Americorps

My sister forwarded me an alert the other day about Americorps. Apparently every year they go through this funding dance where the Republicans in the House try to kill it by gutting the budget. (They have a habit of doing that with public television as well.)

My sister works with Americorps, and says:

To me the most compelling reason to fund Americorps is that its existence is a win/win situation across the board. The recipients of the services win because Americorps provides reading tutors to grade school children, relief to natural disaster victims, conflict resolution training, elderly support, juvenile offender assistance, environmental cleanup and education, assistance to Habitat for Humanity, and many other services. The volunteers win because they receive career training and personal development that allows them to enter the workforce or an educational path with a solid foundation of real-life skills. They learn the value of service and giving to others.The taxpayers win because the cost to fund Americorps is pocket change. There is no other way we could fund such services for a little as it costs through Americorps. Our country wins because our citizens, our land, our cities and states are all better for the work done.

(Link added by me.)

Being the cynic I am, I can't help but wonder if all this isn't the reason the House wants so badly to get rid of it. After all, it's hard for Grover Norquist to strangle government in the bathtub if it's working, eh? But anyway. Let's get to the solution.

Here's what to do to help:

1. Call Labor HHS Appropriators and tell them to restore funding for
national service. Click here for instructions.

2. Write members of Congress and tell them that the national service
programs in their states are in jeopardy. Click here to identify your Congressional representatives and click here to view a draft letter that you can customize.

3. Forward the New York Times editorial, Keeping the Faith with AmeriCorps to your local paper and urge them to write about national service funding.

4. Spread the word on to fellow AmeriCorps alumni and supporters.

I'm going to ask my sister to describe her job for you all in the comments section. This is a program that makes our country better. If you have a spare moment and want to do something worthwhile today, let your congresscritters know.

Thank You, Johnny Cash

Because when TK tries to sing "Folsom Prison Blues," the world is a good place indeed.

I hear the train a'comin'
It's rollin around the bend....

He generally loses it at this point.

I think I'll play "A Boy Named Sue" for him tonight.

Tuesday Morning

It's always a little startling going to bed in our house after coming home from Montana. Though we're not right on a road, there's only a layer of buildings between our back deck and one. So after three nights in absolute silence, what little traffic we hear sounds like there's a drag race going on in the back yard.

So it's late July. Guess it's time to get back to it and make what I can of the rest of the month. August will be enjoyably busy -- back to Montana for a couple of weeks (a mere relocation of the workspace, Bloggerdad, so worry not), then a visit to Portland from TH Brother near the end of the month.

I feel like I'm waking up from a two week long nap.

It's a Fine Day for a Blogiversary

I started this blog on an idle Wednesday morning, after I'd had a one- or two-day dip in workload, and would otherwise be sitting around picking navel lint. Wasteland and I had been gabbing about it for awhile, and I decided I'd start a "practice" blog. Well, as of today, I've practiced for a year.

It's been pretty fun, and I've connected with some great people: Rose was among the first, and responded to one of my posts about the inherent suckiness of work in which I quoted Homer Simpson: "Kill my boss? Do I dare live out the American dream?" I'm glad she did, because I've made a friend I've never met, and have been privileged to watch her daughter's first year of life. This is by no means a high-traffic blog, but a few more connections kept coming: Jeannie, jlb, sylvia, bert, kristy, and according to statcounter, a handful of lurkers (hi lurkers!).

One of the crappy things about this week is that I got off the trail renewed, with plans in a number of different directions (including this site), and all that has gone to hell with the loss of a dog who'd been part of this family for a decade. I am in a sort of mental and emotional disarray. Occasionally I'll look around and see her harness on the chair or one of the rawhides she liked to stockpile under my bed, as if in preparation for some imminent and disastrous chewie shortage, and I realize I have a few wounds to lick before I can revert to the energy and plans I had coming off the PCT.

One of those things was continuing a PCT section-hike, and beginning an Oregon Coast Trail section hike. But it may be awhile before I step back onto a trail without my trail dog.

So I'm going where these things are easier. Where else? Tomorrow we're packing up our work, our kid, and Lovable Mutt, and we're going to the Montana house for a few days. I'll probably be in touch from the Libby Cafe.

Meanwhile, thanks to everyone who left comments on the Boo post. Every single comment provided yet more comfort to both of us.

Boo. 1995-2006

"What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us." - Helen Keller








You're a good girl.

And Then, A Reversal, Though Not Totally Unexpected

Right now, at 11 p.m., Mr. T is on the way back to Dove Lewis. She vomited three times today, and when we went to give her the 10 p.m. meds, she couldn't swallow and her tongue was hanging out of her mouth. I don't know how this will all end.

Diva Report

Packed cell volume up slightly today.

She needs an actual chart for the bunch of meds she's on, some of which are wicked enough that we're supposed to wear latex gloves to give them to her.

I just went to administer her 2 p.m. dose, which consists of a single half tablet, unlike at 10 a.m., 10 p.m, and 6 a.m., which involve many more pills. I carved out a small chunk of watermelon, one of her favorite snacks, and approached her. I always wait till the last second to stick the tablet into the watermelon so it doesn't dissolve and get messy. I waved it under her nose.

Not interested. Tried again. Still not interested. Got some bread. A mere sniff.

This was a challenge, because she's supposed to eat bland things to keep her from horking up her meds, so I was unsure whether to move to something more savory, and therefore more appealing. But she can't throw something up that isn't in there, and besides, this is the drug that's supposed to protect her stomach lining from the steroids we're giving her, and she really needs it. So I moved to a small chunk of delicious Tillamook cheddar cheese. A few sniffs, but no dice.

So I boiled some chicken. No thanks. A slab of pungent canned dog food. Not today.

I sighed, put the tablet down and stuck my fingers between her teeth to begin the tedious process of prying open her jaw. For a dog in her weakened condition, she showed remarkable muscle strength. She was not going to open her mouth. Fortunately, She With The Greater Packed Cell Volume won out, as Diva got tired of clenching her jaw. I popped the tablet on the back of her tongue, she gave me a pissy look, and then she swallowed it.

Just another glamorous day at Trailheadquarters.

Diva Comes Home

Tonight at 7:30. The next 2-3 days will be scary, so keep your fingers crossed for us.

I can't tell you how great you all have been. Thanks a million.

Update From a Suckalicious Weekend

I chatted with one of the vets over at the hospital this morning. Diva is no longer "icteric," or jaundiced, and is no longer "autoagglutinating," which means her red blood cells are no longer clumping together. These are good signs. But her red blood cell count is only holding steady, and not yet increasing. Still, they're going to do another blood test later this afternoon, and if she's still holding steady, we'll be able to bring her home tonight. We'll have to get her blood checked in another 48 hours, and if she seems to go downhill while she's home, then back she goes, and we'll have to take a really hard look at what to do.

Also, because we clearly haven't spent enough on veterinary bills this weekend, our other dog (let's call her Lovable Mutt) required a visit to the vet for an infected wound. Lovable Mutt has been a good hound through all this, but she's a good hound all the time.

I really appreciate the comments all of you have left. Thanks.

Diva Dog Gravely Ill (Updated)

Hello all. I did leave the trail early as my partner's and my paces and goals weren't really matching up. I'm pretty pleased with what I did, and hiking felt so good. I'll write more about this later, but for the last couple of days we've been occupied with something rather more pressing -- trying to save Diva Dog's life.

Diva has a life-threatening case of autoimmune hemolytic anemia. Essentially, her immune system has kicked into overdrive and is gobbling up her red blood cells at an alarming rate. She hiked for parts of two days with me -- I think it added up to thirteen miles in two days. This is nothing she hasn't done before. But she became extremely lethargic and unwilling to eat or drink when we returned. If you've read my Diva posts, you know what a departure that is from the norm. Mr. T suspected off-trail depression, but ultimately I dragged her to the vet. It's a good thing I did. Blood tests revealed a red blood cell count of 12. Normal for dogs is in the mid-30's.

Our vet advised a blood transfusion to save her life, as well as treatment with immune-suppressing steroids, but warned that we could be looking at an inoperable cancer behind this anemia. We waited until 5 pm yesterday to get results from X-rays and more blood tests (and giving her IV fluids and a shot of steroids in the meantime). We had no intention of putting her through a transfusion if cancer was the culprit. But these tests indicated that cancer is unlikely. So we transferred her last night to Dove Lewis, a truly amazing nonprofit emergency animal hospital here in Portland.

The receiving vet at Dove Lewis talked with me about a number of risks of transfusion that I won't bore you with here -- let it just suffice to say that there is no magic treatment for this anemia. "I really just have to give you a very guarded prognosis right now," she told me over the phone last night. But about 3 a.m., she called and said it had gone well. In another twenty minutes, we'll call again.

So here's the kicker. The receiving vet, having agreed that the tests make cancer unlikely, suspects Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, a tick-borne disease she probably picked up on our PCT adventure. Yeesh. (Needless to say, today will be spent consulting our various people-doctors to determine whether we ought to be evaluated or treated preventively for this deal, as it seems at least likely that if Diva got tick-bit, we did too.)

