Fermented Fur

Nothing Says "Festive" Like a Giant, Balding Boar's Head

2009-12-13T17:04:00.008-06:00

Before what I'm about to share will make any sense, you have to be familiar with The Bloggess (Jenny Lawson) and the day she met - and was denied - James Garfield. Because Victor (Mr. Bloggess) hates patriotism and giant, alopecic, were-bear-boar heads. And then you have to read the post in which Victor has a change of heart - or is perhaps just worn into submission - and brings James Garfield to his rightful home.

I understand the concept of seeing something and just knowing you have to have it. It happens to me from time to time, and there's no fighting it. Don't even bother. When I decorate my Writing Lair, it will be full of all kinds of things like that. I'm currently obsessed with the butcher knife chandelier I saw last year at the Hell's Kitchen in Duluth.

(There are no words to accurately describe the magnitude of the fantabulousness, or how happy this stab-tastic decorative accent makes me.)

Since I'm sure they aren't willing to part with it, I'm going to have to make my own. In the near future, I'm going to start scavenging through antique stores for a suitable chandelier and a whole bunch of old, well-worn, scary-stabby-looking knives. Bonus points if they have unidentifiable stains.

When I discovered that The Bloggess was offering to send holiday cards featuring James Garfield to a limited number of faithful readers, I didn't even hesitate. "Hi Jenny, it's me. Here's my address. Please send James Garfield card immediately if not sooner. Love, Lori." Or something like that.

I got my card this week. It is the only holiday card I'm putting up, so if you were thinking of sending me one, save yourself a stamp. My Grinch is holding James Garfield, and he's so huge in his awesomeness that there's not room for any more cards.

(James Garfield, with his metaphorical halls most creatively bedecked.)

(And... this is exactly the kind of card The Bloggess would create. Exactly.)

(Do not try to burgle my card. Grinch is guarding it, and he will mess you up. This is the pre-heart-growing-in-size Grinch. You know, when he was still all Grinchy and cool.)

No, I did not send cards this year. Again. Tom sent some to his people, but until I have my butcher knife chandelier, which I can decorate with tinsel and broken ornaments and make my own James-Garfield-worthy card, I don't see much point.

Don't Tell Me This Is Impossible. Really.

2009-12-13T11:30:00.001-06:00

Must. Formulate. Plan.

This needs to be a brilliant, effective, possibly miraculous plan. It must be stunning in its simplicity, and produce quick and impressive results. It should also require little to no effort for reasons that will soon become clear, if you haven't figured it out already.

(Hint: I am incredibly lazy.*)

(*Oops. Guess that's not exactly a hint. More like the answer. You're welcome.)

I need to figure out how to lose twenty pounds without A) any sort of physical activity at all, and B) having to give up any of the foods that make my life worth living (which is most of them).

"A" should be obvious. There are very few reasons worthy of working up a sweat. I can only think of one. Well, maybe two, if you count running from zombies. Assuming I would run. But zombies kind of shamble, so if I did run I wouldn't have to run very fast and probably wouldn't even perspire.

"B" should also be obvious, if you know me even slightly. I am not at all good at sacrifice, willpower, or self-deprivation. I'm more like "Immediate Gratification Girl." If I can either lose a few pounds over the next couple of weeks or eat the sandwich right now, I'm totally eating the sandwich now. Followed by a cookie. And then possibly another sandwich.

I had gastric bypass surgery eight years ago, and haven't had to worry about my weight in all that time. But over the past year or so, the number on the scale has crept a bit above my ideal range... and since I stopped smoking a month ago, it's crept up even more. My surgically reduced tummy-pouch's capacity is probably more than it should be.

But I love what I love. I love carbs.

I've never met a bread I didn't like. (Pausing to consider if I've ever tasted a bread that was icky... Nope. All delicious.)

I love potatoes and pastas. I love salty, greasy and crunchy. I love Hostess Cupcakes and Tim Tam cookies.

I do love vegetables, too, which you would think would be healthy... but they'll probably be smothered in butter or salad dressing. And not the fat-free kind. The blue cheese dressing I have in the refrigerator is something like 160 calories per serving, and 150 of those are fat calories. Because fat calories taste a million times better than non-fat calories.

I'm not willing to give up any of these things. But I really would like to lose twenty pounds.

Now, I could start smoking again. All that coughing probably counted for some abdominal crunches or something. And emphysema and cancer are sort of vague, theoretical, sometime-in-the-future threats, right? But fat/thin, I can see that right now.

However, everybody seems pretty happy and supportive, offering strong endorsements and positive reinforcement for the whole "no-smoking" thing. Plus, I'm not actively poisoning Tom and the dogs anymore. So there's that.

Which means I can't go back to smoking. I suspect that would not be a popular decision.

Maybe it would help if people gave me tangible forms of positive reinforcement to keep me in the ranks of the non-smokers. (i.e. "gifts") (or "rewards") (or "bribes") (Call them whatever you want, as long as they are plentiful.) That would fulfill my immediate gratification needs and not require smoking. Cash is good. Or clean my house. Just a suggestion.

Thinking should burn more calories. I'm always busy in the ol' noggin. My brain is in really, really good shape. It's like the Brain Triathlon up there. But the size of your jeans is not determined by the activity in your brain, but by the magnitude of your ass.

Which is a stupid way to run a universe.

I'm still perplexed. How am I going to lose twenty pounds without exertion or sacrifice? I suppose I should go get another cup of coffee and a Tim Tam and think about it some more.

I'm sure if I think hard enough, I'll burn off the calories in the cookie.

A Dear Minnesota Letter

2009-12-12T12:32:00.006-06:00

Dear Minnesota,

We've been together 13 years now, and there have been some good times. But after much soul-searching, I've been forced to admit that it's just not working out. I'm afraid I'm going to have to end it.

I'd like to say "It's not you, it's me," but truthfully... it's mostly you.

I started with the best intentions. We were going to share so much, I was sure I'd love every marvelous inch of you, and I was going to spend the rest of my life with you. But it turned out that you weren't at all what I thought you would be. As hard as I've tried to make it work, I deserve to be happy. And it's unrealistic to expect you to change.

You have a lot of great qualities, truly. You have scenic rivers and zillions of square miles of unspoiled wilderness. You have wolves and bears and moose and eagles. I've actually only seen the eagles, but that's not totally your fault. I haven't been able to invest the time required to fully experience all you have to offer. Tom and I thought, when we moved here in 1996, that we'd spend several weeks and numerous long weekends every year exploring the natural wonders and plentiful wildlife. But we found ourselves working (and working and working...) and unable to find the time.

Your public relations campaign is also a bit misleading. People who haven't lived here think you're cold and snowy, sure... but that's only partly right. There's really not all that much snow. Not that I'm a huge snow fan, but I do enjoy my seasons. But I'd rather have more snow if you could give up the "not rising above freezing from November to March" thing. And it's not just "below freezing." Lots of that time is "below zero." And really, I don't see why we even measure temperatures below zero. Let's just call it what it is. "Too freakin' cold to go outside without a parka worthy of an Everest expedition." For, like, half the year.

I can't do it anymore.

You have made many significant contributions to my life, and I don't want to fail to recognize that. Since getting to know you, I discovered golden retriever rescue and Great Pyrenees rescue. If not for you, I'd never have had Sprocket, Sassafras, Gulliver, Seko, Ruxpin, Darwin, Brody, or Ozark. I never would have met T, Jess, Sam, Steph, and many other wonderful people.

Tom and I never would have had the incredible vacations up north of Ely on Big Lake, with Ripley and Sprocket running and swimming and rolling in the pine needles. We never would have had those precious times on the island in Gunn Lake with our Sprocket in the last year of his life. Sprocket sure loved it up there.

And how I love the North Shore of Lake Superior! Tom and I had the perfect 25th anniversary last year at the cabin at the Grand Superior Lodge, with our re-commitment ceremony by a shaman, and dancing by the campfire on the rocky beach.

Ryan would never have met Rachel, either, and we're all extremely happy that he did. He also might not have followed the course of study he did, and have the excellent job that he's found. They wouldn't have Odin and their Darwin, either, and they're such great dog-parents, and I'm so glad these two little puppers have them.

But I can't do this any more. I can't have numb feet from October to May. I can't look at my beautiful pool hidden under a black tarp for 3/4 of the year. I can't think of all the scenic natural wonders that are a short drive away, knowing I can't get away from my day-to-day life enough to enjoy them.

So I have to leave you. It's going to take a while for me to get all my shit together and get out. There's some financial stuff we have to take care of, and then we'll have to sell the house, but I wanted to let you know so you can get used to the idea. I know you'll be fine without me, eventually. I believe Ohio will make me happier in the long run. I'll still have seasons, but winter won't be eight months long. I'll have sassafras trees again, and lightning bugs. I could have a peach tree if I wanted, and I can grow roses that will actually survive from one summer to the next. I'll have to pull out the Zero Xposure parka a few times a year, instead of living in it from December to March.

I'll be able to live in the little slice of paradise that I find, rather than knowing it's here, but just out of my reach. I can't live waiting for "vacation time," I need to surround myself with what makes me happy every day. I'm getting too old to keep talking about "someday." I need to make someday now, every day, for as long as I can.

I hope you understand, and can move on. You will always, always have a very special place in my heart. I hope we can be friends, because I might want to visit from time to time, but my future lies elsewhere.

Fondly,
Lori

It Took Forever To Get One Decent Picture But Here It Is

2009-12-10T14:00:00.004-06:00

I'm lacking the time, motivation, and material to write an actual post, but Darwin did get groomed today... Brody got groomed last week, and Ozark is lookin' pretty darned good, so I figured I'd better get a picture while it lasts. Because it will not last.

So, pictured above, are Darwin, Brody and Ozark, out of the more convenient BroZarkWin (tm) order. I tried to get them to line up appropriately, but honestly I was lucky to get them all in the same room, sitting, and in one frame, without worrying about positioning them in any particular predetermined formation. I'd park them, someone would move. I'd re-park them, and Brody would decide to sniff Darwin. (He just got back from the groomer's, so he smells funny. Apparently.) I'd get them all sitting again, and Darwin would rush the camera. Because the photographer (me) had treats. Hence their rapt expressions. Then while I was trying to get Brody to stop sniffing Darwin, Ozark would get bored and wander off.

I'm exhausted.

The Strangeness Continues

2009-12-03T14:32:00.010-06:00

As I reported in Sunday's edition of Fermented Fur, something strange is going on. Recently, I have mysteriously found myself cleaning closets, and I ventured into Wal-Mart twice in one day, despite not having been there twice in the previous four to six months. Plus, I quit smoking 19 days ago, and I am eating everything in sight. I've developed a disturbingly intense relationship with Hostess Cupcakes. (Not those perverted Little Debbie's Creme-Filled Chocolate Cupcakes. That would be disgusting!)

