Who ya gonna call?

The parking lot of Weinerschnitzel was pretty full. Guess I wasn’t the only one with a hankerin’ for a chili dog. So we parked at the car wash next door. It’s OK – the same California transplant owns both businesses.

We had to take a little detour, though, on our way to the air conditioned, corn dogged goodness. There in the parking lot was a very odd vehicle begging to be stared at.

It was a white SUV with Colorado plates. The windshield was smeared with bug remnants. So far, nothing unusual. But the luggage rack on top was toting something very un-luggagy. There were two items. In front was a glass dome about the size of one of those old-fashioned hair dryers that you can still find in salons. Inside the dome were three video cameras pointing at slightly different angles. Behind the dome was a white globe that later reminded me a little of EVE in WALL-E. It sort of looked like a small satellite. Or the plastic cover protecting a plug right next to our septic tank lids. We circled the vehicle a few times. Inside there was a full-sized computer monitor blocking access to the radio, reminding me of a cop car. The whole thing looked like a 2008 version of the Ghostbuster car. Rob suddenly said, “OH, I got it!”

Inside, Rob looked for his best guess of the car’s driver. A sweep past the fountain drinks and Tasty Freeze and he found his man: A single guy in his mid-30s who looked a bit techy in a Silicon-Valley sort of way (shorts, t-shirt, Tevas). As I acquired our ketchup, Rob confirmed his suspicions. The guy was impressed Rob had nailed his purpose; apparently most folks are just plain befuddled.

“Yep, I was right. It’s a Google-mobile!”

The guy was one of twelve people scattered around the country this summer, driving highways and major intersections to capture images for Google and other online uses. He was thrilled to get his first pick of the Pacific Northwest even though he lives in California. He was heading to Seattle to spend a week capturing their highways and byways. He said it was a great job, although he misses his wife and dad. But, the company is very accommodating – it flies his wife every weekend to wherever he happens to be. He spoke of jobs in Hawaii and Ireland with a “I-can’t-believe-they-pay-me-to-do-this” tone. We asked how he landed such a fun gig. It was one of those who-you-know stories and it seemed openings are hard to come by.

As we later watched him at the Shell station, squeegee-ing his dome and fiddling with a trunk full of electronics, I shook my head at the wonderfully high-tech world we are surrounded by, even at Woodhaven --- where we still have a septic and can’t get cable.

The Final Alaska Recap

So to reiterate…despite tales of woe and sickness, Rob and I had a truly fantastic vacation in Alaska. And although we are indeed on medication, our traveling companions (Hi, Carolyn and David!!) report similar enthusiasm so if we’re crazy, we’ve got company.

In no particular order, other than how it occurred to me, here are some random thoughts, memories, and observations from Alaska 2008:

• Much to our surprise, Rob and I both really dug the whole cruising thing. At best we thought it would be just OK. It turns out I loved having a bed to lay on whenever I felt like it. And I loved that we unpacked once. And that our hotel room traveled around with us. And that, even while we were sleeping, we were still making progress towards our next destination. The Goal-Oriented Type A-ness in me thought that last part was especially groovy.


• Carolyn and I spent quite a few trip-planning emails trying to decide how to attire ourselves for the two Formal Dinner nights. Much kevetching and brow-wrinkling. As we should have guessed, it was hardly a big deal. Honestly, I could have worn the exact same outfit both nights and nobody other than Rob, Carolyn, and David would have noticed. And none would have cared. The rest of the meals were billed as “Smart Casual.” According to one sturdy man in his 60s, bib overalls with one strap a-danglin’ fits that description.


• Making a run at fanny packs for the tell-tale sign of an American tourist: Crocs.


• Hand-washing one's “unmentionables” in the cabin sink is very efficient. Having to smile and say hello to Didi the Assigned-for-the-week-Room-Steward who has now seen all of the aforementioned unmentionables is downright embarrassing.


• If you believe in God, you will quickly conclude that when he got to creating Alaska, he decided to have a little fun. Same goes for Bryce Canyon.


• Our itinerary had us spending a “day at leisure” in Denali National Park. Due to my illness, we had our “day at leisure” in the very scenic and unbustley Seward instead. Honestly, we came out ahead.


• Denali reminded me a lot of Moab, Utah: a densely populated and built-up strip of commerce in amongst a vast amount of nature. As a result, it was rather jarring – all that noise and movement and commotion in what should have been a very serene setting.


• The extra excursion to Fort Yukon above the Arctic Circle was a true highlight. I was so surprised that the scenery was green trees and bushes instead of grey or tan tundra. It was 10:00 at night yet I could have been wearing shorts since the sun wasn’t really planning to set that night. The Yukon River was meandering and calm, opposite the torrent I expected from reading Jack London novels in junior high. Perhaps in 6 months?


• Richard, our tour guide in Fort Yukon, was a hoot. We were there under the auspices of the only company that has been granted permission by the Elders in Fort Yukon to bring “outsiders” in for a tour. Richard is a local and he gave us a remarkably authentic tour of his village of 600 people. Bumping along on gravel roads on a really old school bus, Richard pointed out the liquor store, the town gossip, his parents’ house, and locals to avoid photographing.


• If I ever start carrying a quilted purse, shoot me.


• One of my favorite meals was the lunch Rob and I had at the Safeway in Seward. We had been abandoned by our tour group and I was desperate for something very bland to supplement my saltines. The bus driver suggested Safeway’s soup bar and unofficially dropped us off in front of the store. Although the rosemary chicken soup was a tad too flavorful for my fragile stomach, I thoroughly enjoyed sitting in the café on the edge of the produce section, watching local Sewardians go about their morning. I concluded that Alaskans are a hearty, hairy, unadorned people. No need for make-up or fancy clothes or a razor. Their faces are rugged and their fashion sense practical. They struck me as very real people. I loved hanging out on the fringe with them.


• One unexpectedly exhilarating excursion was a boat tour of the Kenai Fjords. Six hours on a small boat honestly sounded quite dreadful to me, but it was included with the package so I went along and paid close attention to the safety info about where to find my life jacket. The first water-based animal we spotted was a sea otter. Now, I've seen lots of sea otters in Monterey so I wasn't expecting to get that jazzed about seeing another one. But, it was awfully cute and it was sort of different to see it hanging out in the middle of the water rather than right next to the restaurant on the pier. By the time we were done, we had gotten up close and almost personal with sea lions, puffins, white and black birds that looked like a cross between a bowling pin and a penguin, a humpback whale, and a pod of orcas. We also got close to a glacier that decided to calve (break up) in a big way as we were bobbing along in the water right next to it. As we were all busy taking pictures and making lots of excited noises, Captain Heather closely watched the waves that emanated from where the ice chunks had fallen into the water. A couple quick maneuvers and we easily avoided both the waves and the ice chunks. It was everything and more than I expected from Glacier Bay (honestly, a disappointment). Rob, David, and I all agreed the Kenai Fjords day would be hard to top. Carolyn said it came a close second to her dream-come-true helicopter trip to a glacier to take a dog sled ride.


• While quarantined in Seward, we came across the coolest TV program ever. It was a live feed of a webcam that is set up on nearby Chiswell Island to observe the behavior of Stellar sea lions. Yes, I was weak and loopy, but it really did get more fascinating and amusing the more I watched it. Even more amusing: Rob's occasional outburst of "They're showing seal porn on TV!!" Check it out here to see for yourself.


• As a land tour company, Holland America is a great cruise company. We found the folks working on the cruise ship to be professional and experienced. The land tour, on the other hand, was largely in the hands of a bunch of college students fresh off of 3 weeks’ training. The few times we found someone who had already worked a full season, we felt like we had discovered gold. Those nuggets kept the land tour from disintegrating into chaos. The phrase we kept hearing and then repeated for our own amusement: “I don’t know. Let me check with my supervisor.” It was just the strangest dichotomy to have a fraternity of college kids in charge of a bunch of life-experienced 60+ year olds. As you might imagine, Rob and I didn’t really fit in with either group.


• My favorite exhibit at the Visitor Center in Denali: the Seasons of Scat. It had never occurred to me that an animal’s poop would change by season. Really, all the deer poop looks the same at Woodhaven year round. But in the wild, bears eat different things as they are available throughout the spring, summer, and fall and this was vividly evident in the plasticized display.


• This trip was the maiden voyage for a new piece of electronica. We traveled with an Asus Eee teeny tiny laptop and man, is it cool! If you travel and that StimBate is burning a hole in your checking account, check it out on Amazon.


• Being in Fairbanks on the Summer Solstice was also very cool. Actually, it was very warm. I lugged one pair of shorts all across Alaska and finally got to pull them out at nearly the 65th parallel. Go figure. In any case, while New York may bill itself as the City That Never Sleeps, Fairbanks truly lives it in the summer. It never seemed to get dark. We were riding through town at about 11pm after our Arctic Circle trip. Among the things we saw in the bright midnight sun: a couple taking their baby for a walk in a stroller; at least 6 cars in line at the McDonalds drive-thru; several sets of people taking leisurely bike rides; a crowd of teenagers hanging out in a parking lot; a crowd of guys who looked like they were getting ready to go 4-wheeling; and a small gaggle of kids running around at a playground. Subsequent nights for various reasons, I looked out the window at 2:00am, 3:30am, and 4:30am and each time I saw people wandering around, walking their dogs, driving to and fro, just soaking up the sunlight. It was truly bizarre.


