people are.   It made me feel a bit sad we won’t need to go to Ecuador to see them again.  It made me want to go back.   

 

And maybe someday we will.  Maybe we will eat plantain chips and drink Pilsner on the beach again.  But it might be a while.  It’s taking me a lot longer to forget that last gut-wrenching illness than it took to forget the vice-like labor of childbirth.  Wrapping my arms around porcelain just doesn’t seem to have the same memory vanquishing effect as wrapping them around a baby.   

But once that memory disappears I’d like to go again.  Because I had a lot of fun there — when I wasn’t puking in a hotel bathroom.

◦

Walking Backward Through My Mind