So our Diva Dog is hanging on, at least for now. Please keep a happy thought for her.*



*And please. I don't know anyone who regularly comments on this blog who would say this, but just a warning -- I really don't want to hear any bellyaching about the resources expended to save a "mere" animal when there are so many other ills in the world. Any comments of this nature must be accompanied by a justification of every sum you've ever spent on a hobby or other pleasure in your life, or be deleted. Because even if you can't allocate independent worth to the animal, you have no right to discount her as a pleasure in my life.

UPDATE: We visited Diva at the animal hospital this afternoon. Unfortunately, her red cell count is back down to where it was before the first transfusion. She has a fantastic vet tech assigned to her who advised us that this was not necessarily terrible for a number of reasons. Still, we anticipate that she'll require another transfusion tonight. The diagnosis of tickborne disease was questioned by today's assigned vet, so we just don't know what the heck we're dealing with, or whether she'll make it. Still, she showed some energy when we arrived, and tried to follow us out of the building. We should know more tomorrow.

Emmy Thoughts '06

I can't let today pass without going into full-on Wasteland Fan mode. Today the Academy of Television Arts & Sciences announced the 2006 Emmy nominations. A list of the major nominees is here.

To avoid that same old, same old feeling that seems to plague the Emmy nomination process, the Academy changed the voting rules. In a nutshell, the original ballots went out to the Academy membership for nominations. From the returned ballots the Academy culled the group of highest vote-getters (15 for awards for performances, 10 for awards for shows) from which "blue ribbon panels" would choose the final 5 nominees. So, it would be possible this year for a nominee to have gotten the 15th most nominations from the membership. The hope was to recognize excellent and cutting-edge work happening beyond big and/or established hits on the major networks and HBO. (Not that there isn't some excellent and cutting-edge stuff on the networks and HBO, but even some of those shows and performances (for instance, the stars of Scrubs on NBC) are often overlooked because they're not ratings behemoths. The basic cable networks like USA, TNT, the SciFi Channel, and FX and the netlets like UPN and the WB were particularly hobbled by the Academy membership's apparent collective blindspot for anything not on ABC, NBC, CBS, or HBO. (One need only look to the appalling lack of recognition by the Academy for Buffy the Vampire Slayer -- probably the best written and acted and most satisfyingly realized television experience of the past decade . . . seriously! -- to illustrate the point.)

The prevailing wisdom was that critical darlings like Veronica Mars and its star Kristen Bell; Battlestar Galactica and several of its stars, including Mary McDonnell and Edward James Olmos; and Gilmore Girls and its stars Kelly Bishop and Lauren Graham would stand a better chance of making it through the nomination process and a few of them would show up as the ultimate nominees. For goodness sake, they called the rule change "the Lauren Graham Rule" because its accepted knowledge that she's been criminally overlooked by the Emmys for five straight years.

I've made no secret of my admiration of Lauren Graham. She's just flat out awesome. So, I'm far from "neutral" on the matter. But, Tom O'Neil of the LA Times said it best: "If [Lauren Graham] doesn't get nominated this year ... TV critics of America will torch the academy."

As well they should.

So today was put-up-or-shut-up time for the Academy. What happened? Well, some surprises found their way onto the nominations list. How about the craptastic Two and a Half Men and its star Charlie Sheen? Or the nominations for Stockard Channing on the DOA Out of Practice and Kevin James on the what?-that's-still-on King of Queens?

Of course, the Academy couldn't let old standbys Will & Grace, Malcolm in the Middle, and The West Wing go off the air without multiple undeserved nominations.

Furthermore, there were a number of snubs that don't fit the "overlooked" theme from above, but are perplexing nontheless. Whither my beloved Lost? And, while Desperate Housewives did basically blow big smelly chunks this year, Marcia Cross was amazing and deserved to be recognized. (While we're on the topic of the Housewives, what is up with the nomination for Alfre Woodard? I mean, I think she's a fine, fine actress. And there was probably no worse case of wasted talent in Hollywood this year. But, Betty Applewhite's story was so poorly conceived and so inconsistently written and played that I can't fathom what the Academy members or, especially, the blue ribbon panel could have possibly been thinking . . . or smoking.) Finally, did someone forget to submit the tape of Edie Falco as Carmela Soprano in the episode "Join the Club"? Because that had "winged statuette" written all over it.

I should end on a few positive notes. There is some justice: Jaime Pressly, who plays poor white trash whore-with-a-heart-of-gold-plated-iron Joy to utter perfection on My Name Is Earl, was nominated . . . and better win. I was also pleased to see that 24 raked in a number of nominations, especially for Jean Smart's portrayal of bad ass -- but this close to a nervous breakdown -- First Lady Martha Logan.

Oh, WTF, who am I trying to kid? I can't end on a positive note, becuase LAUREN GRAHAM WUZ ROBBED!!!

Pass Me The Pop Tarts Wouldja?

The problem with stocking up on high-energy backpacking food is that you eat it before you're actually backpacking, and this inevitably leads to, as Bill Bryson said of hiking partner Stephen Katz after an extended break in their hiking, "starting several score pancake breakfasts to the wrong side of square one."

This is why I probably should not have purchased that large bag of peanut butter stuffed pretzel nuggets at Costco last week -- or at least should not have opened it and propped it up next to my laptop.

Crunch. I just ate one. Yum.

But there's no way around it. Backpacking's hard no matter how lean you are, and I'm not entirely sure why I do it. No, that's ridiculous. Of course I know why I do it. Because even though it's hell, it starts to feel good after a bit. The ascents get easier with every day (even as I get grubbier) and then there's that whole being-out-in-nature thing, which is the whole point.

But it's also a compulsion to see what's around the corner. Just go around this one curve, and then stop. But maybe just one more. There's always something you can't see, just around the bend.

Crunch. Tomorrow's gonna hurt.

A Tale of Two Heads or, Wherein Your Blogger is Shorn Like a Poodle at Petco

Before:



After:


The hair's not lopsided. My head's cocked to one side, though you really can't tell from this. Anyway, the long shag had to go, especially for this hike. There are now two ten-inch ponytails winging their way to Locks of Love. I've been growing it for that purpose. I'll probably grow out the current buzz cut a bit more after I get back, but it serves my purpose for now.

Blech. Look at those ends. This is what I get for being too lazy to care.

Dear Abby, Backpacker

Dear Abby gave this backpacking letter writer the perfect advice. Let her carry it. Experience is the best teacher.

I'm washing sleeping bags and finishing up work today. TK awoke this morning with what I'm really, really hoping is not a summer cold. EJ's schedule is far less flexible than my own, so if I want a hiking partner (and I do, for a number of reasons that crystallized for me this week), the train leaves tomorrow. Stay tuned.

Two TK-isms

A new word: Bugbird. I bet you didn't know this is "a kind of bird that wants you to hold it."

Also, from tonight while doing some yard work: "Mommy, on Monday when I grow up, I'm going to buy a movie with eggs on it."

No, I have no idea. Except I suspect it may have something to do with the Easter episode of Dora The Explorer involving cascarones, or Easter eggs.

Disgruntled

I've really been enjoying the hundred-degree temperatures. But I just went out and was shocked by the chill. It's now only 65, with a forecast high of 81 for the day. Yes, I know all you lovers of moderate temperatures appreciate this sort of thing, but give me the damned heat back, please. I'm freezing my ass off.

Friday (Baby) Skunk Blogging on Tuesday

Because these guys are too cute to save for Friday.

National Parks

This is a welcome development, though I must say I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. To resort to great understatement, let us just say I am unaccustomed to receiving good news from the Bush Administration, and so I'm wary of kicking that football Lucy's holding. But we'll see.

While it's true that there are wonderful places outside the national park system -- the Cabinet Mountain Wilderness in Montana comes to mind, as does the Eagle Cap Wilderness in eastern Oregon -- I have a particular fondness for our national parks and the philosophy behind them, if not always their management. Mr. T and I have a goal, in fact, to visit every U.S. national park in our lifetimes.

What's your favorite U.S. national park(s)? Mine's Glacier, though Everglades and Olympic run closely behind. (And I say this with the caveat that, appallingly, I have not yet visited Hawaii's or Alaska's national parks.) Alas, Mr. T and I would be making a lot more progress on our national parks goal if we weren't so frequently drawn back to Glacier.

I bet I can guess some of our commenters' faves: Rose's is Joshua Tree, and cayo loco's is Dry Tortugas. Bloggerdad, being the contrarian he is, votes for Big Sur, which isn't a national park at all.

Knock, Knock

During the "Nothing But Noodles Dead Car Near Fiasco" Wasteland Kid could sense my tension. He tried reassuring me.

It's okay, Daddy. We'll find a way home.

