The CCRusade Begins

Apparently, I have been too subtle, so let me be more direct. The best band you’re not listening to is Cross Canadian Ragweed. Period. This is not a subject that is up for debate. It is a fact of life, like gravity or the inherent evil of Republicans. I’ve tried saying, “Hey, people, just go out and buy their live concert CD/DVD “Back to Tulsa,” or borrow it, or rent it if you know of any place that rents that sort of thing, because if you watch that DVD I defy you not to be completely blown away.” I thought that was direct, but maybe not.

So now I must launch the CCRusade. You will listen to these guys, and you will love them, dammit!

For anyone who has been less than diligent in reading things I’ve posted about them before – and shame on you! – let me recap.

Four lifelong friends from Yukon, Oklahoma, the band was formed in 1994, shortly after three of them graduated from high school (drummer and founder, Randy Ragsdale, was still in high school at the time). No, they’re not Canadian. The band’s name comes from a compilation of the names of the members. Grady Cross, Cody Canada, Randy Ragsdale, and original bassist Matt Wiedemann. Jeremy Plato took over on bass shortly after the group formed, though, and got left out of the name game. Which is probably fine, because I can’t figure out how they’d have worked “Plato” into it. The “weed” part may still be relevant, even without Wiedemann, as the guys have always been advocates of legalization of certain, shall we say, herbal recreational smokeables. But as one of their shirts says, “We don’t encourage it, we just suggest it.”

Ragweed quickly formed a strong and loyal fan base in Oklahoma and Texas, primarily with the college crowd. Playing over 200 shows a year, live performances remain the foundation of Cross Canadian Ragweed's success. This is not intended as criticism, but while I love their studio albums and production videos, they pale in comparison to live concert DVDs and in-person shows. You’ve truly got to see them in action to fully appreciate them.

So, what kind of band are they? That’s part of the problem. They can’t easily be categorized, which makes radio stations shy away from them. People’s first inclination is to label them “country,” but they absolutely aren’t. They are nothing like the country-pop garbage that seems to be all Nashville can put out these days, yet they aren’t alternative or metal… so what are they? I tend to think of them as 21^st Century Southern Rock. They consider themselves a rock band, but they admit to being heavily influenced by some of the classic country greats. Did you like Lynyrd Skynyrd? That might put you somewhere in the right neighborhood, but update the style to fit a bunch of guys who are now in their early 30s here in 2008.

They’ve had offers to work with Nashville, but there have always been too many strings. You do not tell these guys that they have to conform to a certain look, or record certain songs. You don’t tell them to stop partying quite so hard or refine their shows in any way. If they did that, they wouldn’t be Cross Canadian Ragweed anymore, and one thing they will never do is sell out their professional integrity just for some more radio airtime because some guy in a suit tells them to. This is one of the things Tom and I love best about them.

The other thing we appreciate is their songwriting. Cody writes around 90% of what they record, often in combination with other band members or friends of theirs in the business. You can always tell when someone is performing a song that is meaningful to them, and that’s how it is with every Ragweed show. When you add in the fact that these guys truly are great friends, and so absolutely love what they’re doing, you can see why their live shows are so awesome. In a time when music seems to be computer-generated and generic, these guys are the real deal. They’re unique, a bit rough around the edges, dedicated nonconformists, and incredible individual and collective talents.

(And, as I might have mentioned once or twice, Cody Canada? Goooooooooooorrrrgeous.)

And now, this is what you are going to do. This is not a suggestion. If you love me, and I know you do, you must visit at least five of the links below, and one in each category. And then you will leave a comment here, thanking me profusely and pledging undying gratitude to me for steering you to the most awesome music you have ever encountered.

Turn on your speakers and start clicking!

Studio Videos:

17: This is the one song and video that got some decent play on the country stations, and is how we discovered them originally – what with us being in Minnesota, and them being best-known in the south. It’s been geez, what, about six years ago or so now.

Constantly: This is a really nice video. It’s essentially just a house party and all the sweet and goofy stuff that goes on.

Alabama: This is one of my favorite songs, and I wish they’d done a studio video for it. This is live concert shots, which are nice, but there’s too much “crowd” and not enough “Cody” for my liking.

Don’t Need You: If this wasn’t their first video, it was close. I don’t know the details, but it looks like they just invited a bunch of people to some sort of utility building and threw a party. It has campy, goofy stuff (especially at the beginning), and Tom loves when Cody crashes Randy’s drums at the end. And they all look so YOUNG!

Acoustic, from CMT’s “Unplugged at Studio 330” series, about two years ago, judging by Cody’s tattoos. Yes, I can tell time based on Cody’s tattoos. You got a problem with that? Well, plus they mention being together 12 years, and it’s now 14, and I can still subtract. When I have to. Like if Cody is ever wearing long sleeves. I should also mention that Grady (far left, rhythm guitarist) has much shorter hair now. Also, this is not my favorite look for Cody. I like his hair down, could do without the bandanna, and he’s a bit too beardy here. Still, even with all that… best lookin’ thing around!

Fightin’ For (see the link under “Interview” for the story behind this song)

Final Curtain

This Time Around

Interview Clips (also from CMT’s “Unplugged at Studio 330” series about two years ago):

Describe your live shows

How do you manage to write songs while touring?

What is Cross Canadian Ragweed looking forward to this year?

What do you do after your shows?

How does it feel to write or sing about breakups?

What’s the story behind “Fightin’ For?”

This concludes today’s session in the CCRusade. My work here is done, and I shall sit back and await your many (many) comments singing their praises and thanking me profusely for bringing the glory that is Ragweed into your lives.

Bright and Not So Bright

We get the Sunday newspaper for three reasons. 1) The sports section, especially in football season. 2) The comics. I must read Opus, Doonesbury, and Buckles. 3) Coupons.

Mostly, it’s reason #3. Tom loves coupons. Yesterday made his day, because Cub had their “buy one, get one free” chicken coupons. He could scarcely contain his glee as he clipped furiously, then skedaddled directly to the grocery store. He mentioned, on his way out the door, that I might want to rearrange stuff in the freezer, because there was no way he could cram his bounty of poultry in there in its present over-crowded state. I had to concur. It would be impossible to get so much as one more freezy-pop in amongst the various bags, boxes and unidentifiable odds and ends.