I was getting nervous. But now... I'm outright terrified.

I was off work today, a fact that might be nearly irrelevant given the time I spent talking to the owner and two of our technicians... one of whom quit today. Oh, and let's not forget the "credit card terminal is broken and it's going to cost a ridiculous amount to take care of this" part of the program. Woo. Hoo. I had planned to sit on the Sofur (Don't act like you're surprised. We all know you're not.), crochet, read a bit, and maybe - maybe - pull everything off my bookcases, dust, and return the books in proper alphabetical and/or Dewey Decimal order. They've gotten a bit jumbled in recent months, and the library nerd in me is finding this to be a source of constant low-grade anxiety.

Instead, I decided I needed to make chili. As you know, I do not cook, yet I somehow have the savant-like ability to throw together an incredible pot of soup or chili. The catch is that no matter how much or little I try to make, it always ends up exactly filling my giant 9-quart stock pot. That's a lot of soup for two people.

So. On my day off, I got dressed, put on makeup (and a bra), and drove to SuperTarget... which I am aware costs marginally more than Wal-Mart, but it's closer, and makes me slightly less homicidal. I got tomato juice, tomato paste, Ro-Tel tomatoes, Hunt's diced tomatoes with chili seasoning, Bush's mild chili beans, a can of organic chili beans which also included black beans, chili seasoning, ground beef, ground buffalo, onion... I think that's it. Oh, wait, I also got some of these:

(How is it possible that I was unaware of these cookies until today? It says "Australia's Favorite Cookie." Aussie readers... is this true? And if so, why did you not inform me, given my recent lust for all things chocolate? I'm deeply disappointed.)

I also got pickles. But that was the end of the semi-normal part of this out-of-character trip to the store on my day off to buy ingredients to make something more or less from scratch. (Wow, when you look at it that way, there's nothing even semi-normal about any of that. Yet it gets worse. Much, much worse.)

I strolled back to the book section. Because... well, if you can't figure that out on your own, there's really no hope. I thought maybe I'd grab the John Sandford book that Tom has been wanting, and for which my name has not yet come up on the library's reserve list. Oddly, Target - which is a Minnesota-based corporation - does not have bestselling author John Sandford's books... and he lives in freakin' St. Paul. I smell some sort of publisher-vs-retail outlet feud, but the point is that I could not get the book.

But this all led me past the holiday department.

And they had these cute clear plastic star-shaped boxes of sparkly little ornaments. Ooooh... glitter.

I bought them. Along with ornament hooks and some sparkly-star garland.

(It's the multi-colored set. Some were shiny glass, some matte-frosted glass... and one half of the box was alllllll glittery ones.)

I honestly have no idea what came over me.

I came home and got the chili cookin', as well as fielding a couple more work-disaster-related calls... and then I ventured down to the Closet Under The Stairs where my 18" pre-lit fake Christmas tree lives. And I carried it upstairs.

Instead of just plopping it on top of the book case (It can't go in the bay window... not since Brody and Darwin moved in.), I actually took every old ornament off, along with the crystal-icicle garland. And I re-decorated it. From scratch. Using not only all but a couple of my old ornaments, but every one of the new SuperTarget ones. I did end up using my crystal icicle garland, because the little sparkly-silver-star one was kind of crappy.

I vow not to even bother with the stupid little tree every year. Then about a week before Christmas I cave, and spend all of four minutes getting it out and plugging it in. Here it is, a full 22 days till Christmas... and I have a tree up. Yes, it's 18" high. Yes, it's fake. Yes, it's still accompanied by my (much-beloved) Grinch and Max figures. But it's there.

(Ho-Ho-What-The-Hell???)

(Kind of lame picture of my favorite ornament. Drunk mousey on a Christmas-tree-shaped wine rack. That is so many kinds of awesome.)

There is something very, very wrong here, boys and girls. After my post on Sunday, Merely Me suggested this might all be a cleverly nefarious plot instigated by my husband. He gets clean closets, home-cooked meals, and some semblance of holiday cheer. Since the odds of this occurring naturally are essentially zero, he must be up to something. He's putting something in my relaxing adult beverages, perhaps. He's spiking my Hostess Cupcakes. I have to figure out how he's managing this, and put a stop to it immediately.

Unless, of course, today's slip into holiday-land had something to do with Target. They might (or might not) be piping some sort of holiday hallucinogens through the ventilation system. There could be subliminal messages in the store's sound system. "You feel overwhelmed with the holiday spirit... you will buy many, many presents... you will buy festive decorations with which to adorn your home... oh, and you need some of those Pepperidge Farm Tim Tams. They are Australia's Favorite Cookie."

Either way, this is not occurring naturally. I'm sure of that. I need to get to the bottom of this - and soon - or I'm going to start buying tinfoil-lined hats.

Oh, and I forgot to mention. I'm also "baking." Sort of. Technically I have frozen bread dough (two kinds) rising in a warm oven. I couldn't figure out why the loaf wasn't rising, concluded it could be because it's probably been in my freezer for a couple of years, and got a package of Texas roll dough out. I'm currently waiting to see if either of them will rise enough to bake before Tom goes home.

So, I'm going to go check on that... and eat some more chili.

Dogapalooza

2009-12-02T18:23:00.011-06:00

Sometimes I get ideas of topics for blog posts, but by the time I sit down to write, I can't remember what they were. Lately, I've been busy trying to resist the urges to smoke (not so hard) or to clean closets. You'd think it would be easy to not clean closets... but in some Bizarro-World, it's been harder than I would have guessed. Yet I'm persevering. However, I think tomorrow might be "pull all the books off my four bookcases, dust everything, sort and reorganize books, return to shelves in proper alphabetical and/or Dewey Decimal order" day. Because my life is just that exciting, and I am that big a book nerd. I might actually have a difficult time sleeping tonight.

I've been a bit lax in keeping up with stories about BroZarkWin (tm). You'll have to wait a week or so for significant updates on Darwin, because at the moment he remains an enormous mess, pretty dirty, undercoat all clumped, and varying amounts of yard debris tangled in his tail and undercarriage. His day is coming, though... he has an appointment at Little Suzie's next Thursday. If we don't somehow (miraculously) manage to bath, brush, de-mat, and de-undercoat him this weekend, I'll go pawn a kidney or something and let the pro handle it. They do such an awesome job with my large, unruly, ridiculously-thick-coated dogs.

Today, we'll focus on the "Bro" and "Zark" portions of BroZarkWin (tm). First, some photos of Brody taken yesterday, the minute I got him home from Little Suzie's. Thus far, he has been kept in the pool area when he goes outside. I know that when he does go out in the yard, all the leaves and twigs will be drawn instantly to his beautiful, clean, fluffy tail, and I simply can't bear the thought. Behold the Beautifulness that is Brody!

(See my many, many rear dew claws? I have a total of 22 toes, with 23.5 toenails. It's complicated. But awesome.)

Ozark has been busy, too. He goes to work with me at least twice a week. Besides keeping me company, he has become Chief Puppy-Sitter. At 114 pounds and 10 years old, Ozark is extremely patient, gentle, and indulgent with puppies. When they get a bit bigger, he starts to get nervous about them. But when they're small, like little 11-pound, 5 month old Murphy, a mini Australian Shepherd owned by Dr. White, he loves them.

(Happy much?)

And, for the Grand Finale... a couple of video clips I shot today! Try not to smile... I dare you!

Has Something Gone Afoul?

2009-11-29T12:19:00.003-06:00

I have been doing some extremely uncharacteristic things, and it's starting to worry me. If this continues, I'm going to be asking one of you to examine the back of my neck for signs that anything has been implanted or injected in such a way as to tamper with my brain.

Twice in the past week I have gone into some sort of fugue state and found myself... cleaning closets. Seriously. I know you're shocked. I, who steadfastly refuses to clean up visible messes, was actually sorting through thirteen years of accumulated mess in a place that I can't even see. And when I say "can't even see," I'm not exaggerating. These closets were so full - overflowing, actually - that the doors were stressed to the point of bursting and couldn't slide on their tracks anymore.

Closet #1 yielded several bags of trash, two bags of clothes for Goodwill, and two or three bags of craft supplies (because I'm big on ideas and fail utterly at completion).

I found all kinds of cool things, the first of which was a red and black vampire cape, which I wore throughout the rest of the project. I figured if I was going to pretend to be someone who cleans things, I could pretend to be a vampire who cleans things.

I also found a pair of black suede oxfords that I have absolutely no recollection of ever owning, a bag of seashells we gathered on our last trip to the beach in 1989, a rock shaped like a penis (no idea where I found that, or when), my religion textbook from my senior year in high school, a purse containing a three year old energy bar, and a Trixie Belden mystery (way cooler than Nancy Drew).

This process was repeated yesterday with the other bedroom closet. This time, one bag of craft stuff, five bags of stuff for Goodwill, and one full trash bin out in the driveway. I found about eight assorted duffel bags and/or carry-ons (Where the hell did I get all these, and why do I have them??? I don't even go anywhere!), a bridesmaid gown, two whole bags' worth of sheets (including water bed sheets, and we haven't had a water bed for ten years), a nun's habit (from Halloween, circa 1994) (Tom was a demon monk), and two pairs of black dress shoes (including some cute strappy sandals that I would swear I'd never seen before). I guess every time I need black shoes I say, "I don't have any," and go buy a pair. I then wear them, throw them in the closet, and forget they ever existed.

The other unusual thing I did happened yesterday. I went to Wal-Mart. Twice. In one day.

Wal-Mart.

Twice.

In one day.

I don't think I'd been to Wal-Mart twice in the last four months. Probably longer. Because I loathe Wal-Mart. Not so much for the sprawling, corporation-that-ate-the-world reasons, but because it always seems to be full of screamy little snot-machines (children). Plus, I've seen the People of Wal-Mart website, and it's disgusting, and I don't have a camera in my phone, and I'd hate to run into someone worthy of being depicted on the site and not be able to do anything about it.

Wal-Mart is conveniently located two miles from my house. Super Target, however, is located an even more convenient quarter mile away. Plus, their stuff is a teeny bit nicer. Tom always complains that I pay more at Super Target, but as far as I'm concerned, it's worth it. Besides being more conveniently located and having a slightly higher quality of crap, the bratty-child quotient is considerably lower. Totally worth it. I mean, I'm paying a few cents more for discount junk... not shopping the designer collections at Neiman Marcus. Which is fine, because a $20 pair of shoes or a $500 pair of shoes... I can't tell the difference, and I'm just going to throw them in the closet and forget I own them anyway.