I thanked him, but he could still sense that I was on edge. So, he tried humor. It worked; however, I'm not sure he even understood his own punch line. Our colloquy follows:

Wasteland Kid: Hey, Daddy, wanna hear a joke?
Wasteland Fan: Sure.
WK: Knock, knock.
WF: Who's there?
WK: Mr. F.
WF: Mr. F, who?
WK: Mr. F-you!

Coincidence?

I think every time I've ever been stranded by a malfunctioning automobile it's been within a week of having the car in the shop for an oil change or tune up. Coincidence? Or the mechanic's equivalent of planned obsolescence?

While we're on the subject, a big shout out to Rafael who works the kitchen at Nothing But Noodles in the Lockfield Commons on Indiana Ave. in Indianapolis and his lifesaving Ford F150's battery! Let's just say that today provided the positive connotation of the following phrase: "a burly Latino man with tatoos and a scar above his left eyebrow jumped me."

A Long Post About The Long Trail

In May, 1998, I backpacked for the first time.

I went with my sister-in-law (Grasshopper) and a friend of hers, Invisible Woman, to hike the Long Trail in Vermont. We were to start in Rutland, and hike to the Canadian border. I brought my golden retriever, Whiskey. Grasshopper brought her dog, Bailey. Bailey had wandered into my driveway the autumn before, a feisty black puppy wanting to play with Diva Dog. Her owners wanted to find her a new home. Grasshopper wanted a dog. It was a good match.

It was a drizzly late May afternoon when we arrived at a trailhead (almost capitalized that) off a highway outside Rutland. I hoisted the heavy pack I'd borrowed from Grasshopper, picked up Whiskey's green nylon leash, and stepped onto the trail.

It was late when we started, so we camped at a shelter a mile down the trail. It was cold, and despite his thick brown coat, Whiskey began to shiver. I dragged the tent fly out of my pack and covered him up, tucking and arranging until he was a big blue mound next to me. I burrowed back into my sleeping bag and scooted closer to the dog. I was firmly awake, flooded with the awareness that by sleeping in a three-sided shelter in the forest, I was abandoning myself to the many mysterious sounds out there. Come get me. I'm right here.

I awoke early. The tent fly was now shapeless and draped over the edge of the shelter. I looked around for my dog, my gaze landing at the fire ring. Whiskey lay there next to Bailey, his head turned up to the sky, sniffing the air. He was very happy.

We only made it five miles that day, and the last mile took us three hours. A series of massive storms had battered the area the previous fall and winter, and the trail was hopelessly lost amid the blowdown. Eventually it became completely impassable. Grasshopper had read that some blowdown was to be expected, but this was far more severe than anticipated. Whole trees had been uprooted and tossed like candy wrappers across the trail. Everywhere. And it was too early in the season for any trail maintenance to have been performed.

We stopped to consider the situation. We were deeply disappointed. Ultimately, we decided to head back to the shelter from the previous night. The decision made, I looked down and saw that Whiskey had fallen asleep. I attempted to rouse him, but he refused to get back up. I knew what he wanted. I took a Power Bar from my pack and fed him half. Five minutes later he hauled himself up and began wobbling back down the trail.

As we approached the shelter, we saw it was already occupied. Three hungry and enterprising college guys had purchased a pizza and beer in Rutland and packed it in, and they immediately offered us a share. Twenty minutes later another man arrived, bearing a heavy pack with tools attached to it here and there. He told us he was there to do trail maintenance. We laughed and told him what he had in store. In turn, he told us it he'd heard the trail was impassable all the way to the border.

The next day we stuck around, doing trail maintenance with our new friend, and tried to decide what to do. The inevitable conclusion was that our hiking plans were irretrievably botched. But Grasshopper and Invisible Woman, who had both done significant long-distance hiking, found the notion of turning back deeply unsettling. They were trained to keep moving steadily forward, never looking back, and certainly never going back. On the other hand, we had made a mile in three hours the day before. At that rate, we wouldn't reach the border till Christmas.

This was, in a word, a pisser.

A new plan was formed, involving trails in upstate New York and waiting another several days for another friend of Grasshopper's to join them. I was obliged to bow out of this, as the timing of the plan conflicted with one of my principal goals for the summer -- namely, getting admitted to the bar and not getting fired from the job I'd been hired to start in September.

So I went home. I attended bar review classes that summer, planted tomatoes in my new garden, and took (and passed) the two-day bar exam. Meanwhile, I had placed my hiking boots in the corner of our bedroom, and pondered them occasionally. I felt stymied by the aborted trip, and wanted to follow a trail. I'd had a taste of the wilderness, and I wanted to go back.

The "Real" Father's Day

A week has nearly passed since we celebrated Father's Day, the official holiday. This weekend, however, I'm getting down to the real business of fathering. Wasteland Spouse is on a much deserved and much needed weekend away. I have Wasteland Kid and Wasteland "Toddler" to myself this weekend.

I'll have fun. I enjoy spending time with them.

I will admit, though, that getting the three of us around by myself always takes about 325% longer than I anticipate it will. This morning WK was late to swimming lessons despite my effort to start getting us ready about an hour before we had to leave.

I haven't had to do much of the getting-us-ready-by-myself, because WS has been nursing W"T" for the past 16 months. (The final nursing occurred two nights ago, much more to mom's dismay than child's, apparently -- and understandably.) So, W"T" and WS have not spent much time apart from one another, which means that I haven't had many experiences getting the two kids ready to go anywhere by myself.

I want to be clear that this weekend will not "teach" me anything that I didn't already know. WS is amazing -- much better than I when she's gone -- at keeping life going when I'm gone. I have known and appreciated that all along. Furthermore, I'm an active parent. We share the load. So, this is not a situation in which dad makes an appearance for the weekend, only to retreat to parental obscurity on Monday afternoon when mom returns. Nevertheless, the reality of the last year -- when WS was on maternity leave from work and was nursing W"T" -- is that WS has spent more time with the kids than I have. In fact, she has not spent more than half a day away from W"T" for roughly the past 500 days. She deserves time away.

While this weekend won't be an "aha" moment for me, because I've known all along what a great mom WS is and how much work she does for us, what this weekend does for me is reinforce how much work it is to take care of the kids alone for a few days. Because of the situation this past year, WS has done that on a number of occasions.

This weekend makes me appreciate her all the more. And makes me feel more guilty when I leave, like I will for 10 days in October when I chaperone 60 twenty-year-olds on a trip to New Dehli. And makes me realize how important it is to give WS time away, like this weekend.

(And, if I were to let my selfish nature take over, it could make me less likely to help her plan that time away. So, I have to fight my selfish nature, just as she would for me.)

Thanks, WS. You're a great mom and partner. You deserve some time to yourself. We'll be thrilled when you get back, but we'll be hoping you have a good time while you're gone.

A New Blog

JLB from Arboreality has started a new blog. Brainripples will be a place for discussion of "writing, art and other pertinent topics."

Take a peek.

Evidence of a Relatively Easy Move to Negotiate

In post #2 hailing the triumph of the relocation of Trailheadquarters, it appears that flying between Portland and Indianapolis is a relative breeze when it comes to airport security.

Post hoc rationalization at it's best folks.

Now, the important question: Why do I feel the need to rationalize the TH move? Two reasons: (1) I'm just that kind of supportive friend and (2) I'm still smarting from my loss related to the TH move, so it helps to point out all of the good aspects.

Evidence of a Smart Move

Current Weather, 8 p.m. EST, June 21, 2006

Portland, Or: 71 degrees, sunny, 35% humidity

Southern Indiana: 88 degrees (weather.com tells me it "feels like 96" -- no joke!), hazy, 70% humidity

Never look back, TH. Never. Look. Back.

Wherein Trailhead Discloses a Whacky Summer Plan

Last October I was sitting at my kitchen table with Mr. T, his college roommate EJ, and EJ's wife, YJ. We were playing euchre, a card game with a central place in the lore of my marriage. In the middle of a trick, EJ put his cards down and spoke.

"I'm thinking I'll take a month off next summer and hike the Oregon section of the Pacific Crest Trail."

I froze, my hand suspended over the table and clutching some unlucky card, probably a 9. I looked at EJ. Things remained that way for what seemed like the length of one of Bill Clinton's speeches, but was really only a second or two. EJ smiled at me. Pavlov's bells were ringing.

I've long nurtured the dream of a long distance trail, but this circumstance or that always seemed to get in the way. Way back in the mid-90's, I started law school at the University of Florida during the January term. That meant I would graduate in December, while most legal employers take on newbies in September. I had been eyeing that tantalizing nine-month gap with a mind to taking a stab at the Appalachian Trail with Mr. T.

Then, for various reasons, I transferred to Duke University and got back on track for a May graduation. Instead, we squeezed in three weeks of backpacking after the bar exam, in the Adirondack mountains in New York and on Washington's Olympic peninsula. I started work at the firm on September 1, 1998, while Mr. T took off for two weeks to canoe alone in the Boundary Waters of Minnesota. He had been working extremely hard during my legal education, and had just moved from North Carolina to my home state of Indiana. He had that time in the Boundary Waters coming to him.