Intending to simply throw away a few of the older items in a more or less random fashion, I began pulling things out of the freezer. Before I knew it, I had its entire contents spread out on the counter and stovetop. I purged mercilessly, tossing frost-bitten entrees and assorted foodstuffs in the trash. I then returned the surviving food to the freezer, in a surprisingly organized arrangement, and was pleased to see that I now had almost the entire bottom shelf clear, ready to receive an entire flock of former chickens.

When Tom returned with his $52 worth of chicken, for which he paid only $26, he was delighted to discover that all his little chicken bits had a place to roost. He complimented me on my accomplishment several times.

Then he said, “Does it bother you that I sound so surprised that you actually did such a great job cleaning out the freezer?”

I pondered that a second, then replied, “No, not really. Frankly, it kind of surprised me a little bit, too.”

He thought that was outrageously funny.

A while later, he was getting my leftover two-thirds of a bottle of wine out of the fridge, and noticed that the aluminum screw-cap was mangled in a most interesting way.

Tom: Lor, what did you do? Gnaw through this cap?

Me: No. Corkscrew.

Tom: You used a corkscrew on a twist-off cap?

Me: Well, I didn’t realize it was a twist-off cap at the time.

(This may or may not have been due to the fact that I had already had four glasses of wine prior to attempting to open this particular bottle. Plus, the label was entirely in German, so if there was a big notice on it that said, “Hey, dumbass, this bottle has a screw cap, not a cork,” I would have been unable to read it.)

Tom: How do you not notice a metal cap is not a cork?

Me: (I would have thought the answer to that was rather obvious.) Well, I was getting pretty annoyed that I was having such a hard time getting the corkscrew to dig in, but it eventually did, then I pulled it out and just poured the wine out of that jaggy little hole. Then it kind of didn’t matter anymore.

This was, in fact, the first time I’d even realized that the bottle did not have a cork. Maybe I should go back to buying my wine in a box with the nifty little built-in tap.

I guess I don’t need to wonder why my brain is not firing on all its cylinders today.

Rainy Photo Day

A day off, and rain showers and embedded thunderstorms are drifting all about. I have to run a very (very) short errand at some point, but for now I'm staying put. The dogs were playing, and I decided to grab the camera and see if I could capture some ordinary, every-day shots of what life is like around here.

(This is typical. They play best if only two at a time actually play, so Ozark is hanging back, waiting for his turn. Brody and Darwin are gearing up for a round of "My Mouth is Bigger Than Your Mouth," a perennial favorite.)


(A brief lull in the action, though Brody is clearly contemplating his next move. Darwin is wondering if he should play, or come see what I'm up to.)


(Really cute, till it enters the second hour. Then? Not so much.)


(At least when Darwin is fully included, he doesn't bark like a maniac.)


(Gearing up for a Triple Threat.)

And now for the "All Darwin, All the Time" portion of today's photo-blog. I can't be blamed. He's just so darned adorable. This is not the fluffy-silky-well-groomed Darwin. This is the post-play, ears-curly-crimpy-from-Brody-drool Darwin. Still, sooooo cute.

(Just call me Mr. Cutey-Pants.)

(Tennis balls are yummy, and good jaw-strengtheners so I can hold my own with Brody.)

(Seriously, Mom, I could pose here all day, if you'll trade the ball for a treat!)

(Does my nose look big? Mom says it's perfect, but I'm starting to develop a complex.)

(Mom says she likes this picture best!)

And this is about as productive as I plan to be today. In case you were wondering, Sprocket was napping during the photo session. Otherwise, he keeps wandering into the middle of things, trying to subtly sniff the participants, and inevitably gets knocked down. Now, however, it's thundering, so he's pacing restlessly. Tuesday's diarrhea has cleared up, though, which is a Very Good Thing since I was the first one home after work yesterday!

And now, back to the Sofur and the last of this morning's coffee. A good day to sit, read, and pet dogs, though I do plan to get the ol' stitchery out again this afternoon.

Not According to Plan

Tom was off work yesterday, and it was raining, so I knew he wasn't still outside moving firewood. I had a brilliant plan, which went something like this:

(I didn't have a ton to do, and wasn't feeling productive, anyway.)

(A little dinner of some sort; I was prepared to not be finicky.)

(A couple of beverages)


(Some quality couples-time)

I had emailed Tom earlier in the day to suggest my wonderful plan, but he failed to reply, despite my subsequent text message saying, "Check email!" He called me at work shortly after 3:00 to inform me that a) we had no internet at home at the moment, because it rained, and apparently Charter can't cope with anything resembling weather, so he could not read my email, and b) Sprocket had diarrhea.

Therefore, he had not had any opportunity to ponder my proposed schedule of events, make the necessary trip to the liquor store, and possibly even give some thought to what enticing little get-up I should put on after dinner.

The diarrhea factoid did not bode well. Sprocket has progressive loss of nerve and muscle function in the rear-end region. Normally, the occasional formed poo that drops out without warning isn't a big problem. Diarrhea, though... Not Good. I was informed that the trail led from bedroom to living room, because Sprocket was trying to head in the general direction of his poop deck. (Good boy! Not your fault, Bopper.)

I am familiar with Tom's method of accident clean-up. It involves some paper towels and removing the worst of the pick-uppable material, followed by waiting for me to deal with the more involved cleaning and de-stinkifying. He claims this is so that he does not also have to clean up the resulting vomit (his). This is probably true.

At this point, he was not even remotely interested in my plan, or any variation thereof. So my evening actually went more like this:

(The minute I hit Highway 10, I drove into the heaviest rainstorm I've ever experienced! I couldn't see anything beyond my windshield. Unless the car in front of me touched its brakes, I had no idea where it was. I couldn't see the lines, the median wall, and had no way to even pull off the road. Exits? Were they even there??? I was terrified! The road pictured above would better resemble my drive if all you saw was a wet, foggy gray beginning one inch beyond my windshield.)

(When I got home, thankfully Tom had baked a loaf of bread, because it overpowered the poo-stench. At first. However, I had to spend a half hour Spot-Botting a 30-foot trail before I could eat anything.)

The rest of the evening consisted of:

(Working on my cross stitch project, and...)


(... watching "Funny Farm" on CMT.)

