Icky-Cool Realization

I just realized what's going to happen. Once Tom's sunburn stops hurting, when the skin and associated nerves give up the ghost, he's going to peel. A lot. And it's on his back, meaning he won't be able to reach it. I, the one who loves picking and peeling far more than is normal and/or healthy, will get to peel it for him. I hope. I'm totally like a baboon that way. A really cute, well-groomed baboon.

I am slightly concerned about the big tattoo between my shoulder blades, though. I'm usually meticulous about putting a strong sun block on all my ink before venturing into the sun, and I didn't do it yesterday - for the first time ever. I'm not badly burned, but I'm sure I'll peel a little, and I hope my lovely yin-yang, paw print, Celtic ray design isn't damaged. I'll be severely pissed.

Sunburn Sunday

I’m just going to come right out and say something that you’ve probably surmised if you’ve been paying attention lately: I’m not currently “on the wagon.” Yes. I know. It’s stupid and bad for me, and I should totally know better. I have no excuse for it, other than I’m a moron and a bit of a hedonist, but that’s just how it is right now. I know you’ll worry, or be disappointed in me, but it’s my liver.

OK. So now I can tell the following story, in which vodka has a starring role.

Yesterday was a beautiful, sunny day, just begging for pool time. At the recent Cross Canadian Ragweed concert, we discovered the wonders of Electric Lemonade, which is a fancy name for lemonade with vodka in it. Tom found pink lemonade flavored vodka at the Liquorette, and we commenced to having some delicious, summery adult beverages while floating lazily in the pool. Unfortunately, we ran out of lemonade before we ran out of pink lemonade vodka, but I creatively solved this problem by serving it over lots of ice and an orange Popsicle. (It wasn’t bad!)

Floating and sunning and drinking and listening to music; it was a lovely afternoon. We were going to head in and make dinner (and get out of the sun), but then Tom decided to call his friend Joe in Virginia, because we hadn’t talked to him in ages. He conducted this lengthy chat draped over his raft in the deep end of the pool. Then I decided I was going to venture off my raft and/or the steps in the shallow end and be all Little Mermaid and swim for a while. By the time we went in, I was full of vodka, and tired from the sun and swimming.

This made for an early evening. Shortly after dinner, I went in and sacked out. ‘Long about 8:30 or so, Tom came in and collapsed on the bed, groaning. When I questioned him regarding the nature of his distress, he informed me that his back was absolutely, totally fried. He’s always reacted badly to too much sun exposure. (Think nausea) Combined with the alcohol, as well as the pasta and garlic bread, he was incredibly ill. I know it was mainly the sunburn, though, because he can way out-drink me, and I wasn’t sick.

I started to be very worried. His feet were like ice, and his feet are never cold. He’s like a furnace, even in the depths of winter. It was almost as if he were shocky or something. I got the heating pad, which I keep by my side of the bed for when my back is bothering me, and put it under his feet. Then I got him ice water, ibuprofen, and socks – which I put on his feetsies myself because I am a spectacularly wonderful wife. I asked him if he’d put any aloe on his burns, and he said on his arms and shoulders. When I asked if it had helped at all, he said, “It sizzled.” Not good. I tended to the dogs, and then returned to bed, where Tom was still groaning in misery.

Then, the poor man had to get up at 3:00 AM to go to his store and do inventory before they opened. I never did get back to sleep after he got up. Clearly, neither of us is feeling 100% today. I called to check on him, and he reported still being sick this morning, and that placing his scorched back against the seat of the car was a whole new adventure in pain. Fortunately, I’m not the least bit hangovery, but I am tired and a bit fuzzy around the edges. My shoulders and upper back are slightly burned, but are fine as long as I don’t rub them or anything stupid like that.

No, not the happiest way to begin the week.

What do we learn from this? First of all, too much of anything is very, very bad. Alcohol, sun, garlic bread, you name it. Overindulgence will come back and bite you in the ass every time. It makes me want to hit the “rewind” button and go back to about 1:30 yesterday afternoon, pour half that vodka down the sink (only half, though, because I am not a fanatic), and either slather Tom with SPF 30 or go inside at least an hour before we did. I’d still eat the pasta and garlic bread, because it was extremely yummy.

Bear in mind, though, that just because I learned those things does not mean I won’t do remarkably similar stupid things. I’m kind of like the four-year-old that is told not to put a Matchbox car in the microwave, but who then puts a Tonka truck in there instead. Who knew the results would be so similar? Neither the four-year-old nor I. It’s possible a future post will mention a disaster involving gin, and you’ll say, “Hey, didn’t you learn your lesson with the whole Vodka Incident?” and I will say, “Duh, no; that was vodka and this is gin. Totally different.”

You can see why Tom has yet to figure out the inner workings of my mind. He shakes his head a lot. But not today, because that would stretch his back muscles a little bit and unleash even more sunburn-related pain.

I predict liberal aloe-application to the region of his back that he can’t reach by himself, and maybe some cool compresses, when I get home. Because I might be a moron, but I’m still a darned fine wife. (Plus, he takes such good care of me when I’m sick, drunk or stupid, so I owe him about a zillion little favors.)

Still, Tom, you can thank me later for leaving out the graphic descriptions of the vomity parts.

Garden Girl

I miss gardening.

When I was a kid, we had an enormous garden. If I had to guess, I’d say the different plots between our property and my grandparents’ next door must have been at least a couple of acres. In addition to the garden itself, we had peach trees, apple trees, cherry trees, plum trees, a big grape arbor, and a strawberry patch.

Our gardens were my dad’s “Zen time.” He was a welder, and he’d work all day, come home, have dinner, then head out to work in the garden. I was usually right there with him, “helping.”

