It's a boy, part one.

Once the shock of Hagrid's passing let up a little bit, loneliness settled in. Hermione doesn't take up much space on the couch, and while she's probably the best snuggling dog ever - she throws herself into a perfect spoon - Saturday mornings just weren't the same without my Hagrid blanket.

After poking around the Leonberger Club of America website, clicking tons of links, scouring breeder sites, photographs, and pedigrees, I phoned Luanne Moede of BlueDrift Leonbergers. I think I got a half dozen words out before I burst into tears.

Luanne's girls, Rhumba and Junebug, were entertaining a handsome guest from Slovakia and love was in the air - along with a lot of dog hair. After some paperwork and nail-biting, we heard words that are music every expectant parent's ears: It's a Boy!!!

Actually, Rhumba had 6 boys and 2 girls, but one was all we needed to fill the tear-sodden hole in our lives. 10 weeks later Phil, Hermione, and I set out on a road trip to Wausau, Wisconsin to pick up our newest family member, BlueDrift's Bold Zweite Liebe, known to his friends as Fezzik.

The mighty lion leaves the safety of an aspen grove to stalk his camera...er, prey.
Or, Fezzik at 10 weeks old.

It took Hermione about 10 hours to go from less-than-thrilled to completely-in-love with her "little" brother, so by the time we got home from our road trip she was ready to introduce Baby Fezzik to the wonders of living in Nederland.

"This is where we bounce."

"This is how you play."

"I can do that!"

Since coming to live with us in October, Fezzik has learned so many important things, like "sit" gets you cookies and hugs, things that happen when you squat are probably best taken care of outside, don't chase cats into their hidey spots - the triple consequences being a.) cats have pointy parts that hurt when they get stuck in your nose, b.) the end that doesn't have pointy parts sprays something awful that makes Mommy give you a bath, and finally c.) growth spurts always happen when your head is stuck in a cat hidey spot. 

He's already devised his very own favorite game: Slow Motion Keep Away. It's a derivative of Slow Motion Escape. Leonbergers specialize in Slow Motion because it's pretty much their only forward gear.

Fezzik's greatest talent, however, is growing before your eyes.

Hermione is starting to catch on that he doesn't have to be treated like a china doll, at least not anymore. At 6 months old, he outweighs her by a good 30 pounds. I don't know if it's to her advantage or detriment that his skill at maneuvering his bulk is, oh, "lacking". Lacking is a good word. (See "Slow Motion Keep Away.")

And the chase is about to begin.

Come on, chase me.

Dammit, I said chase me.

Wait... Snow Snack.

Good. You're up. Chase me.

Woo-hoo!

All I can think of when Leonbergers run is the old Vonage commercials with the woo hoo woo hoo hoo music. 

So once again, our home is complete. We can resume our role as the people with "that dog."  And Saturday mornings can begin with a Fezzik blanket. Although Fezzik blankets lick a lot more than Hagrid blankets did.

This is what 6 months old looks like. 

Happy Half-Birthday, Baby Fezzik!! And Luanne, thank you. Thank you.

Time flies when you're having anxiety.

Certainly there's been no lack of activity about which to spew. The only thing lacking has been focus. There's been new life - including tiny pink feet and fuzzy soft pads. I've learned why claustrophobics might be wary of MRI machines, that "landing on your feet" doesn't always mean hitting the ground running, and, most importantly, being aware of what might happen in the future doesn't give you control over it.

And the only thing accomplished by worrying over tomorrow is a dangerous increase in blood pressure.

And the only thing accomplished by a dangerous increase in blood pressure might be an itty bitty teeny weeny spot on your right frontal lobe that might make the left side of your face go numb and your left arm go heavy and then you get to spend a night on the stroke floor of your local hospital waiting 10 hours for a speech therapist to okay your ability to eat and drink before you can have a graham cracker.