And then I went to bed. Tom beat me there by 45 minutes. This was not the evening I had planned. At all. Not his fault. Not my fault. Not Sprocket's fault. Reality just has a tendency to wreck stuff.

Oh, well. There's always the weekend. Theoretically.

Dream, Believe... Succeed?

As part of our work with our business coach, team members are supposed to focus on their own personal dreams, and how to make them a reality. It strongly resembles the philosophy of “The Secret,” in which you visualize, very specifically, what you want to do, have and be, reflect on it daily, and it will happen.

Theoretically.

While I do understand the importance of a positive outlook, and that you are unable to achieve things you can’t name or envision, a big part of me still places it in the “this is a giant load of crap” category.

Yes, I can agree that if you want to be respected, you have to see yourself as someone deserving of respect. In order to be successful, you must be able to define what that means for you, and approach it with confidence and determination.

I have more of a problem believing in the people who earnestly envision, say, receiving a $50,000 check in the mail, and then one day the check arrives, perhaps due to some idea or business plan they’d set in motion in the past. Or there is the guy who had on his “dream chart” a picture of a lavish house that was far beyond his means. Ambling along through life, the day arrived when a house just like the one he’d imagined more or less fell in his lap. (Metaphorically, of course; literally would defeat the purpose, what with him being buried under a pile of house-rubble and all.)

Today, I am working on the latest incarnation of my Dream Builder. These things seem to be aimed at people with huge, far-reaching career goals (perhaps even global domination), rather than someone like me. Because, really? My dreams are very simple. To illustrate this point, let’s examine some of the categories on the eight page Dream Builder questionnaire.

In the “physical things, toys, stuff you want to have” category, it asks about the material things that are part of your perfect life.

Houses. How many, where, worth, rooms, furniture, views… Do I dream of multiple homes all over the world, with marble floors and solid gold toilet flushers? Nope. I listed one 2-bedroom home on an island or at least on a lakeshore, Jacuzzi tub with a window looking out at the lake, separate shower, small kitchen, hardwood floors, fireplace, deck with hot tub. A huge, fancy house would be ridiculously impractical – not to mention unappealing – for me. Even with this more modest house, I do have the one small stipulation that someone come once a month, clean it, and rake out the more aromatic debris.

Cars. My answer? I don’t really care about cars. Yeah, sure, I might like to have a 1979 Camaro Berlinetta, but if I’m living where I want to live, this kind of car serves no purpose. Plus, I hate to drive. Anything with an engine and wheels that can get me to town once in a while is fine with me. Whatever I drive, it’s going to be all full of dog hair and cigarette residue, so I might as well not trash something nice.

Boats. A small motorboat and maybe a pontoon, just because I’ll need something to putt around the lake. No jet-skis or speed boats required. Seriously, this sheet asked me to list make, model, how many feet long, color, interior, number of berths, and names for my future personal Navy. The only reason I listed a pontoon boat is because we discovered last year that those are a lot easier for old dogs to get on and off from the dock.

Planes. Planes? I guess some people are into that sort of thing, but I sure don’t know any of them personally. In my world, if I need to fly somewhere, I buy a ticket. If I’m ever economically-advantaged, I figure instead of buying a ticket, I’ll charter something.

Helicopters. “Why?!” See planes, above.

Bikes. It asks, “push, motor, road, dirt, license plates, color.” My answer was, “No way!”

Jewelry. “Don’t care about jewelry.” I just lose it or beat it up, and the dogs are not even remotely impressed by it. Hence, other than my nifty new wedding ring, it serves no purpose in my life.

Furniture. “Make, model, color, type, color, age, antiques, modern, designer, brands.” I imagine there are people who put this much thought into furniture, but I don’t know them, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to. I require soft, comfy, dog-friendly couches, and I’d like to have an upholstered chaise because they are cool in a Victorian kind of way. I would also enjoy a squishy chair and side table in a sitting area in my bedroom, so I can read and have my coffee in the morning without having to wander far from my bed. (Tom, of course, would be bringing the coffee.)

Electronic stuff. As long as I have a computer, I’m good.

Art. Do not care. Pictures of my dogs pretty much covers it.

Pets. “Dogs. Lots of dogs.” ‘Nuff said. At least that one was easy!

Clothes. Again, don’t care. I don’t plan to leave my house much, so other than a pretty dress or two for the rare occasions when I need a fancy dinner, track suits in the winter and shorts and t-shirts featuring dogs or Cross Canadian Ragweed in the summer ought to cover it.

It then asks about “investments,” “properties,” “shares,” and “cash.” OK, I know what cash is, and I’d like to have enough of that in a (non-failing) bank somewhere that I don’t have to have a real job, but that other stuff is, I am certain, a foreign language. I imagine if I have enough cash, I will give a small bit of it to someone else who will worry about the investments, properties, and/or shares. Whatever they are.

Businesses. Why the hell would I want one of those? That is Hard Work. And, I? In case you forgot? Am lazy.

In the section about what do you want to do, you might notice one or two recurring themes. Under “achievements and awards,” I listed New York Times bestselling author, the Agatha Award for Best First Mystery… and being a hermit. If someone wanted to give me a Pulitzer or the Nobel Prize in Literature, I wouldn’t turn it down. But maybe they could just drop it by the house.

Donations would include funding a sanctuary for senior dogs.

In answer to the part about sporting/special events, at first I insisted there wouldn’t be any of these, as they would require leaving my house. Then I remembered that I will need to attend frequent Cross Canadian Ragweed shows. Otherwise, I’ll watch TV. (On second thought, if I have all this money from my Nobel Prize, I could just hire them to come play at my house.)

(A momentary digression… while sitting at the campfire on the night of our 25^th anniversary, semi-drunky and mellow, basking in the sunset, the glow of the fire, and the rededication of our love, Tom says, “Yeah, and Cody should be here pretty soon.” Because? Having Cody sit there and play guitar and sing for us would have been the Ultimate Cool. In honor of our anniversary, I would have even kept the drooling to a minimum. Maybe money would be good for some things after all. The interesting thing is that Tom said this, and not me.)

Health, “snort.” Fitness, “snort again.”

Under sections regarding friends and/or fun, I indicated that I have very few friends. Honestly, I just don’t like that many people, and I really don’t need to see them all that often. Selected individuals or couples might be invited to our wilderness retreat for weekends once or twice a year. (Otherwise, email is good enough for me.) Guests may bring pets, but no children. They must be willing to cook for themselves (and possibly for me), and if they want to dust my ceiling fans or scrub dog-barf stains off the rugs, they can stay an extra day.