Yesterday, though, I needed craft supplies - specifically yarn. Super Target does not have yarn. The nearest craft store is 15 miles away. So... Wal-Mart.

To begin with, they've rearranged the interior of the store. I do not approve. The vitamins weren't where they used to be, resulting in my not buying my sublingual B-12. The seasonal junk is where the pet supplies used to be. The craft stuff is where the shoes used to be. I have no idea where the shoes are now. Or the books. It was all very unsettling and disorienting. My "get in and get the hell out" strategy was destroyed. I was there. For. Ever.

By the time I left, I had obtained mascara, black fishnet thigh-highs (another thing Super Target doesn't have), 8 balls of 100% cotton yarn, a purple and black ruffled Miley Cyrus mini-dress (shut up, I liked it, it's terribly cute, and I can wear whatever I want as long as I do not subject the general public to it), turquoise sweat pants, a turquoise/green/white print long-sleeve shirt, and a crochet pattern book.

Except I left the crochet pattern book in the cart and consequently never checked it out. I discovered this while unloading the bags at home. In disgust, I went to my craft-basket (which was much easier now that I've cleaned the closet and only have a craft basket instead of sixteen bags of tangled, disorganized crap) and got out all my patterns. I found a couple of patterns that would be acceptable... but both of them required more yarn than I'd bought.

I either needed 2 more balls of yarn or the pattern book containing the project I'd planned, and which required the amount of yarn I'd actually purchased. Back in the car. Back to Wal-Mart.

I got both the pattern book and the extra yarn, because no way in hell was I going to take the risk of having to go back a third time.

In between trips to Wal-Mart, I also went to the library. This was the only typical thing about the entire day. The scariest part is that this all happened before noon. I'm usually still on the Sofur drinking coffee at noon.

If I get any more Stepford-y or begin to exhibit any additional odd behaviors, please investigate. I'll tell you I'm fine, but that's what the person who has been invaded by the pod people always says. Don't believe me. I'll be lying. It shall be your duty to liberate me from my crafty, cleany, Wal-Mart shopping hell and allow me to return to my peaceful, slovenly, lazy, filth-filled existence.

Seriously, it will all be up to you. Tom isn't going to do a damned thing about it till I finish all the closets, and by then it will be too late.

Food Foto Festival

2009-11-24T16:25:00.020-06:00

It's been ten days since I quit smoking.

Hold your applause. It's really not that big of a deal. It hasn't been that hard. I'd like to throw myself on the ground and press the back of my hand to my forehead in a stunningly dramatic fashion, and tell you that every moment has been an unimaginable agony, and the only way you could possibly help me to feel better would be to clean my house or groom my dogs. For free, of course. Alas, this is not the case. I simply put out the last cigarette in the pack, exhaled a final toxic cloud into the air, poisoned my husband and dogs in a second-hand manner one last time, and didn't buy another pack.

It's harder at work. Peer pressure. I was always susceptible to peer pressure. (That's why I was always such a ~~slut~~ good student in school. Because all my friends were such ~~sluts~~ good students.) But at home it's not that difficult. Would I like a cigarette right now? Oh, you better believe it. But I don't need it.

Because I'm too busy eating. Which probably isn't good.

It's not much of a secret... smoking is an oral fixation, and I'm a girl who is prone to oral fixations. Yeah, I know. There are a whole bunch of jokes you're just itching to unleash. And most of them probably apply. Just remember that, as much as I tend to over-share, I do try to keep the blog more or less in PG-13-Land most of the time. But you can email me your jokes and one-liners if you want, because I'm sure they're hilarious. I'll probably steal them and use them later.

So, since I'm not smoking, I'm eating. More than usual.

Remember, eight years ago I had gastric bypass surgery. I was a size 22.

(Were there some of you who never saw this size 22 pre-op picture? If so, enjoy. I can show you this now. But back then it was a source of deep, painful, devastating humiliation.)

A year and a half later, I was a size 2.

(A little too skinny. I kind of look like a bobble-head. Actually, this picture is only 14 months after surgery.)

A year after that, I was a size 4, and stayed there till about a year and a half ago, when I moved up to a 6. Lately, I've been a 6-But-In-Denial-And-Should-Probably-Admit-It-And-Buy-An-8-Already. But as long as I have a single pair of size 6 jeans that will zip, I'm a 6.

This might not last long.

Know what happens when I am A) Bored, B) Hungry, and C) On Day 10 as a non-smoker? And I foolishly wander into the grocery store?

First, there's the "Savory":

(Mmmm... seasoned steak fries, two kinds of pickles, sharp cheddar, black bean enchiladas...)

Then there's the "Sweet":

(Enough sugar to put me into a diabetic coma. And I am not even diabetic. Yet.)

Okay, in the "Savory" category, the peas and the frozen egg noodles are technically for Thanksgiving. Which consists of me, Tom, a ridiculously large turkey, stuffing, the peas and noodles - not mixed together - mashed potato flakes, jars of gravy, pre-made green bean casserole, a can of sweet potatoes (for me) and frozen rolls. We are not going out to dinner because this way we have leftovers. I will stand at the refrigerator and eat cold stuffing directly from the Gladware container until it is gone. It's the only thing I make myself, and I can never, ever get enough carbs. Carboliciousness.

In the "Sweet" category, the marshmallow and butterscotch topping is to go on chocolate ice cream already in the freezer. The whipped cream is for the ice cream, too, and for the frozen pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving. (Nobody will be huffing the nitrous oxide from the can, because I saw this on the Today Show recently, and also on Intervention, and those people are terrifying and pathetic.)

One of the containers of flavored coffee creamer is for work. But I'm the only one there who will be drinking it.

The Hostess Cupcakes are already gone. But... as a public service, because I love, love, love you all so much, I have photographed a tutorial on the correct way to eat a Hostess Cupcake. (I mentioned I was bored, right? And it is still a wee bit too early to start drinking.)

First, you will notice that I purchased actual, authentic Hostess Cupcakes. Anything else is an abomination. If you don't agree, there's nothing I can do to help you. Little Debbie cupcakes... cause Swine Flu. I'm pretty sure.

(Visual aid: The REAL Hostess Cupcakes, as opposed to "Creme Filled Chocolate Cupcakes of Death" peddled by Little Debbie, the Snack Food Whore. Those little squiggles on the top ain't foolin' anybody, bitch.)

(Authentic twin pack of non-swine-flu-infested REAL Hostess Cupcakes)

First, examine the cupcake:

See all the chocolaty frosting that has oozed over the edge of the cupcake, and how delicious it looks? That's your first target. Nibble around the side of the cupcake, savoring the rich deliciosity. Your cupcake should then look like this:

Now, you want to save that remaining frosting and the delightful squiggle on the top, so you now must proceed to the bottom of the cake. Eat the cakey part off the bottom, so you can determine the exact quantity and location of the creamy center, as below:

And another view, showing the still-intact surface frosting and trademark squiggle:

Next is a fun part. You may now eat a layer consisting of all the cake and frosting around the circumference of the remaining wafer of cupcake. You may not, however, encroach upon the creamy center, or the small area of cake/frosting/squiggle directly beneath it. Mmm, Mmmm! This will leave you with something resembling this:

At this point, you get the extreme pleasure of popping that creamilicious, chocolate-frosted nugget directly into your mouth and licking all the crumbs, melted frosting and residual cream off your fingers. Cupcake Nirvana!

Now you must repeat the process with the second cupcake. Because it's lonely and misses its package-mate, and it would be cruel to make it go on without him/her. I'm not sure about the gender identities of the cupcakes in the twin-packs. I'm not sure if it's a male/female combination, same-sex couples, or some sort of snack-food siblings, in which the sexual relationship is presumably irrelevant, or at least one would hope. But the point is they've been together in that package since they were baked, and you shouldn't keep them apart. Plus, you must verify if the second one is as delicious as the first. (It always is, but you have to be sure.)

Next time: The correct procedure for eating a Hostess HoHo. Do not even get me started about Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls. I'll just mention one word. Gonorrhea.

See, this is what happens when I'm not smoking, hungry, bored, Tom works late, and I haven't opened the bottle of wine yet. But that's coming. Real soon.

The other thing I did today is print three new copies of the most recent edit of Make or Break. I haven't printed one since the summer, and this is the first/only since my major re-write. I'm excited. You should be, too. Honestly, there's nothing I enjoy as much as sitting here, reading a copy of my book, indulging in a few glasses of wine, and making amusing notes to myself in the margins, mostly focused on what an amazing writer I am, and how certain passages are pure genius, and possibly literary perfection.

(My Official Reading Kit. The wine is Alice White "Lexia," which I've never had before. I'll let you know.)

Why should you care, you ask? If you've read this far, you're about to be rewarded. Unless you don't care about my book, in which case you can go screw yourself, and what are you doing reading my blog in the first place, you insensitive, illiterate asshole???

OK, Curt and FFFan1, you've already received a copy. Ditto Sally and Delightful Daughter-In-Law. Kelli and T, you've read it, too. But the rest of you... I have one spare Beta Reading Copy of this most recent edit. If you'd like it (bastard costs me about $30 to print and mail, so you'd better really want it), go to my author page, and sign the guest book, telling me WHY the two chapters posted on the website are not nearly enough, and why you would LOVE to read the entire manuscript. Do so by 5PM on Saturday, November 28. I'll notify the winner on Sunday, when the hangover passes. I mean, after church. (OK, stop laughing. I'm sure we're all aware I am joking about church. Hey... was that lightning???)

Feel free to share the contest entry process with anyone you know who might not otherwise see this post, but who might like to read a hot new romantic suspense!

Now, time to check out Ms. White's "Lexia!" And maybe put those steak fries in the oven.

But it's not time for a cigarette.

I Scoff At Those Who Thought I Couldn't Do It

2009-11-15T14:34:00.005-06:00

Look in the right sidebar, just below the "About Fermented Fur" part and right above the awesome picture of my 2008 Maxwell Medal for Best Regular Blog.

Go. Look. I'll wait...

If you are any good at following instructions, you are now aware that I have quit smoking. I should sit back and humbly (and somewhat smugly) accept your congratulations and your words of encouragement and support... but I am not going to. Because - while I sincerely appreciate them - I don't need them.

I've been thinking about giving up cigarettes for a while now. It's not like I was unaware that smoking is a wee bit unhealthy. I mean, we have the Surgeon General's Warning on every pack, and they recently added words on the little cellophane strip you tear off to open the pack that tells you that "light" and "ultra light" doesn't mean cigarettes are safe. You know, like in case you're a total fucking moron and thought "light" cigarettes wouldn't rot your lungs.