We grew enough potatoes to last us and my grandparents the whole year, and stored the bushel baskets brimming with spuds down in an old well to keep them cool and sprout-free. There were enough zucchini to supply us and at least ten other families. We grew bushels and bushels of tomatoes, which led to a messy, labor-intensive process to can them. We’d quarter them, and boil them down in big kettles. Dad took a small electric motor and rigged it to the juicer with a pulley and fan belt so we didn’t have to crank it by hand. We’d scoop saucepans full of boiled tomato into the grinder, the seeds and skin would be extruded out the end, and the pulpy juice would pour out into yet another kettle. This would again be boiled and then put into canning jars all over the kitchen table. The “pop” of sealing jars would go on throughout the night. We had juice for soups and spaghetti sauce for the entire year. We froze bags and bags of green beans, “shuck” beans, and other vegetables. We had enough cabbage for the season, and plenty more to use in making sauerkraut (which smelled pretty disgusting fermenting in its briny solution in a stoneware crock in the hallway of our trailer).

All summer, we enjoyed onions, lettuce, beets, broccoli, green peppers, cucumbers, squash and melons. Even though dinner generally included some kind of fat-intensive fried meat, I imagine the plentiful fresh vegetables offset some of the artery-clogging.

I loved being in the garden with Dad. In Pap’s garage we had a 1950s-era tractor, which Dad would use each spring to plow and turn the soil. Then he’d work the whole area with his big roto-tiller. I liked to follow behind when the plowing or tilling was going on, enjoying the warm earth on my bare feet (yes, I am a hillbilly) and watching the worms scurry to relocate their disrupted tunnels. We’d mark out straight rows with sticks and string, then Dad would show me how to plant whatever we were putting in that day. I’d be meticulous as I placed each seed or seedling just the right distance apart, at just the right depth, placing a very precise amount of soil over it with my hoe. I loved planting things, and watching them grow. I wasn’t such a big fan of weeding.

Harvesting was usually fun. I loved when Dad would dig a hill of potatoes, as we discovered just how many were under each plant. I loved picking beets and peppers and onions, but for some reason I hated picking green beans. I once refused to eat any for months after Dad made me pick an entire row by myself.

I guess, by most standards, we were organic gardeners. I don’t remember ever using any pesticides or fertilizers. We had a couple of huge, car-sized mounds of tobacco, perhaps obtained from the old Marsh Wheeling Stogies plant, near the garden. I’d never heard the word “compost” then, but I suppose that’s what we were doing. Baking in the sun, the tobacco piles developed a thick crust on the surface, but if a little country girl with long, dark hair and perpetually skinned knees walked up on it and broke her feet through the crust (which I did all the time), the fragrant, moist tobacco beneath was always delightfully warm. Dad would spread this over the garden each spring, then till it into the soil.

(A shot taken five or six years ago of the road where we lived. It's paved now. It was dirt when I lived there. My grandparents' house is behind the pine trees at the left, and the large house just right of center is where our trailer stood. It's long gone.)

Gardening was a social event in our rural hilltop neighborhood. The houses were widely scattered, but when anyone saw us out in the garden, they’d venture up to visit. We would sit on the sun-warmed tarpaper cover on the old well that was located between the two largest garden plots. The well was about eight feet square and right at “bench” height. The men would drink a beer or two, chew Beechnut tobacco, talk about work, family, and hunting, and re-tell old stories. The kids would sit for a while, but unable to be still for long, we’d end up climbing the peach trees (except when they were ripe and the bees were too numerous) and chase lightning bugs. Then Dad and I would make our way through the field and back to the trailer, the evening dew chilly on my filthy, bare feet.

Did I have an idyllic childhood? I sure did.

The first several years Tom and I were married, we lived in apartments, which didn’t give me much opportunity for gardening. When we got our first house in 1990, I wanted to start planting stuff right away. We had a large flower bed along the front of the house, and I filled it with brightly-colored annuals. I planted a sizeable rose garden on the side of the garage, an herb garden by the backyard deck, and a wildflower garden at the furthest point of the yard. I didn’t really grow any “edibles,” though.

When we moved to Minnesota in 1996, I hoped to expand my gardening endeavors. The front flower beds were very small, but I always put something in them every spring. I finally put a larger shade perennial garden in front, once we got rid of the shrubs that had taken over that area, but it’s not doing as well as I’d hoped. The lilies and hostas do fine, but my wood violets are disappointingly stingy with the blooms.

(My shade garden, taken moments ago)

For a few years, I grew strawberries and tomatoes in containers on the deck. When we had our old cocker, Flash, I’d go out to find half of a berry or tomato nibbled away, still attached to the plant, which would have been annoying if it hadn’t been so funny.

Out in the back yard, there is a large sand-filled area bordered with railroad ties that used to house a swing set for the previous homeowners. I had a grand scheme to have the sand removed, some good black dirt put down, and a small fence around it (to keep the dogs out) so I could finally have my vegetable garden. One year, for Mother’s Day, Tom and The Boy got the riding mower and cart, and some shovels, and went out to remove the sand. About four inches down, they discovered a layer of cement! Should have known the guy who owned the house before us would find some way to screw this up for me. He’d also filled every bed and planting area with lava rock, and I still battle that to this day every time I want to plant something. We’ve put down mulch every summer for 12 years, but that damned rock is still just beneath the surface.

(Pool area, today. Three of the six barrels, and a few other pots of petunias, are along the right side of the pool.)

Most of my gardening is restricted to the barrels and pots around the pool area. I did put what I call my “grotto” in the small corner between the deck and garage, with a fake-rock waterfall and hostas, as well as some other little bushy thing (I have no idea what it’s called). I also have some ostrich ferns and lilies of the valley in the narrow, rectangular bed backing the garage. But that’s about it.

(Brody in front of the Grotto last summer. The hostas are way bigger and bushier now, but I have yet to find a good viney-thing to climb up the trellis I put behind the rock/waterfall.)