In a nutshell, since last we met I have a new puppy who thinks his name is "awwwww dammit" and a new grandson who has loose screws requiring repair.

This is nothing a plush drill couldn't fix.

and

I tried to add a banana for scale, but he ate it.

Ian doesn't really have a screw loose - and not just because Owen fixed it.

And the puppy's name isn't really "awwwwwww dammit." He's better known as "Bluedrift's Bold Zweite Liebe" or "Fezzik" to his friends.

And now that my head and heart are back in their assigned locations more posts will follow, rife with brow furrowing tales of Ian and his big brother Owen, and Fezzik the little brown soul-healing tank.

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. 

 

 

So, we took off Saturday morning in the ironically named "Sunseeker"...

Heh. The post's title really says it all.

You'd think my affinity for horror movies would have swayed our decisions, but no, we really did just about everything wrong by the "code."

First, we decided our preparations were "good enough."

Then, we took a shortcut. Right after saying "we bought the RV to be adventurous." To this decision I have only three words: Wolf. Creek. Pass.

We assumed the call for tire chains was, oh I'dunno, from yesterday.

Later in the evening, while experiencing a white-out, and with a cell phone teetering dangerously close to zero battery power, we called a random RV park to ask if they had availability. Despite having seen the Jessica Biel "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" more than 3 times, we opted to actually go to that RV park even though the attendant's voice was clearly suspiciously sweet.

I summoned oodles of sympathy for a hitchhiker up ahead, valiantly fighting his way through the storm, when Phil said simply "Rutger Hauer." Thank god for Phil's level head - and for a horror movie that he didn't sleep through.

At mid-morning on Sunday - after surviving our terrible Saturday decisions - we happened into a spectacularly clean rest stop/gas station somewhere in western New Mexico - or perhaps it was Arizona already - it's all a blur at the moment. After a quick visit to a stall, I figured I'd take advantage of running water and soap to wash my hands and face. This is when I noticed there were no mirrors in the restroom. I washed up really fast. Really, really fast. And left.

After surviving potential stuck-in-a-blizzard, stuck-in-a-blizzard-in-a-haunted-forest, stuck-in-a-blizzard-with-an-ax-murderer, stuck-in-a-blizzard-and-thinking-I'm-safe-but-actually-in-the-company-of-an-ax-murderer's-sympathizer, and moving-through-a-blizzard-but-gave-a-ride-to-an-ax-murderer, there's no flippin' way in hell I was gonna become a holiday feast for a hive of vampires.

I'm no dummy.

Okay, here's the not-neurotic Nana's version of what happened.

On the way out of Nederland, our in-dash navigation system suggested we go down the 93 rather than 25, and cut through the mountains as a shorter way to Holbrook, Arizona. I suggested we try this, but then thought about it and said "nah, let's not - there's weather coming in." Phil agreed, but then said "hey, we bought the RV for adventure, so let's go the more scenic route."

Both of us had in mind a timely arrival in Holbrook, setting up the chairs outside of the RV for the evening, and drinking Irish Creme Liquor by a campfire.

Didn't happen.

Surely just about everyone else in Colorado knows that route includes a nearly 11,000 foot mountain pass with 9% hairpin turns on the downside, but we sure didn't. Phil is a hero - and probably the person most in the world I would trust with such conditions. He kept his cool, his fear betrayed only by a death grip on the steering wheel.

Another Application of "Don't Try This at Home."

Going 5 miles an hour across ice will certainly impact your arrival time; thus the call to a random RV park in only-god-knows-where New Mexico. The woman who ran the park was really very sweet - genuinely very sweet, even though she was eerily reminiscent of "the Tea Lady" in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and she had very nice grandchildren (who, thankfully, never mentioned He Who Walks Behind the Corn).

I have to admit my experience at the rest stop the following day is 100% true. No mirrors in the bathroom, quick exit. Think about it - a horror movie in which our intrepid adventurers escape every un-supernatural danger in their paths only to be massacred by vampires in the end. It could happen.