Every other commercial on television seems to be a "stop smoking" public service announcement. Which, I must admit, mostly succeeded in reminding me that it was time to fire up another cigarette. Being me, I took a perverse pleasure in that. (Hey, you self-righteous do-gooders, trying to good-up my life... screw you! If there's any goodening to be done around here, I'll do it my own self and in my own time, thankyouverymuch!)

Yep, lots of reasons to quit smoking. The deepening, increasingly-raspy voice. The cough that never quite goes away. The reluctance to smooch my honey-bunny because I'm aware of stinky cigarette face/breath. The nicotine staining on my fingers. Deepening lines around my mouth. No circulation in my feet. Yellowier-than-they-used-to-be teeth. A younger sister who had a heart-related incident earlier this year... and knowing that my mother died at 55 and that I will be 45 in less than two months. The fact that I've been paying about $5.37 per pack, and I have been smoking almost a pack a day. And I'm poor, so this is a stupid fucking waste of money.

Let's not forget, either, that it's kind of inconsiderate to poison your husband and your dogs with second-hand smoke.

Never underestimate the power of vanity. At least not as it pertains to me. My lungs may rot or my heart may seize up and stop... but those are future, abstract concepts (until they actually happen, then it's totally too late), and - most importantly - I can't see them. I can, however, see wrinkles and papery skin and I do not want to look any older than I have to.

This week something happened that gave me the last little nudge I needed to decide to quit. I learned that a friend died. She was my first online friend back in 1996 when I got my first computer. I had Ripley then, and she had Jean-Marie. The dogs were both golden retrievers and had had the same hip surgery, so this friend and I bonded over that. We stayed in touch all these years, part of the same small, invitation-only dog-chat list. We saw each other through joys and sorrows... even though we never met in person. We almost met in April when I was in Florida for The Boy's wedding to Wonderful Wife, but the 2-hour drive she'd have to make, combined with the small window of time I had free to visit, prompted her to say, "Oh, well, we'll do it next time."

But there isn't a next time, because she died of a very aggressive thyroid cancer. She wasn't a smoker, but she always begged me to quit. And as it turns out, she has remembered me in her will. I'll never be able to thank her for her kindness and generosity... but I can pay her tribute by quitting smoking.

So, I have. As of 5:00 PM on Saturday, November 14, 2009. (Which, coincidentally, is my younger sister's birthday and my older sister's anniversary!)

I've always believed that I'd have little trouble giving up cigarettes once I made up my mind to do so. My mom was helpless against her addiction, but my dad and older sister were able to simply put them down and walk away... and in the area of my addictive personality, I think I'm more like them. Turns out I was right. I'm a habit/ritual-based smoker more than someone who has overwhelming cravings. Do I want a cigarette right now? You bet. Do I need one? Nope. So I'm not having one. (Shoves a Werther's toffee candy in mouth instead)

It's probably way nicer to kiss someone whose mouth tastes like toffee than someone whose mouth tastes like an ashtray, don't you imagine?

I don't take this as a sign that my addictive personality is in any way changed. Smoking just wasn't as compelling to me as some other things. Willpower and I are barely passing acquaintances, and I know if I were truly addicted to smoking... this would be an entirely different blog post. For example, I know my alcohol problem won't be conquered nearly as easily as the smoking problem. That one, should I ever choose to address it, will be infinitely harder. For now, I'll settle for practicing moderation the best I can.

The good news is that, as a non-smoker, I'll be far less likely to burn holes in the Sofur (note to self... safe to buy new slip cover now) or set my hair on fire while drinking.

Sometimes you have to pick your battles and count your victories where you can. And I'm chalking up quitting smoking as a capital-V Victory.

Guaranteed to Make You Smile

2009-11-09T17:35:00.002-06:00

This has been around a while, but (surprisingly) I hadn't seen it till today. Now, any time I'm having a lousy day, I will watch this and smile... then laugh... then probably tear up a little. I love seeing the sheer joy shown by Carolyn and Rookie. I love seeing the partnership. And just tell me... have you ever seen a dog look like he's having such a wonderful time??? I've seen and heard people make fun of canine freestyle, and sure, some of the routines are hokey. But that's not the point. The point is the fun the people and their dogs share. The hours of "training" are nothing but attention and play for Rookie - and probably for Carolyn, too. Watch... smile... what fun!

PS: Of course, I became so fascinated that I had to do more "research." Apparently Carolyn and Rookie were quite famous, and I have NO idea how I missed them all this time. I've been elbow-deep in goldendom since 1994 (when I got Ripley) and definitely since 1997 (when I got my first computer). And, as is always the case with any dog-story, there comes the bittersweet parting. Rookie passed away in July 2008, at the age of 15. There's a great montage of video clips of Carolyn's and Rookie's 15-year partnership on The Land of PureGold, here.

Carolyn and Rookie... definitely Pure Gold.

Death Cures Everything

2009-11-06T14:23:00.004-06:00

I am sick.

I never get sick.

This is mainly due to my preference for hiding at home or in my office and having as little contact as possible with germ-carrying humans. Or non-germ-carrying ones. Because it's not the germs I'm trying to avoid... it's the people.

I'm not a germaphobe. After all, I live in a veritable petri dish, thanks to my aversion to spending every waking hour maintaining a sterile environment. Or even a single waking hour. I wallow ass-deep in germs most of the time, I figure, but they're all my germs... or those of a human (Tom) or other creatures (BroZarkWin) to whom I have developed an immunity.

I don't spend time socializing or shopping. I'm not a toucher or a hugger in most circumstances. I'm territorial. I don't share well. If I get to work and discover a wrapper or (doG forbid) a half-full pop can on my desk, I am seriously displeased. Passive-aggression will ensue. If my stapler comes up missing, I reinact the Spanish Inquisition until the stapler is returned safely and the abductor is executed.

But some vile plague, possibly deathmonia, is sweeping the clinic. I don't think it's anything flu-related, mainly because I haven't had a fever. It starts out as digestive upset, and then tries to make you cough your own lungs out through your ears. And that's hard to do. But I should be able to provide you with a manual by Sunday. With illustrations.

Then again, I more or less live on ibuprofen, so if I had a fever I probably wouldn't know about it. I gulp that stuff down like it's going to be re-criminalized tomorrow, and I need to stoke my blood levels to get me by until I can find a fourteen year old on a street corner to sell me some.

At the moment, I have two choices. 1) Cough with such intensity and frequency that my ribs ache and my head throbs, or 2) Take medication and lose the power of coherent thought.

Ever since my gastric bypass surgery (8 years ago next week, thanks for asking), I metabolize certain things oddly. The low sugar-tolerance is not a surprise, and is actually beneficial. Before my surgery, I could eat a whole bag of Hershey's Treasures. I could eat spoonfuls of brown sugar. From a spoon. I could eat French toast buried in so much powdered sugar that you'd be hard pressed to prove that there was actually any bread involved. Maybe there wasn't. I only considered it relevant as a vehicle with which to transport even more powdered sugar into my mouth. Oh, and sugar cereal with so much added sugar that it made a gritty, syrupy sludge at the bottom of the bowl. Which I then licked.

Oh, wait. I've gotten off track, haven't I? Damn, maybe I do miss sugar after all.

I also have issues with cheese now. It doesn't make me ill in any way... but it makes me overwhelmingly sleepy. A week or two ago, I got a craving for two grilled cheese sandwiches. I was asleep within ten minutes. Tom said, "Grilled cheese is your kryptonite."

The relevant thing today, though, is that I do not metabolize the active ingredients in over the counter cough suppressants well. I accidentally over-medicated myself into a three-day drool-fest with Delsym the year after my surgery. I've now spent the last two days half loopy on cough medicine, but I'm being careful not to reduce myself to "poke her with a stick and see if she's still alive" levels of catatonia.

This whole sick-thing is coming on the heels of a two-day hangover I could have done without. I realized (again) (re-realized?) that I don't bounce back the way I did when I was younger, and my aging, decrepit, genetically defective body can't handle all the abuse I'm heaping on it. It's not like I can swap out an activated carbon filter in my liver and be good as new. (Hey. Why not??? Check on status of research in this area.) So in addition to trying not to be dead of this current bout of viral lung-rot, I'm taking a break from drinking.

I'm going to be healthier than I've been for a while. Assuming I survive.

Hazards of Daytime TV

2009-10-24T13:29:00.011-05:00

Yesterday was supposed to be the first of three productive writing days. It turned out to be pretty much the opposite. While I'm sure at least some of what happened must be my fault, I'm mostly blaming Mark Henry. Also Dr. Oz, and Oprah since I figure it's her fault Dr. Oz has his own show.

It's mostly Mark's fault because he writes ridiculously good books and gives away awesome schwag. I already have a signed cover flat from his first book, Happy Hour of the Damned.

(Buy it. Chock full o' lots of creepy hilarity.)

I do not (yet) have any goodies from his second book, Road Trip of the Living Dead. (So. Mark. Whassupwiththat?) Which is why when I learned he'd recently received the advance reading copies of Battle of the Network Zombies, which will not be released until February 23, I began plotting ways to get my paws on one.

My initial plan involved breaking and entering. I Tweeted:

But clearly that plan was flawed. Witness the exchange:

Plus, he lives in Seattle and I live in Minnesota. So, curses. Foiled before I even began.

Then yesterday morning I was ~~goofing off~~ getting ready to start editing Make or Break, when I decided to see what was going on with Twitter. I soon discovered that Mark was conducting a contest... and the prize was one of his advance reading copies of Battle of the Network Zombies!

Must. Have.

To win, I had to come up with the most awesome slogan for a zombie strip club. (If you knew Mark, you'd realize that this makes perfect sense.) Naturally, this was all my brain could think about for the rest of the day. I came up with 18 slogans, including such gems as "The only club in town with dancers with interchangeable parts," and "Our dancers are all dropped-dead gorgeous." I won. Of course. The winning slogan? "Totally Nude! If you ignore the staples and duct tape."

I entered way more slogans than anybody else, so it's possible he's giving me the book because he feels sorry for me, or it's like a perfect attendance trophy in second grade, but I don't care. I get to read the book way, way before any of you will! (Which makes me happier than I can tell you.)

At any rate, thinking up zombie strip club slogans makes it really tough to edit a romance. So I got nothing done with that.

From 12:30 to 1:15 I chatted with Curt. 'Long about there I decided to mix a drink. Since I wasn't editing, anyway.

At 2:00, the Dr. Oz show came on television. Normally I would either ignore it or turn it, and get on with ~~wasting time~~ building entertaining and enduring cyber-friendships on Facebook and Twitter. But he was going to talk about exhaustion, and I've noticed feeling an exceptional amount of exhaustion lately.