(The grotto today, minus Brody.)

There are many reasons I haven’t undertaken much gardening here. The sand/cement pit, of course. That’s a shame, because that would be a great spot, just the right size. Our lot has numerous large, leafy trees, meaning that finding the sunniest spots for a garden is difficult. We have a septic system, and the drain field for that eliminates a large portion of the yard. Not to mention the fact that the back yard belongs to the dogs. Their excavational tendencies, and habit of charging wherever and whenever they want, regardless of green and growing obstacles, would wreak havoc on any garden. In the front yard, those enormous trees create more shade than you’d want for optimal gardening conditions. If I used the farther side of the front yard, I couldn’t really see or enjoy whatever I’d plant. Plus, if I planted in the front, there is the constant risk of being out there when one of the neighbors was outside, and they would most likely attempt conversation. This is not desirable. I scout the area before so much as going to the mailbox.

With the backyard being Dog Safari Adventure and the front yard potentially being infested with neighbors, I have quite the dilemma.

Gardening is also a lot of work, but (strangely) this is not a factor in my lack of horticultural activity. Even though it kills my back, knees, shoulders, and other aging body parts, I’d still rather garden for two hours than clean my house for ten minutes. Don’t ask me what the difference is. I have no clue. It’s just one of my charming eccentricities, unless you’re my husband and can’t get near the clock radio to turn it off in the morning because of my sprawling laundry pile.

My barrels and pots of petunias, and even my grotto and shade garden, are not satisfying my gardening urge. I’ve been giving some thought to just why that is.

(Some of my pretty petunias)

When I was little, my mom always planted a flower bed in the space between our patio and the slide-out living room extension of our trailer (before we filled that area in with a covered porch). Dad was unimpressed. His often-expressed opinion was if you couldn’t eat them, plants were largely a waste of time. I didn’t think I believed that, but apparently on some level I do. My petunias are pretty. My hostas are handsome. My lilies are lovely. My ferns are fantastic. But I remain unsatisfied, because I don’t have fresh tomatoes to put on garlic bread and smother with mayonnaise. I don’t have cucumbers and onions to have (with more tomatoes) in a nice vinaigrette. I don’t have zucchini and yellow squash to grill. I don’t have fresh anything, and the stuff in the grocery stores, trucked from California, Mexico, and Peru, tastes like Styrofoam.

(Me in front of Mom's flower bed when I was about four. I have no idea what the hell I was doing in a dress.)

What to do? I guess the only way I’m ever going to get my garden is if we have someone backhoe out that stupid cement and fill the railroad tie area with soil. Then I can fence it, put a nice little gate with an arching trellis over it, a stepping-stone path down the middle (and a bench, for resting purposes), and finally plant something useful. Or maybe we could connect to the fence along the back of the yard, extending up to the railroad tie area. I don’t know. In any case, I think we’d have to bring in some black dirt or lots of compost, because most of our yard is pretty sandy, owing to the fact that our neighborhood is located in a big, sweeping bend of the young Mississippi River.

(My ferns, on the back side of the garage. They face the pool.)

This is what I want to grow: Tomatoes, green onions, zucchini, broccoli, carrots, beets, strawberries, blackberries, yellow squash, cucumbers, lettuce, spinach, green peppers… to start with. Maybe some herbs, though when I had my herb garden in Indianapolis, I mostly just rubbed their leaves and smelled them, then took bunches of everything to work to give to my friends who actually cooked.

I want my own roto-tiller, and I will break up the soil each spring, always in my bare feet (despite the hazards and potential loss of tootsies), so that I can feel the soft, warm earth. I want to place my seeds and seedlings and nurture them to maturity, and enjoy the delicious, healthy gifts they give me in return for my care. I want to see my garden in a gentle summer rain, enjoying the natural cycle (as well as the fact that it means I don’t have to water today).

See, now I’ve gone all sappy and Nature Girl. I’m not in danger of running off to join an organic vegan commune any time soon. But I really, really want a garden.

I Always Suspected My Head Wasn't On Straight

I've known all my life that I have my share of physical flaws. We all do, and - being a girl - I can see each and every one of mine, real or imagined, major or minor, life-long or brand-new. I won't bore (or disgust) you by itemizing them all here, but I will admit that several years ago I came to the realization that my nostrils are uneven. Well, the little dividing bit in the middle is crooked. Same thing. I try not to let it bother me.

Now, I've concluded that either my right eye or right ear must be misaligned, somewhat lower than its left-side counterpart. I base this on the fact that I've never had a single pair of glasses, either corrective or sun-type, that sat straight on my face. It can't always be the glasses, right? So it must be my head. I've already decided that creative eyebrow tweezing is most likely not a suitable method to try to camouflage this deformity.

So, I'll work on trying not to let this bother me, either. I'll just worry about the recent manifestation of the Basset Hound eye bags I inherited from my father. (Thanks, Dad. Oh, well, at least I didn't inherit his hair. He was bald.)

Once I Start, I Can't Stop

No, I'm not talking about drinking - but that is true, too. I'm talking about shopping. After I got home yesterday, having purchased the dress for the kids' wedding in January (in Florida, hence the non-wintery-ness of the chosen garment), I couldn't stop thinking about the green dress from Coldwater Creek. Thanks to my shopping excursion, I knew how their sizes run and what size to order. I was thinking the dress was some sort of poly-cotton or linen blend, or maybe a rayon blend, but when I went back to the website to visit "my" dress, I discovered it is, in fact, silk. So I ordered it.