• Contrary to past vacations, the Weather Gods were with us, not agin us this trip. At nearly every stop, bus drivers and tour guides told us, "We haven't seen the sun in a week. Thank you for bringing the great weather with you!" The only grey and cloudy day was the day we cruised through Glacier Bay. Perhaps that's why it didn't live up to the hype... I ran into another couple from the Portland area while we were in Skagway. We all laughed at how crazy it was that we had to travel all the way to Alaska to finally find the spring sun.

So again, let me reiterate: everyone should see Alaska at least once. Pictures don’t capture a fraction of its immensity or beauty. And if the experience can overshadow Norwalk, you know it’s gotta be pretty good.

The Great Escape

We finally made it home! Of course, it was not without one more bit of unexpected excitement. And yes, it’s already been pointed out to us several times that we seem to have the most amazing travel luck. We won’t take it personally if nobody ever wants to travel with us. But, if you want some excitement and lessons in flexibility, you know whom to vacation with.

So back to the Excitement Part 2.

In the wee hours just before the wee hour that we were supposed to board a shuttle to go to the airport to return home, Rob got sick. This despite our constant hand-washing and Purelling and general germaphobic paranoia. Having walked The Walk once already, we decided it was best to stay put despite our longing to return to Woodhaven. So, one more day in Fairbanks it was. On the bright side, Rob’s bout was faster and less complicated than mine was. AND we now can say we were in Fairbanks, Alaska on the Summer Solstice. Always searching for a silver lining.

I wanted to give Rob as much quiet and darkness as I could, so I spent a fair amount of time wandering around our hotel’s lobby, no longer caring how I looked. Good thing since my contacts and make-up were packed and I was left with a t-shirt, shorts, and uncoordinating socks.

During my aimless wanders, I overheard lots of conversations. It became increasingly clear that our hotel was experiencing something of a Norwalk outbreak. There were suspicions of a restaurant in Denali that seemed to be a common link. There were stories of people canceling huge portions of their trips. The tour company’s local manager was noticeably frazzled with all the reservation juggling that was going on. There was some hand-wringing by tour directors that the Walk had hit land. It’s much easier to contain on a ship.

I ran into Shelly, the tour director for a group that was traveling tandem with us. She had seen me while I was Walking and had made the official diagnosis. We chatted a bit about the wave that seemed to be hitting the hotel. Then she revealed that Josiah, our tour director, had gotten sick the night before. Just hours after he hugged and shook hands with just about everyone on our tour. I don’t want to think how many people returned home with an unexpected souvenir.

As the hours dragged on, I became paranoid of everything in the hotel. Rob eventually got hungry – and I was starving – but I refused to eat at the hotel’s buffet. Instead, I got some food to go and we barricaded ourselves in our room.

It truly felt like an escape yesterday morning as we snuck into a small van in the bright 4:30am sunlight and sped away from the Petri dish our hotel had become. We dragged ourselves home and got a fair amount of sleep last night despite a very happy, purring, heavy cat who insisted on being veryclose all night. Then at about 10:00 this morning, the phone rang. The wife of the couple we traveled with called to report that she was feeling much better…now. Hours after they got home, she took a Walk, too.

But you know the most amazing thing? Despite this tale, we all agreed it was an absolutely spectacular trip. Crazy, huh? More on that later.

Back to laundry.

Back on track

I'm exhausted and punchy and surrounded by open suitcases bursting with clothes of varying degrees of ripeness. I'm also feeling a ton better. And I'm apparently known as "that sick lady" by the rest of our tour group.

We caught up to the rest of our group last night after taking a bus to Anchorage and then a train into Denali National Park. Today we were once again officially part of Tour 17B instead of "that couple who is trying to catch up." We blended in just as much as we did the first day. I'm the one with dark hair. I really shouldn't have bothered coloring before we left.

We're in Fairbanks right now. It's well after 10pm. It looks more like 4pm. We started the day with a 5:40am tour out to the wilderness of Denali. It was 8 hours -- with lots of stops -- on a refurbished school bus. As horrible as it sounds, it was actually quite wonderful, especially with the Dramamine and Coke easing my still tender stomach. We saw all sorts of animals in their natural habitat, including several moose, caribou (NOT good eatin'), sheep, red fox (sadly, no LaMont -- Rob's joke, and I'm still laughing), wolves, and yes, the highly coveted grizzly bear. It was a great outing and felt only a fraction of its insane length.

The march to drive myself to exhaustion continues tomorrow. We have a gold mine tour, followed by a sternwheeler cruise, capped off by a flight up to the Arctic Circle for photo-ops and bragging rights. Really, it all made so much sense in December...

With any luck, we'll be home and collapsed under a very happy cat by Saturday night. And thus will begin my vacation from my vacation. A recap will follow but all in all, even with the detour, this has been a truly fantastic experience. Alaska is breathtaking. Everyone should see it at least once. But be sure to wash your hands. A lot.

Tales of The Walk

Well, I discovered a way to come back from a cruise with LESS weight than when I left. Not that I recommend it, mind you, but it is sure fire.

I really wanted to blame it on the caribou tenderloin I had for dinner two nights ago. Food poisoning isn't contagious you see. Nevertheless, “Bambi's mother” -- as one apparently horrified friend put it – is guilty by association and therefore I will never eat one of Bambi's relatives ever again.

But no, the rather sudden, prolonged, and explosive evening I had in the bathroom of Room 160 was due to having contracted Norwalk. You know, that awful 24 hour thing that loves cruise ships and other highly populated closed quarters? It seems it is often described by the afflicted through the use of hand motions, with one hand moving quickly away from the mouth and the other hand moving quickly away from the “other end”... simultaneously. Trust me, trying to decide which end to deal with is NOT a decision you want to be making.

To add to the excitement, we discovered that it is our cruise line's policy to quarantine for 24 hours any guest who gets this nasty bug. Makes sense; we didn't argue. And really, it wouldn't have been a big deal if we were still on the ship. But, unfortunately, our tour transitioned from a cruise to a land tour the morning before I got sick, so we are now on land in a hotel with a very stationary view of some trees. I am gratefully feeling much better this morning, although a bit weak and wobbly from having only eaten about a dozen crackers in the last day and a half.

The rest of our tour went on ahead yesterday to the next stop. This morning they boarded a train to scenically traverse the Denali National Forest. We, on the other hand, are trying our best to patiently await a phone call to tell us how and when we are going to catch up with the rest of our group. Perhaps if they knew I had a blog they'd be acting a little faster???

At least the hotel has free WiFi.

Keeping it clean by avoiding the obvious

NOTE: Written several days ago when we didn't have reasonably priced Internet...

We are enjoying our Dam vacation so far. It's really a Dam nice ship that we've been living on. All the Dam employees are quite friendly and accommodating, if not a bit too much so first thing in the morning. (As adorable as Patrick the Plate Hander-Outer is, I really could do without the serenading before I've had my Cheerios. Well, OK, even after.).

It seems the ships in the Holland America line all have names ending in “dam.” There's the Zaandam, the Westerdam, the Rotterdam, and the Amsterdam, among others. So, capitalizing on a Dam clever marketing scheme, the wise Dutch folk have a full line of Dam Merchandise including Dam coffee mugs, Dam t-shirts, Dam baseball hats, and Dam playing cards.

To amuse ourselves while waiting in line to reboard the Dam ship after our daily shore excursions, Rob and I and our traveling companions have come up with names of future Holland America boats. Feel free to join in the fun!

Might we suggest the following Dam cruisers:

• The Hooverdam
• The Beaverdam
• The Claude vandam
• The Dentaldam
• The Hotdam
• The Tinkersdam (submission from a midwesterner)

Wouldn't Juneau...

This sea leg thing is very weird.

After several days spent almost entirely on a large, occasionally swaying Dutch cruise ship, it seems Rob and I have both unknowingly gotten very used to walking around slightly off balance. And no, it's not due to our wine consumption cuz have you seen the prices of wine on a cruise ship?? You'd think they were selling premium gasoline by the shot.

Our acclimation to sea faring became clear when we walked about Juneau yesterday morning, destination the State Capitol Building. We took a tour guided by the rather blasé page-like Ashley. As she pointed out the abundant use of marble intermixed with the stone columns, I wondered how such a seemingly sturdy building could be swaying so much. A quick look at the overhead light fixtures as well as the calm faces of my fanny-packed cohorts suggested that we weren't experiencing an earthquake. I asked Rob -- who also had not had a spiked drink at breakfast -- if he also felt the marble was spinning around us a bit. Much relieved that he wasn't the only one, we steadied ourselves on the handrails as we walked around the House and Senate. Naturally, by day's end we were feeling much more grounded...just in time to set sail yet again.

Rockin' and a-rollin' splishin' and a-splashin'

NOTE: This was written on June 9 sometime in the late evening...

Rob and I are on a cruise right now for the first time ever. It's quite an event since I'm mostly afraid of water.

We've been on the ship for about a day and a half now. We are currently going 15.3 knots north towards Ketchikan, Alaska. Strong gale winds, rough high seas at 7.5-12 feet. All this courtesy of Channel 38. What it really means is I am very grateful for some Magic Pills they were handing out at the front desk this afternoon. I'm feeling fine now, thanks to the Magic. The rocking and rolling now feels more like persistent earthquake aftershocks and thankfully less like the Fun House at a parking lot carnival.

I was under the full effect of the Magic Pills in time for dinner. And thank goodness For without them I'm certain I wouldn't have found our dinner partners nearly as amusing. They were from Utah by way of Iowa and seemed most energized when speaking about their hobby of performing puppet shows of classic children's stories. There was quite a discussion about the challenges of having a marionette grow a nose for their recent “Pinocchio” production.