Most of you who know me -- and what I've been doing for the last four years -- know where this is going.

Without boring you with another three paragraphs, let us just say that between that time and now, there have been two other epic journeys I've plotted -- another AT thru-hike and a cross-country bike trip -- that have been scotched. (In one case for a very good reason -- the arrival of Trailhead Kid.)

And in the last four years, the tables have been turned. I've supported Mr. T through his second graduate degree, and a move across the country that I was reluctant to make for a variety of reasons and was very difficult for me. This move has turned out to be richly worthwhile, but it has also forced me to undertake some deep consideration of what I want to do with my career in the future.

And I also need a break. The China trip was part of that. But there's something else.

And so I sat on that autumn evening, 9 of diamonds dangling over the table, thinking. Since September, 2002, conjuring up journeys had taken on a challenging new element: how to do whatever thing without staying away from TK for too long. Kayak the Inside Passage? Nope. Trek around Annapurna? Nope. AT thru-hike? Ditto.

But a month on the Oregon section of the PCT -- now that had promise. If Mr. T hoarded his vacation, he could support us for a series of three or four day weekends, and I'd never go more than three or four days without seeing my family.

EJ, a sheriff's deputy here in Oregon, has secured thirty days off from busting meth dealers and other miscreants. My situation is less certain. I will definitely be hiking for the first ten days, then I will bop back into society to a) make certain Bloggerdad isn't underwater because of my absence and b) make sure all is well with my family. If either of those areas of my life require attention, I'll get off the trail.

For the first four days (which helpfully include the Fourth of July holiday weekend), Mr. T and TK will be supporting us, and meeting us each night via a road crossing. (There are many in the first part of southern Oregon.) If I decide to hike longer, Mr. T will take a spot of vacation time to make sure I don't go too long without seeing them.

EJ's ten-year-old daughter has signed on for the trip as well, and will accompany us for as long as she feels like it. Knowing this kid, it might be the whole way.

There are 498 miles of trail from the California border to Washington. So it's unlikely that even EJ, hiking for thirty days straight, will get it all done.

But for me, the point is just putting one foot in front of another for as long as I can.

I always hesitate to make these grand pronouncements to the world, because before you know it, you're David Blaine in a ball of water with your skin peeling off because, like an idiot, you told everyone you were going to stay in that ball for a week and then not breathe for nine minutes while you worked yourself out of a bunch of chains to escape it. And then you feel like a doofus because a bunch of divers had to bail your pruny ass out of the chains because you passed out.

And that crap never works for me. I always sprain an ankle or whatnot. So here's the most I can pronounce at this time. I'll be backpacking for the first ten days in July. I have no idea what I'll be doing for the rest of July, but we'll find out, won't we?

And Now For Some Cute

This is as cute as a barrel full of kittens.

Trash

This is from a tiny western town. At least it's a recycling pile.

In Light of the Day, Let's Talk Bloggerdad

It’s that time of year again. Most of you who participate in the comments here recognize Bloggerdad, who is, as you might astutely guess, my father. Since he’s always up early, he’s generally the first on the statcounter in the morning, having opened the place up and put on a pot of coffee and a couple of comments first thing.

Since it’s Father’s Day, I thought I’d tell you some of my favorite things about him.

1. He’s a political moderate. When he was in grade school in the 1940s, one of his teachers called my grandmother to school to express grave concern about the young Bloggerdad. Was it disruptive behavior? A tendency to chatter? Laziness? No. The conference was called on account of my father’s inclination toward particular political opinions. He was, in the teacher’s words, “a budding communist.” For what it’s worth, there are probably a few people around Indianapolis today who might still agree with that assessment.

2. He appreciates celebrity. In 1949, Clark Gable married his fourth wife, Lady Sylvia Ashley. Sometime thereafter, the pair visited Indianapolis (if I recall, while Gable was filming the 1950 film To Please a Lady), where the new Mrs. Gable was greeted by the catcalls of a randy teenaged, uh, budding communist.

3. He’s diplomatic. Like many other teenaged females, I used to get severe period cramps. They’d hit me like Ann Coulter on a 9/11 widow, torment me for a few hours, then go. When I got them at school on a day when my mother was out of town, I had to call Dad to come get me. When he arrived, the (male) school principal, who was apparently in the mood to pick a fight that morning, decided to hassle Dad about whether I really needed to go home or not. Dad leaned across the counter as if to beckon him closer, and said, “Lemme ask you something. When was the last time you had menstrual cramps?”

4. He can really turn a phrase. This is the guy who is responsible for my then five-year-old nephew calling his fellow kindergartners “shitbirds,” and who refers to certain kinds of tedious legal work as “picking rat shit out of a pepper barrel.”

5. He’s a careful driver. When I was a kid, Dad used to drive this big, gold, convertible Cadillac. One winter, he had planned to drive to Florida to visit his parents, but a snowstorm had turned I-65 southbound into a parking lot. Never one to be stymied by a little bit of snow and traffic, he pulled onto the shoulder and drove through the snowdrifts till he got to Kentucky.

6. He’s loyal. Dad bought his current house in 1980. On the wall in the entryway was wallpaper with a bicentennial theme (you know, from 1976?), which was replaced only about three years ago. On Christmas Day, 1999, my brother stood in the entryway with a thoughtful expression and observed, “Hey, Dad. Only another seventy-seven years till this wallpaper’s in style again.”

7. He’s decisive. But unlike George Bush, Dad can admit a mistake and reverse course – at least with respect to a Christmas tree. Only problem is, when he decides he doesn’t like the first Christmas tree and buys a second one, the first one sits in the driveway for almost a year.

But seriously. This is also the guy who saved a twelve-year old from the death penalty back in the 60s; who invited me to bring my newborn son to the office with me every day, and would sometimes hold TK with one hand and talk on the phone with another (remember that time he crapped on your shirt sleeve, Dad?); who makes a rad holiday stuffing and a wicked cranberry sauce; who took me to a Jimmy Carter campaign rally in Garfield Park in 1976 and to hear Geraldine Ferraro speak in 1984; whose relieved first impression of my now-husband was “I like him; he’s an employable beatnik”; and who got his three-year old grandson a harmonica.

You’re a good egg, Dad. Happy Father’s Day.

More China

My THI post of the farming village in South China has been updated with comments from one of our friends from that region (the gentleman I dubbed "Jacques" in my earlier China posts).

(Technorati) Search of the Day

"Barack Obama," from the U.S. Senate Sergeant at Arms. That landed our searcher on my post about Jon Tester.

At least it wasn't about vultures.

A Form RSVP: A Service to the THC Readers

Dear "Home Business" Sales Rep (a.k.a. someone I thought was my friend):

I recently received the invitation to your candle/make-up/scrapbooking/basket/jewelry/kitchen-utensil/storage-solution/craptastic-waste-of-my-time-and-money "party." Please accept my sincere apologies. I will be unable to attend. I'll be busy that evening filing down the calluses on my heels and cleaning the gunk out of the grill on the bottom of my refrigerator. As much as I would cherish the opportunity to (a) calculate how little I can buy from you and still maintain our relationship; (b) figure out what, among the useless shit you're selling, I can immediately throw out while doing the least damage to the environment; (c) fret over whether I should point out to you that you've miscalculated the sales tax; and (d) dodge your suggestions that I sign on as a rep "under you," the calluses and gunk really require my attention.

In fact, I'd like to propose a compromise. If you promise never to invite me to another of your "parties," I promise I won't ever send my kid to you begging you to buy second-rate, overpriced, PTA-sponsored candy in "decorative" aluminum "tins." Deal?

Very truly yours,

Perhaps Realizing She Will Never Have Confirmation Hearings to Worry About, Trailhead Comes Clean on a Pressing Matter

Kristy has queried in the pocket Constitution post below whether I have a favorite amendment, and suggested that this should be the test by which we ascribe hopeless dorkitude. I've no doubt she did so with an expectation that such a thing would be so bizarre, so unutterably ridiculous, that it couldn't possibly be so. But I live to disappoint those with any sort of hope in the essential rationality of my character, and so we shall proceed.

The good news is that this is a matter of some struggle for me; I have no clear favorite. I like the Ninth simply for providing the foundation for Justice William Douglas' clearly fuckit-esque pronouncement that its "penumbra" allows us any number of rights, including the use of birth control. It's difficult not to like an amendment that inspired the introduction of a word like "penumbra" into our constitutional discourse. Hehheheheheheh, you said penumbra.

But as you can imagine, I'm somewhat fond of the nineteenth, as well as the post-Civil War amendments. Without all of those amendments, this country would have fulfilled not even a whisper of its true promise. As it stands, I'm not sure we've achieved much more than a soft but conversational tone.

So cough it up. What's your favorite amendment (and justice, if you have one) and why?

(T Bro, I already know yours.)

Mid-June Wildlife Report

Hey, not too bad:

1 6-point whitetail buck
1 coyote
1 mama robin
2 ground squirrels
1 loon
1 osprey
a billion tadpoles
2 salamanders

TK liked the tadpoles the best, having entirely missed the salamanders.