Which, of course, totally negated the necessity of my earlier purchase. I could have just tried on dresses at Coldwater Creek, ascertained the appropriate size, and gone home and ordered it, saving myself the $63 I spent on the print dress at BCBG. (Hey, it was a $190 dress, so great deal!) However, after the dress-trying-on portion of the day, it was only about 10:50 AM, and the library didn't open until noon, and I totally didn't want to drive home and then go back out to the library later. I figured I had some time to kill, so why not browse. So I browsed. Then I inadvertently shopped. Even if I wanted to - which I don't - the print dress at BCBG was a final clearance, and therefore not returnable.

Tom helpfully pointed out that our dinner the night before the wedding might require a dress, so maybe I really do need two. The dresses I bought for our cruise three years ago don't exactly fit anymore, so I totally don't have anything in my closet for dressy occasions.

So, that's it. I'm officially done shopping. Which is fortunate, because my credit card is pretty nearly maxed out. Until I improve my "bottom line," shopping and I need to take a break from each other.

Just when I was getting good at it! But it's hard to mess up a dress purchase. One piece, no matching required.

Of course, I still have to buy shoes. Eh, that can wait.

I Shopped! Really!

Just a quickie post (for me, anyway) about my quest for the dress for the kids' wedding in January. I know, that's not like next week or anything, but dangly details make me anxious. Plus, Fabulous Fiancee is having necklaces made for the moms and grandma, so we needed to know what color I'd be wearing.

Before I put the picture up, let me tell you how it all transpired. I headed to Coldwater Creek, because I had three dresses I'd seen online, and I thought I should try some of their dresses on for size, so I'd know what size to order. (Answer: 8) They had none of the dresses there, but I tried on one in a similar style. Too much to ask for them to have actually had the dress I wanted in the store, obviously.

Then I thought, "What the heck, I'm at the Outlet Mall, I'll wander down to Dress Barn." That was a bust, because the Dress Barn inventory now contains only about 10% dresses. They really need to consider re-naming the place "Slacks and Stuff."

I trekked clear over to the other part of the Outlet Mall (this place is huge!), figuring I'd go into Liz Claiborne. They have good stuff, and it's not all cut for 14 year old girls. However, they (like most places, it seems) can't seem to understand that some women would like to have some sort of sleeve, even if it is a summery dress. I was looking at a bunch of dresses which, had they not had spaghetti straps, halter tops, or tank-style sleeves, would have been perfect. Muttering, "Things need to be much more sleevier," I decided to wander the furthest reaches of the Outlet Mall, just to see what was there.

I discovered a BCBG shop, figured I had nothing to lose, since the library wouldn't open for another 25 minutes, and was delighted to find many, many oh-so-pretty dresses. Yeah, 90% of them had no sleeves, but still. I know, I know, I could buy a shawl or wrap or shrug or something, but that's just way too much bother. It has to match, has to suit the style of the dress, you have to lug it along on the trip or outing, then if it's too warm you have to carry it around. I need to find one item of clothing that just works as it is. I'm waiting for the day that jumpsuits come back in style. (Not really.)

The picture isn't very clear... it's a silky-type wrap style dress in shades of blue, tan and white. The pattern is little bitty feathers. The front of the skirt is gathered with some little pleats. A wee bit sexy, but still sophisticated, and I think it will pack well. Plus, it's not the kind of dress that will become a Fashion Disaster if I gain or lose a few pounds.

WHEW! I'm glad that's over! After my last shopping trip to Kohl's, which also turned out suspiciously well, Tom says I'm in danger of becoming a semi-competent shopper.

Don't hold your breath.

So... here it is!

Over a Decade of Cyberfriends

I got my first computer for Christmas in 1996. It soon became overwhelmingly clear that I was going to be a cyber-junkie. I hadn’t yet re-entered the work force after our relocation to Minnesota that summer, and I had a lot of time on my paws. I immediately gravitated toward the dog lists, and spent about six months sometime after that working on genealogy, something my older sister took over with a vengeance and has turned into one of the largest network of free genealogical web pages known to mankind. I originated the website and newsletter for my golden rescue group, and I also created and maintained the official web page for mystery author Virginia Lanier (now deceased), and still maintain a Yahoo group devoted to her work.

But whether it was dogs, genealogy, books, weight loss surgery or relationship support groups, one thing has always been true; I’ve made a lot of friends.

One of my very first cyberfriends all those years ago was Jean-Marie’s Mom in Floridog (It’s a dog list, and believe me, we have our own vocabulary! Or our dogs do. Never mind; it’s a long story!). Though we have yet to meet, she has been a true friend in every sense of the word. Along with the other Woofers, we’ve shared joys and heartache, and made each other laugh so hard we blew “bevrij alerts” all over our monitors. When we thought Ripley had a cancerous tumor in his eye, and I was stressing about how I’d come up with the money for the ophthalmological surgery (I was at another practice then, we didn’t have a specialist, and unlike my Dr. Vet-Friends, no way could I expect my boss there to help out), Jean-Marie’s Mom sent me a check. Thank doG, the eye problem resolved – the morning of surgery, of course – and I was able to return her check, but I will never, ever forget her generosity and her truly golden spirit. I have a beautiful print she sent me, depicting a brunette woman sitting with a gigantic golden-type dog. It sure looked like either Gulliver (my first Pyr/Golden mix) or – later – our Ruxpin. It hangs in the hallway near the kitchen, and I look at it every day and think of her. We’re still in touch regularly, and we’re both still “woofchatting,” though I don’t keep up with it as much as I should, now that I have Fermented Fur to keep me busy. We’re not “share all your deep, dark secrets” friends, either, but we are completely bonded over all things canine.

So many friends have come and gone over the years, as my interests and life has changed, just as takes place in our “real” lives. Some remain, though, and always will.