There is way too much stuff under what I want to “be.” It covers spiritual, emotional, friends/family, identity and roles. I found myself being quite redundant in my responses. Basically, I want to be Tom’s wife, mom to The Boy and the dogs (though The Boy is doing quite well with his own life, and my job there is extremely low-demand, which I believe suits us both), author, at peace, a hermit, and generally just left the hell alone to write and hang out with Tom and the dogs.

I’m not clear on how writing all this stuff down is actually going to make any of it come true. Maybe that’s my problem. Could it be like faith-healing, when if you believe that when the nut-job with the rattlesnake or the heavy, gold-leaf Bible whacks you on the head a few times and says, “You are healed,” you actually heal based solely on your belief in that outcome? If I believed that I’d make buckets of money by writing a book, how does that make it happen? Because? I can believe it all I want, but until I find the time and the inspiration (and the absence of distractions) to sit my ass down and write an actual book, that doesn’t put me on the bestseller list or money in the bucket.

Or is it more about me talking all the time about wanting to write a book, to the extent that a) someone says “this chick must really want to do this, and someone should give her a shot,” so they offer me a modest advance and publish that first book just to see if I really can do it, or b) someone is so sick of hearing me whine about how I need to write but can’t afford the time it would take for me to do it, so they finance my writing sabbatical just to shut me up, or c) I think about it so much that one day a book just drops out of the sky, bonks me on the head, and when I regain consciousness I discover it is my book, with my name on it and everything.

I’m not sure which is more unlikely.

What do you think? Where does “positive outlook” cross over into synergistic business-speak voodoo? Is just believing something so strongly that it simply happens even remotely realistic? At what point does all the belief in the world have to be backed up by hard work, sacrifice, and a healthy dose of good luck? Is it true that nobody achieves anything alone, and that without some assistance from an outside source (a supportive spouse, a kindly benefactor, a winning lottery ticket, or a Fairy Godmother) most dreams would never be realized? Are my modest dreams any more or less likely to come true than those of people who want to own multi-billion dollar businesses, take over small countries, or be the first person on Mars?

Clearly, I have some enormous inner roadblock or a deeply ingrained knack for self-sabotage, because I keep getting older and older, and I’m no closer to achieving anything than I was when I sold my first magazine article in 1988. Do I just not “believe” enough?

I am fairly certain that it’s a lot more complicated than simple belief.

An Endorsement Close to My Heart

As if I needed another reason... The Humane Society Legislative Fund has done something it has never done before - endorse a candidate in a Presidential election. It seems that Fabulous Fiancee had it right when she had her "Obama Saving Puppies" dream, and created the graphic below.


I know, I know, it's only one cause, one issue, and in and of itself is not enough to choose the leader of a nation. It's not the only reason I support Senator Obama, but this one sure makes me smile.

A Strange One, Even For Me

Last night – or this morning – I had the most bizarre dream. Perhaps it was related to the vast quantities of various fermented beverages I consumed over the weekend, but then again, maybe not. I do have a lot of complex, vivid, unusual dreams. The fact that I was tossing and turning most of the night, which probably was due to the previously mentioned beverages, did enable me to think about the dream while I was awake, before I had a chance to forget it. Let’s see what you think about it, and what sort of significance I should attach to it (or not).

The setting was a rural hilltop area, very much like where I grew up. There were grassy fields and paths, and a large house. I was in the house with several people, one of which was my late mother. Even after being gone for over 24 years, she still shows up in my dreams regularly.

We went outside, and noticed some sort of cloud swirling in the blue skies above the field. Upon closer inspection, it was thousands and thousands, if not millions, of butterflies. They were mostly small, about the size of dimes and nickels, and were white, blue or yellow (all solid colors). There were also a few larger, Monarch-type butterflies interspersed with the others.

I was amazed and delighted to see such a thing, and walked into the middle of the fluttering cloud. It seemed to take up the whole sky above me. I jumped up, and was magically suspended about ten feet off the ground, floating with the butterflies.

I came back to earth, and a sudden downpour of rain came, drenching the butterflies and sending most of them to the grass. I was worried that the powder would be washed off their delicate wings, and picked up several of them on the tips of my fingers, to make sure they were OK.

A short time later, we noticed there were a lot of animals seeming to parade by the house, including at least a dozen baby raccoons. One of them turned around and started to bounce in our direction, and then I noticed that some of the little raccoons were really baby bears.

Then I noticed many flocks of birds in the sky above the field. There were all different kinds of varying sizes, but each flock remained separate from the others, at different heights and going in different directions. One flock in particular was made up of larger, silvery-white birds, and I tried to figure out what they were. I finally saw that this group wasn’t birds at all, but some kind of fish or whale. What I’d thought were light-colored feathers were actually silvery scales.

About this time, we all realized that something was very, very wrong. This was extremely unusual behavior for large numbers of animals, and that had to mean that something terrible was about to happen.

Suddenly there was a noise, and I saw a dust-filled shock wave headed our way at incredible speed. The dusty wind roared around us, and as it began to cover the ground – and us – I realized we were all about to die in some apocalyptic disaster, like Pompeii. I wondered if it was just a localized event, or if this was, in fact, the end of the world.

Not being a big fan of being buried alive in dust from some unknown disaster, I woke myself up.

Itemized Overindulgence

I need to give some serious thought to getting my alcohol-swilling ass somewhere in much closer proximity to the proverbial wagon. This weekend illustrates the point quite clearly.