Trout and Strawberries

We dragged the canoe up to Frog Lake this weekend so Mr. T could go fishing, and so I could paddle him around the lake while he did so. Frog Lake is a pleasant lake lined with evergreens and situated in the shadow of Mt. Hood. We arrived Saturday afternoon, set up the tent and immediately put in.

Approximately three seconds after shoving the canoe into the water, Trailhead Kid piped up. "Didja catch a fish yet, Daddy?" Mr. T began to assemble his tackle. "Not yet," he chuckled. I paddled further into the lake, skirting the shore, and Mr. T threw his first cast.

"Didja catch a fish yet, Daddy?" Mr. T turned and gave me The Look. "Not yet," he replied again. "Why?" TK demanded.

A man fishing on the shore began to laugh. "Tough crowd in this boat," I observed, paddling into deeper water.

"Didja catch a fish yet, Daddy?" Mr. T, a man of ample patience, decided to take the sarcastic route. "Yeah. Didn't you see it?" This did not flummox TK in the least. He giggled and asked the question again.

At length, there was a hit on the line, and a lake trout duly hauled in, dispatched and placed on the stringer. (Yes, I do feel guilty. More on that topic later.) He only caught one on Saturday, but on Sunday morning he caught his limit (five) in about ninety minutes.

This allowed us to break down camp early, and head to Albeke Farms in Oregon City to pick strawberries. Is there any more lovely a scent than a fully ripe strawberry field on a hot day? I think not. We picked nine pounds of strawberries, and went home. (It sounds like a lot, but not really.) Last night I made a strawberry pie, and today I'll whip up some strawberry ice cream. We're also eating them raw. The boxes are stationed at a central location in my kitchen, convenient for grabbing while walking by.

June is good.

What I'd Rather Not Hear From The Next Campsite Over

"Cujo! Come!"

Reason #536 that I prefer the backcountry.

A Question (or two), Upon Reorganizing My Office

How many pocket-sized U.S. Constitutions can one have without being a hopeless dork?

Are there allowances for being a lawyer, or does that just make it worse?

Only Two Months Later

So I finally got off my lazy ass and processed and posted a few pics of a South China farming village over at THI. After you've taken in all the skunkly cuteness you can handle and want to switch gears completely, go look. I'll probably post some more here later on.

Friday Skunk Blogging

Full Moon's ex-husband, J, has a professional background in wildlife and plant biology (and ecology and conservation matters in general, really). By some sort of radar, the orphaned babies always seem to find him. A few years ago it was baby opossums, and a year or so ago he rescued a baby squirrel, which he still sees from time to time, I understand. This year it's these guys, whose mama was killed on a busy road near J's workplace.

Fortunately, he lives on a farm north of Indianapolis, a place well suited to these types of activities. According to J, they trust him, and he has not gotten sprayed. Their eyesight is poor, so the right approach is essential. But in any event, their scent glands are not yet fully developed.

Don't stare at them too long, or the cuteness might burn your eyes.

Blogger Back on its Meds

Like Trailhead Kid, Blogger was uncooperative all day yesterday. Not only was I unable to post, but there are comments that still aren't being represented in the front page numbers. As you can imagine, I am starting to suspect that Kristy's feelings toward Blogger may be spot on. Which is funny, really, because I went a good six months on Blogger with nary a problem. But the last few weeks have been a nearly constant trial. On the other hand, you get what you pay for.

I've been nurturing embryonic thoughts about knocking this place down to the studs and doing a bit of renovation. But that would require me to learn some blog design skills, and summer is not the season for that. And I'm not interested in paying someone for what is clearly just a vanity project. It's far more likely that I'll do a little tinkering on the existing Blogger template, and then make more extensive changes once the winter winds have confined me to the fireside.

Dance of the Soda Fizz (UPDATED)

This is nuts!

Do yourself a favor and view it.

(Alert: It's work safe, unless your employer is a fun-squashing ogre with no imagination. There is music though.)

UPDATE

YouTube saves the day. No need to click through to the link!



UPDATE II:

The nuts have been interviewed on NPR. (Note to TH: They wasted no Diet Coke in practice.)

Clearly TH Knoweth Not Who She Mocks!

Watch out TH!

Looks like payback could be a bitch.

You might get leg pressed into oblivion.

I'd start preparing for the confrontation with diet and exercise.

I Heart Jon Tester

I had my fingers crossed, and it happened. Jon Tester won in Montana's Democratic primary today. In the fall he'll face Conrad Burns in the 2006 race for one of Montana's U.S. Senate seats. I had noticed a number of Tester yard signs in our fair corner of northwest Montana during my visit this weekend (though Morrison did win the county), and was eager to hear the results of the primary.

Jon Tester is a farmer from Big Sandy, Montana, and his victory pokes a finger in the eye of the Democrat establishment. And let's face it, the Democratic leadership needs a few fingers right now, if you know what I mean.

Of course, it may only be a matter of time before the putative Senator Tester becomes establishment himself (see Obama, Barack), but for now I shall rejoice.

The South Asian Vomitorium, Briefly Revisited

The wifely half of the couple that lives down the road from the house in Montana is a physician specializing in internal medicine. I described to her my encounter with foodborne illness in great detail (as I do to anyone who will listen, and some who only pretend to.) She advised me that, because of the rapidity with which I became ill, my illness was likely the result of consuming "preformed toxins." My understanding is that this means, in laymen's terms, that I ate something that had been sitting around long enough to form said toxins. I believe this bolsters my suspicion that it was the buttery lobster sauce. Because let's face it -- the seafood was nothing if not fresh.

Anyway, I have a keen but vulgar interest in these things, so I listened carefully to this lecture. If I could only isolate some long and exotic name of the offending microbes, I would be thrilled.


I've been waiting for a chance to use this picture.

Amen To That

From a print on my father-in-law’s wall in the Montana house:

“Well sir
this past year in the Rocky Mountains
has been of a customary nature
the Bonnacks stole my traps
met a grizzly that took half my ear
The Blackfeet shot my horse
Went thro the ice on the Gallatin
The Blackfeet stole my cache of beaver
Lost my mules to the
current on Henry’s Fork
The Crow took to
give me a musket ball in the thigh
broke thro a limestone crust and
boiled my horse in Yillowstone
and beavers gettin scarce


But thank God I’m not in St. Louis.”

The Last Best Place

Well here I sit at the Libby Cafe. This establishment has earned my affection for its good coffee and free wireless internet. I have not yet received my food, but if its as good as the aforementioned coffee and internet, this will no doubt become a favorite hangout.

It's raining today. We're going to spend the morning doing those minor chores required when you arrive at a house that has just spent a long cold Montana winter unattended. Then I'm going to go photograph the wildflowers on the mountain.

Over The River and Through the Woods

Well, we're off to Montana this morning, our Memorial Day trip having not worked out for various reasons. Posting may be light. It used to be that internet access in this tiny northwestern Montana town was hard to come by indeed -- we would have to go to the library and beg for a visitor password for fifteen minutes of internet access. Or, in the summer when the house phone is on, we'd have to plug the laptop into the phone jack and pay a jillion dollars in long distance fees for access of the most glacial speeds imaginable. But with the increased prevalence of wireless internet, those days are thankfully over. I'll head down to the cafe in town on Monday with my laptop and check e-mail. Now if I could just get cell phone reception, I'd be set.

On the other hand, it was nice to be able to get away and be utterly unconnected. Fortunately, the house itself remains securely apart from the larger world, both electronically and geographically.

There is much to look forward to on this trip. Our neighbors down the road have a three-week old foal. We've been crossing our fingers since last summer for this to work out -- the mama lost one pregnancy already, the year before. TK is beside himself wanting to see the "baby horse." Plus, I always enjoy when the neighborhood dogs trot up the road to visit. The goofy, year-old Newfoundland is a little too big for TK, but I love him.

Well, every second I sit here jawing away at you all is one second I'm not on the road. I'll probably be around periodically until we get back Tuesday night.

I must go breathe the evergreen air now. I'm afraid it's been too long.

An Rare, Offhand Thought About Celebrity

When is everyone going to stop pretending that Angelina Jolie got the better deal? Vince Vaughn is hot, full stop.

To each her own, I suppose.

Why Chromosome

We have entered the Why Phase.

Real conversation last night in the car:

Trailhead Kid: Mommy, I can't see in the car.

Me: I know. It's dark.

Trailhead Kid: Why is it dark?

Me: Because it's nighttime.

Trailhead Kid: Why is it nighttime?

Mr. T: Why do you ask "why" all the time?

Trailhead Kid: Turn on the light so I can see.

Me: We can't. You're not supposed to drive at night with the light on in your car.

Trailhead Kid: Why?

Me: Because the driver can't see the road with the light on in the car.

Trailhead Kid: Why?


And so it goes, with everything. I wonder why.