By this point, I was on my second drink. Dr. Oz was demonstrating how to feel your own thyroid gland, so you could figure out if it was too big or too small. Relatively speaking, I guess. I quickly learned that I should seek out a Certified Thyroid Professional, because I nearly ripped out my own jugular trying to "really get in there" between my trachea and neck muscle so I could swallow and try to feel my thyroid. (Conclusion: I don't have one.)

Which meant it was time for another drink. Or two.

I really should've stopped watching Dr. Oz. The next segment was about a female stand-up comic and her addiction to cigarettes and alcohol. She spends almost every night in clubs, working, and this leads to a lot of free drinks and smoking, and she recently became aware that this has turned into a problem.

Let's think about this. She is on Dr. Oz for an intervention because she has issues with smoking and drinking. I was watching her on Dr. Oz. And smoking. And drinking.

Dr. Oz had performed a number of tests on the woman. He concluded that although she is 33, her physiological age is 39, because of the damage she's doing to her body. This made her cry a little bit. I am 44. And I figure my physiological age would qualify me for social security. (Mental note: See if I could get a doctor's note stating that I am actually 65, and if that would entitle me to retire and begin collecting social security.)

Then Dr. Oz, who is either a saint or a sadist (I'm leaning toward sadist, mainly because my neck still hurt from trying to find my own thyroid) showed her a computer-generated picture of how she'd look in 10 years. She cried a little bit more.

Then he showed pictures of a healthy lung and a diseased lung. And a healthy liver and a diseased liver. Guess which ones mine probably most resemble?

I was starting to be a bit sloshy, so it seemed perfectly logical to freak out and rush over to the computer to email Dr. Oz. My message went something like, "I'm watching your intervention with the woman who is addicted to smoking and drinking. And I'm smoking and drinking. I'm 44, but I'm sure my real age is much older. I've already had gastric bypass surgery, and I know this is just a transfer of addictions. I already don't have any circulation in my feet. Help."

I'm thinking I should pre-emptively block Dr. Oz's email address, because I'm reasonably certain that I don't want to be outed on national television, so there's really no point.

Right before Dr. Oz came on, I had texted Tom and told him I'd give him $10 cash if he'd bring me a pack of cigarettes so I didn't have to go out. Then I sent him 8 more between then and 4:53 PM. Including one that said "I just wrote to Dr. Oz. I hate daytime TV. About smoking and alcohol. His next spot was g-spot. (Note: It was. Very interesting. I did not try to locate mine, however, remembering how the whole thyroid thing turned out.) May be a god. Am drinking. Was bored."

The texts are increasingly less coherent, and mainly focus on whether he was or was not bringing me cigarettes. I also just noticed that one of them got sent to my friend T by accident, because her name is right above Tom's in my address book. (Sorry, T!)

Then I felt the need to get on both Facebook and Twitter and announce that I'd had too much to drink. It should be noted that my spelling and punctuation is always perfect when I post such things, though I seem to like to use the words "drinky" and "drunky" a lot. (I think I'll go delete those posts now.)

The whole point is that I got off track by writing zombie strip club slogans, and the day went downhill from there. But I won the advance reading copy of Mark's new book, so that's awesome.

The second point is that daytime television is dangerous. And just like operating a motor vehicle, you should never mix it with drinking.

The third point is I really need to re-think some things. I'm not sure I'm ready to give up either vice completely, but I sure would like to find a way to moderate. The problem there is that moderation and I don't seem to work well together. Seriously addictive personality. I could become addicted to vitamin water if I decided that was my thing. If it's worth doing, it's worth over-doing, apparently.

Today I hauled my carcass out of bed, got myself together, went to the library, and had lunch with a friend. Life goes on. It just goes a lot better when I use my head, which I'm going to try to do more often.

Now where's my vitamin water, dammit????

Early Winter Doldrums

2009-10-12T13:32:00.008-05:00

I don't really have anything exciting in my mental file of potential blog posts, but I feel like I've been neglecting the Faithful FFFans, so let's just start writing and see what comes out.

I went shopping last week. Twice. I normally dread shopping the same way other people dread going to the dentist. Oh, wait, I did that last week, too. Twice. Sigh. It was not a banner week.

Remember this paisley silk blouse, which I bought almost a year ago in anticipation of a January wedding which then turned out to take place in April?

I got winter-white slacks to go with it, but they're miles too long, I don't sew - not even hems - and am too lazy and/or introverted to take them to a seamstress, so I've never worn this awesome blouse. But last week I got winter-white corduroys (which are not miles too long). Then I realized that my office is so cold that unless I had a sweater to wear with the outfit, I'd either still never wear the blouse, or would be found frozen at my desk. So I shopped again and found this...

...nifty red sweater blazer. I can either tuck in the blouse and wear the blazer buttoned, or leave it open and wear the blouse tunic-style with a gold chain belt. Way too nice and cute for an office filled with kitty claws and dog drool, but if I don't wear it to work I'll never wear it anywhere.

I also realized that my $5 Wal-Mart white canvas tennies were probably not suitable for a Minnesota winter, so I got...

...these tan Skechers shoes. Only I opted to put the brown laces in them. I noticed a lot of the shoes came with an optional extra pair of laces. When did they start doing that? I was half afraid I'd be detained by security for attempted shoe lace theft as I tried to leave the store.

Now, wasn't that all just thrilling? When I got the red sweater blazer on Saturday, I also decided to get the ingredients to make a pot of vegetable soup. (Reason to follow.) Since it was, in fact, Saturday, I also had to hit the liquor store... and one particular little shopping cluster in Rogers has Kohl's, SuperTarget, and a liquor store all in the same lot. The Weekend Shopping Trifecta.

I needed soup because it snowed on Saturday. On October 10. This is the earliest measurable snow in 24 years. I could've gone another 24 before breaking that particular record, because by then I'll probably be dead and won't care. It was only about an inch, but since even Minnesotans don't have their snow tires on yet, the traffic situation was a bit of a disaster, according to Tom, who had to go to work that morning.

So I came home and made soup. I don't cook, but for some reason I do make soup. Awesome soup. But I do not know how to make a small pot. I started out with a 6-quart Dutch oven, discovered it was too small, thought about panicking, then remembered I had an enormous soup kettle in the hall cupboard. You know... the kind you'd use while volunteering at a soup kitchen and needing to feed seventy-five hungry homeless people. Whew. By the time I added the peas, carrots, corn, potatoes, diced tomatoes, gnocci, green beans, onion, garlic, zucchini, yellow squash, tomato juice, etc., I had enough soup to feed a family of six for a week. We're going to be eating soup for at least a month.

I must confess that I did make a big dent in it over the weekend. Four bowls in a day isn't much, right? Even with the buttered roll that accompanied each bowl? Actually, it might have been five bowls yesterday, because it's always better re-heated the second day.

Which brings us to today. A Monday, and I'm not at work. It's not because of the Columbus Day holiday (which sort of strikes me as a strange thing to celebrate anyway)... but because my schedule is flexible, and it's snowing. Again. At last look, I had about 3" of fluffy, wet snow on the deck. The sun has just peeked out for the first time all day. Since Tom plans to get my snow tires on this week, I opted to skip the rush hour mess today... my 35 minute commute was guaranteed to be somewhere between an hour and an hour and a half. Don't need that.

I am aware that I live in Minnesota. I came here sort of on purpose. I'm not a snow-hater. I'm fine with the white stuff... in December or January. By February I'm starting to hate it. By April I start to feel a wee bit suicidal when I see snow in the forecast. I'd say I'm neutral on November snow. But we're not even to the official mid-point of October, and this is way too soon. the leaves haven't even all fallen yet. If it's going to start this snow crap already, and I know it's likely to continue to show up through April... I'm just not ready.

I've been looking at U.S. maps, pondering where would be a more suitable place to live. Right now I'm considering southern Missouri. The Ozarks. I'd get hills, rural areas, small towns, seasons (but not the extremes of Minnesota), I wouldn't be in a hurricane zone, wouldn't be in earthquake territory (as long as the New Madrid Fault behaves), be at least slightly out of Tornado Alley, and I'd be closer to a higher number of Cross Canadian Ragweed shows. If we could ever sell this house. Or it (accidentally) burns down. On a day that neither we nor the dogs happen to be home. Or if I just sell my book(s) and we can live wherever we want because I can earn money while sitting on a futon in dog-fur-covered sweats. (My Dream!)

Regarding the current weather here, the dogs are ecstatic. They love snow. But we haven't had a stretch of good freezing weather yet, so snow + Darwin's giant paws + high-velocity fence-running = sloppy, slushy bog. Not a good combination.

Looking out at my cold, wet, white yard makes me want soup. Good thing I have gallons of it. For anybody who's keeping count, this will be Bowl #3.

I Think I'd Have Been Happier If It HAD Been Cat Litter

2009-10-08T10:17:00.008-05:00

Until this week, I hadn't been to the dentist in eight years. I'm not a dentalphobe. The last time I was there, I was having a root canal on one of my top right molars. At some point, things went wrong, and the root cracked. We put in a "temporary" filling, assuming that when it gave out, we'd have to come up with a Plan B... and that was eight years ago.

I haven't chewed on the right side of my mouth for, oh, about a year and a half. Allowing anything to touch those teeth could, at seemingly random moments completely unrelated to what I happened to be eating, cause excruciating flares of pain, as if a lit match had been inserted into my gums.

So why didn't I go to the dentist? Because for about the past six years, I haven't had insurance. I knew I'd have to do something about my teeth eventually, but other things always took priority. Until Monday.

Witness my Twitter feed:

I thought I was joking. Because I'm funny that way. Then this...

Seriously, I crack me up. And the clinic cats truly are that annoying. And then...

Suddenly, I'm not laughing anymore. One of my bottom right molars, which already had a filling... broke. Like, half of it became one with the chicken sandwich. I guess the "good" part is that since I had a filling in the middle of the tooth, it didn't hurt just sitting there.

But once you know you have a giant tooth-hole in your mouth, you can't keep your tongue out of it. This is not only annoying, it makes you look funny, as you contort your face to get a better angle for your tongue to explore this new topographical dental feature.

I called the dentist, and they got me in the next day. I warned them. They were not going to be amused when they found out all the crap that was going on in there. Then, because I don't have insurance (or money), I got online and applied for Care Credit. Thank goodness for that option. Otherwise I'd have had to call friends and family and beg for tooth-fixin' money. Because despite being originally from West Virginia, I prefer not to go around with fewer than the customary number of teeth. In my case 28, since I had my wisdom teeth out when I was about 20. (Mmmm, nitrous oxide. Can I have a mirror? I wanna see what you're doing in there. No? Bummer. So can I have more nitrous? No? Jeez, you people suck.)