My “cybersister” for the past five years (five years???) has been Laurie. Since her name and mine are essentially the same, we agreed I’d retain an old nickname to keep things simpler. In so many ways, this woman and I are so much alike inside our heads that it is spooky. Things that have happened in my life have gone on in hers almost simultaneously. The very words of wisdom she gives me one week, I am able to hand right back to her the next. I really can’t think of anyone else I’ve ever known with whom I could be so absolutely, painfully, frighteningly, 100% candid. This woman knows things about me, things I’ve thought or said or done, that nobody else on the planet knows. Of course, being so close, I know stuff about her, too! But we know how to keep a girlfriend’s secrets, so “what goes on between the Loris/Lauries stays between the Loris/Lauries!” Yet… we have never met face to face. Emails, phone calls, countless pictures, but thus far no visits.

Which brings me to… Laurie, I know you read Fermented Fur when you can find a few minutes between work and husband and kids and who-the-hell-knows-what-else (Leisure Lady, my bony ass!), so when the hell are you going to get UP HERE????? You’d hate the dog density of our tiny house, but there’s a really nice Holiday Inn not 200 yards away! The world just isn’t right until we’ve sat at Rock Wood’s and gotten shitfaced, and had to have Tom come bring us home and tuck us in! I want to listen to Ragweed, Bon Jovi, and the Stones with you, and laugh till I pee my pants. Then maybe we’ll cry just a bit, ‘cause that’s what girlfriends do, then we’ll laugh some more (after we put on fresh pants). Open invitation, Empress. Just come up, OK?

And now, once upon a time, someone told Dr. Vet-Friend One that she should read “Bitter is the New Black,” by Jen Lancaster. Or maybe she just came across it in the bookstore. I have no idea. But one day she tossed the book on my desk and informed me that I had to read this book, that it was the funniest thing she’d ever read, and if I didn’t read it immediately I would totally live to regret it. She was right. I read it. I loved it. I became a Jennsylvanian. While I’ll never in a million years be as ballsy as Jen, I learned that I can write any way I want to, and not how a bunch of “experts” were telling me I should… and Fermented Fur was born.

Because Fermented Fur was born (or whelped, as the case may be), I made another wonderful cyberfriend. While he’s still “new” in the duration of cyberfriendship, just since January, he’s absolutely become one of my favorite people on the planet. You all know him already; It’s Curt, author of While Walking Duncan. Sometimes you just feel a connection with someone, find out you share so many of the same thoughts, feelings, fears, phobias, joys and dreams that you can’t believe you’re not twins separated at birth (and by a half dozen years or so). Well, that’s how I feel about Curt. (Love ya, big guy!)

And this week, it became official. My cyberfriendship with Curt will segue into real-world-friendship in October! I’ll be going to the city where he lives for five days for a veterinary conference (I registered for the program yesterday), and guess who is going to get to go walking with Duncan! (Me, me, me!!!!! Or is it I, I, I???? Who cares? “I” sounds stupid, so I’ll stick with “me,” even if it’s grammatically incorrect.) Actually, I’m figuring on meeting for dinner at a restaurant near my conference location the first night, and other evenings spending some time walking with Curt and Duncan, some yumminess at Curt & Ken’s place (Curt likes to cook! One thing we do not have in common!), and time visiting with Duncan and his kitty-siblings.

I’m so excited I can hardly stand it.

Excitement aside, let me remind all of you that I am not stupid. Not much. Not anymore. Whatever. You might recall the two-part blog I wrote a couple of months ago about a 3-year cyberfriend who turned out to be a gigantic fucking liar, creep, and white-collar criminal. In retrospect, I should have seen it long before I did. He was good, consistent, and obviously a very accomplished liar, but there were still warning signs. Still, I know not to walk into meeting any cyberfriend, no matter how well-trusted, without some precautions and common sense.

I am sure my husband is eight different kinds of freaked out that I will meet a cyberfriend while I’m at my conference. But I’ll just have to do whatever I need to do in order to set his mind at ease, so that he’ll know I’m not blindly blundering out there and into the clutches of another lying cybercreep or psychotic serial killer. We’ll do name, address, license number, personal references, phone calls, I don’t know what… but this guy is NOT the Cybercreep. His life is all out there on his blog, and he’s not one to keep secrets. He’s like Laurie, a genuine, honest connection. I have four more months to allow our friendship to deepen and to discover “trust points” that will make everyone feel more comfortable with our upcoming in-person introduction.

The cyberworld is large, all-encompassing and semi-anonymous (if someone chooses to make it that way). It’s full of a lot of posers and fakes, a lot of nut-jobs and perverts. It’s full of false and even dangerous information. There are predators and victims, crooks and scam artists. But it’s also full of a lot of wonderful, genuine people (and their dogs!), and they’re there for you to meet, online or in person, once you learn how to distinguish the worthy from the dangerous.

Am I going to be careful and rational when meeting anyone in person that I’ve only known online? You bet. Am I going to pass up the chance to meet a wonderful human being, who can be a great addition to my life and a true friend simply because I first “met” them online? No way. You can’t say you’ll never walk in the park because sometimes people are abducted there. You can’t say you’ll never fly, because sometimes planes crash (OK, some people do say that, but they’re unnecessarily limiting their travel options). You can’t say you’ll never have surgery, because sometimes there are complications. You can’t say you’ll never get married, because sometimes people get divorced. Get the idea?

If I ever turn up in a trash barrel at the bottom of a lake, you can all say “I told you so.”

And, no, that’s not funny. But I’m somewhat stumped on how to logical, rational, a tiny bit defiant, and also enthusiastic while still being amusing.

Cyberfriends are not icky or dangerous by default, any more than “real world” friends!

It's Not a Weird Book At All!

Well, maybe it is, just a little bit.