Seven Minutes

Keith Olbermann is something of an oddity in the mainstream media that's otherwise populated with the fawning, obsequieous power whores who, recently, have had nothing better to do than sniff the Clintons' underwear (I know, guys, there's not much else going on in the world right now), and the pugnacious right-wing blowhards like Limbaugh and O'Reilly.

Olbermann had apparently had enough of O'Reilly's fact-free schtick the other night, and brought O'Reilly's perfidy to the attention of his audience. Crisply. And it's a good thing, too, because the depth of O'Reilly's vileness in the piece is astounding. It's clear to me that, like the Bush administration, concrete and your average housefly, Bill O'Reilly is entirely incapable of learning.

If you've ever despaired for the state of the "liberal" media in this country, these seven minutes are like a tonic. It's sublime. How could it not be, with its use of the phrase "Sisyphus of morons?" Go watch.

Six? Only Six?

So Kristy has tagged me with a meme that involves me coughing up six strange facts about myself. Hmmm. Part of me is tempted to kick this over to the commenters who know me and see how they do. But who am I kidding? Y'all are gonna chime in anyway.

1. I have a freakish memory. I can remember in minute detail conversations and events that took place years ago, and they play themselves in my mind like video. I can remember where they took place, what people were wearing, what was said. This drives people crazy, especially my husband, who feels himself at a distinct disadvantage in this respect. It does tend to come in handy in my legal career though.

2. I can rotate my arms almost 360 degrees. Most people find this disgusting. So of course it's fun to do it as often as possible.

3. Something about me, and I have not figured out what it is yet, encourages people of sometimes very short acquaintance to spill their guts to me. I don't know what makes people share with me some of their most intimate secrets, but it happens. My boss at the firm got me a button that said, "Do I look like Dear Abby to you?" I suspect he was just tired of coming into my office to find me counseling other attorneys instead of working.

4. I rarely burp. I try, but just can't make it happen. About once every six months or so a tiny one will pop out and it will be a big event for me. "Hey! I burped!" I'll say. "Congratulations," Mr. T will say in a dry tone.

5. I love the smell of wine, but not the taste. I know, that's a little weak, but I'm starting to realize I'm rather boring, and not all that strange.

6. I used to own a hedgehog named Oscar. I know, that's really reaching for strange, isn't it?

A Stitch in Time Saves Nine

That may be an overly generous reading of the dimensions, I don't know. Ahem.

Maybe it's just me, but I'm thinking that if my husband went so far as to cut off his own penis to prove he was faithful, I'd be pretty sure he was lying. You know, protesting too much and all that. But maybe that's an unfairly cynical point of view.

No Moss Gathered Here

Fluff Post to Relieve You From Being Assaulted by Nose Hairs Until I Come Up With Something Better

Good grief, I apologize for leaving that dreadful nose hair post up top for the entire long weekend. I'm in that fevered netherworld of "must get project done" where few other thoughts are allowed to intrude upon my overtaxed brain. As soon as this work is finished and I'm back to navel gazing, I shall regale you with stories of that most petty cruelty, the intractably rainy Memorial Day weekend.

Trailhead Keeps Her Day Job

The scene:

Borders. Our regular babysitter had come over to take charge of TK, and we are spending the evening kicking around, kid-free. Bladerunner (God, he really needs a new name. I think I'll start calling him Mr. T.) had just picked up Salt: A World History.

Me: Who thought to write a book about salt? Why couldn't I think of that?

Him: You could think of something. What about coffee?

Me: Been done. Several times. Maybe nose hairs.

Him: See? There you go. Nose hairs and...how they've shaped history.

Me: The nose hairs of the presidents. Presidential nose hairs.

Him: That's it.

Friday Cat Blogging

Trailhead Brother was in Key West last week and has kindly provided fodder for Friday Cat Blogging -- a rare event since I don't have a cat.

This guy was busy:









Must be nice to hang around the Hemingway House all day chasing lizards up trees.

In the Lost Afterglow

The Lost finale, predictably, kicked ass.

Can I get an amen, Fullmoon?

Lots of questions answered (or at least addressed). More questions raised.

Just when you think the show can't throw any more random weirdness at you, Sayid, Jin, and Sun spot the remains of a giant statue off coast of the island: a four-toed foot.

Random asides:

• Zeke/Mr. Friendly is really named "Tom."
• Not-Henry Gale says they "got more than they bargained for" with Walt.
• Are Locke and Eko dead?
• So, do you really think Desmond "caused" Flight 815 to crash by pushing the button too slowly?
• How funny was it when Sawyer learned that "caught in a net" was not a euphemism for steamy jungle sex?
  
  Oh, the agony of the off-season!!!!!

And There It Is

I prowl around a lot in the political blogosphere, but I'm rarely an active participant, as I usually don't have anything to say that hasn't already been said by five hundred other commenters. But as you well know, while I will offer up political tidbits on this blog from time to time, I generally prefer to blog about slugs and vultures and other frivolous stuff.

But, my three readers, if you don't read anything else from a political blog today, read this. Especially if you're white and inclined to think that you're put upon by all those whiny minorities. (I don't know anyone like that who reads this site, but whatever.)

(Isn't it funny, me linking to the Daily Kos? Kinda like squirting water from an eye dropper into the ocean. Heh.)

Diva Suffers a Crisis in Dogly Confidence, or Why I'm Tired Today

I've written before about the ball of canine assholitude that is Diva Dog. Consistent with her other annoying habits, Diva will occasionally awake from a dead sleep at, say, 2:30 a.m., and run at an imaginary something, barking the entire time. I know this because Diva sleeps under my bed. So I can hear her.

Ordinarily, this sort of thing can be cured by flinging a pillow at her and asking her to kindly shut the hell up. Then she wakes up and realizes she is charging not the cat or squirrel of her dreams, but rather our other dog, who is so used to this drill that she now sleeps through it entirely. Whereupon Diva slinks back under the bed, plops down and immediately falls back to sleep.

Except last night. Shortly after midnight, there abruptly arose such a din of houndly screeching that we both sat upright in bed (just like they do on TV when someone wakes up from a bad dream, sweating and breathing hard, even though most people never really do that).

The pillow was duly hurled, and the order to cease and desist issued, but to no avail. From the fog of sleep, we vaguely discerned that she was attacking the sliding glass door that goes out onto our deck from our second-story bedroom. And she was attacking it good. She was beating the crap out of that door.

Once we got up and flipped on the outside light, the source of her angst was revealed -- two fat raccoons peering inquisitively into our bedroom. (Perverts.) Our guests sat there the entire time, completely unfazed by Diva's howling, other than sporting the most grievously offended expressions on their faces, as if to say, "Jeez, who pissed in her bathwater?"

It took both of us to physically pry Diva off the door. I held her while my sleep-addled husband cracked the door and asked the raccoons to please get the fuck off our deck. His voice through the cracked door succeeded where Diva's hissy fit failed, and the visitors scampered hastily down the stairs.

Still, Diva barked and writhed and, when she realized I wasn't going to release her, emitted a kind of grieved, high-pitched whine. She wanted those raccoons so badly. She'd encountered an opponent she was unable to intimidate, and this was intolerable. That the raccoons had maintained an almost Zen-like calm in the face of her assault seems to have unsettled her deeply.

I think she's still a little depressed about it today:

A Call for Armchair Miss Manners-ing: Overstaying Your Welcome

TH has assured me that I'm not overstaying my welcome here at Trailheadcase. She has the green light to kick me out anytime, though, and she knows it.

Nevertheless, I do have a serious question about overstaying one's welcome or, more generally, about when to draw the line on taking advantage of the goodwill of friends or family.

Say you have to travel to a city where you have friends or family. For whatever reason, you can't expense your lodging on this trip (i.e., you don't have an expense account at your job, it's not a job-related trip, or the expense account won't cover this particular trip).

How long of a visit is too long to ask your friends/family if you can stay with them? Or, is it bad form to ask to stay at all (even for one night)? Does the rule vary depending on friend vs. family? Does the size of the dwelling of the friends/family make a difference? Is weekend vs. weekday relevant?

Let's limit "family" for the purpose of this discussion to siblings and aunts/uncles/cousins with whom you keep in touch on a regular basis. (I'm assuming it's a breach of etiquette to call up long-lost Great Aunt Beulah in San Diego to ask if you can bunk at her seaside condo for a week-long vacation.)

Summon your best Judith Martin impersonation and let me know your thoughts. If you can fashion a good rule of thumb, all the better. After some time for discussion in the comments, I'll update the post with my thoughts on the question.

Idiocy of the Day

Here's a fun quote from North Carolina State Rep. Drew Saunders (D-ugh), spat forth in the process of making the argument that a $200 reporting requirement for gifts from non-family members was too low:

"Even Baby Jesus accepted gifts, and I don't believe it corrupted him."

True. And heck, if gifts didn't corrupt a depraved reprobate like the Christ child, then surely politicians can stay above the fray. Yeah.

Via Think Progress.

Blogger Ate the Lost Post

I wrote a post about Lost yesterday picking up on Fullmoon's prompt. When I went to post it . . . *poof* . . . it disappeared. Blogger consumed it.