My dental evaluation on Tuesday was pretty much what I expected. Apparently I have the dental health of a Medieval serf, but with more coffee stains. Besides the half-completed root canal from eight years ago - which still has to be dealt with - and the brand new tooth-hole, I have four or five cavities. Or it might be six. I forget. Every time I thought he was done, he mentioned another one. I also have so much calculus buildup that if I opened my mouth and looked up, it would be visible on Google Earth. Once I get my pain-inducing damage repaired, it's going to take a few heavy cleanings to dig it off and even see the surface of my actual teeth. Still, I maintain that the calculus has served a useful purpose during my dentist-free years. I bet it's been the only thing holding some of my teeth together.

Today, I have just returned from having two cavities filled, and my temporary crown installed. I was a whisker apprehensive. I'm not normally afraid of medical-type things. My pain tolerance is fairly high. It's the surprises I don't like. You think things are going along fine, then... ohmyfuckinggodthathurtslikeasonofabitch!!! Unlike my wonderful husband, dentists do not provide "good" surprises.

Here's the bizarre part. I was settled in my "stretch out and try to relax" chair, two blankets keeping me toasty warm, and the doctor asked me if I'd like nitrous oxide. And I said no. Really! I said no to floaty-dreamy-feeling gas that would have made me not give a shit if I were at the dentist or home snug in my bed.

I did, however, tell him don't even think of skimping on the numb-juice. He didn't, and it didn't hurt much at all. I've had manicures that were worse. (Ow! Bitch! That's my cuticle!)

This particular dentist was a client of mine when I worked for the Veterinary Axis of Evil, back in the day. I remember he had found a kitten. The good news is that a) he no longer uses the clinic owned by the Veterinary Axis of Evil, and b) he now has a 7-month-old golden retriever named Fergus. We're practically related.

I paid surprisingly little attention to the procedure. More than ever, I live inside my own head and seldom take notice of my surroundings. This is the reason my house can progress from "messy" to "health code violation" with my being none the wiser. It's also why I hate to drive, because I never remember how I got anywhere. Regarding today's appointment, I can verify that there were various mirrors, buzzy things, jabby things, squirty things, sucky things, and one thing that looked like a phaser. That's 'bout it.

At one point, the sun broke through the clouds and tried to sear my retinas. They exchanged my plastic eye-shield glasses for nifty black sunglasses... I'm sure this was not only to protect my eyes from debris or sun damage, but because I looked totally awesome in them. I mean, they're the ones that had to look at me.

Now I'm home sipping a drink and trying not to drool on the keyboard. I'm waiting for numbness and facial paralysis to abate so I can eat something. You know... without accidentally chewing a hole in my own cheek. I go back for my permanent crown in a few weeks, and then I guess we'll figure out what to do about the other cavities and the temporary filling that lasted eight years.

I have the whole rest of the day till Tom gets home. I doubt I'll do any re-writing today since my head is kind of distracted. And it's a safe bet I won't be bitten by the House Cleaning Bug. I'm kind of starting to wish I'd asked for the nitrous oxide. To go.

Take A Little Trip

2009-09-26T11:17:00.003-05:00

I just wanted to let you all know that most of my blog-related activity this week has been happening over on Writecrastination. If you're interested in the current status of Make or Break, and thoughts and ponderings about the the upcoming "Gold" mystery, stop on by.

Dog-Like

2009-09-24T09:06:00.004-05:00

We've all heard the old adage about people looking like their dogs. In my experience, though, it is hardly ever true. Other than a curly black cockapoo I had as a kid, I've never looked like any of my dogs. And other than Cricket, a black cocker spaniel, all the dogs I've had as an adult have been in the white-buff-gold color family.

Whether I look like my dogs or not, they're an essential part of who I am. They allow me to exist in a world that would be far too bleak without them. They keep me in touch with the pure energy of the universe. I ground myself in their joyful presence in the moment, and their lack of concern for trivialities. Don't worry, be happy. Unlike humans, they don't question motives and look for hidden agendas. They don't judge on the basis of appearance or social status. They don't lie awake at night worrying about the next day. They accept and trust in a way people never achieve.

Long ago, I realized that Golden Retrievers are "my breed." They are sunny and smart, and their greatest joy comes from figuring out what you want from them, and giving it to you with a cheerful grin and a merry tail-swish. When a golden adores you, you sure know you're being adored. They're active and inquisitive, gentle and accepting, highly adaptable, and endlessly forgiving.

When I started thinking about that, I realized that - with the exception of smart - the things that make goldens special to me are all pretty much the exact opposite of my nature. Far from the "people are like their dogs" cliche, this seems to be a case of "opposites attract."

Then there's Brody, a Great Pyrenees. Brody is typical of the breed in his temperament and behavior. He's aloof. He's happy to hang out by himself under "his" tree in the yard for hours at a time, watching the world go by. He wants attention when he wants it, and the rest of the time it's "just leave me alone already." He's territorial, and bristles any time a threat (defined as anyone that's not me, Tom, Darwin, or Ozark) comes into sight. He monitors his realm and repels potential invaders. He's willful, stubborn, and can ignore any instructions that don't suit him at that moment. He'd prefer not to get overheated or exert himself in any way.

Apparently, I am a Great Pyrenees. Not a Golden Retriever. Who knew? (Well, Tom probably did. And he's rather golden-ish, so maybe this is "opposites attract" again.)

Great Pyrenees also bark. A lot. At anything that might intrude on their carefully-maintained solitude. I... am a barker. Or a yeller. I yell. A lot. Mostly at Brody, but that is probably beside the point. "Brody, come! Brody! Brooooooody! Brody, down! Off! Leave it! They're allowed to walk by the house. Brody, shut the hell up! Quiet! Brody, get in here! I mean it! NOW!"

This probably makes him really happy. Nobody likes to bark alone.

Endangered Library

2009-09-17T10:51:00.004-05:00

Even when I was a kid, I loved libraries. When I spent days with my Aunt Helen, and those times corresponded to the bookmobile stopping in a nearby church parking lot, we always went. I always had books checked out from my school libraries, and I visited the bookmobile when it came by there, too. While my mother did the usual summer activity things such as take us to the pool or park, my favorite outings were to the library in Moundsville.

As I might have mentioned before, I was - and still am - a book nerd. I worked for the Indianapolis-Marion County Public Library from 1989 to 1996, and for the Anoka County Library in 1997-98. Buying books is expensive, and since I read 3-5 books a week, there is no way I could finance (or house) enough books to feed my appetite for fiction without the public library system. I love the 24-hour online access to the library catalog, and the ability to place holds and renew items from home. I need my library.

This is why what is currently happening in Philadelphia has me almost beside myself. Barring some sort of massive emergency funding in the next two weeks, the Free Library of Philadelphia will be closing on October 2. All 54 local, regional and central libraries. The entire library system.

No more books. No more newspapers, magazines, or DVDs. No more free Internet access. No more GED or English Language classes. No more literacy programs. No more computer classes, story times, or after school programs. No more job-search assistance.

Gone. There just isn't any more money.

The first public library system in the country was in Philadelphia. Benjamin Franklin founded it in 1731. And it will cease to exist on October 2 unless they can find a way to secure a whole lot of cash very quickly.

What I can't understand is why there isn't more of an outcry over this. When I started looking for news articles and blogs on the subject, there was surprisingly little. Don't people care? Doesn't anyone see what a cultural and intellectual disaster is about to take place? Is it that residents somehow know that this is all a ploy to put politicians' feet to the fire and force them to find a source of funding, and that there will be an 11th-hour reprieve? I hope so. I hope they know something that isn't being widely reported outside the Philadelphia area. I hope the library continues to exist, providing free resources to the public. I can't imagine not having access to a library, and I'm sure there are plenty of people in Philadelphia who feel the same way.

Whoever you are, wherever you are, please support your own library systems. Enjoy their resources, support their programs, buy their discarded books, donate your own gently-used books, and volunteer if you are able.

If the oldest library system in the nation can face extinction, whose libraries are next?

Not mine. I hope.

(UPDATE: An excellent article on the Philadelphia Weekly website. Take a look.)

Updates From Experts

2009-09-15T19:58:00.003-05:00

I should've known. My Zombie Penis Mushrooms (tm) actually are (and you are totally going to think I'm making this up), according to alert commenter Mike, really and truly called Phallus ravenelli. I stand by my ability to identify phalli... though I still suspect zombie involvement, especially in light of the Bloggess's nearly simultaneous discovery.

(Further updates as they become available. Or as people make them up. Though Mike's update is completely legitimate and scientific. Thanks, Mike!)

Zombie (Mushroom) Outbreak?

2009-09-15T15:39:00.003-05:00

Okay. Now I'm worried. As I'm sure you noticed, earlier today I posted about the Zombie Penis Mushrooms (tm) growing in my yard. But I just visited my Facebook page and saw a post from The Bloggess. Yes, her posts are often cause for concern - mostly for Tom, because he's afraid she's going to give me ideas, which is a totally valid point, because she is incredibly inspirational in the best insane-but-medicated way - but this time I'm afraid something is really going on in the Fabulous World of Zombie Fungi.

In the interest of public safety and extremely good reasons to buy a gallon of Jack Daniel's and a machete, please go read her post on the Mushroom Boobie she found in her yard. Yes, she took pictures, too. (Because that's what you do when you have a blog and mutant undead fungi on your property. You're welcome.) Only her mushroom is apparently a sign. Mine might be, too, but I strongly suspect that hers is a Zombie Boobie Mushroom.

I'm wondering if her (apparently) female zombies are looking for my (apparently) male zombies. Since she's in Texas, and I'm at the opposite end of I-35 in Minnesota, I'm thinking if you live in Kansas, you should be very, very concerned.

I shall await the opinions of the Zombie Experts before I decide whether or not to dig the gasoline-filled moat.

You Just Never Know When Zombies Will Pop Up

2009-09-15T12:51:00.008-05:00

(In advance, either "I'm sorry" or "You're welcome," depending on your opinion of the following strange-even-for-me post.)

Last week, I was fixated on the idea of sharing this with you. Then the weekend rolled around and I lost interest. I seem to be having a hard time maintaining enthusiasm for anything lately. I'm blaming the cosmically lousy summer. It wasn't until July that we had a string of days consistently in the 80s, and they were few and far between. Most of the summer, we've barely been able to achieve 70s, and sometimes not even that. Now, of course, since they're coming to close the pool today, it's beautiful. I was in the pool twice this year. Two times. One plus one. All summer. Gaarrrrggggh.