Folks, I couldn't make up stuff like that if I tried.

Tomorrow we get to get off the ship and onto something less sway-y, at least for a few hours. The next few days will happily be in more protected, calmer waters...but I have some more Magic at the ready just in case.

Rob watched at home

So today was pretty darn cool. I got to participate in a 101-year-old Portland tradition AND hang out with some very nice people and their bea-u-ti-ful llamas. Yeah, another llama story. I’m sorry. I truly appreciate your indulgence.

With a gracious invitation by Lori, I got to celebrate my new membership in the local llama association by parading about town in Portland’s Grand Floral Parade. It’s Portland’s version of the Rose Parade in Pasadena.

I wasn’t expecting to have a llama to walk – I was merely going to enjoy being in the presence of llamas as well as visually adding to our group’s numbers. But, much to my surprise, just moments after we heard the call, “LLAMAS ARE UP!” Lori’s husband, Dave, motioned me to the head of the pack and handed me the lead to Lacoste, one of Rojo’s buddies. Before I knew it, I was walking through an arena filled with people willing to pay for a seat, waving to everyone and nobody in particular, smiling a big goofy grin.

As I was getting my bearings, Dave instructed me how to hold the lead so as to better handle my llama in case he darted off towards the crowd (!?). Just as I was processing that unexpected possibility, Dave also pointed to the television camera boom up ahead and noted to be careful since sometimes the cameras get too close and spook the llamas. What?!? I sort of felt like a bridesmaid who hadn’t made it to the rehearsal. But, the llovely Lacoste did swimmingly and we paraded past the paparazzi just fine.

I was catching my breath and feeling like I had the hang of things just before Lacoste suddenly stopped and refused to move. This began what turned out to be my favorite part of the whole day.

Lacoste had a little business to do. This lead to a smattering of little kids excitedly noting, “Look, Mommy, the llama has to go potty!!” Hard to argue with the obvious. After Lacoste finished up, I pulled him a few steps only to have him stop again. Dave suggested perhaps my llama partner wasn’t quite finished. Indeed, we were treated to Act Two. Instead of little pellets falling daintily one by one to the asphalt, entire clumps the size of large pinecones impressively thudded to the ground to a unison of high-pitched “EWWWW!!s” and giggles. I found this reaction very amusing. And I am certain those kids are still talking about when the llama pooped all over the street. Their poor parents!

But this wasn’t the end of the fun. No, the very best part was this meant Lacoste and I were now at the end of our group. Dave said, “Go ahead and run him up to the front again.” A running llama is quite a sight. It’s something of a lumbering elegance; lots of fur and poundage undulating above four tiny little feet. I love seeing llamas run and now I got to give the folks on Weidler Street a full and complete llama show. Lacoste and I trotted quickly to our front position to claps and a chorus of “LOOK! He’s running!!” It was truly beyond cool.

There’s much more to say, of course, but I’m pooped. Guess Lacoste and I sort of bonded after all.

If you look closely, it looks like a running man

Sometime back about 15 years ago, Rob and I took a vacation to Utah. The intent of the trip was to visit as many national parks as possible in one week. Firmly entrenched in our goal-orientedness, we checked just about every one of ‘em off our list, including having to beg a park ranger to let us past a gate he was closing at sunset cuz otherwise it wouldn’t have counted. Anal + competitive = thank God we found each other.

Despite the rock formations and hoodoos and waterfalls and arches, one of the most indelible memories from that trip was a brief drive down a main street in Salt Lake City. As we were taking a very orderly, grid-y driving tour, I was appalled to see a couple of men walking on the sidewalk carrying rifles.

“What type of town is this?!?” I mostly screeched. “What, do they have a militia or something?! I can’t believe these people are walking around with guns right out in the open!! With children right over there!!! And nobody is doing anything about it!!! What are they teaching these kids??? Don't they know how horrible and dangerous guns are??! ”

Yes, I believe you could have seen my soap box from Arizona. As I took a breath to launch into yet more indignation, Rob seized the moment and pointed out a sign stuck in some grass. “Gun Show Today.” Turns out we were right next to the convention center. Once I patted down my feathers I laughed, too, but not quite as hard as Rob.

So we all change and evolve, right? We grow, we experience, we see new perspectives. Right?

I’m not quite sure how else to explain the following picture or my pride in showing it to you. All I can say is we’ve got some really fun friends here with some really fun hobbies and lots of generosity in sharing them with us.

And yes, I do seem to be a better shot than Rob.

UPDATED 6-6-08: As requested, here's Rob's target:

Think Renaissance Faire at Sea, in a campground

I realized last year that there’s some sort of pirate trend going on in pop culture. I thought it started when I noticed it. But, no, some friends visiting from the much more cutting edge Bay Area pointed out that the pirate thing had already been around for at least a year and was already on its way out down in California. Color me increasingly out of touch with all things hip and trendy.

Proving that I’m not the only one that hasn’t gotten the memo that pirate fun is SO last year, Rob and I and some friends attended an official Pirate Gathering on Saturday. Why? A coworker was going to be there, plus it sounded like something the accompanying 4- and 5-year-olds might enjoy. Verdict: The tire swing was the hit of the afternoon, followed closely by the peacocks. And for future reference, the 5-year-old officially hates cannons.

It wasn’t entirely clear what the stated point of the gathering was. Objectively, it was about 500 people camping out together in an Oregon canyon for the holiday weekend. Subjectively, it seemed an excuse for a number of extraordinarily pale and rather fleshy people to put on pirate costumes and walk around showing their spirit and fleshiness. Cleavage and love-handles abounded. There were a number of somewhat authentic looking swashbucklers wearing what appeared to be the timeless footwear of choice: Teva hiking sandals. One man was “hanging out” in his campsite, wearing only blue paint and a codpiece. Inexplicably, those of us wearing jeans, t-shirts, and Sketchers were good-naturedly jeered as being “naked.”

We wandered down “Merchant Row” and somehow resisted getting henna tattoos, swords, velvet bustiers, or a Tarot card reading. We did fall victim, however, to the snow cone booth. “Aye matey, I’ll have a bubblegum one and a lime one, please.”

As we meandered through the campsites, noting tents that looked like ships and catching a glimpse of a Dungeons & Dragons game in full swing, we paused at one tent where there was a blanket displaying a mishmash of decidedly un-piratey items. As Rob looked at the PartyLite wall candle holder, the empty decorative bottle for olive oil, and some ceramic pots, a pirate maiden of about 10 approached him. “Oh, I see you have noticed our items. They are available for trading.” She obviously had been practicing her pitch all morning and sounded very professional, if not rehearsed. Having already consumed our snow cones, we had nothing to barter with so we moved on.

We decided to call it a day when we realized the 5-year-old was covering her ears at every distant chorus of shouting. An earlier chorus had warned of three cannons being fired, by far the highlight of the outing for Rob. Me, I think my favorite part was listening to a 30-something wielding a duct-tape-covered water worm explain how he used to be a much better jouster when he did it daily 8 or 9 years ago. Arrrgh.

I'm just fine with a volcano, thanks

Over the weekend local folks "celebrated" the 28th anniversary of when Mount St. Helens blew her top. We can see the now trapezoidal-shaped mountain from lots of spots around the county since we're less than 40 miles away from it.

I was at a small gathering a few weeks ago where long time residents were comparing stories about where they were during the eruption. They talked of wearing those little white elasticized masks for a few weeks afterwards and how it took many long days of shoveling and brushing to get everything clean again. They all remembered how even several years later, when they were teenagers on sports teams, they would see little poofs of ash clouds rise from football and soccer fields as they ran around in the shadow of a very alive mountain.

And even with all of that, I'd still rather be here than in more active earthquake country. Yes, I know technically I do actually live in earthquake country. And yes, we have things strapped down. And, of course, no picture frames shall ever be hung over a bed at Woodhaven. Some old California habits die very hard. But really, it doesn't feel all that unstable here. In 4 years, I haven't felt the slightest tremor. And having experienced that 7.1 Loma Prieta/World Series/Watch-a-section-of-the-Bay-Bridge-collapse 1989 earthquake in much too big a way to be amusing, I'd really be ok if I never felt a shaker again.

My firm lack of interest in earthquakes was solidified for me a few days ago when my mom sent me the following list. Mom and Dad live in Reno. They are hardy, experienced California natives who aren't easily rattled by a swarm of quakes. They no doubt find the list funny. I find it confirmation that as natural disasters go, I now much prefer being surrounded by occasionally puffing volcanoes.

Courtesy of RGJ.com, here is "You might be a Northwest Reno resident If …"

· While shopping for a new dining room table, you bring the entire family to RC Willey to make sure you all fit underneath it.

· “Family Game Night” includes copious rounds of Uno, Scrabble and “Guess the Magnitude.”

· The USGS Web site is your home page, and you check the UNR Seismology site as frequently as you check your email.

· You believe the “Triangle of Life” is so last week.

· You can now hear the earthquakes before they arrive.

· You are spackling and painting your walls — why not, there aren’t any pictures on them anyhow.

· You get mad at the kids when they’re snacking out of the earthquake bin in the garage.

· “I’ve felt 25 earthquakes today?” you reflect. “What a great day!”

· Your children know what “Rabbit in the hole” means.

· The “Living with Earthquakes in Nevada” publication that you found last week in the RGJ has become your coffee-table book.

· You know the exact latitude and longitude of your home.

· You can adeptly convert UTC to Pacific Daylight Time.