It would be too much effort to recreate it. So, here's the highlights:

1. Fullmoon was wrong. The season finale isn't until next week. I'm not rubbing her nose in her error, but rather celebrating with her that we get two more hours of Lost-tastic TV.
2. If you're not watching Lost, you should be. You too, TH.
3. Join Netflix and watch the first season this summer. The second season comes out October 3, so you'll probably have to tape or Tivo (oh, if only I had Tivo!) the first few episodes of season 3. It's worth the investment.
4. If you are watching Lost, I'm interested in your theories. Who are the Others? Is Henry Gale their leader? Why does Walt say, "They're not who they pretend to be"? What's in the boat? What happens when the Losties don't enter the numbers? Why did Flight 815 crash in the first place? And what's the monster/black cloud of smoke?
5. If you really want to waste a lot of time, the Lost producers have launched an interactive computer-based game called "The Lost Experience." The game also has a tie-in with "The Bad Twin," Hyperion Books's Lost-inspired novel, which was "written by" one of the folks on Flight 815. The game is a black hole of time, so I don't recommend it. But, if you must, visit the Hanso Foundation's website, call the Hanso Foundation's toll-free number (1-877-426-7674 or 1-877-HANSORG). It's been going on for a few weeks, so this site will allow you to catch up.

Why Didn't God Warn Us About Pat Robertson?

So Pat Robertson can read. Specifically, he was able to read all those articles that came out in the wake of the Asian tsunami observing that the coastal northwest is also particularly vulnerable to tsunamis.

Oh, I'm sorry. God told him, you say? So it's not a matter of common scientific knowledge coupled with, say, a November election?

"If I heard the Lord right about 2006, the coasts of America will be lashed by storms," Robertson said May 8. On Wednesday, he added, "There well may be something as bad as a tsunami in the Pacific Northwest."

If he heard the Lord right. Which I don't think he did, because I'm pretty sure the Lord really told him to stop being such a fucking tool. Maybe it's just me, but I think the Lord can do a little bit better than telling us our coast is going to be lashed by storms...at the beginning of hurricane season. Thank you, Captain Obvious.

And of course, let's not forget that there "may well be something as bad as a tsunami." Or not, but considering that tsunamis occur here about every 300-500 years, and the last one was in 1700, maybe God thought it would be a safe bet to warn us.

What pisses me off more than anything is that there are people being manipulated by that old asshole.

Ode to Huckleberries

I cracked open the last bag of frozen huckleberries this weekend, when my mom was here.

Every year when we go to Montana we get them. Sometimes my father-in-law goes up to the Ross Creek area and spends hours and hours picking the tiny, sweet purple spheres. Sometimes we buy them from another enterprising soul who has done the picking for us. But we always get scads of them, and we always are careful to freeze several ziplocs full of them. That way, when we go to the house over New Year's, there are plenty for pancakes, waffles and muffins.

During the summer of 2003, the whole state was so arid it was pretty much all up in flames when we got there in July. Huckleberries were AWOL. We searched and searched and could only find a few pathetic, withered specimens on the vines. Back at the house I scoured the deep freeze for anything remaining from the winter, but found only a couple of frozen trout, and no berries.

And yet, that weekend my father-in-law managed to bake a huckleberry pie, and scare up a full pound for me on top of that, and I still don't know where he got them. He's cagey that way.

This weekend was sufficiently close to huckleberry season that I felt it was safe to stop hoarding my stash and indulge. Since my mom was here, I decided to make the huckleberry lemonade I have spent many summers perfecting.

It goes something like this:

Take a quart-sized ziploc of hucks and let them defrost. Meanwhile, slice up 6-8 big lemons about a quarter inch thick. Get a big bowl. Line the bottom with lemon slices. Sprinkle enough sugar on them to coat. Add another layer of lemons and sugar, and so on until you've used up all your lemons. Get about 4-6 cups of boiling water -- or really however much covers the lemons by a couple inches -- and pour over the slices. Wait a few minutes, and then get a potato masher and start smushing. When you get tired of doing that, let the whole mess sit for awhile and go do something else. Actually, this is a good time to make some simple syrup. Put about 2 cups of water in the microwave and nuke it till it's just boiling. Then dump about a cup of sugar in there. Stir till it dissolves, and stick it in the frig.

Now go back to your lemon mixture. Drain it all, preferably through a colander or some cheesecloth or something, into a pitcher. Go back to your defrosted bag of hucks. There should be a lot of huckleberry juice. Pour off all the huck juice into the lemonade, and stick it into the frig with the simple syrup. Save a couple of the thicker lemon slices to put on the glasses. When everything's chilled a bit, fill glasses with ice and throw about a tablespoon of whole hucks in each glass. Then fill the glass half full with the now purple-ish lemonade. Add simple syrup to taste.

Labor intensive, yes. But fun and tasteeeeee. Tonight I made iced tea. Same process, except I used loose tea instead of lemons. Yum. Tomorrow will be muffins.

Fortunately, Oregon is almost as huck-crazy as Montana. But Montana's obsessed with those little purple balls. If Bubba from Forrest Gump had been from Montana instead of Louisiana, he wouldn't have been babbling about shrimp, it would have been huckleberries. "Huckleberry coffee, huckleberry waffles, huckleberry shakes, huckleberry jam, huckleberry butter..."

All hail the huckleberry.

A Storm By Any Other Name

Typhoon Chanchu slammed into south coastal China Wednesday. It appears the worst of it was slightly north of where we were, but the woman in the photograph on the CNN page getting soaked by a wave is in Zhuhai, where we ate lunch early in the week. It appeared for awhile that the typhoon would hit Hong Kong, but ultimately veered eastward. Later we'll e-mail O (who lives in Shanghai, thank goodness) to see how our south China friends are faring.

Quirky States

After babysitting the blog in her absence, Trailhead offered to allow me to continue posting here from time to time. I thought that was generous and will take advantage of the invitation . . . at least until the regular commenters here form a posse and run me off with pitchforks and torches.

At one time, Trailhead and I toyed with the idea of starting a joint blog, but we both got busy with other stuff and it never materialized. (Mostly it was me dropping the now defunct Postcards from the Vast Wasteland, which Trailhead so kindly kept in the Trailheadcase blogroll to the right of your screen even after I stopped posting.) We had a lot of fun trying to come up with names for the joint venture. My favorite, which was sensibly vetoed for reasons of taste (as it would have been much too likely to attract the dregs of the Google-searching side show freaks) was "Hoosier Beaver?" (A hat tip to Bladerunner on that one, by the way.) I'm a native and current Hoosier. Trailhead is an Oregonian Beaver. Thus, a lovely double entedre is born from our state nicknames. Nevertheless, Trailhead and I reigned in the inner seventh graders that so often emerge when we get together and decided to seek a different name for the joint blog.

We actually did settle on a name, but I won't tell what it is in case we ever decide to revisit the idea. It was a sweet, sweet name. (Okay, I'm overselling, but you'll never really know how much I'm overselling unless we actually decide to revive the joint blog idea in a different venue from here and, by then, you'll have forgotten all about my puffery. Ha!)

At any rate, the whole "Hoosier Beaver?" -- admit it, there's a certain ring to that, isn't there? -- story ties into the real subject of this post. Trailhead and I live in a couple of quirky states. This year, the state of Indiana threw in the metaphorical towel and joined most of the rest of the country on Daylight Savings time. (As a scatological aside, I'd steer clear of that metaphorical towel if you run across it, because one gets the sense that more than a few Hoosier legislators -- wait for it; here it comes -- blew their political wads in that thing. Oooh, that's so dirty!!) Now, there was no end to the upheaval this switch caused. The state is now split among Eastern and Central time zones and at least one county has officially unofficially refused to make the change.

We Hoosiers have a bit of an ownership issue with time. If you've ever been around a Hoosier when he or she is out of state, you've probably heard the whole "our time or their time?" conversation, as in "Does the store close at 8 p.m. our time or their time?" or "Let's meet for lunch at noon our time." My parents, who own a modest cabin in Ludington Michigan at the confluence of the Big Sauble River/Hamlin Lake and Lake Michigan, used to refuse to recognize "Michigan time" when they visited their little summer hideout. I honestly think they feel the sting of loss now that they no longer can play the "our time/their time" game.

As a result, the spring has been rough for Hoosiers with this whole "spring forward" thing. I can only imagine the havoc "fall back" will wreak. Give us a break; it's actually lovable little quirk, don't you think?

