What's a Girl to Do

When things appear to be circling dangerously close to the drain (I don't care what Fred Rogers says, I think you can get sucked down the drain); when her consumption of Girl Scout cookies is reaching truly concerning levels; when options seem few and unattractive?

What's a girl to do? Why, pack up the kid, get the hell out of town and see her friends, of course.

Check your calendars, midwesterners. You will feel a disturbance in the force late Sunday evening, and it will continue until Friday morning. Who can pencil me in?

A Number of Things That Are Very Wrong With Me

1. Last night I sang TK to sleep with Janis Joplin's "Mercedes Benz." My voice still is just croaky enough to do a passable imitation, but now I'm concerned that my three-year old won't get the irony of that song. Oh well. I'll explain later.

2. Every time I hear the song "Dancing Queen" I think of Wasteland Fan. Wow, that really didn't sound right, did it? What I mean is, we listened to a lot of Abba that autumn five years ago when we carpooled to work together, may God save our silly little souls.

3. An hour ago, there were Thin Mint crumbs all over my desk. Fortunately, using my superior intellectual capabilities, I solved that problem. I ate them. All. Crumbs too.

Number 3

The topmost pic is of Longmire Inn. Longmire is a few miles inside the Nisqually entrance to the park, on the west side. There was a bit of snow there, but nothing crazy. Once we got up to Paradise at 5,400 feet, it was extremely cold, and there was a boatload of snow, as you can see from the second picture. That's a ranger station. The bottom two are pics of the mountain from just below Narada Falls. I shot the mountain with the film rig till sunset. When I got back in the truck I couldn't move my fingers. Brr.

Little Beirut Averts a Pestilence

When I lived in Indiana, I knew all the local politics. Hell, I was marinated in them. But as a newly-minted Oregonian, I know exactly dick about Oregon and Portland politics. Lately, I've come to rely on the proprietors of the recently-launched Loaded Orygun to educate my ignorant ass.

While visiting said website today, I learned that Portland, a city the elder Bush once tenderly referred to as "Little Beirut," has issued a "not no but hell no" to the GOP's request for bids to host the 2008 Republican National Convention.

Carla at Loaded Orygun observes:

[Portland Mayor] Potter says that Portland doesn't have the necessary hotel room space or convention space, even with the expansions at the Convention Center. Plus the cost to fumigate the city once the RNC cockroaches take their leave would be prohibitive.

I say we open up Dignity Village in the parking structure at the Convention Center and let the Republican delegates pitch tents alongside the homeless. The city could charge $150 for tent space and access to toilets inside--which will stop working halfway through the Convention in Katrina aftermath style. Let the GOP see what their leadership is really all about.

Ahem. Damn right.

Looks Like Someone's Got a Case of the Mondays*

Well I let the Bladerunner (TS) go off to work with my digital point-and-shoot, which contained all the snapshots from our sortie to Mt. Fuji Rainier (thanks, Kristy). This excludes, of course, the "real" images, which are on rolls of Fuji Velvia 50 and will shortly be sent off for processing.

(Stop with the cacophony about getting a digital pro setup, already. Yes, I know I need one. And as soon as my pocket change adds up to the $2,500 I'll need to get a digital SLR with the same capabilities as my film camera, I will hie to my favorite online camera store and procure same. Until then, anyone complaining about how I am still in the photographic dark ages will be fined $100 toward getting me out.)

I know the tone here at Trailheadcase has not been cheery of late, and if you're here today hoping to find an inspiring example of positive thinking, I suggest you point your browser elsewhere with dispatch. If, on the other hand, your mood can be improved by reading the grousings of a discontented, serotonin-deprived curmudgeon who has been indoors way too much of late and thinking to yourself, "jeez, at least I'm not that far gone," why then make yourself comfortable and sit a spell.

Cuz the hits, they just keep comin'.


*Bonus points to anyone who can name the reference.

Well Here's a Week We Can Flush Down the Can

Parenthood changed a lot of things for me, but one of those things came into sharp relief this week: the under-5 set, at least the ones who go to preschool or daycare, really are just spectacularly active little petri dishes. Their sweet little bodies cultivate any number of pathogens, some of which make them mildly ill, but subsequently knock out their hapless parents for an entire week.