Weekend alcohol consumption:

• 2 bottles of red wine - one shiraz/merlot blend (Saturday), one merlot (Sunday)
• 1 bottle of champagne, left over from our anniversary trip “welcome basket” (Saturday) (Told self that champagne does not count)
  
• 1 Jack & Diet Dr. Pepper, in a champagne flute (ran out of champagne on Saturday)
• 2 additional Jack & Diets, burgled from Tom’s bottle (Sunday)

Ways in which one can tell that this was far too much alcohol:

• If, on a Saturday night, a couple that recently celebrated their 25^th anniversary have numerous beverages and decide to call the former priest who conducted the ceremony, and keep him on the phone for an unknown length of time, there may have been too much alcohol.
• While the above-mentioned conversation was lovely, one would probably remember much more of it, had there not been quite so much alcohol.
• When the mutual decision is made to drink again on Sunday, though that hadn’t originally been part of the weekend plan, and you exploit the nifty loophole in the Minnesota Liquor Laws by going to the restaurant across the road, ordering a bottle of wine, drinking one glass there, and having them re-cork the remainder so you can take it home, because you hadn’t planned on drinking today, and it’s Sunday, so the Liquorette is closed… this is probably not alcohol that needed to be consumed.
• When you are unable to watch your favorite DVD in your room on Saturday night, because the remote, which has all of about six buttons on it, is too complicated, so you give up and go to sleep, you might have had a wee bit too much to drink.
• When you take a two-hour “nap” late Sunday afternoon, wake up, eat dinner, and go back to bed (at 7:00 PM), and proceed to have the worst night of sleep in recent memory, it could be because you had a bit too much alcohol.
• You notice somewhat shriveled fingertips and lower back pain, which might indicate mild alcohol-related dehydration.
• You experience slight hand-tremors and general fuzzy-headedness on Monday, meaning the body is thinking it would like to have some more alcohol now, please, but the very thought makes you cringe. (At least I still have enough sense to cringe, and not give in to these “hair of the dog” remedies.)
• You would pay a whole lot of money – if you had any – to get a do-over of the whole weekend, with better planning for moderate (not excessive) alcohol consumption.
• You realize there might well be more things on this list, but you don’t remember what they are.

While I’m trying to reflect on all of this with humor, don’t be fooled. I’m really quite disgusted with myself.

Household Meteorology

Life in our house is a constant battle over climate control.

If he had his way, Tom would sleep with a fan in the window in January, as well as the floor fan on his side of the bed, and rest under only the lightest of blankets, from under which three of his four limbs would protrude.

I, on the other hand, would never use a window fan, and the floor fan would be pointed at the closet, providing only soothing white noise instead of an actual breeze. I would be bundled under a thick blanket and a comforter, and an electric blanket on extra-cold nights.

Bedtime amplifies the differences, but it goes on throughout the day, too. I go in the bathroom, discover the toilet seat feels more like an outhouse in the dead of winter, and close the bathroom window. The next time he goes in, Tom opens it. Fine for him, since he sits down in there less often than I do.

We do have some compromises, though. I can negotiate to have the window fan blowing out instead of in, or sometimes merely have it propped against the wall below the window. Tom’s beloved golden, Ruxpin, used to love having a fan on the floor like that, and his massive head went a long way toward disrupting the air flow. Darwin also loves it, and compounds his thermal betrayal by also having a fondness for lying on the air conditioner vents in the floor.

At times I worry about the potential climactic instability that could result from our night-time array of fans. I remember my mom telling me when I was a kid that tornadoes happened when warm and cold air masses came together, which is true, if somewhat simplistic. So, we have two fans, resulting in combating cool air flows, and the warm, humid air created by four large, snoring dogs. Thankfully, Tom hasn’t recently added the ceiling fan into the mix, or I’m pretty sure we’d be altering the weather in our entire neighborhood.

Tom is the kind of guy who frequently says, “This sure would be a nice night to sleep outside.” This is usually said when the overnight temperatures are expected to be in the low 50s. I am simultaneously making sure I have ready access to every blanket in the house. He would cheerfully sleep outside, if it weren’t for the fact that this is Minnesota, and the mosquitoes are more like vampire bats. He would awaken, if he awoke at all, a shriveled husk, all his blood being used to nourish the next generation of parasitic flying insects. Sleeping on the deck of a fast-moving motorboat in the middle of a lake would probably be his idea of “good sleeping weather.” I prefer a long, hot bath, a fireplace, and numerous fluffy blankets.

A dog jumps on the bed. Tom says, “Make him get down; he’s making me too hot.” I say, “No, he has to stay! He’s keeping me warm.”

He’s always been a polar bear. He’ll jump in the pool when it’s barely above freezing. I require a temperature of at least 84 before I’ll so much as dip a toe. On our anniversary last week, we were on the gloriously sunny lakeshore, but it was about 55 degrees and windy. I had on a sweater and a denim jacket, and my sandaled toes were turning blue. He had on shorts and a golf shirt, and was perfectly comfortable.

Even when I was fat, I gravitated toward warmth, so I can’t blame my cold-aversion on a lack of insulation. I’d freeze solid a lot faster now, but even swaddled in blubber I’d have still frozen. My fingers are cold from September to June, and sometimes I get sick of it.

Yes, I am aware that I live in Minnesota. But I’m not a Florida-Southern California Beach Girl type. I like trees. And seasons. (Winter, not so much, but it’s a season, so I accept its recurrence.) I could have trees and live in a rain forest, but the United States are notoriously short on rain forests, and I lack a passport.

Plus, malaria and tropical parasites remain a concern. Fabulous Fiancée blogged about a particular parasitic worm a few months ago, and the details of its infestation are simply too gruesome to relate to you now. But I’m convinced that the second I set up housekeeping in any sort of tropical location, I’d become host to a dozen or so, and spend the next several decades having doctors remove these worms from their breathing holes in my skin by slowly winding them around a stick and pulling them out, bit by bit.

So, I live in Minnesota, where the worst things are the mosquitoes. I dodge them by a) staying inside, b) surrounding myself with a healthy cloud of Marlboro smoke, or c) sitting nice and close to a lovely camp fire.

I’ve heard a lot of other gastric bypass patients say they got even colder after losing their weight, and started wearing flannel-lined jeans. I suppose I could do that, but thus far vanity has overcome comfort.

Because flannel-lined jeans might make me look fat.

Why Is It So Hard To Be Healthy?

If I were not such a dedicated, over-achieving Sofur Slug, I would probably be a lot healthier. But being healthy sure takes a lot of work.

The most obvious “work” in being healthy is exercise, to which I am philosophically opposed. (That, in case you were wondering, is a fancy way of saying that I’m lazy.) My preferred exercise takes place between my ears, in the form of reading and writing. And frequent periods of sitting in solitary reflection on the mysteries of the universe. This should not be confused with daydreaming or trying to look deep in thought so I can pretend I don’t hear the dogs barking, although I do a lot of both of those, as well.

