So, football fans of the female persuasion, I have this idea that I think needs some publicity.

I love football. It's part of the entire autumn thing that keeps me going through the summer. I love going to football games, be it high school, college, or professional.

I understand the need for a certain level of security. I don't need or want to be grouped with spectators who smuggle in 5ths of tequila and get violent by halftime, or lumped in with a crowd of idiots who chuck batteries at the opposing team. I get that.

What I don't get is the new restriction against purses and diaper bags. Security already searches my bag. I let them. I also tolerate the cursory frisk. But in the 2013/14 season, purses and diaper bags will be forbidden.

Beyond being overkill and an incredibly sophomoric attempt at thwarting "terrorism," it's simply and embarrassingly shortsighted.

So here's what I'm going to do for the two Broncos games Phil and I are attending this season.

In one hand I'll have a bouquet of Tampax Super Tampons, in the other, a stack of Depends. If my grandson is with us, I'll implore my daughter to juggle a wad of diapers and a box of wipes in one arm, and Owen in the other. In another month, that should be quite the spectacle with Owen's little brother growing in her belly.

Who's with me?

Come on, NFL, how about you take care of the criminals in your own ranks before pointing your fingers at the fans who keep you criminally rich?

It's time for this story.

When Otto bridged the gap between "senior" and "geriatric" we panicked a little bit. Our world - and Gracie's - would have imploded if he left us suddenly. Gracie had a Springer Spaniel's worry streak, and Uncle Otto kept it under control.

All the best things about Otto, his patience, his fierce loyalty to everyone around him, empathy so deep that it was best to put him outside when watching "Robin and Marian" back-to-back with "The Inn of the Sixth Happiness" lest you have a giant pile of black fur planted across your lap while you sob, were attributable to his Newfoundland ancestors.

We thought maybe we'd take the purebred plunge and add a Newfoundland to our family for Gracie to play with and fret over before any of us had to deal with Otto's inevitable passing. I spent a great deal of time with my best friend, Google, searching for Newf breeders with a line that was maybe not as drooly as the rest. This is not to imply Otto didn't drool, he just kept it limited to anything that had to do with food. Those times entirely made up for the rest of the day when his mouth was fairly dry.

One combination of search terms, Newfoundlands that don't drool, resulted in this photo:

This is Lejonlands Tzar Prince Rupert, the first Leonberger I'd ever laid eyes on. I was already smitten, and after reading a description of the breed's temperament, I was completely in love. I shipped a link to Rupert's page to Phil with the subject line, "I want one of these and I'm going to name him Hagrid."

As luck would have it, we moved to Vancouver a year later, making visiting the breeder in Nanaimo that much easier. We visited on Mother's day, 2004, put down a deposit by the end of the visit, and on July 5, 2004, our little bundle of joy was born. 

Before I go further, I have to say we were entirely aware of Gracie's opinion of puppies. She didn't care for them one bit. Nope, not one bit. Why? Because she was the puppy. A role she took very seriously. 

So when we came home one Saturday morning in September with Baby Hagid in our arms, Gracie trotted behind us, hoping to see Hagrid's parents who would surely take him away any minute. Any minute now they can come and take him home. Yup. Now is good. 

When she realized no one would be taking Hagrid away, she leaned up against Paul, our neighbor, figuring she was Paul's dog now, because Paul would never EVER get a puppy. Plus he was a salmon fisherman, and pouting had its privileges.

And pout she did. For the next two days, Gracie wouldn't stay in the same room with us or Hagrid. If she had to pass us to get her dinner (Yeah, pouting didn't affect her appetite. Amateur.), she'd slink along the wall with her eyes averted. 

We finally insisted that she at least stay in the same room with us. Being obedient, she grudgingly obliged, but there was no "pounding down the grass" circles or snuggling. She'd enter the room, eyes averted, and immediately lay down facing a blank wall. 

Even Otto thought she was being a putz. 

Baby Hagrid, however, respected her space. 

This went on for almost two solid weeks until one evening when Phil was sitting on the floor playing tug-o-war with Hagrid. Both Hagrid and Phil were making growly noises and having a grand time, and just for a moment Gracie forgot she was pouting and turned to watch them. 

The look on her face was priceless. She looked from Phil, to me, to Hagrid, back to me, to Phil, as if to say, "Wait. Wait... we can... play with him? Really??"

She got up and tiptoed over to Phil. He offered up his end of the rope, tiny little Hagrid holding the other end with the intensity only a puppy can manage. Gracie oh-so-gently took Phil's end of the rope, looked at Hagrid, and YANKED the rope with all her Labra-might. 

Little Hagrid (I know it's hard to imagine) flew through the air in a steep arc and landed with a yelp. 

And Grace. Was. Devastated. 

Good lord, she finally decided to play with him, and what was the first thing she did? Break him! 

Of course he wasn't broken. In fact, he thought the flight was awwwwsome!!! After the initial shock wore off, he sprung up and bounced in circles around Gracie, so incredibly happy that she'd finally relented and played with him. She absolutely covered him in kisses and licks, and a whole new relationship was born. 