In the end, we arrived at Destination: Owen about an hour after his bedtime, ate some spectacular Chinese food made by Courtney and Adam, downed a glass of wine like a heroin fix, and passed out.

More to follow.

Don't Try This at Home.

This morning I snuggled really close-in to Hagrid and whispered sweetly in his ear:

"Do you want to go see Courtney?"

The answer, of course, was an emphatic YES; and a Hagrid emphatic YES always includes a swing of the paw.

For some reason this makes me think of the old ketchup jingle/Carly Simon song...
Anticipation.... Anticipa-a-tion... is making me wait. 

We're nearly packed up, just clothes and yarn and knitting/crochet needles to go, and then we're off on our first great RV adventure.

We've ordered up WiFi in the campground for tonight (actually, I believe it's Kampground), so I'll be sure to take some photos and make a post over macaroni and cheese.

Until then...

The Happy Kamper.

An (Over)Abundance of Caution

...is just what the insurer ordered.

While last night's snow didn't exactly create a winter wonderland, it did create slick roadways as evidenced by the little Nissan Versa in front of me. Poor li'l fella was having a heckuva time.

Our last snow, which graced us on the day we went to check out RVs, relieved my Subaru Outback of its front end. Well, the mountain into which my Outback slid technically did the relieving, but the end result was a fat check from our wonderful insurance company.

Bet you never thought you'd see those words put in that order in a sentence, did'ja?

Let me make it clear that this is no reflection on Subaru Outbacks. They really are everything they're supposed to be under lousy roads conditions. The issue was the new tires I got from (yup, gonna name 'em) Big O on 30th and Valmont in Boulder. After only 7,000 miles they'd lost their useful tread. The insurance adjuster suggested that perhaps the tires they installed weren't as new as they lead me to believe.

This is the second non-Ford I've owned that found itself nose-less through no fault of its own, so I figured that's the nether's way of telling me I really am a Ford person. So off to the Ford dealer we went and got a car that's two years older with 70,000 more miles on it than my Subi had. I guess it's not technically a car, it's more like a tank with a sweet leather interior, heated bucket seats, and an entertainment center.

Fuel economy be damned, I've finally got my Explorer. An Eddie Bauer, at that. Getting back into a Ford felt like going home. Just everything about the way it drives, the feel of the steering wheel, and even the solid sound of the turn indicator is like making a left at the top of Bedford Road in Pocantico Hills. Ah, home.

One thing I'm still a bit envious of in my daughter's Explorer is her horn. Yeah, mine has a wonderfully blaring, distinctly American sound, but the horn in Courtney's Explorer will knock you out of your shoes. It's the kind of horn that makes you want to get stuck behind someone who is still dialing their phone when the light turns green.

Aaanyway, this morning was my first venture down Canyon in icy conditions. 4x4 on, kept it in 3rd, and moved at a pace slightly better than a crawl. The only issue I had was that upon reaching the Sugarloaf intersection I thought "holy crap, I'm only at Sugarloaf?" Yes, yes, but I'm at Sugarloaf intact.

I was going to add a photo of my new baby tank, but the camera in my phone rots. Instead I'm going add the first clear photo I could find on the card.

Yeah, we tried to shame our cat. But in addition to having no sense of humor, she has no shame, either. The end score was LittleKitty 1, iPad screen 0. WreckCenter games won a bill for 200 bucks.

T-minus 4 full (work) days.

Rubber-based rugs...check.
Melamine plates and plastic cups...check.
Christmas presents for Owen, Courtney, Adam, and Owen...check.

Phil has an inventory of which toys Hermione can't live without.

Throw it all, the dogs and cats into the RV, head down Canyon to 28th Street/ US 36, to I 25, to I 40, west until stuff starts looking all California-ish and sorta coastal.

What could go wrong?

A Deadly Srius Question for Someone Smrtr than Me.