As for other forms of exercise, my “lifting” is limited to full dog bowls and piles of paperwork. But I’ll have you know that they are really big piles of paperwork. I’m sure that counts for something.

It should be a lot easier to eat healthy, too. But, again… lazy. All those over-processed, pre-packaged delicious wonders are so convenient. I do occasionally splurge on the frozen organic eggplant parmesan entrée, when I happen to think of it, but that’s about as close as I get to seeking out non-radiated, non-pesticided, un-salmonella-infested edibles.

Yesterday, I got it in my head to (let me see if I can remember the term…) cook. Like, with ingredients. I did not have anything resembling ingredients in my house, so I ventured out to the grocery store. I seldom go there, because Tom always remembers to use coupons, and I can’t be bothered. Plus, I buy icky things like mushrooms and asparagus and things containing mushrooms and/or asparagus, and he spends the next week wondering why there’s nothing to eat in the entire house.

I got angel hair pasta, and various veggie-type things. For both of us, I got canned diced Italian style tomatoes, zucchini, carrots (shredded), yellow squash, and onion. I got little shrimp for in his, and mushrooms (lots!) for mine. I should have gotten some eggplant. None of these things were organic. Why? I could claim it is because the organic section is somewhat paltry, which is true. But the main reason is that it is in a whole ‘nother section from the non-organic produce, and I didn’t feel it was in my best interest to do any additional walking.

But I’m not sure it’s truly safe to eat anything that you didn’t nurture with your own two dirt-encrusted hands anymore. Who thought that packaged greens and imported chili peppers would infect oodles of Americans with salmonella? Or that an innocent hamburger could fill you full of e. coli?

On a much more serious note (in my world), who would have thought that supposedly safe pet foods would kill so many beloved animal companions because the Chinese had loaded rice by-products with melamine to falsely exaggerate its protein content? Just within the past week, Pedigree has recalled a number of brands of food due to salmonella contamination. But, realistically, this is more of a risk to people handling the food, because unless a dog (or cat) is severely immune-compromised they do not get salmonella. Their systems are designed to deal with it. And if people used the same hygiene habits after handling pet food as they do after handling, say, the chicken they’re preparing for their own dinner, it shouldn’t be an issue.

Still, if China can’t be trusted not to put melamine (the same thing that killed hundreds of U.S. pets) in their baby formula, do you want to eat anything – or feed it to your pets – that comes out of there???

It would be simpler if we ate food that we – or our neighbors – grew. If we ate livestock that grazed and fed somewhere within a short scooter-ride from our homes. If we all learned some of the nearly-forgotten skills such as canning, preserving, soap making, smoking meats and making butter. Ever see any of the old Foxfire books? Hillbillies were studied, much like a lost tribe of Pygmies, and all their folklore and skills were recorded for posterity. (I can call them hillbillies, because I am from West Virginia. Non-hillbillies should refer to them as traditional residents of Appalachia.) Truthfully, it is an incredible series, and I think I should begin acquiring the entire set for the eventual (inevitable) collapse of civilization. Goodness forbid that I should find myself in such a situation and unable to make my own wine… or moonshine. At that point, I probably wouldn't be picky.

But? That’s all a real, whole, huge bunch of work. And even though I’d rather spend my day churning butter and planting my garden than, say, dusting and scrubbing the toilet, it’s still a bit of a problem.

All this got me thinking about a book I read sometime late last year, but which has stuck with me. It’s called “Darkness Falls,” by Kyle Mills. Here’s the blurb:

“Erin Neal has been living a secluded life in the Arizona desert since the death of his girlfriend and he isn't happy when an oil company executive comes calling. A number of important Saudi oil wells have stopped producing and Erin is the world's foremost expert in resolving just these kinds of complications. Erin quickly finds himself stuck in the Saudi desert studying a new bacteria with a voracious appetite for oil and an uncanny talent for destroying drilling equipment. It soon becomes clear that if this contagion isn't stopped, it will infiltrate the world's petroleum reserves, cutting the industrial world off from the energy that provides the heat, food, and transportation necessary for survival. As the threat becomes more real, Erin realizes that there's something eerily familiar about this bacteria. And that it couldn't possibly have evolved on its own.”

I encourage everyone to read this book. I’ve been a fan of Kyle Mills for several years, but I think this one is my favorite title. At one point, they’re contemplating utilizing the oil-saturated sands in some part of Canada, and the scary part is that the bad guys want to contaminate this surface oil source, because they’ve engineered this bacteria to go airborne. It’ll not only destroy the world’s oil supply, but will eat away any petroleum-based products such as tires, gaskets, seals, etc. Scary-cool, huh?

This next part is a semi-spoiler, and if you plan to read the book and absolutely can’t stand to know the outcome, or even part of it, even though I will not reveal how it came about, stop reading now. Fair warning.

In the end, a large percentage of the world’s oil is lost. Gas goes up to some astronomical amount (which I forget… $15/gallon? $25/gallon?), so our entire society changes. People begin living and working in close proximity. They use horses, bikes, or their own two feet. Driving is a very rare luxury. If you still have a car, and most people don’t bother, you might drive to a larger city for supplies a few times a year. People begin growing their own food, raising their own livestock, and forming cooperative communities. One guy will raise the pigs, somebody else will raise the feed for the pigs, whatever. Cross-country transportation of food and products is a thing of the past. People build windmills and water-powered turbines. And forget about air travel. It ain’t happening.

Basically, everybody re-learns how to live without Big Oil. We did it for tens of thousands of years, didn’t we?

And I couldn’t help but think that those post-oil people were probably a lot healthier. Their dogs probably were, too.

Being Right Rules!

You probably recall the brief, unpleasant bout of joblessness that Tom suffered last month. You know, the "firing" that was absolutely, positively, in no way even remotely his fault. One of three franchise owners had been forced out, and that was the one Tom had gotten along with best. This led to the small-minded, short-sighted, vindictive, shit-for-brains owner who was left in charge deciding that he had to get rid of anybody who wasn't under his thumb.

So, fine. Tom had a week of vacation coming, and he applied for unemployment to tide us over until he found something better. But when he went online to request his first payment one week after being "let go," he found that the company was contesting his claim. In a panic, Tom filed his answer to their blocking of his benefits. The state had to decide if he would get any payments or not. The only thing left for us to do was wait.