Before TK was born, or when we still had a full-time nanny, sickness in the Trailhead house was not common. Then we sent our little Typhoid Mary to preschool and all of sudden I'm on my butt one week out of four in the winter.

But anyway. The voice is back, if only a croak, but at least I'm no longer whispering. I'm still hacking up bits of lung into my coffee, but hey. You can't have it all.

It's sunny today and I have cabin fever so we're going to Mt. Rainier. Pics later.

A Post About Nothing

Well, in the last three days my voice has gone from husky to totally nonexistent -- a rapid transition from sexy to tracheotomy. Today I have achieved bullfrog, but only intermittently. Those of you who know me must know what voicelessness is doing to me. Plus, 98% of preschooler-management is spoken. I have a few meaningful facial expressions, but those only go so far.

Meanwhile, after looking at the headlines it's difficult not to conclude that the world is congealing into one magnificently odiferous turd: The witless Democratic establishment has decided that eating its young is the proper trajectory for the party, and has pushed one of its most talented candidates right out of politics. Buh-bye, Paul Hackett. Way to go, guys! But wait. Is anyone really this stupid? Does anyone do anything this absurd without intent? Dunno, my question for the day, I guess. Stupid fuckers, all. At least Howard Dean knows what's what. Guess he's had personal experience with this sort of "Washington skullduggery."

In other news, Deadeye Dick has decided to break his offensive, arrogant silence by deigning to give an interview to the criminally obsequious Fox News (way too many adjectives in that sentence, I know). That'll be a hard-hitting interview. "Tell me, Mr. Vice President, how have you been bearing up under all this? How terrible was it for you when it dawned on you that this man assaulted your birdshot with his face?"

Okay, enough about politics. The other day Full Moon says, "okay, here's what I don't get. You have this blog, and it's called "Trailhead-case," she observed, emphasizing "trail." "Yet, you talk about politics all the time. Why is that?" Fair question, FM. Partly it's because politics is really pissing me off right now, and I tend to obsess about things that piss me off. But more importantly, politics has a direct impact on my life as a lover of the outdoors. A quick example: The Bush administration wants to sell off public lands to compensate for slashing federal funding of education in order to keep Paris Hilton in tax cuts. That sort of thing tends to get me worked up.

But enough of that, really. Who can pay attention to such things when Willie Nelson has released a gay cowboy song? Written by singer-songwriter Ned Sublette during the "Urban Cowboy" craze in the early '80s, "Cowboys are Frequently, Secretly (Fond of Each Other)" contains such sterling lines as "What did you think them saddles and boots was about?" Nelson recorded it last year.

As soon as I'm finished here, I'll be skipping off to iTunes to blow my last 99 cents on this one.

It's Official: It's No Longer Funny

Deadeye Dick's victim has had a heart attack. Seems he has some birdshot lodged in his heart that's causing "irregularity in the heartbeat." Funny how that works.

Happy Birthday, TK Nana/TH Mom

Lawyer Humor: Yes, Probably an Oxymoron

Which Federal Rule of Civil Procedure Are You?

YOU ARE RULE 8(a)!You are Rule 8, the most laid back of all the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure. While your forefather in the Federal Rules may have been a stickler for details and particularity, you have clearly rebelled by being pleasant and easy-going. Rule 8 only requires that a plaintiff provide a short and plain statement of a claim on which a court can grant relief. While there is much to be lauded in your approach, your good nature sometimes gets you in trouble, and you often have to rely on your good friend, Rule 56, to bail you out.
Take this quiz!








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Go to it, lawyers.

Just Shoot Me

Okay friends, I have preschooler-bestowed pinkeye, a tuberculitic cough, no voice and a deadline.  

But Dick Cheney mistook a 78-year old millionaire attorney for a quail this weekend (hey, I can understand that), so I thought I’d let you guys just get it all out of your system right here.  I know you can’t keep a lid on it, so get after it – it’s all fair game.    I’m guessing Bloggerdad will start.  

To get you started, see this hilarious link from HuffPo.

(You know, it goes without saying this is only funny because the man is "doing well" and expected to be released early this week, and because I am advised by the hunters in my life that this sort of thing is not uncommon. In fact, TS once did the same thing to his dad, though on a smaller scale.)

Cheery Thought of the Day: Tornadoes, Hurricanes or Volcanoes, It's All the Same

The 4th most dangerous volcano in the U.S.