That was the moment Gracie became the Party Police - grumbling at any dog that wanted to play rough with Hagrid, afraid they might break the baby. 

Hagrid grew and grew and grew, and within just two months he was already bigger than Grace, but she was always his guardian. Even when she could walk under his belly without ducking (which she did often because the shortest distance between two points was always under Hagrid).

She knew she'd regret giving in.

For the next eight years, Gracie was Hagrid's brain. He couldn't do anything without checking with her first. And by checking with her, I mean smacking her with one of those giant paws and asking "GRACIE - DO I WANT A COOKIE?" and (smack) "GRACIE - DO I WANT TO GO FOR A WALK?"

Yes. Hagrid spoke in all caps. 

When Gracers moved on to the Rainbow Bridge last year, I spent a lot of time snuggled into Hagrid, breathing in the soft hairs behind his wonderful ears, asking him how on earth he was going to manage without his brain. 

And of course he managed just fine. He was, after all, Mr. Zedd of Lionslair, Hagrid, bearer of two magical names, a heart the size of all of Canada, and an innocence as pure as a newborn baby.

When Otto left us, it was after a year of fading abilities. It was a horrible, drawn out period of denial; Otto couldn't be leaving us - not this way. Gracie's body folded under her, with an equally drawn out period of denial. After Gracie died, we thought, or hoped, that when Hagrid's time came, it would be fast, and with no terrible decisions to be made. 

The weekend before last, Hagrid was flying through the meadows of Caribou with the rest of the gang, finding puddles, doing his duty as the reigning Party Police (a position he inherited after Gracie's passing), making friends with tourists on ATVs, and being his goofy, galoot self. On Wednesday evening he was feeling a little punky. On Thursday he was punky enough to warrant a visit to the vet, who sent us to the emergency clinic. 

And Friday afternoon, baby Hagrid moved on to the Rainbow Bridge to be with Uncle Otto and Aunt Grace. He was nine years old, and "fast" made no difference. 

I hope Gracie got in at least one good smack before he realized where he was. 

Stuff Nobody Should Eat. Ever.

I'm going to write a cook book and call it "Stuff Nobody Should Eat. Ever."

It's going to be jam-packed with artery clogging Sunday Dinner fare, rainy day stews, and the kinds of casseroles that fix days marred by too many sighs. 

I was inspired to write this years ago while sitting down to a Pot Roasted Chicken with Oatmeal Stuffing. You haven't lived until you've had bacon and onion infused oatmeal stuffing that's been puffing up and simmering inside of a chicken for a few hours. 

Upon tasting it, Courtney and I looked at each other and said, almost in unison, "nobody should eat this stuff. Ever."

Until yesterday, I hadn't envisioned including any real snacky sort of foods, but Phil was good enough to save the skin from the fresh ham he got for our 4th of July Smoked Pig Fest. After a half hour or so with my best friend, Google, I set about scraping the fat from the skins, cutting them into 2 inch squares, and slow roasting them to render the last of the fat and dry the skins out. 

Shortly before our guests were to arrive, I fired up a pot of oil and let the magic begin. 

It's funny to me that sometimes you set out to make something, and when you're successful, you're like "holy crap, I just made chiccarones!" 

But let me say this about homemade pork rinds: they're nothing like those bags of colorless poofs you buy in the potato chip aisle (or more likely from sketchy vending machines in cut rate motels). They're rich in color and sheen without being greasy, they're easy on the teeth, melt in your mouth...and incredibly addictive. 

Praise the Lord and Pass the Lipitor.

Nobody should eat this stuff. Ever.

He is Legend.

For as long as I can remember, I've been fascinated with Frankenstein and Dracula.

I can remember standing innocently next to my big brother Danny while my mother told us, in no uncertain terms and with a waggling finger, to knock off the monster talk while our cousins were visiting because it scared them. It gave them nightmares.

I clearly remember thinking, "wait... nightmares are a bad thing?"

Up until I discovered zombies, vampire dreams were my favorite. Especially the one where Bela Lugosi slowly, slowly climbed the stairs in my house, stalking me, the edge of his cape held over the bottom half of his face, leaving only his eyes to pierce my soul. A six-year old me holding my ground on the second story landing. Waiting. Waiting. He'd lean in to bite my tender neck, and... aaaand... I'd whip out a chunk of packing foam and intercept his teeth. He'd get indignant and run away. 

I loved that dream. I probably had it a half dozen times by the time I was seven. It scared me in the most wonderful way - and even though I was always the victor, waking up was such an incredible relief. 

I never dreamed of Frankenstein's monster. Even as a little kid I found him too sympathetic to be scary. In "The Bride of Frankenstein" the tiny characters created by Dr. Pretorius creeped me out - especially when the King escaped from his jar. That really scared me, but the creature made me sad. 

By the time I'd reached adulthood, I'd watched and re-watched nearly every version of Dracula ever made and read the novel twice. And while each version alluded to the Count's vast loneliness, his desire for companionship, I always found him to be a monster. Where Frankenstein's creature didn't kill those he wished to befriend (well, intentionally, at least), Dracula stole the lives of his brides, turning them to monsters as well, and stole the sanity of his human companion, Renfield, promising him immortality, but denying it in the end. Dracula was prideful and arrogant. That makes it hard to feel sorry for him - regardless of how dapper Frank Langella was in 1979.