As I've often stated here, I read very little non-fiction. Too dry, too dull, too fact-intensive. Just too. A couple of months ago, I read Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach. Roach's good-natured obsession with researching anything and everything that interests her is infectious. Plus, I'm fairly morbid, so the topic appealed to me. Seriously, I can watch surgery shows, gruesome real-life crime investigations, you name it. If I thought I could stand medical school (and all those annoying patients I'd have to deal with during my internship and residency), I think I'd love to be a forensic pathologist. I'd donate my body to the Body Farm, where they place corpses all around the wooded property to study how we decay under various conditions, but I suspect that would upset Tom. Also, then my ashes couldn't be mixed with those of my dogs and scattered somewhere scenic.

When I discovered that Roach had a new book coming out, I was excited. Then I learned that Fabulous Fiancee had a copy, and that I could borrow it. Jackpot!

The new book is Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex. What could possibly be more fascinating than experiments and research involving dead humans? Sex? Maybe? Yeah, I'm thinking so.

I'm only about halfway through it, but just had to mention it here. You can check my Goodreads page in a couple of days and read my full review. The link is over in the right sidebar of Fermented Fur.

Am I fascinated? Yep. Am I intrigued? Amazed? You betcha. Am I a wee bit disturbed and perhaps even alarmed? Oh, yeah.

Early "sex researchers" were inventive, barbaric, and creepy, but as curious in their own ways as Roach is today. And some of the things people do? I thought I was pretty well-informed regarding some of the less-conventional, more taboo, things humans do in their quests for excitement. (I read lots of fiction, and just because it's fiction doesn't mean it isn't about things that really do take place.) Now, I realize I have no clue - and am probably better off that way. There are things (which should not be considered "insertable") that are placed into regions where they were never intended to be. There are methods of "study" that are at least as bad as the worst porn scenario you've ever seen, imagined, or heard about.

And who knew there were so many uses for Pyrex?

The truly fascinating thing is Roach's absolute dedication to research. She talks to people about things that most of us are taught to never, ever say out loud. She asks questions that would cause the average adult human being to bite off her own tongue before they would actually voice it. And, above all, she is all about "the best way to research is to participate."

Imagine being Mr. Roach, and your wife tells you she's arranged for the two of you to take a little trip. It all sounds lovely, until you learn that the focal point of your trip will be having sex inside an MRI tube so the researcher can get accurate images of just exactly how men and women "fit." The name of that chapter? How 'bout "What's Going On In There?" Imagine, lying on your side spooned up to your wife, in an oh-so-intimate (if not even remotely private) moment, with the doctor's hand on your hip as he leans over the two of you to wave a scanning wand in front of your wife's abdomen. Then he tells you he's gotten the images he needs, and it's OK for you to finish now.

Sure, some people might really, really like that. Most of us really, really wouldn't.

At the moment, I'm learning all the fascinating physiological facts behind erectile dysfunction, having just completed the part about the pig artificial insemination facility in Denmark and the segment about the Center for Sex and Culture's annual fund-raiser called the "Masturbate-a-Thon." A glance at the table of contents indicates I shall learn far more than I ever imagined about male and female body parts, the absence thereof, the presence of too many thereof, health, hormones, religion, culture, and "accessories,"... all with Roach's informative yet humorous narrative to guide me.

Fun. Disturbing at times. Really not a mood-setter, though, if you get my drift. But it's non-fiction, and I'm reading it, and any author who can accomplish that definitely knows how to write and educate and entertain. And isn't that why we read?

But I might just sleep with the lights on for the next couple of months.

Cross Canadian Ragweed: Wanna Rock & Roll

OK, this is probably the last clip I'll upload. It's about the second 2/3 of Cross Canadian Ragweed's finale last week at the Minnesota Zoo. (I'm sure I'm still screaming. I didn't really stop much.)

Cross Canadian Ragweed: Blues to You

Now that I am where I can actually upload stuff, here's another Cross Canadian Ragweed clip I managed to get onto YouTube. It's called "Blues to You," I'm sure I scream throughout, the sound quality isn't spectacular, and it's 30 seconds before the orientation changes to upright... but Cody looks fabulous... as always!

Wireless Weekend

(Written on Sunday, posted Monday, for reasons which shall become apparent.)

I had absolutely planned to post a blog or two – and probably a couple more Ragweed video clips – this weekend, but that proved to be impossible because Charter (my internet provider) sucks so much giant monkey butt. I’ve been 99% netless all weekend. Our connection has been really slow for a long time, and much worse in the evening, but Friday night it gave up altogether. I hoped it would come back to life all by itself, and when that didn’t happen I fiddled around with all the various cables and connections. Early on Sunday (today) I actually got it to connect – sort of. The only page that would load was gmail, so I sent out a few quick messages, then it died again. Apparently this will force me to make a call to “customer service,” but my experiences with Charter’s version of service have been every bit as frustrating as those with cell phone providers and credit card companies.

So, today I can write, but can’t post anything until I get a few free minutes at work.

Despite my lack of contact with the cyberworld, it’s been a pretty nice weekend. I finally got some pool time in decent weather, yesterday and today! I’m no longer the winter-white Minnesotan, but have a bit of color. I used to tan myself leathery, but not anymore. My skin is aging badly enough as it is. Unless I want to end up looking like one of those dolls with the heads made out of shriveled-up dried apples, I have to keep the tanning to a minimum. I didn’t even bring Darwin in the pool. I just wanted to float on my raft, read, and listen to Ragweed.

Tom got out of work a bit early yesterday, so we had the afternoon and evening to ourselves. I was in the pool for 2 ½ hours today and a couple of hours yesterday, making this one of the few weekends of the year that the pool is not more trouble than it’s worth. But it’s clouded up a bit, so I decided to come in and not hang out there all chilly, and still end up with a sunburn. NASCAR is on a road course today, which I hate, but there’s an Indy Car race on right now, and Marco Andretti is running up front.