How old do you have to be before you consistently remember that adding flour to a running mixer is a bad idea?

Wait... it's December?

How'd Courtney put it? "Ooops... how time flies" or something like that?

Please know that I haven't neglected everything since my last post - things got vacuumed, dusted, vacuumed again. And again and again. Iron stains have been removed from the toilets and shower. The dogs have been walked, brushed, and walked again. And again and again.

Fall finally came to Colorado, and for once it didn't give way immediately to Winter. It's been unseasonably warm and dry, extending the fire season by a few months. Or maybe we're in next year's fire season already. Either way, this morning brought sweet, sweet flurries to our little mountain town; so far just a dusting, but every little bit is welcome.

How beautiful is this? Oscar and Cara sharing some yummies in their stable while nature decorates the rest of their corral. It's wonderful having horses next door. I get the joy of watching them frolic and play without the expense of horse ownership.

Especially fun is the first warm day after a real snow storm. Oscar, the white one, likes nothing more than to roll around in the mud. He prances around so proud of himself, "look... a horse can change his spots!! Well, at least he can paint some on himself with a nice mud puddle."

So, we're seven days out from embarking on our first big trip in the new RV. I have no doubt we'll be desperately unprepared. My priority before taking off was to get rubber-based throw rugs to enable Hagrid's movement from one end of the RV to the other while in transit. We'll see how that works out. The dogs love a stationary RV. Who wouldn't? There's an easy access bed and windows everywhere! Once in motion, however, an RV is nothing more than an enclosed, rumbling terror. And the only way to overcome that terror is to sit in Dad's lap. Even if Dad is driving. 

The best part of our upcoming trip is the destination: Owen. Owen is all baby now. Here he is doing his best Bob Wilson impression:

And here he is being his Daddy's little man:

I really need to scoop him up and kiss him silly. And I'm pretty sure he's been a good boy, so Santa will be bringing him wonderful presents. Although we're hoping Owen's opinion of Christmas festivities improves over this:

It may be, however, that seeing Mommy kissing Santa Claus was a bit overwhelming. Being a part of the festivities seems to suit Owen better:

Well, I'm off to make some batter bread. Get the house stinkin' good for the weekend. 

By the way, whatever you do, never, ever watch a show on Animal Planet called "Too Cute". There's even a disclaimer at the start of the show urging viewer discretion because the subject matter is, after all, too cute. Puppies. An hour of puppies. I think I need to find a Labradoodle puppy. Ugh. Too cute. And baby sled dogs. We need a baby sled dog. Oh wait... I already have a baby sled dog. It turns out Hermione is a Siberian Husky/Lab/Collie. We did a DNA test because she was looking less and less Lab as she got older. And despite her size, she's more 'dog' than we've ever had. Anyway, this show is turning me to butter. Quick, someone remind me that I don't need three dogs!

Batter bread. Gotta make the bread. 

But, I feel so... so... clean.

September is a silly time to undertake an 11 day cleanse. Seriously, who comes up with these ideas?

I suppose September is better than October. Certainly better than November and December. Waiting until January would guarantee a (bogus) resolution to fit into single-digit sized clothes by an ever-changing date.

But this morning my email was flooded with ads for self-rising flour and recipes with photos like this:

Go here if you're not consuming only colon-blasting, antioxidant-rich raspberry flavored powder for the next 8 days. Chicken and Dumplings: King Arthur Flour

And links to tailgate finger-food ideas that look like this:

Somebody make these and tell me how they are: http://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/sausage-balls-10000000558458/

On the upside, it's only 32 minutes until my next vanilla flavored chalk cake!!

It's tough coming from a heritage for whom butter is one of the major food groups. In fact, the base and first two levels of the Slovak food pyramid are pure dairy gold butter. None of this clarified or unsalted junk, either. 

It's the age old dilemma: Butter or Fashionista. 