· Earthquake insurance brochures and estimates are in your “To File” stack.

· You debate the philosophical underpinnings of “aftershock or foreshock” with your family and neighbors.

· Wall hangings = floor leanings.

· You have narrowed down the lag time between an earthquake and the moment the magnitude posts to the UNR Seismo site to 11 minutes and 42 seconds – give or take.

· Your car is parked in your driveway — and not because there’s no room in the garage.

· You take a shower in your swim suit; after all, who wants to be naked when the “Big One” hits?

· On your nightstand next to the latest Eckhart Tolle book and your Carmex is a Maglite flashlight and a crescent wrench you’ll use to turn off the gas.

· The pharmacist doesn’t even ask if you need the briefing about Xanax anymore.

A very long 10 seconds

One of Rob’s favorite stories about me and my attempts to cook involves some garlic bread, a smoke detector, and an opportunity to meet the neighbors.

Rob’s second-favorite part of the story is him answering the door of our apartment, smoke billowing out, to greet our worried and concerned neighbors with, “Everything’s OK – my wife is just cooking.” Rob’s most favorite part is how when he was summoned to the dining room by the shrill beeping of the smoke detector, he found me standing on a chair, towel in hand, trying to cover up the smoke detector to get the silly thing to stop making so much noise. Not only had it not occurred to me to open a door or window to release the smoke, I also hadn’t thought to take the smoldering garlic bread – the source of all the excitement – out of the oven. Really, my biggest concern was the noise. Smoke, fire, destruction – we would handle that later.

Fifteen years later, I’m relieved to say I react to cooking emergencies a little more logically now. I’m still a bit shaken to say I got living proof last night.

I truly was just following the directions. I’m a very insecure cook, so it’s rare and scary for me not to be following a recipe. However, despite the fact that I won the Science Award in high school (a constant source of ribbing from Rob ever since I revealed this horribly misappropriated honor), apparently there’s an assumed knowledge among cooks about hot pans and the smoke and flash points of oil. Count me, finally, in the know.

Just as the directions said, I heated my skillet on medium-high heat and added some oil so that I could sear some pork chops. Needing an embarrassing amount of detail, the recipe didn’t tell me how long to heat the pan, so I turned up the burner and went about setting the table and choosing some wine. Apparently much too long later, I added the oil and immediately wondered what the unusual smell was. I typically use a different skillet for searing, so I concluded the odd smell was pan-related. About 15 seconds later and 2 feet away, I watched in strangely slow motion as the oil in the skillet burst into flambé-style flames. They were probably a foot high and very orange.

As I processed what I was seeing, I recalled that baking soda would be a good thing to throw on the flaming pan. But my soda was buried in my pantry too many seconds away to be useful. I decided water was my next-best option. I grabbed the handle of the skillet and moved it off the stove. Terrifyingly, this did not change the height of the flames at all. I threw on the faucet and shoved the skillet under the water. As hot, slippery oil splattered out of the pan onto the floor, I suddenly wondered if I was making matters worse. I let out a short scream, looked at the ceiling, and wondered if it would catch on fire. As I looked back to the pan under the full stream of water, I saw that the flames were out and my skillet blackened. It was over.

Where was Rob during all this? In the shower. He didn’t hear the smoke detector, he didn’t hear me scream, he didn’t smell smoke until he emerged from the bedroom. All of this scares me as much as the leaping flames did.

So here are a few things I learned upon wine-soothed reflection and debriefing with a freshly showered Rob:

• We need another smoke detector right outside the shower.
• I shall now have a box of baking soda in a drawer right next to the stove.
• A pot lid could be handy to douse flames.
• The fire extinguisher under our sink would have been a handy device had I remembered it was there.

Rob, bless him, helps me handle stress and fear by incessantly making fun of something until I can laugh at it myself. Tonight, while getting back on the horse and searing some flank steak, I chuckled as I looked at the little piece of magnetized poetry that usually lives on our fridge. There, oh-so-casually attached to a metal stove burner was the word “fire.” Although our dinner tonight was a Cajun steak, I’m proud and relieved to say it was not blackened.

Added note: Here's a public service announcement video a friend sent to me after hearing my story. I continue to be grateful for how lucky I was. I did 2 wrong things: I should not have moved the pan off the stove and I should not have put water on the flames to put them out. While better than the garlic bread story, I still have much to learn in properly handling kitchen emergencies. Yikes.

Hickory would have worked, too

We drive past a particular rural fire station just about every day. It’s a clean, well-lit place that is thankfully pretty quiet. The sign out front is one of those signs where you can change the letters. Today the sign cautions us to drive safely. Last week it congratulated a local family on the birth of twin girls.

We attended an open house last summer and enjoyed noshing on hot dogs while sneaking a peek at the inner-workings of a big fire truck. The guys who man the station (no women there far as I could tell) seemed like very nice, friendly, polite folks. Very welcoming and neighborly. So it shouldn’t be a surprise that the fire station seems to have warmly welcomed and adopted a new resident. Every firehouse needs a mascot, right?

We first noticed the black chicken a few weeks ago. It’s sort of small, as chickens go. It’s completely black with a little red thing on its head. It’s really too bad the chicken doesn’t have some white spots on it, so it could be sort of a reverse Dalmatian.

In any case, now just about every time we drive by, there’s the black chicken pecking around a corner of the fire station’s front yard. Since it appears to be a keeper, I’ve decided it’s time to name the chicken. I’ve given this some thought since, well, I’m me and I’m retired. My pick?

Drum(stick) roll, please.

Mesquite.

Sort of conjures up thoughts of a nice wood smoke (fire station) great for BBQing (chicken). Of course, if Mesquite ever goes missing, I’ll assume that it flew the coop and not that the firemen forgot to stop at Safeway on the way to the station.

I so did NOT need to work my triceps at the gym this morning

They are perhaps the most dangerous words in any home improvement project. If not the most dangerous, the most expensive. If not the most dangerous and expensive, then certainly the most exhausting. The words? “While we’re at it…”

While turning an empty room into a small game room a couple of years ago, we said, “While we’re at it, we may as well replace the carpet in the room next to it, too.”

While replacing kitchen counters last year, we said, “While we’re at it, we may as well replace the oven, too.”

While pruning roses, vowing not to bend and get achy, I inevitably decide, “While I’m at it, I may as well pull a few [hundred] weeds, too.”

So last week, when I boldly decided to paint our guest bathroom, I should have known it would blossom into something much more back-breaking than anticipated. (And yes, I did anticipate a fair amount of pain. This is why God – or Merck – whichever – invented prescription painkillers.)

Way ahead of my houseguest-is-arriving-May-9 deadline, I finished applying Cloth to three walls and the ceiling and Dark Burgundy to two walls. It looks rather spiffy and I’m proud of the mostly straight lines where the two highly contrasting colors meet. Feeling charged and confident, I proclaimed, “While I’m at it, I may as well paint the other upstairs bathrooms, too.”

Well, that also went rather well and a lot faster than I assumed. The added project was supposed to keep me busy while Rob is on a 5-day trip. Instead, I raced back from the airport and finished rollering before Rob had landed in a much warmer, sunnier, golfier location. Feeling a bit drained and trying to ignore the bruises on both shins from the paint-splattered ladder, I logically concluded, “While I’m at it, I may as well paint the utility bathroom, too.”

I finally limped into the shower late last night with Cloth speckled hair and a knot on the left side of my back. I hoped that the splotchiness of my utility paint job was simply a matter of the paint not being dry yet. Sadly, this morning, it seemed more a matter of me having painted one too many bathrooms in one week and my semi-gloss being semi-gloppy in the blessedly almost empty can.

So, naturally, before heading to the gym at 9:45 this morning, I finished up my second coat on the last walls I will be painting this decade. I’ve declared the can dead and I’ve tossed my drop cloths. I still need to reattach all the towel bars and switch plates. But, well, since the bathrooms are completely empty, I figure…while I’m at it…I may as well mop the floors and clean the light bulbs first.

Well, shoot.

Being the Etiquette Expert in the family (God help us), Rob asked me last night what was the earliest time in the morning one might be able to run a riding mower. I mulled it over and confidently proclaimed that on a Sunday morning, 9:00am was the earliest he could start his engine. On a weekday, 8:15am. I was proud and certain that I had given just the right advice.

Then, just a bit ago, at barely after 8:00am on a cloudy but dry Sunday morning, I heard Rob call out, “HEY!! They can SHOOT but I can’t MOW??”

Yes, much like a morning rooster, our redneck neighbor kids decided to ring in the new day with a few rifle sightings. Rob’s now demanding a chart of what activities can be done at what times on what days so as to remain a friendly country neighbor. I’ve consulted my Emily Post tome and regret that she doesn’t have a section for either boondock living or rednecks. Upon further reflection, I guess the section would only really be one sentence: Whoever has the biggest gun wins.

Rob will be mowing this afternoon.

Things to do when you have insomnia

Lie in bed for a couple of hours, hoping you fall back asleep

Take Melatonin, hoping you fall back asleep

See how long you can go without looking at the clock

Listen for the newspaper to be delivered

Pet the cat, hoping you fall back asleep

Read People magazine, hoping you fall back asleep

Envy the cat and the husband who are both breathing deeply and twitching slightly

Eventually give up on the sleep thing and decide to be “productive”

Pay bills

Organize a file

Make a birthday card

Back up your computer

Play Spider Solitaire until you win

Play Freecell until you lose

Poke around on MySpace and realize that the fact that it annoys you greatly that nobody spells correctly anymore suggests that you aren’t the target demo for the social network movement.