Remember the zillion box elder bugs I was complaining were swarming all over the exterior of my house? Now they’ve gone airborne. Every time you walk outside, you get dive-bombed by the psychotic little buggers. I’m sick of picking them out of my hair, and I just know that sooner or later one is going to fly into my mouth, and then I shall vomit. So today, while floating in the pool, I devised a sinister plan to reduce their numbers, if not eradicate them altogether.

My plan does not include insecticide (the product or the act). I’m not happy killing things – usually – and I’m sure they’d make an extremely gross crunching sound and squirt out gobs of disgusting goo. That wouldn’t be any better than having them fly into my mouth. I prefer methods which, while not as immediate, should provide more lasting results throughout the ecosystem.

Lots and lots of these bugs end up drowning in the pool. Initially this seems like a good thing. But I got thinking that these floaters are clearly the least-intelligent bugs, falling into the insect equivalent of Lake Superior, and not being strong, quick, or bright enough to get out. Darwinism at work – the stupid are not alive to reproduce.

But what if they were? These stupid bugs would reproduce, resulting in dumber-than-usual box elder bugs, and sooner or later they’d all be too stupid to live, and I would be able to walk out onto my own deck without bugs flying into my orifices. So I started rescuing the stupid, struggling, floating bugs. Go forth, be fruitful and multiply, buggy morons. You are ensuring the destruction of your entire race, just as I’ve planned.

My aversion to squashing pests, however, does not extend to Charter Communications at the moment. I’d really, really like to grind somebody under my heel, but I suppose I should wait until tomorrow when we can contact “customer service” on the off chance that they’ll actually be able to fix my internet problem without a lot of grief or complication.

Since this is highly unlikely, I should make sure I know where my stompin’ boots are located, clean the dog poo out of the tread (or maybe not), and have them ready to go.

Thank doG for YouTube

While I wasn't able to get this to upload directly to Blogger, I was able to get it on YouTube! Now, you shall be fortunate enough to see Cross Canadian Ragweed performing one of my favorites, "Alabama," almost in its entirety, last night at the Minnesota Zoo. (You lucky blog reader, you!) It starts out sideways, but Tom soon realizes it will be better if we don't have to contort our necks at a 90-degree angle to watch it. I apologize for the sound quality, though. The music is just too loud for our camera, I guess, so there's a strong staticky, crackly factor that can grate. I'd suggest maybe notching down your volume a bit. This will also spare you from hearing at full volume the crazy lady (me) screaming about every four seconds. Anyway, I just wanted to share a little bit more of "my guys" so you'll understand what I'm so insane about, even if you don't agree that they should immediately be given every award available in songwriting and performance of music.

But they totally do.

Ragweed Rocks!

What a great day! We left home about 2:00 to head for the zoo, and it the weather was perfect for it. It was in the low 80s and sunny. The Minnesota Zoo is beautiful, but for some reason we hadn't been there for at least ten years. They have a new exhibit, featuring Grizzly bears, and it was incredible. We also really liked the tigers a lot.

As nice as the zoo is, and as well-done as the habitats are, I still find myself feeling slightly sad, though. I know zoos are vastly different from what they were even twenty or thirty years ago, with emphasis on education and conservation, and providing spacious, comfortable, species-appropriate habitats for each animal... but the animals are still captive. I know they're well-kept and safe and healthy, and I appreciate the opportunity to be within a couple of inches of a grizzly bear swimming in his own fish-filled pond, but somewhere in the back of my mind I feel sad for them.

Everybody who told me I'd love the zoo as a concert venue was right. The amphitheater is small, intimate, and scenic. My issue is that I'm used to a certain amount of pre- and post-concert interaction with "my boys," and that wasn't possible here. Until the area opened for seating, you can't even get a glimpse of the stage due to the layout, so I didn't get to sneak a peek of the sound checks. Plus, there was no way to know where the bus was parked, eliminating the possibility of hanging out nearby after the show, because the Ragweed guys are really great about chatting with fans. This left me feeling a tiny bit unsatisfied at the end of the night, having literally only seen the guys on stage.

But the "on stage" part was incredible, as always. How they maintain the energy night after night, for over 200 shows a year, baffles me. Just watching them for a couple of hours exhausts me! Of course I'm dancing and screaming and jumping up and down like a maniac the whole time, which is activity I don't normally have in my days, so I don't know why I would expect anything different.

Seeing them only about once a year (though I did toy with the idea of following them to Bullshooter's for tonight's show, which is only a couple of hours away), the first thing that happens is you notice the changes. Cody's hair is longer than it was last year, as is Jeremy's. Grady was wearing glasses, and Randy had on a nifty hat. Being a little above stage level, which we never are when I'm in my preferred spot front and center leaning on the stage, we got better pictures of Randy (the percussionist) than we normally do.

I tried to post a couple of video clips, to give you a little taste of the Cross Canadian Ragweed Experience, but the ones I wanted to use were too long and were taking forever to upload. You probably didn't need to hear the crazy woman screaming her lungs out (yes, me), anyway. Tom and I need to work out a signal so I know when he's recording instead of just lining up a still photo so I can keep my mouth shut and stop grabbing his arm.

So, instead, I'll just share some still pictures, and one VERY short clip, but be advised that there is a "Bad Word Warning" in effect. Not only is it in the song, but everyone in the crowd seems to feel compelled to shout it out at the appropriate moment. I really want to post the video of "Alabama" and the whole rest of "Wanna Rock & Roll" (the clip is a short bit right near the beginning of it), but they're gigantic. I might post them separately, later, when I can afford to just let the computer sit and work for a super long time.

How long till we can see them again????? Even if it were tomorrow, it would be too long. As expected, we got in very late, so I took the morning off. I'm mostly conscious now, so I'll head in to work shortly. Tom works this weekend, but the weather is supposed to be gorgeous (finally, on a weekend), so I imagine I'll finally spend some time in the pool. Right now, though, I'm still deep in Ragweed Land!