We've been in this house 13 years, yet every once in a while a plant sprouts in the yard that I've never seen before. When we were preparing the pool area for the season (which feels like about three days ago), I saw a tall, spiky weed that I dubbed "poo-weed." This was because, as I was pulling them so we could spread fresh mulch, I noticed that most of them had... well... dog poo by them. I couldn't say for sure if the plants grew there because of the "organic material," or if the plants somehow made the dogs feel compelled to welcome to the yard in their own special way.

The other newcomers to the yard are an odd type of mushroom. Any time it's dry for a while, followed by a day or two of rain, our mulch does sprout a variety of fungi. When I saw these, though, I knew immediately what they were.

Zombie Penis Mushrooms (tm).

Because, really, what else could they be?

I mentioned them on Facebook, and posted some pictures. I also mentioned it to some other people, and one friend said she had those in her yard, too, and I would be surprised because they "really blow up."

I was momentarily horrified at the thought of exploding zombie bits. Then I realized she probably meant they get all big and umbrella-y on the top like regular mushrooms.

Whew.

After I posted the pictures on Facebook, another friend said that if I dug into the mulch at the base, I would find... well, the roundish objects that you'd expect to find at the bases of such a feature.

I refuse to look. I was having enough trouble trying not to envision zombies lying on their backs under my mulch, thinking happy thoughts.

I raced home from work Friday, ahead of the rain, because I didn't want to risk them all blowing up (or exploding... I was never totally clear on that) before I had recorded them for posterity.

(The one on the right appears to need... a little help. Or a prescription.)

(This is only one patch of them. There must've been a dozen altogether. There's a joke in there about "counting heads," but I'm not going there. Oh, wait... I just did. Oops.)

(No, I did not have anything better to do. Which is terribly, terribly sad.)

While researching what sorts of mushrooms these might be, other than Zombie Penis Mushrooms (tm), I came across - you are not going to believe this - a Zombie Hand Mushroom.

(I think I remember seeing that it was in Malaysia or someplace like that... which is lucky. For you. Because if I had a Zombie Hand Mushroom in my mulch, I would have been perversely compelled to arrange an extraordinarily distasteful tableau with the other mushrooms, take pictures, post them, and offend... pretty much everybody.)

That's it. I'm out of material. Because of the lack of focus thing. Instead, I will invite you to leave a comment with your own Zombie Penis Mushroom (tm) jokes. Or you can think up what drug companies would name a Viagra-like product for zombies.

And people wonder why I haven't been posting as much lately. Now you know.

It Was A Dark And Stormy Night

2009-09-10T09:39:00.005-05:00

'Bemember our June Road Trip? In which we went to Indiana and Illinois so we could see Cross Canadian Ragweed two nights in a row? And how the second night we got to wait out not one, but two severe storms and other assorted rainfall? And how I ended up calf-deep in mud, but had a fantastic time? Behold...

Awesome, no? At the time whoever took this picture was braving the elements to get the shot, we were in my little red Cavalier, probably 40 feet to the right, out of frame, um... waiting out the storm.

On a related note, the new CD, Happiness And All The Other Things, after only one week of release, hit #33 on the Billboard Top 200, and #10 on the country charts. Not bad for a band many of you never would have heard of, were it not for Yours Truly! (Now... go! Buy! You won't regret it!)

Busy Brain, Lazy Everything Else

2009-09-07T10:23:00.010-05:00

(I have no idea why there's not a fourth panel here. Maybe it was a 3-panel strip, and someone laid it out in this square. But it makes it look like there should be a fourth panel. Feel free to draw your own. But if you do it on your monitor, I suggest you use a dry-erase marker. Especially if you're at work.)

The Setting: My family's trailer, in rural northern West Virginia
The Time: Any weekend, or any day in the summer, any time in the 1970s
The Participants: Me, and my mom

I am either draped theatrically on the couch, or face-down and limp on my bed.

Me: I'm bored.
Mom: Well, find something to do, or I'll find something for you.
Me: No, that's not what I mean.
Mom: "Bored" means you need something to do.
Me: It does not. (While thinking, "Geez, mothers are so clueless. Somebody'd better hurry up and invent the Internet, since my mean parents won't go into debt and buy me a set of encyclopedias.")

Boredom and laziness have been recurring topics here. It occurred to me that I need to clarify exactly what these terms mean. You know, in my head.

I am physically very, very lazy. I'm not particularly proud of that, but I'm self-aware enough to have recognized and accepted that over the past 4+ decades. I'm also not ashamed of it, though. It's just a fact, a characteristic, like my brown eyes or that I don't like spicy food.

My brain, however, is the opposite of lazy. It is very busy. Hyperactive. In overdrive all the time. If I'm awake, I need a steady stream of input into the old noggin. TV, books, music, multiple internet windows... Stuff has to be going on all the time.

When Mom said she'd find something for me to do, it would likely be things like trimming the bushes in front of the trailer, cleaning out under the kitchen cabinets, or weeding the flower beds. None of which would solve my problem, which is that my head was not receiving sufficient stimulation. I didn't want to "do" something. I needed to "think" something.

The things she was prepared to suggest would not only fail to solve my problem, they would make it infinitely worse. Housework and yard work are the most mind-numbingly boring things in the world. Simply having my body be physically busy, when it would much prefer to flop on my bed, surrounded by dozens of posters torn from Tiger Beat or Hit Parader magazines, was not acceptable.

This problem continues to this day, because I'm married to someone who "does things." When he's bored, he does something in the yard, goes on some errand or other, or decides to pull everything out of a closet. These things don't help me at all.

When I'm bored, I need a great new idea for something to write, an interesting online conversation, or a fantastic book to read. "Doing" something isn't the solution. My brain is still riding around in my skull, going, "Hey, nothing to do up here. Mayday! Mayday! I'm just going to spin in useless circles till you find something else fascinating for me to think about."

To be honest, this probably has a lot to do with why I am predisposed to overindulge in alcohol. If the brain isn't busy and it's going to be all demanding and annoying, I will shut it down, chemically if necessary.

I'm just glad I'm not married to a "talker." That is the third category of boredom avoidance. You probably know people like this. They might also be thing-doers, but they are seldom busy-brains. They are incapable of sitting quietly. I will be contentedly lounging on the Sofur, working out plot points, reading, and/or watching TV, quite happy inside my own head, and they feel compelled to talk. Constantly. About nothing. Just to be talking. I understand that this is how they stay engaged in the world and avoid that feeling of "nothing is happening." But I can't stand it.

Be quiet! I'm trying to think!

This is why Alzheimer's Disease scares the living Flying Spaghetti Monster out of me. Old age - assuming I ever reach it, which I doubt - can involve a wheelchair if it wants. Deafness might almost be a blessing, except for the loss of being able to listen to Cross Canadian Ragweed (because they'll totally still be recording and performing when I'm old). But anything that messes with the inner workings of my head is unacceptable. Sure, if I'm in late-stage Alzheimer's I won't know or care that my brain no longer works properly. But there's a long time before that, when you're losing cognitive ability but are sharp often enough to know it. At which point, I'm planning to check out permanently. If my intellect is shot, I'm done.

Okay, that got depressing. So I think I'll go sit on the Sofur and think about Seth and Abby a while, and continue figuring out what will be the "conflict keeping us apart" for Mitch and Evan in the new book. Plus, I'm watching Jeopardy and listening for incoming email or instant messages. And I just started reading a new book. My brain will be really busy. But my body, which is basically only good for carrying my brain from place to place, plans to go on an extended break.

At the moment, I'm not bored.

Bonus Conversation:

Setting: My living room
Time: Fifteen minutes ago
Participants: Me and Tom

My Phone: "Hey, baby, I'm nothin' without you. Hey, baby, you're nothin' without me... We've got it constantly." (This is Constantly, the ringtone when Tom calls.)
Me: Hello?
Tom: Chicklet
Me: Hi, honey-bunny
Tom: You always sound out of breath when you answer the phone.
Me: Well, I did have to roll over on the couch to reach it. It was kind of draining.
Tom: Sad.

Sad But Not Surprising

2009-09-04T17:13:00.004-05:00

Remember a while back when I posted a bit of a ran t about the "world's smallest dog?" And how dogs are not supposed to be smaller than guinea pigs? Because breeding the smallest to the smallest is not exactly a brilliant idea? Because cute is one thing, but healthy is a totally different matter?

Well, sadly, Scooter has paid the ultimate price for his freakishly small size. He was six months old. He jumped or fell from his owners' hands, and shattered his leg. He died from complications of the medications needed to relieve the excruciating pain. (There is really NO safe way to medicate a dog that tiny. The dosages are nearly impossible to calculate, with no margin for error.)

Happy trails, Scooter. It wasn't your fault.

Missing And Confirmed Foreclosed

2009-09-03T19:45:00.004-05:00

It's official. Next Door Neighbors (East) are this street's first foreclosure victim.

We had noticed that we hadn't seen them for a while. Their yard was more overgrown than usual, and the trellis was no longer near the front door. Tom noticed that the shed door was ajar, and no lawnmower was visible. The pontoon boat and RV, which they both used themselves and rented out, were not to be seen. No cars in the driveway, no lights in the windows.

I was preparing to launch Jen-Lancaster-Inspired surveillance on the property, to ascertain if they were, in fact, gone, and if they might be expected to return. I planned a photo log, depicting the increasing height of the lawn, as well as accumulation of fliers and junk mail. It was going to be brilliant, stealthy, and hilarious.

Then Tom blew that out of the water by simply asking another neighbor.

Obviously, this was not an avenue of investigation open to me, since I do not talk to neighbors. I have to get my information the good, old-fashioned American way. By spying. I was prepared to speculate on theories ranging from the Witness Protection Program to alien abduction, giant carnivorous squirrels, and spontaneous human combustion. Alas, that is no longer necessary.

This is troubling. Apparently, they were victims of a large second mortgage. I don't understand all the logistics of what happens when you do the giant home equity line of credit in addition to your mortgage, then default. One must assume, based on the empty house next door, that it isn't good. We've been in our house for thirteen years, and they were here long before we were, which makes it even sadder.

And this brings us, at the risk of great insensitivity, to the important point. How is this going to affect me???

They were good neighbors. In my universe, this means that they left me alone other than to occasionally wave when we happened to be pulling in or out of our driveways at the same time. They didn't give me grief about my sometimes-annoying dogs. They didn't invite me to barbecues or expect to be invited here. They didn't come knocking on the door to chat or borrow things. I think the only time Mr. Neighbor ever knocked on our door was one time about ten years ago when our gate had been left open and Sprocket wandered next door to visit, and he brought him home. "I think this is yours." (That is one of only three acceptable reasons to knock on my door. The other two are if you are bearing a giant cardboard check with my name on it, or a much-anticipated delivery such as my new laptop or a gift.)