Now, as for Oregon, I spent a few days there last month and I learned about a Beaver state quirk the hard way. The first couple of days I spent in Portland at the very nice and hip Hotel Lucia attending a professional meeting. After the meeting ended, I rented a car so that I could tour the Columbia River Gorge one day and drive the opposite direction to the coast the next. After my romp to the coast, I made a quick detour to Trailheadquarters to say hello to TH, Bladerunner, TK, and (because TH and Bladerunner had just returned from their trip to China) TK's paternal grandmother. We had a delightful dinner and great conversation -- a real feat for people who'd just flown around the world for a day and a half. Following that, I headed to the airport to return my rental car and catch my red-eye flight back to Indiana. At the very last exit before the airport, I pulled off to fill up the rental's tank. At the Shell station I got out of the car, swiped my credit card in the pay-at-the-pump reader, and proceeded to pump the gas into the car. No sooner had I topped off the tank, than I was accosted by a burly woman with an ill-advised, bottle-blonde perm yelling at me for violating Oregon state law.

"Did you know that it's illegal to pump your own gas in the state of Oregon?" grumbled the bushy-haired linebacker wannabe.

"No," I responded meekly while thinking, Please don't put me in a head lock!

With a menacing step forward, the would-be pumper of my gas -- and, presumably, hundreds of pounds of iron -- narrowed her eyes and furrowed her brow. "Well, it is," she snarled.

"Oh," I whimpered, looking around for something that could have forewarned me against my transgression. "I guess I didn't see the sign."

"No signs. It's illegal everywhere in the state," she growled. "How're you gonna pay for it now?"

"Um, I think I already did," I said and raised a visibly shaking finger to point at the pay-at-the-pump device.

She snatched the receipt from the device and thrust it at me. "Don't let it happen again!"

At that point, something in me clicked. WTF, I thought. You mean it's literally against the law for me to pump my own effing gas in this state?!?! So that knuckle-draggers like this have make-work employment?!?!

So, I did what any self-respecting two hundred and [cough-cough] pound man would do in that situation: I quickly crawled into my car and muttered under my breath, "Don't worry. I won't be coming back to your gas station any time soon." Then I glanced over my shoulder to make sure that the tell-tale flashing lights of the Oregon State Police weren't approaching to haul me off to self-pumper's prison. (Wow, another dirty little double entendre!! Or perhaps there is such a Vatican-sponsored establishment.)

It turns out that in Oregon you may not pump your own gas. This has been the law since 1951 and is justified on a number of grounds, including safety and environmental concerns (it seems that "inexperienced pumpers" tend to pollute the ground and water and expose the highly-flammable gas to fire hazards more frequently than the trained, professional pumpers, like my muscle-bound nemesis at the Portland Shell station); job creation (keeping Xena, warrior pumper, off the streets is probably a net positive); and ADA compliance (more seriously, it seems that Oregon does a much better job than most of the rest of the states of accommodating the disabled by providing full service at gas stations for no additional costs). And, Oregon is not alone. New Jersey also has a no-self-service law as well.

Whoduhthunkit?

I'm just glad I got out of that Shell-station-stand-off with all my body parts intact. And, for those Trailheadcase readers who are not from Oregon, but who may one day visit, as they say on NBC, "the more you know . . . ."

And a Chip Falls Off the Old Block

Trailhead Kid has discovered my camera gear.

I was photographing some fairy slipper orchids a few weeks ago in the Gorge when it seemed to hit him that Mommy was playing with some very interesting equipment. He insisted on looking through the viewfinder, but mostly I was able to distract him by giving him free rein with the digital point and shoot. Of course, now this means he wants to take pictures all the time. All. The. Time.

But here's the thing. He's actually not too bad for a three-year old. So I thought I'd give him a little blogxhibit.


He calls this one "Mom taking picture of the sunset on Cannon Beach."


"Emerging shoe fetish."


Critics everywhere are amazed at Trailhead Kid's ability to offer a fresh perspective to the standard bird-in-flight image, by eliminating any point of reference whatsoever.


Okay, so his composition skills need work. Wanna make somethin of it?

A Smooth Segue With the Squid

This is the squid kite we purchased mere steps from the Shanghai Museum. In my last post, I omitted to mention that the last negotiation had been a little trickier than usual. Once the sale price was agreed upon, the vendor made a great show of acting as though he had been negotiating for the kite alone, and that the actual string would be extra.

Cue second heart attack.

Which of course produced the desired string, though I'm not sure we were any better off for it. The Oregon coast winds broke the reel, and very nearly the string. So we're going to buy a new reel and string here. But we love the squid. The eyes on that thing just crack me up.

The Last Bits of Shanghai

It was Saturday afternoon, and I was ready to go.

It's funny. Nothing had felt right since the Tuesday puke-fest. Purple Mountain in Nanjing was a peaceful, cool interlude, but it's also the only post-Tuesday memory I have of the whole journey that has retained much clarity.

We strolled around the Shanghai Museum for a couple of hours, and saw this:



This is, believe it or not, made by northern ethnic Chinese entirely of salmon skin.

Before we went to the museum, we had taken lunch at an Indian restaurant called Tandoor. Earlier in the trip, O had expressed his disgust at Indian food, particularly the curry involved. But once he realized we liked it, he insisted that we go there for lunch. He was in Shanghai every day, he said, and could eat his favorite foods anytime.

I have to admit, the aroma when I walked into Tandoor aroused my appetite more than anything had in the past four days. There was plenty of naan, and we shared shrimp masala and shrimp biryani, and I ate. I ate! Yippee! Gone, for awhile, was the constant feeling of faintness I'd been carrying around with me -- chased away by the heartiness of naan and a good biryani. I even had a taste of saffron ice cream after lunch:



We also spent some time at the market, where I discovered that bargaining animates my otherwise extremely mellow husband. It's odd, really, like watching someone morph from Droopy to the Road Runner. The routine is fixed: He asks the price, then no matter what it is, he has a sort of fake heart attack, complete with a little screech and a press of the hand to the heart. Of course, then the vendor asks what price he thinks would be fair, and the newly-minted Road Runner responds with a number no more than a third of whatever price was originally named by the vendor. The vendor then loudly rejects this, and Road Runner/Bargainer waves his hand in disgust and begins to walk firmly away. The vendor waits a few seconds, then calls out after him. He does not respond. Vendor runs after him, grabs his arm and agrees to the price he named. RR/B grumbles as he removes his wallet. "I pay too much! I pay too much!"

O, having accompanied him to the market at least five or six times before, shook his head and smiled this time after maybe the third negotiation. He turned to me. "Bladerunner, he always get the price he want. I don't know how he do that."

At the end of the day, after we'd finished at the museum and were ready to head to dinner, we spotted an older man selling kites on People's Square. Unable to resist one last negotiation, Bladerunner decided Trailhead Kid needed a kite. Thus ensued yet another fake cardiac episode accompanied by the obligatory shriek. But a little over twenty-four hours, two flights and another brutal round of jet lag later, we arrived home with a kite.

Link Herd

I've been entertaining a visiting mother (mine) here at Trailheadquarters, so blogging has been light. There have been a number of items I've wanted to share, and very little time to share them, so I thought I'd herd them into a big link blob.

So the existence of a half-grizzly, half-polar bear has been confirmed. Unfortunately, this was confirmed by DNA tests only after the bear was killed by some trophy-hunting tool who paid $50,000 to shoot it.

A column from Jon Katz that's more than two months old, but that I just found the other day, called "Nice Ass!" about his donkeys. I love this guy's stories about his farm animals. Don't miss it.

In yet another sign that our country is totally ill-prepared to compete in this century's global marketplace, check out this article about how geographically illiterate our young adults are. Fully half could not find New York on a map of the U.S. Moreover:

Told they could escape an approaching hurricane by evacuating to the northwest, only two-thirds could indicate which way northwest is on a map. [Come on. Are they serious?]

Perhaps even more worrisome is the finding that few U.S. young adults seem to care.

Fewer than three in ten think it's absolutely necessary to know where countries in the news are located. Only 14 percent believe speaking another language fluently is a necessary skill.

****

This geographic ineptitude was further emphasized when young Americans were asked questions on how the United States fits into the wider world.

Three in ten respondents put the U.S. population between one and two billion (it's just under 300 million, according the U.S. Census Bureau). Seventy-four percent said English is the most commonly spoken native language in the world (it's Mandarin Chinese).

As you all know, I've just returned from China, and I've seen our competition. We're screwed if we don't get serious about our education, people.

Have a nice evening.

Is There a Dearth of Wholesome Google Searches, Or Is This Site Just a Noisome Cesspool?

If you judge the quality of a site solely by its google searches, this is one revolting weblog. Diarrhea, vomit, slugs, sea worms and the nasty bits of vultures (great -- now I'm going to get the people googling "nasty bits") -- could it get any worse? Really, it's a wonder I have any returning readers at all, but the statcounter tells me there are at least a few of you who are just as twisted as I am. And I'm delighted to see that you're not all related to me; it's not familial loyalty that brings you here, just an appreciation for the disgusting. (Or at least a hearty tolerance for it.)

As I should have known, my gastrointestinal misadventure in south China has fired up the assembly line of ick, producing one vile Google search after another. One person, who I fear was in need of immediate medical assistance, landed here after wondering why his (or her) stomach gets cold during a bout of diarrhea. Good heavens, I don't know, but perhaps you ought to be consulting someone other than a dilletante lawyer obsessed with slugs.