Check out your high school alumni website and renew your relief that your 20th reunion is over and done with.

Log into Yahoo Messenger hoping to catch a friend on the east coast or someone else who can’t sleep.

Read the news from places you used to live

Blog

Look up the rules for "lay" versus "lie" yet again

Make plans to crawl back into bed when the sun comes up. Oddly, that often results in a disappointingly short nap.

I guess politics and sex will be next

It was an innocent question and yet it still sort of startled me.

While waiting for a class to start at the gym today, one woman asked another, “What church do you go to?” After receiving a reply of a large church in the county, she asked another woman, “And what church do you go to?” It was as if asking what school their kids went to or what town they lived in. Innocent, friendly, just making conversation. And yet until moving here, I never heard that question asked in general conversation. Never.

Now that I think of it, I’m not sure why church (read Christianity) was such a forbidden topic in the Bay Area. By contrast, I was pretty well-versed in Jewish traditions by the time a lot of my friends had their bar and bat mitzvahs. In later years, I developed a working understanding of Islam and knew when it was Ramadan. But Christian based stuff? Absolutely clueless.

Our county, and particularly our little slice of it, is fairly religious. Lots of churches, lots of Christian-themed bumper stickers, lots of traffic on Sunday mornings. It’s not uncommon to see people saying grace at restaurants. In fact, I observed that last week while enjoying my set of chili dogs at Wienerschnitzel.

Although we’ve been here almost four years now, and although Rob and I are a part of that traffic on Sundays, it still takes me by surprise how openly and comfortably people wear their faith here. Even more surprising is a news article I saw a few years ago that said the Pacific Northwest is one of the most “unchurched” parts of the United States. Wouldn’t know it from here. Faith here is not in your face, it’s not pushy, it’s not critical. It just is. And that's pretty cool, regardless which church you go to -- or not.

A lovely spring day

Saturday was a gift from the Weather Gods to remind us why we endure the winter rain and coolness of the Pacific Northwest. With huge anticipation stoked by local meteorologists, the entire Portland Metro ventured outside on Saturday in t-shirts and shorts to show off an array of arctic white legs and celebrate the briefest return of the sun. It was a truly spectacular spring day filled with bright light, blue skies, and temps in the high 70s. All the fruit trees and bulb flowers were blooming, and we were able to spot – and name – five snow-covered volcanoes lined up along the eastern horizon. Breathtaking.

So how did we spend this frolicky day? Well, we started off in a bowling alley. A dark, cold alley filled with men who knew it was 5:00 somewhere and therefore kept the bartender busy even though the McDonalds next door was still serving Egg McMuffins. I chatted with another wife, all purple and sparkly, while our husbands competed in a county-wide tournament. They did pretty well. We’ll find out in a few weeks if they are in the money.

Our next stop was a llama show. Naturally. It was a very pretty drive about 45 minutes north so it sort of counted as being outside. I put my window down, my arm out, and gleefully watched the thermometer on the dash inch higher and higher. We arrived in time to meet a few llama folk and fellow members of the local llama association. (Yours truly is one of the newest members. Go ahead, ask who the other newest member is.) I was then handed a clipboard and given the Very Important Job of Gate Keeper. This meant I stood outside the show ring and made sure the llamas on the list were the llamas entering the ring. Really, it was just an excuse to hold a clipboard and get close to llamas. I learned a lot by eavesdropping and observing. My dream llama shall now be a brown medium wool male with a black muzzle.

Our drive back to Woodhaven had a slight detour to an annual tulip festival. Without planning, we’ve attended the festival every year since becoming locals. And I have megabytes of photos to prove it. Although tiptoeing through the tulips is always great fun, and we pre-ordered a nice array of orange tulips and pastel hyacinths for next year, the most memorable feature of the stop was the car stuck in a ditch. Right there, next to the entrance, was a car obviously confused by the glowing orb. Anywhere else, drivers get sketchy when it rains or snows. Here, we wig out when the sun shines.

When we got home in time for dinner, we knew it would be a totally rookie move to drag out the patio furniture. Indeed, today our patio is wet and wind-blown. Instead, we wisely opted for dragging a couple of chairs, a small table, some grilled hot dogs, chips, and a bottle of homemade wine down to the edge of our still-barren hill (see Aug 26, 2007 post). We sat there as the sun set, overlooking pines and birch and aspen, listening to a few distant riding mowers. We could hear some kids roaming around in the woods below, one little girl excitedly announcing, “I’m learning the way!!” As I listened to the kids laugh and giggle and call out to one another, it occurred to me that I was listening to the sounds of their childhood. How neat it would be to have a recording of me and my 5-year-old friends playing Red Light, Green Light and trying to catch fireflies.

Although the brilliance of spring lasted only one day, I think I can hold onto the memory until the next one comes along.

Well, THAT didn’t take long

A funny thing happened last Friday while Lori and I were walking Rojo the Llovely Llama around a retirement center. I realized I was smiling huge from ear to ear, probably beaming, face likely full of joy. My “work” passed the Smile Test (see January 30, 2008 post). I think I’ve found my happy.

Yes, this llama gig isn’t technically work since I don’t get paid. But as I was pondering today what sort of paid work I might want to find, I realized I don’t want anything to interfere with my outings with Rojo and Lori. And then I remembered what Rob and I have long said our definition of retirement is: Doing what you want to do, not what you have to do. I want to have the honor of helping Rojo bring such fun and wonder to people. Despite years of training to the contrary, I'm finally coming around to the sincere belief that our value rarely has a dollar sign attached to it. So maybe I’m done looking for "work"?

Lori and I are both amazed by our good luck. She can’t believe she found someone so enthusiastic to help her on her outings. In fact, she’s been trying to find some help for the last year or so. I can’t believe I have been so graciously and generously invited into a world I assumed was out of my reach. I can’t believe I get to spend time with a truly remarkable animal and get fed by the joy he brings people. Lori and I both suspect something much larger than either of us is at work here, and we both feel like we’re getting the better end of the deal. How cool is that?

Because I’m me and I like to be thorough, I will still read the two “find your purpose” books I have on my nightstand and will attend a class series along those lines in a few weeks. Few big questions in my life get answered without careful research, analysis, and dissection. Funny, though. A week ago, the thought of the books and the class scared me. I was deeply afraid I’d get to the end and still not have an answer. But now, now that I have found something that has me smiling like Mel the Drummer, I’m eager to challenge the books and class to find something that even comes close to hangin’ with Rojo and Lori.

The search for my Happy begins

It’s been more than a week now since I got a letter I wasn’t expecting until May. I’m still rather stunned and a bit annoyed. I’m coming around to happy and relieved.

According to the government, I’m still “totally and permanently disabled.”

Woo hoo for me.

This was so NOT the news I was expecting. And really, I am supposed to be happy about it because it means I get to continue receiving monthly checks from the government. Yippee. More life on the dole.

My private disability company is happy – cuz now they can continue paying me a portion of my benefit every month instead of the whole enchilada. Their lawyer is happy – cuz she won a case in 5 months that everyone assumed would take at least two appeals and 3-5 years to win. Apprapro of nothing, here’s one of the more fascinating articles I’ve read in a long time.

“Totally and permanently disabled” are hard words to swallow. I have been choking on them for the past 7 years. I was sort of liking the idea of no longer having them attached to me. They seem so, well, total and permanent.

To look at me, you probably wouldn't have the slightest hint that I have any physical troubles. This is largely because I have a high pain tolerance and a well-practiced ability to keep my pain largely hidden, especially when other people might be watching. But, it’s true. I can’t work. Not like I used to. Not like I planned to. Not like I want to. And this, hypothesized by the lawyer, is why I won my appeal. Goodie for me.

But everyone and their policies have different definitions of “work” and my ability to do it. There is some wiggle room, I’ve discovered. Some room for me to tiptoe back into the work force, albeit in a totally different capacity than what I envisioned at age 40. It will have to be part-time. It can’t involve standing or sitting for more than an hour at a time. I can’t lift anything over about 5 lbs. It would be awesome if it were rather flexible so that I could do it or not as my pain dictates. Oh, and it has to make me smile like Mel (see January 30, 2008 post).

I’ve been consumed the past 7 years with can’ts. I’m working hard to start seeing the cans. If you want to help open my eyes to possibilities, please don’t be shy. I'm all ears.

A new definition for March Madness

Our satellite TV reception is down this morning because the DISH is filled with snow.

Our one rhododendron in bloom is very cold. I'm now worried for its safety.

Both Oregon and Washington have delayed the Take Off date for snow tires until next Saturday.

We are under a Snow Advisory until noon today.

So, so, so wrong.

It’s just WRONG!

What March 27 is supposed to look like. And does, finally.

Looking out the windows at Woodhaven right now, you’d never know what we woke up to this morning. Apparently for the first time since 1951, it was snowing this morning in the Portland metro. Yes, SNOWING. On March 27! It’s just wrong. So, snow wrong.

I’m pretty sure the last time I saw snow on March 27 was when I was a kid living in Montana. And this is why we wisely moved to California. In Montana – or Minneapolis or Omaha – you might expect snow in March. Me, at Woodhaven, not so much.

In March, I expect to start shaving my legs daily again to be ready for the opportunity to wear shorts. I expect to get all achy and sore from being out in the sunny garden. I expect to have immediate use for all the spring and summer fashions appearing in Fred Meyer. I don’t expect to have to wonder if I can get to the gym due to snow. I don’t expect to pass a snow plow on my way into town. I don’t expect to see school buses on snow routes.