I took a spin through Macy's the other day - trying to inspire myself to find charm in chalky snacks. It appears that jeans with subtle and not-so-subtle prints are back in vogue. There was a time when I would have been all over this - paisleys and flower prints featuring dramatic roses and peonies.

If you lean towards the fashionista end of the spectrum, flower printed jeans can look so sweet and feminine. If you lean towards favoring butter, these jeans make your butt look like the Home Depot garden center just before Mother's Day.  And no one wants to see that walking down the hall. 

Aaaaaaaaaaaaand that takes me up to seven minutes past time for chalky goodies and another glass of water. Yum. 

I get to live here.

...and what's more, I get to look at this on my early morning commute. See ya' later Moon. Happy Friday.

I'm just gonna stuff my face into this candle for a bit, is that okay with you?

We're 30 something hours from September and it was 83 degrees in Nederland at 9am this morning. The way I see it, the air damn-well better be crisp if any part of my day is going to be obstructed by a school bus. And I want it to smell of apples and spent foliage.

Now hear this, you... weather, you. Hot evergreen and dirt is the "eau de Rocky Mountain July," and I'm ready for scents that make me want to simmer pork loins in apples and butternut squash. Now fix it.

The only thing keeping me sane is Yankee Candle's new scent, Treehouse Memories(tm).

Speaking of "fix it", Courtney posted photos of Owen and his hats. I confess to be the source of the hat that kept popping off his head of its own accord. It was preemie sized, but I never gauge check, so there are two things that could explain this phenomenon; either I sized it for a premature kitten rather than a 4 lb human, or Owen has inherited a Wilson cranium. Being blessed with Weeks feet is bad enough.

Weeks Feet + Wilson Head = A Lot of Time in Specialty Stores.

The good ladies of the NICU were kind  enough to give Owen a more appropriately sized hat for his forays out of the Giraffe. Not to look a gift horse in  the mouth or anything, but the hat teeters dangerously close to USC colors. And as everybody who is anybody knows, nobody likes USC. Not even USC fans.

Nana to the rescue.

There. Fixed it. 

He's got a Packers hat in transit, and now the Fins. Next will be in honor of the SUPER BOWL CHAMPION NEW YORK GIANTS, and after that will be the Washington Redskins. They're going to be last because I need to give everyone a chance to forget that this all started with colors that teeter dangerously close to those belonging to USC. And nobody likes USC. Unless they're playing Notre Dame.

Bye, Little Band-Aid.

If the Rainbow Bridge is real, I expect that when it's my time to go into the light, I'm gonna get flattened and covered in dog spit. 

That is heaven.

In which 13 is very, very old.

In April of 1999 we lost two incredible cats within a few days of each other. Beethoven suffered a saddle thrombus in the early hours of a terrible Saturday morning. The pain had to be unbearable; I didn't even know cats could make that noise.

We bundled him up and brought him to the emergency vet near our house. The staff was amazing. It was "all hands" as they cleared the table and hooked up an oxygen tube to dangle near his nose. All at once the howling stopped as Beethoven... got utterly transfixed by the wiggly tube shooting a breeze at him. "Hey, a toy!!"

The giggle everyone got from that was short lived as pain over took the poor boy and he began howling again. We went home to get Courtney, then back to the hospital to say goodbye to one special cat. I think that was the first time I saw a doctor cry.

Back at the house, Ripley was still pressed hard up against the fireplace - the "terror" position she took when Beethoven's event first took place. I patted her a little bit, kissed her nose, and let her be, assuming she'd calm down after a bit.

Ripley had been with us since our return from Germany - a little more than eleven years. In that time she'd lost a number of best buddies to coyotes (Jones and Rex) and idiots speeding down Cedros Avenue (Suds and the irrepressible Pete Krusty LeMieux (aka, Sweet Fluffy LaHoo)). After each loss, Ripley would go into a period of mourning; sometimes deep enough to threaten her own health. It took a few years for Ripley to decide to even be friends with Beethoven - I think she really got tired of having to say goodbye - but when the two of them did bond, it was exceptionally strong.