Of the eighteen most dangerous volcanoes, half of them are situated within 500 miles of my home. I live within 150 miles of three of them, and within 50 miles of the 4th most dangerous.

Maybe it's time to move to Montana. But wait, the wildfires. Back to Florida? I don't think I even need to say it.

Back to the Midwest, you say? Yeah, where a tornado decimated TS's daily commute three years ago? (He was home with me and our five-day old son, instead of driving when the tornado hit, as he normally would have been.)

The lesson -- shit happens, everywhere. As Bloggerdad would say, "life is short. Eat dessert first."

(Another Weird Ass) Friday Random Ten and a Drive-By Dog Blog

1. Seal -- Tinsel Town
2. The Doobie Brothers -- It Keeps You Runnin'
3. Walela -- Muddy Road
4. Jimmy Buffett -- License to Chill
5. Shawn Mullins -- Pandora
6. Blondie -- One Way or Another
7. Willie Nelson -- On The Road Again
8. Billy Paul -- Me and Mrs. Jones
9. John Mayer -- Why Georgia
10. Marvin Gaye -- Let's Get it On




This is the dog that drives TK crazy. She tends to sniff at everything, all the time. He can't stand that. "She's 'niffin' me! She's 'niffin' me! That dog is drivin' me nuts!"

By a Thread

Well, TS jetted off for a five-day business trip this morning, so naturally, cue some pinkeye for TK, a couple of migraines for me and a big work project that has to be finished pronto.

But the sun is still shining this week.

What's up with you, kids?

Lo! And the Angels Sang Hosanna: Trailhead Gets Some (Sun, That Is)

There is no more perfect winter day than that which was gifted upon the upper-left-hand corner of Oregon today. So the only rational thing to do was pack up the backcountry skis and head to The Mountain. And the cherry on top of this sundae is that all the annoying snowmobilers* were back at home grunting and watching football today, and not annoying me.


I do not ordinarily take photographs of any kind, even snapshots, through the windshields of vehicles, moving or otherwise, but today I threw standards to the wind and allowed sun-induced joie de vivre to consume me entirely.




Today was the big day for TK: He got to 'ki all by himself (TK feels that enunciating an "s" before consonants is insufferably priggish, and avoids it whenever possible.) The Mountain Tracks Ski & Snowboard Shop went above and beyond by offering to rent us a brand new pair of skis since they were out of TK's size in the rentals.


This is the Trillium Lake Loop, a roughly 4.5 mile trail.


The inevitable: 'kiing loses its allure, and the backpack gains it.




Sun!

And now, every inch of my body is screaming at me like Bobby Knight at an errant referee. Can't wait till my muscles stiffen up overnight. It's like being hung over, only better.



* Yes, I know they can't possibly all suck; but the only the ones I've encountered have all seemed like thirteen-year-olds drunk on ego, testosterone, and a grossly inflated sense of entitlement. And those were the parents.

Sleeping In, But Not Really

Today was my day to sleep in.

[a voice filtering through layers and layers of sleep]

TK: Mooommmmmy? Hi. [slightly louder] Mooommmmmmmy? HI! [getting impatient, yelling now] MOOOOMMMMMMMMYYY??? I SAID HI!

Me [woozily]: Hi, TK.

TK: Wake UP, Mommy! It's Christmastime!!

Friday Random Ten and a Drive-By Dog Blog

1. Liz Phair -- Take a Look
2. America -- Ventura Highway
3. Bob Marley & The Wailers -- No Woman No Cry (Live)
4. Dwight Yoakam -- Fast as You
5. Nickel Creek -- The Lighthouse's Tale
6. Queen -- You're my Best Friend
7. Shawn Mullins -- Changes
8. Hank Williams Jr. -- All My Rowdy Friends (Have Settled Down)
9. John Mayer -- My Stupid Mouth
10. R.E.M. -- So. Central Rain




Trailhead Dog apparently can't get into a really good dog-sleep unless she's twisted into a bizarre, decidedly un-doglike position.

Resistance is Futile, You Will Be Assimilated

Give up. Punxatawney Phil's annual foray into the yard now has corporate sponsors. Well, knock me over with a farkin' feather, the bidness people have assimilated the groundhog. Figgers.