But, there is a silver lining to everything. I really loved seeing our blossoming plum tree dusted with snow. A few moments later, when Rob got the newspaper, he hustled back into the house to grab the camera. There, out in our pasture was a bunny taking refuge under a tree, with a snow-backed Murray gazing on. Two silver linings on a snowy March day!

(Double-clicking on the photos will give you a bigger view of them)

Days of Wine and Rojos

It’s been a great week here at Woodhaven. As Rob and I continue our searches for our passions and purpose, we both got a nudge from The Universe this week. Hallelujah!

First, Rob.

We’ve been taking a wine class through the local community college for the past few months. Monday night was the last session. I had a prior commitment (ok, fine, it was a candle party) so I wasn’t able to attend. And I’m really bummed because I missed out on hearing class reaction to Rob’s latest Pinot Noir.

Making prior arrangements with Mary the instructor, Rob anonymously shared a bottle of what might be his best wine so far. Although it’s taken a bit of repeated and creative questioning, I get the sense that the only complaint was that the wine isn’t for sale. One woman said it was the second best wine she’s ever tasted. The rest of the class was also enthusiastic, including the instructor who is a professional wine judge.

This fanfare came on the heels of Rob learning one of his Rieslings won a Silver Medal in a recent wine competition judged by real judges instead of the untrained yahoos (yours truly included) at our yokel county fair. Since Rob’s likely to be a little uncomfortable about me bragging like this about him, allow me to just say, “Cheers to Winemaker Rob!!”

As for me, well, my story is one of those God Bless the Internet things. And please bear with me cuz it’s another llama story.

Remember my February 29th posting about a llovely llama named Rojo and how he’s becoming a local rock star? Well, imagine my euphoria when I got an email on Monday from one of Rojo’s people. An extraordinarily nice woman named Lori wrote me to say that just for fun, she had done a Google search on “Rojo the llama" and came across my blogging love letters to her beloved family member. An email conversation ensued, culminating in my being invited to join Lori and Rojo at one of their volunteer visits to a local convalescent home.

To say I came out of my skin, nearly fell off the couch, smiled till my cheekbones hurt, and giggled spontaneously throughout the day would all be somewhat understating my excitement at this opportunity.

So yesterday, trying desperately to contain myself and not appear to be a llama stalker, I got to spend an hour helping Lori and Rojo bring some light and happiness to about 30 people dealing with any number of physical or cognitive issues. And you know what? As awesome as it was to spend time with my favorite llama in the whole wide world, it was even more incredible to spend time helping him do something so meaningful. Yes, maybe he’s just a llama, and maybe I’m nuts, but to see everyone react to him, including the nursing staff, was simply spectacular.

One man named George was Mr. Smiley and had a lot of fun feeding Rojo some treats. After we left George’s room, the staff commented that George was actually Mr. Grumpy and never really smiled at all. Another man, who was unable to speak or hold his hand up to Rojo without help, clearly attempted to speak as he was petting Rojo. A young high schooler who was a new volunteer on staff had eyes almost as big as Rojo’s as she followed us around and snuck pets and strokes in when she could.

The funniest moment was when Lori, Rojo, and I entered a room and a nurse screeched, “Oh my gosh, it’s a REAL llama!!” She had heard rumors of a llama visiting but thought it had to be someone in costume or something. The nurse giggled very nervously as she cowered between a curtain and bedrail, asking “Can they smell fear??” She hopped and danced behind a service table to get a more comfortable distance from Rojo. As she was standing, eyes and mouth gaping, I told her that if she decided to pet Rojo, she would find him to be very soft. She mulled this over for a few seconds and then bravely tested Rojo’s back as if it were a hot burner. “WOW – he IS soft!” Before we left that room, the nurse was smiling big as she pet Rojo’s furry neck.

Obviously, I could go on and on. And some might think I already have. But, truly, what an experience. Rojo is as calm and patient and trained and professional as any guide dog. It really was an honor to be there with him and Lori as they brightened the day for so many people.

And the bestest part? I have been invited to do this all again!! Yes, Lori has very graciously invited me to help her and Rojo on future visits around the county. So today, just call me Junior Assistant Llama Handler in Training. Whoo hoo!!!!

And God bless the Internet.

OK, I WAS sort of embarrassed about liking “Safety Dance”

Is the worst embarrassment the type when you should be embarrassed but you aren’t cuz you don’t realize what you are doing is embarrassing?

Just checking the “news” on Yahoo a bit ago, I came across this impossible-to-resist breaking news headline: ‘80s playlist you’re ashamed to like.

So I eagerly clicked on it, expecting to see Cruel Summer by Bananarama, Caribbean Queen by Billy Ocean, Point of No Return by Expose, the one-hit-wonder We Don’t Have to Take Our Clothes Off to Have Fun by Jermaine Stewart.

Instead, I found my iPod’s playlist. And a recap of most of the concerts I went to in high school. And nostalgic images of most of the cassettes I bought at Tower and Warehouse Records with the money I made from tutoring.

Most confusing was seeing my all-time favorite ‘80s song on the list: Talk Talk’s It’s My Life. I also didn’t understand why OMD or Scritti Politti or Roxy Music or Depeche Mode are embarrassing. Embarrassing? No, I’m quite sure I was WAY cool for openly liking that music then. Absolutely certain of it. In fact, I think I’m cool for liking it now. Further, I think I will be downright edgy in 50 years when I’m listening to Yaz in the nursing home once I get my hearing aids in. (This is especially hysterical if you know their song Bad Connection. See how cool I am??)

And fine, yes, I have every one of those songs in the third paragraph on my iPod, too.

Just call me Marlin

It’s very common to look out the windows around Woodhaven and see a bit of wildlife. Bunnies and deer are most common. So much so that we have gone to moderate lengths to discourage them from dining on our roses, tulips, corn, lettuce, tomatoes, peas, and of course, grapes. Coyotes also make frequent appearances, howling and trotting from one side of the yard to the next. Funny, there seems to be an inverse relationship between the number of bunnies versus coyotes. Last year was a bunny year. This year is shaping up to be a coyote year.

A couple years ago, we saw a bobcat a few times. It was gorgeous. We’ve also found bear droppings (“skat” to you more rugged people). Not quite so gorgeous. And our neighbor spotted a cougar on our driveway not long after we moved in. So, yes, when I take my walks about, I do carry pepper spray and try to remember to look large and intimidating. It’s obviously working since I have yet to encounter a bear or a cougar on my walks down to visit Licking Cow.

This week, I’ve been feeling like I need to be wearing a long yellow skirt with a blue puffy-sleeved blouse. Like Snow White in the forest, we’ve been visited by lots of critters recently. One molting fawn keeps eating our grass in the mid-afternoon. A coyote trotted quite intently from west to east the other day while Rob and I were Wiiing. Bunnies keep darting out across the driveway and lawn as we come and go. But a few days ago, while talking on the phone and looking out the window, I gasped.

There, floating so elegantly over our cleared hill was a bald eagle. We had heard rumors that a pair has a nest a few miles away. Bright white head and tail feathers, I had no doubt what I was looking at. It was so close, I could see its eyes. It glided in a big swoop around our property and then disappeared into some trees. It was truly breathtaking. God, I love it here.

Not quite Rent – thank goodness

One of the many cool things about living somewhat close to Portland is that we can occasionally get gussied up – with socks and everything – and go into The Big City for a sophisticated night of elegant dining and culture. Catching wind of a new theater production, we recently took in among the best of what Portland has to offer. I give you:

Tonya & Nancy: The Rock Opera

Now I’m not usually one for musicals. In fact, I hate them. On stage, on film, on TV. I just can’t take characters seriously when they suddenly break into song and everyone around them uncannily knows all the steps to a spontaneous dance routine. But Tonya & Nancy had two things going for it which gave me hope. First, it was an opera; therefore, I expected the plot to be sung, not interrupted by song. Second, I assumed it was not meant to be taken seriously. Both turned out to be deliciously true.

My bottom-line review: Simply fabulous! I loved it! A must see!!

The music was boppy, the acting was better than expected, the singing was only occasionally glass-shatteringly shrill, and the “skating” across the stage in Reeboks was surprisingly elegant. I’d say “Tonya” had the best singing voice but “Jeff Gilloly” best captured his namesake, especially in his orange prison jumpsuit. The same actress played both Tonya’s mom as well as Nancy’s mom. It was truly remarkable how she seamlessly transformed from a doting legally blind mother of an ice princess to a hairbrush wielding “Whip her butt or I’ll whip you” mama of a hard-knocks kid from Clackamas, sometimes with just a 180 degree turn.

The music was lead by a conductor who looked like a cross between Robert Smith of The Cure and Sideshow Bob from the Simpsons. His blue floppy spiky hair was simply mesmerizing. “Bob” conducted 30 songs during the opera, among them: Low Rent Trailer Park, Why Me?, The Laces Broke, and my favorite: When You Wake Up Sleeping in Your Car in Estacada.

As the story unfolded I was completely unprepared to feel sorry for Tonya. And yet, I did. Since she is a local girl, I guess I should have expected her to be portrayed as a sympathetic character. Poor thing had so much going against her. No love, no support, weak laces. I actually almost felt bad by the end that I went sightseeing in search of her house last year after I nabbed her address from a publicly released 911 call (see May 25, 2007 post). Almost.

I was also unprepared for the woman sitting next to me to whip out her opera glasses. I did a double-take and confirmed she was indeed trying to get a closer look at the Greek chorus of media and paparazzi. This was rather perplexing since we were in Row 7 of a 10 row theater. I concluded my seat mate must have High Definition at home and was accustomed to seeing pores.