But by Monday we knew it was more than mourning, and after a number of visits by our wonderful veterinarian, Cathy Eppinger, we decided that she didn't deserve the indignity of the treatment required to keep her alive with failed kidneys.

Ripley left us five short days after Beethoven did.

After lunch on the following day Phil and I stopped by Petland in the old Crossroads mall. I know, I know, don't buy pets from stores in malls, but, but... while Phil was trying to awaken a Golden Retriever puppy without tapping on the glass, this fat little lab mix puppy in the cage below stopped mauling her brothers, stood on her hind legs and said "HEY MISTER, DOWN HERE!" Phil redirected his attention and the rest is history.

Really, who could resist?

We all fell in love with Gracie immediately - even Otto, our Newfoundland mix treated her like a hallowed gift for which he was entirely responsible. She was our family Band-Aid, mending the wound left by the loss of Beethoven and Ripley.

Gracie is the smartest dog I've ever met. Her training essentially consisted of a sit down meeting in which we enumerated the do's and don'ts of living in the Weeks house. We negotiated a few - like couch time and that any food not consumed in the time it took Otto to finish his own dinner would revert to his possession. This kept Gracie svelte for many years.

Yes, she was svelte and black at one point. 

Grace was our athlete. She perfected the rules for The Greatest Game in the World. Our inability to fully understand the game's mechanics has resulted in a final score 84,287 - 2, with Gracie as the Grand Champion. In her youth, Gracie was a jet engine on land and in water. She didn't run across the grass, she'd lower herself and pull the earth under her. There was no stick too far, and no frisbee too high. (This is not to imply she was any good at catching them, but she was crazy-good at stopping them with her face.)

In the years since, Gracie graciously tolerated the arrival of new kittens, even the fearless Scuff, who thought he'd be able to tear Gracie limb from limb and feast on her for months. She was less gracious about the arrival of the infant Hagrid, who was intolerably adorable. However, once she realized she was allowed to play with him (a hilarious story, likely to be shared at some point in the future), she fell nose over paws in love with him, a condition that holds true today.

Ow. No really, Ow.

It seems like only yesterday that we were giving baby Gracie a boost into the house. Just last weekend that she could flatten herself like a squirrel to get to her pile of golden treasures under the deck. Just this morning that she stood on a sea wall utilizing her vast psychic resources to will an elderly gentleman's ice cream cone to the ground.

But in the real world, what this morning brought was her slow progress up the stairs to the living room. Pained grunts and the drag of grossly arthritic joints and atrophied muscles. Gracie's given up on being embarrassed by incontinence anymore, a condition that, today, has expanded to include anything incontinent-able.

At thirteen plus years, the very best thing about a Labrador Retriever becomes the very worst thing about a Labrador Retriever. Indomitable joy, relentless hope (hope = a cookie in every hand), and a constant smile from ear to ear. Sadly, I think all Gracie holds now is hope. And while a cookie is always welcome (there's a reason Labs grace so many cookie and kibble packages), Phil and I are starting to realize Gracie, sweet, old, grey-faced Gracie, is hoping for the pain to go away.

We procrastinate, and Gracie keeps wagging that crooked, arthritic tail. Phil left a message for Dr. Eppinger,  who isn't technically practicing medicine right now, to see if Gracie's first vet could maybe be her last vet. We haven't heard back, and maybe we hope not to hear back - at least for a while.

Joy and sorrow. Joy and sorrow. One magnifies the other and as time passes, you sometimes wonder if there's ever an in-between. Of course there is. And off we go to enjoy some in-between time.

A really great photo.

We've all been tossed about in a tempest this week, but as Saturday draws to a close, I'd like to share this peaceful little shot of Owen and his proud parents, of whom I simply could not be more proud.

Sweet dreams, little Owen. Sweet dreams everyone.