This would have all been much, much worse if Tom hadn't had a job by that evening, which he did. Because yes, he is that great.

We came home from our Anniversary Adventure yesterday, and in the stack of mail was a letter from the Unemployment people. And guess what. We were right!

"...an applicant is not eligible for unemployment benefits if the applicant is discharged for employment misconduct... intentional or negligent conduct that is a serious violation of standards of behavior... The employer discharged the applicant... because the applicant was not a fit for the position or the employer's plans. There was no employment misconduct by the applicant."

It goes on to say, "The applicant was discharged for displaying a poor attitude. The applicant was given no written warnings before being discharged. Submitted evidence fails to show the applicant's actions amounted to employment misconduct."

Ha ha ha! Take that, you rat bastards! My conscientious, hard-working, dedicated, wonderful husband has smiled in the face of dickheadedness for his entire adult life. He knows when and how to make a stand when necessary, and when to keep his head down to avoid getting caught in the crossfire. He knows how to get things done without stepping on toes - unless those toes need to be stepped on, and then you'd better know where to buy a good prosthesis, because you'll need it.

He has never displayed a "poor attitude" in his life. He's loyal to his employers, and always does the best job he can possibly do. He's been shit on by unreasonable customers, and taken it, because it's his job to provide service to normal people and idiots alike, and to make money for his employers. When he needs to put someone in his or her place, he does it so cleverly and subtly that they usually don't even realize what he's done until they are back home again and replaying the interaction in their itty bitty brains.

Of course there were no written warnings. Because he never did anything wrong!

All of this does bring up one additional question. What, if anything, should we do about this? Minnesota is an "at will" employment state, and you don't need a reason or employment misconduct to fire someone. This probably means there's no point in looking for some juicy revenge by suing for wrongful termination.

Tom, since he's found a new (better) job that he's liking quite a bit, is disinclined to do anything else vengeful. When they did (surprisingly) pay out his July bonus without raising too much of a fuss, he was willing to let things drop. For now. We do, however, both excel at grudge-holding, and if there's any way for him to screw them over, even in the distant future, he will leap at it.

If, for some reason, his current job doesn't work out and he needs to go back on the job search, this letter will go a long way toward explaining why he left a company for which he'd worked for seven years, in a franchise of a company for which he'd worked for several years prior to that, in an industry in which he has been employed since the age of 18.

Yes. Since he was 18. So, you would think that if he sucked at managing tire & automotive service stores, he (or someone) would have figured this out, perhaps around 1986 or so. I don't think his alleged lousy attitude and/or incompetence and/or inability to work within his employers' plans are traits that would lie hidden until the magical age of 43. The Asshole Detector is sounding loud and clear, but it's not pointed at us. Look no further than the idiot franchise owner, and then please run over him with a vehicle with no fewer than ten tires so the detector can shut off, because it's really loud and annoying.

The one thing that still really pisses me off is that this letter, dated 9/15, took its time in getting here. If he were still unemployed, and this took a month to resolve, we'd have been completely without the benefit checks that we needed for trivial things like paying the mortgage, buying food, and maintaining electric service. Oh, and gas so that I could continue to go to work and he could go job-hunting. Tom was frantic with worry after only one week. I'm sure he'd have been in a rubber room (at state expense) long before now.

The bottom line, though, is that we were right, his former franchise owner (the giant fucktard) and his store manager (the spineless, sniveling weenie) were wrong, wrong, wrong, and we have a very official-looking letter here confirming that fact. Part of me wants to write some creative obscenities on it, perhaps use it to clean up Sprocket's poop-deck, and then deliver it to the company offices. And maybe I could feed Sprocket some tripe in advance of the deck-cleaning, because that does very interesting things to the "byproducts of canine digestion."

I'm not evil. Not really. But I am right.

Return to Reality

Why doesn’t anybody ever tell me that my house stinks? Because it really, really does. The dogs’ Auntie T is clearly too polite to do so, although it’s possible she’s still downstairs somewhere, unconscious from the stench.

I guess I just had too much fresh, clean, up north, Lake Superior air over the past three days, and right now I could use some more. Whew!

I will spare you the minute by minute travelogue, but will tell you a bit about our anniversary getaway.

We arrived on Sunday, to a cold, rainy shore. The cabin was beautiful, and even on a dreary day the lake is spectacular. When the rain subsided to a misty drizzle, we went exploring. There was a picturesque creek in the woods beside the cabin, complete with a little waterfall, and there was a conveniently placed two-seater wooden chair in a small clearing overlooking the lake. On the next section of rocky shore, there was a stone fire ring and some logs to use as benches.

We had dinner at the Lodge’s restaurant that night, with a sweeping view of the lake, and it was absolutely one of the top three meals I have ever had. It might be the best, but I still harbor a sentimental attachment to the steaks we had at The Wharf in Nags Head back in the summer of 1982, when we were dating and Tom came on vacation with my family. I did in fact order the pan-seared roasted garlic duck, and the duck breast was cut into thick segments, the sauce was incredible, and I had the cubed, honey-glazed roasted sweet potatoes. Yummmmmmm!!!! Oh, and we did start off with the wild game potstickers, which were every bit as great as I remembered.

Then, back at the cabin, some beverages, and enjoying the Jacuzzi. Sitting there, I could see the lake and hear the waves crashing on the rocks. Think Lake Superior doesn’t have waves? Well, it does. There were 1-3 foot waves nearly the entire time we were there, much like a Gulf coast beach. This morning, as we were leaving, the lake was as still as I’ve ever seen it, but usually it’s quite active. It definitely has moods.

Factoids:

Lake Superior surface area is 31,700 square miles, with a maximum depth of over 1200 feet, and an average depth of 489 feet. It contains 3 quadrillion gallons of water, 10% of the planet’s fresh water, at an average temperature of 40 degrees.

Though our Lodge’s mailing address is Two Harbors, it’s actually about 10 miles north, in the unincorporated area known as Castle Danger, which is quite possibly the coolest place name ever. I cannot, however, figure out why it’s called that. The best I’ve been able to find is that the rocky cliffs in the area reminded sailors of a castle, and were dangerous. Not exactly the fascinating story that such a name deserves.