Some time in the early 2000's I finally got around to reading the novella that inspired Charleton Heston's oh-so-incredibly-embarrassingly-dated film "The Omega Man". God bless Mr. Heston, but his over-acting really sucked the scare out of that movie for me. 

Richard Matheson's I Am Legend, however, was one of the few books that kept me planted in my seat from cover to cover. Robert Neville, the last living man on earth, is surrounded by what is apparently a new race of beings, blood sucking, half-witted night-dwellers, intent on Neville's destruction. We follow him during daylight hours as he creeps into homes and apartment buildings to destroy his former neighbors, rage with him as he bears endless nights filled with the taunting cries of the former-humans who surround his home, depriving him even of rest. We witness the loss of his beloved wife, and are consumed by his loneliness. 

By the end, it's apparent that Neville will lose to this new race of humanity - beings far lesser than mankind had been, stupid, and seemingly wandering in circles in their own quest for survival, and yet utterly enticing in their presence (especially the women).  He's clinging to life and the memory of what his now-extinct race used to be. They want him dead because he's bent on their destruction; wandering from house to house by day, dragging them from their slumber only to drive stakes through their hearts and drop them into a pit.

In the end Robert Neville realizes what he has become in the terrified eyes of the new order, summed in the novella's final three words:

I am legend. 

Those words hit me in the gut as it occurred to me that I'd just read what was essentially the last days of Dracula's illustrious and noble people, leaving him alone in a sea of lesser beings bent on his destruction. Suddenly I found not just sympathy for Dracula, but also a deep well of empathy. 

In light of everything that goes on in "real life," it may sound ridiculous, but I Am Legend had a profound effect on how I think about my favorite entertainment genre. And again, it may sound silly in light of everything that goes on in "real life," but horror is a coping mechanism that's kind of important to me. Because no matter what's the suck-du-jour when I wake up in the morning, it could be worse. At least there are no zombies. 

Thank you Mr. Matheson. Rest in peace. 

And on the lighter side of horror...

We came upon this while hiking on West Magnolia this past weekend. While my companions were showing early signs of panic, I pulled out my cell phone to take a picture. 

Okay, let's be fair, I only took this picture because I'd already seen his hand wiggle.

Just in case anyone thinks I was implying we got a lot of snow yesterday...

We didn't. The flakes were just massive and coming down like rain. One the size of a Yarmulke landed on the crown of my head, but melted before I could snap a photo of it. And let me point out that it takes a Yarmulke the size of a salad plate to fit a Wilson head, so that was one hell of a snowflake.

We ended up with less than 4 inches sticking to the ground, which is so much easier to deal with than what we'd gotten on the previous 6 Wednesdays:

A special thanks to the Four Corners for adding muck to this snowfall. 

and,

Nederland Jr/Sr High School as seen from the window of a very late bus.
Public transit seemed like a good idea before I left the house. After I left the house, an afghan
on the couch seemed like the wiser choice, but I was already committed.

and,

Throughout the storms, birds kept the area around the feeder clear. What
they need to learn is how to shovel a path from the door to the feeder so I can keep
the blasted thing full.

Boulder Creek was incredibly dramatic this morning, absolutely roiling and muddy. What remains of spring 2013 promises to be exciting considering all the late snow and heavy rains. Drivers through the foothills are going to have to stay on their toes and keep an eye out for falling/fallen rocks and mudslides. Ominous, yes, but it's also another great reminder that with all of our intelligence, nature is still in charge.

LOL @ May

So, after moving to Nederland in December of 2011 and having an incredibly disappointing spring, weather-wise, in 2012 and then an incredibly disappointing autumn, and a winter that took disappointing to a whole new level, I'd like to introduce you to Spring 2013.

Another grand lesson in "be careful what you wish for."

Turns out this is just what "Wednesday" is going to look like this year. Seven Wednesdays in a row so far. It's easy to remember because Phil scheduled SafeLite Auto Glass to replace the Dragon's windshield seven weeks ago (they only come to Ned on Wednesdays). They don't want to do the job if the vehicle looks like this:

That would be the Dragon on the left. 

Don't feel too sorry for us though, we have enjoyed 70 degree days, most of them falling on the weekends. And if there's one thing Colorado can't get enough of after a decade or so of drought, it's precipitation, so provided I can get out of the driveway in the morning, I'm not going to complain. 

I really don't need my periodicals mocking me.

And because no post would be complete without a news of he who makes Nana a nana...

I've had the honor of keeping Owen company on Tuesdays while his Mom is at work. We, well I, at least, have a great time, and I've never been so happy to be covered in someone else's saliva. I'm not sure the warranty on my phone is good anymore, considering the amount of time it's spent in Owen's mouth, but cell phones are the 21st century equivalent of "Mom's keychain."

Turn up the volume. Owen's squeals of joy are nothing short of bliss.  And there's an epic drool.