The vacant house is on the corner of our street and the county road. We're the next house on the street. If it sits empty and falls into worse disrepair, it's not going to do great things for our already-depressed property value. I expect the men in the neighborhood will establish a lawn-mowing cooperative, because all our yards are pretty well-kept (Thank you, Tom. No, I'm still not willing to learn to drive the riding mower. Mowing Under the Influence is probably illegal. If it's not, it should be. And I'm pretty sure that's the only way to get me on the lawnmower... when my resistance is down.).

What if squatters move in? Or Republicans?

What if the house sells, and the new neighbors are obnoxious or - shudder - chatty? Not that I spend a lot of time visible in the yard (love the grapevine-covered privacy fence around the pool!), but what if they're the "lean over the fence and try to initiate conversations with the hermit-like, fur-covered, braless nutjob next door" type?

What if they have eighteen noisy children that run up and down the street, keeping Brody in a frothy bark-frenzy from dawn to dark? My bay window (and my nerves) can't take a whole lot of that.

Even worse... what if they don't like dogs? I know, I know, it seems unfathomable that someone wouldn't adore my dogs. But I see things on TV sometimes. Apparently there are people out there who don't enjoy huge, boisterous, vigilant, hyperactive, barking dogs. Not that I leave them out there to annoy people. When neighbors are out, I try to keep the dogs in. But they do have to go outside sometimes, you know, if only for potty purposes. Or in Darwin's case, to run off some of the energy he's built up, so that he doesn't destroy what's left of my house.

I don't mean to belittle the terrible thing that has befallen my former neighbors. I hope they land on their feet and get reestablished wherever they choose to settle. But this is a source of anxiety for me. There has been no change in our immediate neighbor population in all the years we've lived here. I had it figured out. They left me alone, I left them alone, and everybody was happy.

Now, I'm not so sure.

Vaya con lutefisk, former neighbors. It was nice not talking to you.

Happy Happy Joy Joy

2009-09-02T17:49:00.013-05:00

In most respects, this year, this summer, and particularly August flew by so fast that the back-draft blew me off my feet. But August 31, the release date for Cross Canadian Ragweed's newest CD, Happiness And All The Other Things, couldn't get here soon enough.

It is now Wednesday evening, and I've been listening to Happiness - a lot - since Monday. Between playing it all day at work, in the car, and sitting out by the pool last night, I've probably heard it twenty times.

Which means it's time for my review. I'll give my track-by-track opinion, and I hope anyone "in the know" will comment or email with more information where I come up short (because we know Shannon does stop by FF from time to time, despite my oddness) but first, the particulars:

Happiness And All The Other Things
Cross Canadian Ragweed
Universal Records South, 2009
Dedicated to Poodie Locke, 10/3/48 - 5/6/09

The Usual Suspects:
Cody Canada - Lead vocals, electric, acoustic, baritone rhythm and leads
Jeremy Plato - Lead and harmony vocals, 6 string fretless and bowed upright bass
Randy Ragsdale - Drums and percussion
Grady Cross - Electric, baritone rhythm and vocals

This album also features vocal work by Mike McClure, Stephanie Briggs, and Joe Hardy, as well as musical contributions from McClure, Briggs, Hardy, and Lloyd Maines. Once again, the album was produced by "Prodouchebag" Mike McClure, who is a gifted musician, singer and songwriter in his own right.

Lori's Track By Track Review:

In general, this CD feels more "classic rock" and less "southern rock" or (small shudder) "country" than any of the previous 9 releases by Cross Canadian Ragweed. I should qualify this by saying that I am not all that musically well-rounded. When I was a teenager, I listened to anything and everything. But considering that I haven't been a teenager for over half my life - depressingly - and I don't listen to much beyond Ragweed, Carbon Leaf, Reckless Kelly, Micky & The Motorcars, and (recently) Vertical Horizon, and occasional phases of hours on Pandora Radio, my interpretations of musical styles is probably not all that profound.

One thing I love about this album is the diversity. This is one of the characteristics of the band that drew me to them in the first place. In any one album, they can go from classic rock, to southern rock, classic country, blues, and shades of metal, kick-ass party songs and soulful ballads. I hate when I hear a few songs by a band, buy the CD, then find out that all 12 songs sound more or less the same. That's never been a problem with Ragweed, and this CD exemplifies that best of all.

1. 51 Pieces: 5 stars. I've seen this one described as "Dylan-esque." Feels a little Doors-like to me, too. Dark, brooding, driving... It's about last year when their tour bus was stopped outside Cleveland after playing at the House of Blues and having a post-concert party at a nearby bowling alley. All their... um... "toys" were confiscated (that's the 51 pieces). But it turns out the highway patrol missed a few, and they were able to continue the party after they were sent on their way. (Them's my boys!)

2. Bluebonnets: 2 stars. This song is about Cody's older son, Dierks. He was three at the time of the recording, I believe, and introduces the song on the album. It's a beautiful song, and Cody's voice is wonderful... but the whole thing is just a bit too precious for me. I understand and respect the decision to put it on the CD (they weren't going to), and what makes it special, but it's not my kind of song.

3. Burn Like The Sun: 4 stars. Feels classic rock to me. Mid-tempo, with strong harmonies by Stephanie Briggs.

4. To Find My Love: 3 stars. Cover of a song by Stephen Bruton (unless otherwise noted, Cody Canada wrote or co-wrote songs on this CD. He collaborates with Briggs, McClure, Micky Braun, Brandon Jenkins, Jeremy Plato, and probably some other people I'm forgetting to mention). One line I love, "There ain't no point in trying to drown your sorrows, The point is they're drowning you." Very strong lead vocal appearance by Jeremy. Catchy tempo, though I'm at a loss as to how to categorize the genre/type. Southern rock? These guys consistently defy being categorized.

5. Drag: 5 stars. Classic rock, kicky as hell, I really want to move to this one. Reminds me of the attitude in Don't Need You, also known as my "Angry Rebellion Song #2."

6. Kick In The Head: 3.5 stars. This is probably worth more stars, but it's the most country-sounding song on the CD (aside from two of the live bonus tracks), and I automatically shy away from the genre (Thanks, Nashville. Idiots.). Still, I could totally imagine this one getting country-radio air play outside Texas and Oklahoma... except if it isn't another of their "we got screwed over by the country music record execs" songs, it sure sounds like it could be. (This is a case where Those In The Know are welcome to write me with more details about the origin and writing of this song.) It has a great rhythm to it, and clever lyrics. (OK, secretly, I'm probably giving it 4 stars.)

7. Overtable: 4.5 stars. Here's where I need some help, Ragweed Insiders. I love the sound of this song. Love the beat. It has real drive, and I love individual lines. It's putting it all together that confuses me. But as I try to get a handle on it, and to figure out what the musical sound reminds me of... I keep listening to it over and over and over(table?). The way some of the lines sort of break on a minor chord, somehow reminds me of late-60s... but late-60s what? Not British Invasion. Help me out, here!

8. Overtable Interlude: 5 stars. Takes the previous song and seems to condense it, drag out the darkest elements and distill it down. Sounds very late-60s, intense, eerie and adds that "Ragweed Touch." Love the line about "Nothin' in your garden but a black rose." Creepy, beautiful, and resonant. But again, Ragweed Insiders, I want more of the story behind this song.

9. Pretty Lady: 4 stars. Would be 3.5 stars, except I really like Bettie Page, too. We saucy brunettes have to stick together, even across generations. This song is a tribute to Bettie Page, the 1950s pin-up model... who had a bit of an unconventional edge. She did nudes when that was still considered very, very naughty, as well as some fetish and BDSM-looking photos. She died in 2008. The song is nice, though I'm at a loss (again) as to how to categorize it. (Little help, those of you who know more about music than I do? I will update here, and credit sources of input!) The lyrics trip along, bright and splashy like a brook, with just the slightest edgy undertone. Innocent, longing, respectful, admiring. Bettie would have loved it, I bet.

10. Tomorrow: 4 stars. Low-mid-tempo, with a bit of a dreamy feel and a catchier chorus. This song really flows, and features more strong harmonies from Briggs. I might like the lyrics better than the composition on this one, and it's unusual for me to even make a distinction like that with any of Ragweed's stuff. However, I have a suspicion that this song is one that will grow on me the more I listen to it.

11. Confident: 5 stars. Sensuous, dark, powerful, hypnotic. Outstanding guitar and percussion. This song gets me for some reason... the first four lines before the first chorus... wow. I'd love to know more about the origin of this song. Can not sit still when I hear it.

12. My Chances: 4 stars. This song threw me. I admit it. I knew there was going to be piano on this CD... and this is it. It reminded me strongly of the "52nd Street" era Billy Joel. That kind of lyrical piano, with a smooth, strong, distinctive male lead vocalist (Cody) gliding perfectly along with Briggs' piano and the guitar. It is beautifully written and beautifully performed. It grabs your attention and pulls you in. It's just so un-like anything I've heard them perform before... not that that's a bad thing. Their continued growth and evolution is one of the many things that makes me such a devoted fan. I just have to let my brain get used to it. As with Tomorrow, this is a song that I think will grow on me the more I hear it, probably achieving 5-star status.

Hidden Track: Carmelita. 2 stars. I have no idea what to call this. Tex-Mex-Cantina? Almost a bit of a Calypso feel? It's cute and catchy. It just doesn't click with me.

The Live Tracks (covers of various artists... they seem to pick the live tracks largely based on what they love to perform live, and in the case of track 13, as a tribute to a fallen friend)(I think I just decided not to "star" the live tracks. None of them are huge favorites of mine, but the reasons for their selection stand on their own.):

13. Angel Flying Too Close To The Ground: Done in tribute to Poodie Locke, who was road manager for Willie Nelson for over 35 years. Poodie died a couple of days before this song was performed. He was a long-time, loyal friend to Cross Canadian Ragweed, and his loss touched them all very deeply.

14. Soul Agent: Jeremy sang lead on this song on the Mission California CD, but he sounds even better here, live. I thought when I heard him on To Find My Love that his voice has gotten richer and stronger since Mission California, and this confirms it.

15. Train To Birmingham: Was recorded live... in Birmingham.

That's it for the music, boys and girls. But you should buy this CD not only for the music... the liner notes and the commemorative poster with in-depth interview on the back are worth the price all by themselves. I really enjoyed the interview... even a long-time, Google-happy fan like me found plenty of interesting new tidbits of information. Thanks to Shannon Canada and Betsy Baird for putting it all together. I know you ladies probably knew every story and the answer to every question, but the fans appreciate your putting it together into such a fun, interesting interview for us.

There's much more to say about this album. I hear more and dig deeper every time I listen. So you're just going to have to buy it and work through the rest of it on your own!