Monday morning I tried to call JD, the shaman who was to conduct our ceremony on Tuesday, only to find that the phone number I’d written down was wrong! I got on the computer in the Lodge’s library and looked up his business number and called it, only to find out he doesn’t work there anymore! Now, I was beginning to panic. I then searched further and found another phone number, and succeeded in leaving a message. I didn’t know, though, till he called the next morning, that he had gotten my message and was on the way.

Later on Monday we took a drive up to a couple of small towns further up the coast, and then back down to Two Harbors. I had the grilled Portobello sandwich at the Lodge for lunch, and we went back to the cabin for a nap before going down to the fire ring for the evening.

(Two Harbors Lighthouse)

I could sit there for hours. Actually, I did sit there for hours! I never, ever get tired of looking at the brilliant blue of the lake, listening to the waves, and watching the colors shift and fade as the sun begins to set. Soon, the trees down the shore are nothing but silhouettes, and the stars begin to come out. Lake Superior is, truly, the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.

Tuesday morning was bright and brilliant, but cold. Just as at ocean beaches, the wind rarely quiets on Lake Superior, giving me a solid string of bad hair days. JD arrived, and we went down between our fire ring and the water for our ceremony. He opened the Sacred Space, and called on the elements and the earth itself to join us. He read a lovely poem, and also said he believes we have been together in other lives, which would explain a lot. No matter how bad things got from time to time over the years, something binds us together. I told Tom not to feel too badly, but he has to realize that even when we die he won’t be free of me, because apparently we keep finding each other from one lifetime to the next. He’s decided he’s OK with that.

(On our 25th Anniversary)

We made our bundle of gifts to the Earth Mother, including mementos from our years together, and our wedding rings. They were blessed with water that JD has gathered from all over the world, from the Mississippi River to Peru, and Tom tossed it into the lake. JD gathered strength and energy into our new rings, and we put them on each other. Then we took JD to the Lodge for a late breakfast. He was a very nice, interesting man, and I’m glad we got to meet him, and that he did our ritual.

(I was actually much, much happier than I appear in these two pictures - above - and my eyes aren't that goofy, I don't think. I was, however, freezing and more than ready for a hot cup of coffee at the restaurant, where I could look at the lake from heated comfort.)

Then, because it was such a gorgeous day, the lake a deeper blue than I’d ever seen, we went to Duluth for some shopping, and lunch at a restaurant called Hell’s Kitchen. The Boy and Fabulous Fiancee went there when they were in Duluth for their official “getting engaged trip,” and got us a gift card for watching Odin for them.

(Butcher knife chandelier at Hell's Kitchen - this totally appealed to the macabre humor of my inner Goth.)

We went to a shop called Spirit Bay, and got some sage (for even better spiritual energy in the fire ring area) and some amethyst. I wanted to dip the amethyst in the lake. Amethyst filters and purifies energies, and since it’s from the earth, and I dipped it in the timeless power of the lake (water), then passed it through the sage smoke (air), and placed it by our campfire that evening (fire, duh), I figure I’ve made a potent talisman for our home. I doubt it will de-stenchify the place, but at least it will be a good-energy stench.

(The harbor light at Duluth, which is a very busy shipping port)

(The Duluth Aerial Lift Bridge. The whole roadway lifts up to allow ships to pass, instead of opening up from the middle, draw-bridge style.)

(Notice on the rock toward the left is our amethyst, the sage incense that the shaman used, and a sprig of the sage we got at Spirit Bay.)

By the campfire that night, we took our CD player and listened to “our songs,” including Open Arms (Journey), which was the first song we ever danced to, then After All These Years (Journey) – a new song that perfectly describes this point in our lives. We also listened to Carbon Leaf, and John Denver. Hearing John Denver’s melodic, gentle voice singing about the wonders of the natural world, and the peace that is found there, was very moving. Then before we went back to the cabin, we stood there, feet from the lake, and danced to Open Arms, just as we first did all those years ago.

This morning was again bright and beautiful, which made it doubly hard to leave. And my house smells really awful. And I think I might have a tick in my hair, but I haven’t found it yet. And I do not have a Jacuzzi. And I’m starting to get a headache trying to figure out any possible way we could chuck it all and buy one of the zillion lakeside houses we saw for sale.

Since those things are all disturbing to various degrees, the only possible solution is to take a nap.

Technological Leap Forward

I am proud to announce that I have, after about 15 minutes of fiddling with various remotes, figured out how to turn on the big TV and the single-disc DVD player, and set the Back to Tulsa DVD to await my viewing pleasure!

Then I texted Tom, announcing this marvelous feat, and he immediately called me.

Tom: What did you do?
Me: I figured out how to turn on the DVD!
Tom: Oh, great. Now what's not going to work?
Me: Well, I guess we'll determine that when you get home.
(Pause)
Tom: How did you manage that?
Me: I sat down there for about 15 minutes, till I figured out which remotes were for which things, then I hit buttons till the DVD started playing. It did say "volume fixed" for a while, though.
Tom: Oh, no. That's what happened once when T was here, and it took me 45 minutes to figure out how to get everything working right again.
(Sorry, T! It's a touchy system, apparently. No huge disaster!)
Me: Well, it doesn't say it anymore. (Then, somewhat sullenly) I thought you'd be proud of me.
Tom: I am, but I'd be glad to show you how to do it. You know, when we're down there, but before you can't pay attention anymore.
(Note: Usually, by the time we go down there, I've had several beverages. This is probably why I never learned how.)
Me: You can write me step-by-step directions. That'd be good. But everybody kept telling me I should be able to figure this out, so I decided to try since I'm, you know, not currently drunk.
Tom: OK, fine.
Me: Don't worry, everything seems OK, but we'll find out for sure when you get home.

Which we will. And it probably is fine. Not that I care at the moment.

You may be distressed to learn that I will not be writing my virginity blog today. No, it's not about my own personal long-gone virginity. (Tom and The Boy may breathe a huge sigh of relief now.) It ties into a news story, which I never bothered to study in depth, but it got me on a line of thought that I want to explore.

But not right now. Cody is waiting.

(Update, 9/20/08: Re-reading this, I was momentarily stumped, as I'd forgotten what "virginity blog" I was preparing to write. Now I remember, but have to work up an interest in the topic again, before I decide whether or not to write about it. Sorry!)