As we left the theater, I overheard perhaps the best review of the opera. Said one 45ish hipster to his friends: “Oh my word! Wouldn’t that translate well to a cheesy mockumentary?”

Personally, I don’t think any translation is necessary.

The ones about the WALK sign and the umbrellas are very true

I'm not certain that Mr. Foxworthy really did originate this list. I do know that the first time I saw it, I was in a local pizza place about 6 months after we moved here. I was mostly baffled, a good part amused, and slightly concerned.

Now that I appropriately sport webbed feet, I'd say I "get" 90% of these. But, I know a few are absolutely not indigenous to the Pacific Northwest.

The Pacific Northwest According To Jeff Foxworthy

1. You know the state flower (Mildew).
2. You feel guilty throwing aluminum cans or paper in the trash.
3. Use the statement 'sun break' and know what it means.
4. You know more than 10 ways to order coffee.
5. You know more people who own boats than air conditioners.
6. You feel overdressed wearing a suit to a nice restaurant.
7. You stand on a deserted corner in the rain waiting for the 'WALK' signal.
8. You consider that if it has no snow or has not recently erupted, it's not a real mountain.
9. You can taste the difference between Starbucks, Seattle's Best, and Veneto's, & nbsp
10. You know the difference between Chinook, Coho and Sockeye salmon.
11. You know how to pronounce Sequim, Puyallup, Issaquah, Oregon, Yakima and Willamette.
12. You consider swimming an indoor sport.
13. You can tell the difference between Japanese, Chinese and Thai food.
14. In winter, you go to work in the dark and come home in the dark while only working eight-hour days.
15. You never go camping without waterproof matches and a poncho.
16. You are not fazed by 'Today's forecast: showers followed by rain,' and 'Tomorrow's forecast: rain followed by showers.'
17. You have no concept of humidity with out precipitation.
18. You know that Boring is a town in Oregon and not just a state of mind.
19. You can point to at least two volcanoes, even if you cannot see through the cloud cover.
20. You notice, 'The mountain is out' when it is a pretty day and you can actually see it.
21. You put on your shorts when the temperature gets above 50, but still wear your hiking boots and parka.
22. You switch to your sandals when it gets about 60, but keep the socks on.
23. You have actually used your mountain bike on a mountain.
24. You think people who use umbrellas are either wimps or tourists.
25. You buy new sunglasses every year, because you cannot find the old ones after such a long time.
26. You measure distance in hours.
27. You often switch from 'heat' to 'a/c' in the same day.
28. You design your kid's Halloween costume to fit under a raincoat.
29. You know all the important seasons: Almost Winter, Winter, Still Raining (Spring), Road Construction (Summer), Deer & Elk season (Fall).
30. You actually understood these jokes and will probably forward them. {or post them on your blog}

At least cell coverage still sucks

It's a sad little day here at Woodhaven. Don't worry, we, the cat, and the grapevines are all fine. It's just that today we unfortunately discovered something that makes us feel a little less boondocky.

For the last four years, Rob and I rather enjoyed the fact that our house could not be found on any of the mapping websites. All of them relied on the same out-of-date satellite photo when Woodhaven and its neighbors were a cattle ranch. The photo - and therefore the mapping sites - showed an old cow path as our now paved road. Well, paved if you discount the potholes and gravel finale and the fact that the cows climbed a hill but our street doesn't. So whenever we gave directions, especially to contractors, we would happily warn: "Don't use Yahoo or Mapquest cuz you'll get lost. Call us when you are in town and we'll give you directions. If you wait until you get closer, your cell phone won't work."

And so it was last week when we scheduled a maintenance check on our heat pump. Imagine my unshowered surprise this morning when Chris rang our doorbell a half-hour early.

"Yeah, I expected to get lost! The installers told me that last year they got really lost. So I gave myself a lot of time."

"What map did you use?"

"The office printed out directions for me using Mapquest. It worked great!"

Chris was elated and I was deflated. After getting him oriented with our furnace, thermostat, and heat pump, I dashed to the couch to see if this unfortunate sign of yet more progress was true.

Mapquest. Yep, it works. Google Maps. Yep, it works, too. Yahoo Maps. Yeah, it works but it sends you a slightly different route on a different gravel road. But all of them will get you to Woodhaven without needing to phone ahead or pack a lunch.

For a few years now, we've told people we live out in the middle of nowhere, then turn left. I guess that's still true. I'm just bummed that you can now prove it on the Internet.

It will probably be held in late July

OH, Glorious Day 2.0!!!

And no, this doesn't mean my new Vista-ized laptop is complete. I'm now having issues with my digital camera not being recognized by Vista because Microsoft got rid of something called "Photo Transfer Protocol" in its "upgrade." Sounds so superfluous in the world of digital photography, doesn't it? Grrr. No, I have much better news to distract me from my Vista woes.

Remember back during the County Fair last August? Remember, in amongst eating my weight in cobbed corn and elephant ears, I spoke lovingly of Rojo the Llama? Remember how I swooned when I got to walk Rojo through an obstacle course? Remember how truly llovely I said Rojo was and how I remembered him from past fairs?

Well, I'm not the only one in love with Rojo.

Thanks to a recent newspaper article, I bounced in excitement as I was directed to this new website: Rojo Rocks!! I became unglued when I scrolled to the bottom of the home page and read "Invite Rojo to Make Your Next Event Special!"

I can hear all the "Rob, you're in trouble now!" even from here.

We are DEFINITELY having our Woodhaven Art & Wine Festival this year -- with a special guest! Rojo the Wine Caddy! I CAN'T WAIT!!

Starting to have MacEnvy...Or Not

Please allow me to vent for just a moment.

My trusty laptop is dying a slow but imminent death so we decided it was time to work on finding a new one. With Consumers Report predictably in hand, I ordered a lovely lightweight replacement a few weeks ago. I tracked its journey via UPS truck across the nation and excitedly opened the box last week, venturing into the time sink that is Setting Up a New Computer.

And this is where I will say: Microsoft is Evil. And Vista is Eviler.

I – and all of my software – was quite happy with XP but sadly, the only laptops available with XP these days are discontinued models with other issues. So I am now a Vista Victim. I have been working on this little project for about a week and I have had to download many megabytes of supposedly compatible drivers and patches and work-arounds. I have searched and relied heavily on message boards. I have been on the verge of literally tossing everything out my Windows and starting over with Mac. Indeed, had the height of my frustration not hit one morning at 1:30 and were I not living in a town that shuts down at 8:30 each night, I believe I would now be typing on a snazzy Appley keyboard in some sort of trendy edgy color.

But I am not one to easily give up. I know just enough computer stuff to think I can do this myself. I am stubborn and hearty. So I trudge mostly forward, cursing Mr. Gates along the way.

As of today, my Pilot is finally working but my desktop version of it is not nearly as pretty as it was on XP. In fact, the Vista interface looks rather beta-y. As of about 2:00am not long ago, my wireless print server finally found Vista from a distance. I’m still not sure what I did to finally get them talking to each other. And I’m not convinced they will continue being friends. It still feels fluky, this wireless printing capability. And my email, well, there was lots of spotty, techy, marginally useful posts on message boards to help me figure out how to work around a critical Outlook feature that was omitted from Vista’s new email upgrade in the name of security.

I had hoped that the fact that I had not heard much grousing about Vista in recent months meant that all the we’re-not-really-ready-but-we’ll-release-it-anyway glitches had been fixed. And perhaps they have. Perhaps it’s my fault to expect software and hardware that are less than 3 years old to be immediately compatible with the Bill’s new view of the future.

So onward I forge. Hopefully by the end of the week, I will have my new laptop comfortably up and running and I will be able to let go of the past. I really do hope so, as working off of two laptops simultaneously is getting rather tedious, not to mention confusing.

UPDATE as of 11:21pm:
Now that I've spent the last 2 hours trying in vain to figure out how in the world to get my old iPod to work on my new computer, I have concluded Apple is evil, too. In their efforts to protect the copyrights of the music industry, Apple has made it nearly impossible - or at best hugely time consuming and inconvenient - to transfer an iPod and its files from one computer to the next. Far as I've deduced, in between seething, is I can either go buy a 4 GB flash drive and crochet a blanket while I download and then upload all my music files, or I can download some meagerly reviewed shareware designed to solve this very vexing problem. Until I decide, at least I'm making progress on reloading my music back onto my horrifyingly empty iPod after iTunes on my new laptop so conveniently erased every last file from it.

Remind me again how technology makes our lives easier??

It's a small county after all

It was four years ago that Rob and I started searching for what eventually became Woodhaven. It took us about four months, including one false start, to find our perfect combination of house and property.

During those four months, we became life-long friends with Carol our Realtor, learned that Burgerville has Caffeine Free Diet Coke on tap, learned that too much Caffeine Free Diet Coke and intricate map reading while riding on country roads guarantees afternoon nausea, discovered pastures of buffalo, Brahma bulls, camels, goats, sheep, and of course, llamas, and by the end of it, toured at least 50 houses across about 100 square miles. So, Saturday’s coincidence really shouldn’t have been a surprise.

With rumors of sun and sweltering temps in the high 50s, Rob and I made plans to meet some folks at a park for lunch. We’ve known the couple for several months, mostly as acquaintances. In the course of the get-to-know-you chit chat, we asked what part of the county they live in. As they started to describe their area, Rob asked increasingly more detailed questions.

“You know, when we were looking for a house, I think we looked at one on your street.”