I know you can't possibly enjoy the video and photos as much as we do, but try anyway, 'K?

(A bit toward the beginning of their finale, "Wanna Rock & Roll")
(Remember, Bad Word Warning. Plus, the music seems to be too loud for our camera to record well, so there's a lot of crackly-sounding stuff.)

(The only wide shot we have. Grady, Randy, Cody - facing the rear of the stage - and Jeremy. Jeremy is in some of the clips, but this is the only photo I have him shown in.)


(Randy and Cody)


(Grady and Cody)


(Cody and Randy)

(And from here on down, the rest are allllllll Cody! His eyes did weird things in the outdoor night lighting, so I fixed them the best I could, but they still look a little spooky sometimes.)

Mackenzie Speaks

I found this really fun blog the other day, and have been going back through the archives. If you'd like a profound "thought of the day," straight from the perspective of a golden retriever named Mackenzie, you should really check out MackenzieSpeaks.com.

Mackenzie thinks this photo would look great on a book jacket, and I must agree. (It's generally not worth it to argue with a golden retriever; they're usually right, and even when they're not, they'll charm you into submission sooner or later.)

One recent Mackenzie-ism: "Just because you wrap our pills in cheese doesn’t mean we don’t realize you’re doping us. We just really, really like cheese."

So, give Mackenzie a visit and say you heard about the blog on Fermented Fur!

Sprocket Update

Well, my handsome old man has had his first electroacupuncture treatment, and it seems to have gone well. Sometimes it's hard to tell, though, because he's so much busier here due to all the activity and people coming and going. His bloodwork was fine, and his gait is definitely different after treatment. His legs are closer together in the rear, and his ears are up more (probably indicating less stress over being unable to get around well). Right after treatment, we went outside and he had some diarrhea, despite having had a normal movement right before, but Dr. Vet-Friend Two said she'd released a lot of stagnation and heat from his muscles, so that was his body purging that. Prior to the treatment, he had a weak, soft, choppy pulse, and that was much improved afterward.

I'll see if Associate Vet-Friend can do a chiropractic adjustment before we go home this evening, and maybe even some Healing Touch for Animals (tm) by one of our techs as well. We shaved the mats behind his big golden ears, and he'll get a nail trim, too. The nail trim will be his least favorite part of the whole day! For the time being, he's napping by my desk, and will enjoy all the extra skritches and ear rubs he'll get throughout the day.

He'll get another treatment next week. We'll be readjusting all his medications and supplements today to see if we can stop the prescription pain meds and use some herbs and other products instead. Barring any unexpected setbacks, I'm pretty optimistic!

Keep your fingers crossed, and I'll keep the updates coming.

(No, not a Frankendog, just Sprocket having electroacupuncture. Oh, that's also the green shirt that I got those hideous shoes to match... shoes are history! I have white UN-hideous ones, but you'll notice I'm barefoot. It's my office, so there! Face cropped out due to severely unattractive under-eye circles.)

PS: The grey fox that I mentioned yesterday had another treatment today, too, and now has pain sensation and withdrawal reflexes all the way down to the toes in both rear legs!

Worried About Sprocket

I'm really worried about my old boy. Sprocket is 15, and while he never had any actual hip dysplasia (thankfully), he's just getting so elderly that some joint degeneration is inevitable. He has some spondylosis in his spine and very little movement in his pelvis. When your movement is restricted like that for so long, you lose muscle and get weaker. This is the case with my silver-and-golden.

Tom called me right after 3:00 when he got home. He came in the house to find Sprocket all splayed out in the kitchen, frog-style, and unable to get up. The poo beside him indicates he'd been struggling to get up, for who knows how long.

We will begin blocking off the kitchen. The slate tile floor is cool and appealing, but he just can't get any traction on it. He is the reason we haven't gotten laminate flooring throughout the upstairs. Even with throw rugs, he'd have an even harder time getting around.

While he has been on various immune support supplements, joint supplements, and an herbal pain product, I had resisted giving him any prescription pain medication until it seemed I had to. I don't like prescriptions of any kind, and those NSAIDs are very hard on dogs' liver and kidneys. But a couple of weeks ago I started him on one, but only at a half dose for his size. I guess I'm going to have to increase it. I'll also address the weakness, but above all I don't want this sweet dog to be in pain.

Tomorrow he will come to work with me. He's been having chiropractic and acupuncture treatments, and it does help, but his condition is slowly progressing. Now we're going to try electroacupuncture, which Dr. Vet-Friend Two says is very good for pain relief and muscle stimulation. While he's here, I think it's time for a full blood panel (in light of the prescription pain meds), possibly some current x-rays, and a complete reevaluation of his supplement regimen. We have some new products that I think might be useful, as his situation changes.

I have an extremely hard time wrapping my head around the idea of euthanizing a dog just because the rear suspension is going. Cancer, organ failure, loss of cognitive function, maybe... but when he's still so bright and happy, still so fully in the here and now, and otherwise in such good health, that's where I run into problems. Sprocket is so much more than just legs! But the reality is he has to be able to get around to some extent, and not be in constant pain. He's 80 pounds, so it's not like he's a Maltese that I can pick up and tote about.

If the electroacupuncture helps, he'll come once or twice a week for a while. We've had a wild grey fox here for a month or more, as a favor to the wildlife rehabilitation people. He was hit by a car and had a shattered pelvis and rear limb paralysis. He had surgery to repair the pelvis, but had no sensation or movement in his rear legs. After a few electro treatments, he now has sensation and movement from the knee to the hip. We're hoping future treatments will restore feeling and function clear down to his little foxy toes.

I know nothing will make my Sprocket-Bopper young again. But if I can keep the pain at bay and allow him to retain enough function to get around fairly well, we can keep him with us a while longer. I don't want to be selfi