“Really? What did it look like?”

”It was on the corner, and the bedrooms looked like they had been painted by kids.”

“That’s our house!!!”

Yep, about four years ago, our new friends put their house on the market with a plan to downsize. Their two daughters had each chosen themes for their bedrooms and had painted an underwater scene and a skyscape on their walls. But, after several months on the market and no one willing to repaint, the family decided to stay put. Jogged by the colorful bedrooms, I instantly recalled the fantastic porch and the kitchen in the back that reminded me of one I knew in the late 1970s. Just as I was about to describe features of our new friends’ house to them in detail, I stopped short. How freaky it would be to have someone you’ve just met tell you all about your home and decorating style!

Even better than "Gigli"!

Last night as I stood in the excessively crowded waiting area of our town’s one Italian restaurant, I was grateful for the Valentine’s Day tradition Rob and I started years ago.

Every year, instead of going out and dining en masse with other annual romantics, Rob and I get a pizza, open a nice bottle of wine, and watch what we hope is the best worst movie of the previous year. If chosen correctly, the movie we watch is so horrible, it’s good. So awful, it’s hysterical. So ridiculous, we give it 5 stars on Netflix and totally mess up their algorithm for making recommendations based on previous ratings.

It inadvertently started back in 1994 when we rented “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” I count Paul Reuben’s (aka PeeWee Herman) dying scene among the best moments in modern cinema. The next year it was “Shakes the Clown.” It starred Bobcat Goldthwait as an alcoholic party clown. Florence Henderson had a cameo as a make-up smeared one-night stand. It only got more spectacular from there. Other favorites have been “Showgirls,” “Glitter,” and “White Chicks.” A couple purely awful selections were “Barb Wire,” “Baby Geniuses,” and “Pluto Nash.” Last night we really hit the jackpot. Yes, among our top 3 or 4 best Valentine’s Day Movie picks ever: “Balls of Fury.”

The general premise of the movie is a humiliatingly defeated Olympic hopeful returns 19 years later to help the FBI take down a powerful Chinese mafia guy. The sport in question? Ping pong.

The two best features of the movie, aside from the inspired plot line, are the creative casting and the rapid-fire one-liners that are pure gold when it comes to movie quotables.

In the line-up for Best Comedy Ensemble:

• George Lopez as the FBI guy.
• Kerri Kenney (Reno 911’s Wiegel) as a Reno Peppermill showgirl.
• Thomas Lennon (Reno 911’s Dangle) as the German arch nemesis from the 1988 Olympics.
• Aisha Tyler (from Talk Soup post-Skunk Boy) as eye candy and chief blowdarter.
• And pure genius: Christopher Walken as Feng, the Chinese mafia guy. Yes, Walken as a Chinese hitman. He delivers his lines in a heavy accent. Brooklyn, of course. And he dresses as something between Vegas Elvis and The Count from Sesame Street. Perhaps my favorite Walken moment: when he head-bops to the Taiko drums during the opening ceremonies of a to-the-death ping pong tournament.

Among the potent quotables:

“Ping pong. Or, as the Chinese say: Ping pong.”
“You killed him!” “Well duh, what part of ‘sudden death’ didn't you understand?”
“Less talkie-talkie, more ping-pong.”
“Maggie! Your temper brings dishonor to my happy mu-shu palace.”
“The joke's on you, pretty boy. It's not cologne, it's Lady Speed Stick.”
“Ping Pong is not the Macarena. It takes patience. She is like a fine, well-aged prostitute. It takes years to learn her tricks.”

We’ve already started our list of hopefuls for Valentine’s Day 2009. Hard to imagine “Meet the Spartans” or “Over Her Dead Body” will match the glory of “Balls of Fury.”

Cauc-you. Cauc-me. Cauc-us!

Rob and I weren’t sure what to expect yesterday as we drove further into the middle of nowhere to participate in a part of the election process that was brand new to us. We went caucusing!!

Washington state does not have political party registration. Instead, you are simply a registered voter. I like this since I really feel like I am a Woman Without a Party. I don’t nicely align with either the Democrats or the Republicans. I much prefer “Registered Voter.” It only makes me feel obligated to vote, not how to vote.

This blog here isn’t the forum for me to discuss my political views. Suffice it to say I’m not enamored by any of the candidates on either side. Although yesterday I signed up with and marginally participated in one party’s caucus, I wandered over to the other party just to peek for a while. Here are some observations:

• There were about ten times more Democrats caucusing than Republicans. This made sense since the Dems have a tight two-person race whereas it all seems about decided for the Republicans. Also, the way Washington’s primary works, the caucus is the only vote that counts for the Democrats; next week’s primary here is largely a waste of time for them (for the Republicans, the caucus counts 51% and the primary counts 49%).


• Perhaps because it mattered more to them, the Democrats were much better prepared for caucusing. They had professionally printed signs, the organizers had been trained, and there were plenty of handouts. I even saw several clipboards. If you know me, you know the love and respect I have for clipboards.


• The Republicans, presumably just going through the motions, seemed to be making stuff up on the fly. Both of their signs were handmade, written on the back of a local rep’s letterhead and taped on the wall with black electrical tape. There was only one copy of a key handout, and the two guys running the gig kept asking each other what they were supposed to be doing. Oh, and they were two of our local elected officials, instilling much confidence.


• Both caucuses had people organize themselves by precinct. There were 29 from our precinct in the Democrat caucus, nine in the Republican one.


• Inexplicably, the Republican caucus never got around to discussing candidates. They were too busy wringing their collective hands over proposed legislation to track livestock and later, some local issues involving property rights. The latter was brought up by a man proudly proclaiming to be the founder of a (the?) local militia. Militia!?!


• Over with the Democrats, our precinct decided to take over a hallway. They all stood in a circle and sort of like a group dance at a wedding, one person at a time stepped forward to say who they supported and why. At the end of each dance, I mean speech, like-minded supporters applauded.


• It was suddenly deja vu-y to hear Obama supporters call for a need for change, an ability to mobilize the youth vote, and the need for a new generation of leadership. It was just like 1992 Bill Clinton all over again.


• The fervor of views being expressed on both sides bordered on down right scary.


• If you are undecided, middle of the road, moderate in your views, or seeking to find answers, not give them…caucusers are not your people.


• Wranglers and Carhartts are bipartisan.

Although I am no closer today than I was yesterday to knowing whom I want to be our next President, I am very happy we went to the caucus. It was fun to lurk around and watch grass-roots politicizing in action. Rob found perhaps the best summary of our caucus experience in an Op-Ed piece in today’s local paper. Written by a guy who didn’t caucus yesterday because it was his day to pressure-wash the cat, John Laird said, “To miss a couple hours of cliché-driven, excruciatingly verbose political yammering is regrettable.”

Sounds to me like John was there after all.

Redneck moments

We were wandering around Albertsons the other day, buying food stuffs for last weekend's Super Bowl. As we passed the Seafood Marketplace, two men caught my eye. One was wearing full hunting-style camo -- shirt, jacket, pants, and hat. The other was wearing a Davy Crockett-style coonskin cap, complete with fuzzy tail. Although we often see Rural Fashion in town, I have to admit these guys stood out more than the average local. And yes, I realize I said camo instead of camouflage. What can I say, I’m assimilating.

Later, at home, Rob and I watched two episodes of what Rob has now deemed The Greatest Show on Television. Thanks to an alert from brother Rick, we are now Tivo-ing all 6 episodes of CMT’s “My Big Redneck Wedding,” hosted by Tom Arnold. Included in the two viewings so far: an auction at the reception (in my opinion much more lively and inclusive than a Money Dance); acquisition of a wedding-eve Wrangler tattoo as a gift to the bride; a reception chow-line featuring a choice between chicken or squirrel; a western saloon-style wedding dress rented from a costume store; and pieces of wedding cake in the shape of horse manure. Country Music channel – check your local listings.

SuperAd Picks

I actually DO watch the game, when I'm not busy making sure everyone has beverages and sufficient Bagel Bites. But, well, the Super Bowl is really as much about the advertising as it is about the football. So... here are my picks for the Four Best Ads in Super Bowl XLII (click on title to watch ad):

Number 4:
Sobe Life Water: I LOVED the lizards doing the Thriller Zombie dance. Why exactly Naomi Campbell was involved, I don't know. Ok, she's got great legs but a dancer she is not, even in a mini-dress.

Number 3:
T-Mobile. Featuring Charles Barkley and some guy named Dwayne. I assume Dwayne is a well-known basketball player of some sort. My favorite line in the ad: when Chuck asks Dwayne, "Do you like popsicles?" I never liked Chuck all that much. Now I see him as backyard BBQ as potato salad and canned beer.

Number 2:
Coke. Wow, James Carville hasn't aged well. Makes me wonder how Mary Matalin is looking these days. Nevertheless, I loved the mini-mancation Jim and Bill Frist take around Washington DC. Favorite laugh-out-loud moment: Jim and Bill riding Segways.

Number 1:
Diet Pepsi Max. It was the first ad I laughed out loud at and none ended up topping it. LOVED the head bobbing a la "Night at the Roxbury." Best part: cameoed Chris Kattan at the end exasperating,"STOP IT!"

Anyone else notice the numerous throwbacks to the '80s during this year's Super Bowl? I do believe this means my generation is finally wielding power as Account Executives in high-powered ad agencies. Get ready to see references to 99 Red Luftballoons, Square Pegs, Weeble Wobbles, Missile Command, MTV's Martha Quinn, and Jelly shoes!