Betland

2012-01-11T20:36:00.003-05:00

(because of circumstances you might understand, I never wrote a blog about my friend Seth Williamson. I'm still not over it, I try, but I don't think any of us who loved him will be over it. I hope this does you some justice, my buddy.)

I'm Still Bereft

The first week of October, I lost a friend.

And the way I lost him, well, I just can't fathom.

I had to go pick Granny up from her eye appointment. It was a Friday, I didn't mind, I got a few minutes out of work, I'd pick Granny up, deposit her home, then head back to work with the weekend ahead of me.

I went out to the parking lot and got in my car. I revved it up. My radio, as always,
was tuned to the NPR station out of R'noke, the only one I listen to. It was pledge week. A downer to be sure, more talk and less music, but that was OK by me. My buddy Steve B from the Community Band (the afternoon guy) was talking away, trying to get people to give to the cause.

But as I was backing out of my parking spot, something happened. He said something I wasn't sure about.

"I know he would have wanted us to carry on and reach our goal."

My blood ran cold.

See, I knew, from Facebook that my SKB buddy and dear friend Seth - the normal 'morning guy' on the NPR station - was in the hospital. His daughter reported that he had to be taken to the local hospital to have gall bladder surgery. Gall bladder surgery? It's relatively simple. Hell, I had it some 18 years ago, and I came out just fine.

But something just didn't feel right.

I continued backing out of my spot and heading out to meet Granny. Then it came.

Steve Brown announced that Sethie had suddenly died the night before, after his surgery.

I can't explain it. Suddenly, in a way, my world ended that morning. Still trying to go through the parking lot to head out to meet Granny, tears making it nigh-on impossible to drive.

In my life I've lost a grandfather, two grandmothers I loved dearly, an uncle and an aunt. Thank God I still have both parents with me, and all my immediate family.

I swear to God, nothing has hit me as hard as this.

Seth Williamson was my friend. But he was so much more.

I first knew him from Community Band, a euphonium player who seemed larger than life, with a big booming voice, always ready with a hilarious quip to throw out to the band. He did the narration for every July 4th concert the band played, and I swear, some of the rehearsals with his narration were so great (with outtakes and asides), I kind of fell in love with him.

Then about 8 years ago, I got my dream. To join the Sauerkraut Band. I'd wanted to for some 10 years, and (thanks, Mr M) I was asked to come along for the ride. Seth played euphonium in the Sauerkraut Band.

And that's when I realized that falling in love with Seth was, well, par for the course.

He was wonderful. So kind. So funny. So talented. The kind of person who made a girl coming into a new group feel welcome, like she was "one of the gang."

I sat right behind him all those years up the mountain at Oktoberfest. And I have to tell you, when things got rough, or boring, or beyond tolerating, he could always turn around and say something to me that would crack me up and keep me going.

Mr M and Sethie became great friends. They charged emails back and forth between them, arguing over politics and religion, the two things people should never talk about. But they were so close, they had to.

I can remember many a time when it came intermission at Oktoberfest, when Seth would go outside on the patio and grab a chair to sit. Mr M and I, and always other SKB members, would go over to where he was to talk and laugh.

Besides being a fine musician and singer, Seth was the king of the one-liners. He'd often shout something out during Ed's repeated schtick that would crack up the entire band, and half the audience.

In the early days of SKB, Seth always called me "Elizabetta," which I loved, and treasure to this day.

And so time passed, and we were all now ensconced as friends. But over the past two years, Sethie found Susan. A new SKB member. She's a lovely person, and they seemed to be a perfect match. They were so happy together.

So now - I didn't have to wait till Oktoberfest to see Seth (or Susan)! They came over to Mr M's for dinner, or movies, or just to hang out. It was fantastic, and oh, the stories I heard from Seth.

The summer before he died, they came over and we watched the movie "The Wild Wonderful Whites of West Virginia." Oh, my Lord, the comments that came from him. I'd seen the movie before, and had laughed, but he made me laugh even more.

Seth, from the beginning, accepted me so willingly, with whatever horrible character and physical flaws I have, or may have thought I had. He welcomed me into his fold and called me his friend.

He was larger than life to me. And that's (whether it's grammatically correct) literally and figuratively. He was a large man. Tall and big, with a huge booming voice (perfect for radio). He was just a large presence.

But he was also bigger than life because he was so knowledgeable. He knew every bird in the sky. He would hike up mountains to see hawks fly above the Virginia sky. He'd read thousands of books. He knew all music, from classical to lowly band music, to bluegrass, to old-time mountain music. Every time I went up the mountain to Oktoberfest I'd see him sitting on the back of his Forester, reading at least one book.

And he had stories. Like the time he used to sing jingles for money in Charlotte, NC. One of my favorites.

And another thing I'll always treasure. The time I brought Granny and Paw up to the mountain for Oktoberfest, Seth sat and talked to my dad forever about bluegrass music, and artists, and who was the best at this instrument or that. My dad remembers it to this day, and grieved over his passing, too.

So - here it is in the New Year, 2012.

When I went to Seth's memorial, it was beautiful, with lots of pictures of his life, but there were no pictures of birds.

That's how I think of Sethie now. As a hawk flying over the mountains, over us all, looking down on us and telling us to get on with our lives.

I'm trying, Seth. But I swear, I miss you.

2011-12-26T20:55:00.003-05:00

DFF's Answers!

OK, so when last I left you, my buddy the DeepFat Friar had posted his Christmas Quiz. Only one brave soul chimed in with answers.

So now here are the answers, and I'm telling you right now, these are all the DFF's answers, so get ready.

1. The shepherds were watching their flocks in the hills. The sheep would not have been grazing in the hills in December in that part of the world.

2. The Saturnalia. (BTW, *I* knew this from "The Big Bang Theory.")

3. The holding of a census. There is nothing in any known Roman historical records about it.

4. The Little Drummer Boy, because of the chorus lines, "TAAAAAAAAAAAAAH rum ba bum bum, rum ba bum bum BUMMMM." (Hum the Dragnet them music to those lyrics.)

5. Caribou can't fly.

6. Rudolph. The song "Santa Claus is Coming", refers to "Rudy toot-toot." (This may be the fuel that powers his nose, as well.)

7. Eight maids a milking seven swans (they don't give milk); six geese a laying five gold rings (as everyone knows, they lay golden eggs, not gold rings).

8. Contrary to popular opinion, it has nothing to do with the virgin birth. It is the doctrine that Mary was born without original sin.

9. The virginity of Mary. The text from Isaiah misquoted in the gospel refers to "a virgin shall be with child." The Hebrew word in Isaiah actually means "young woman". Hebrew had a different word to signify a virgin.

10. Unknown. Their names are not given.

Oooooh. How did you do?

2011-12-25T21:47:00.003-05:00

Guest Christmas Blogger!

Ho, ho, ho, and Merry Christmas to all.

Our friend the DeepFatFriar has asked to be a guest blogger tonight. A sort of Santa for you all.

Because...

He has composed a Christmas Quiz!

Not sure how we're going to do this, I was just thinking we'd put up the questions tonight, and if you want to chime in with some answers via comments, be our guest. Then tomorrow I'll post the answers. And be warned - there's some tricky stuff in here!

So take it away, DeepFatFriar!

1. There is evidence in the gospels that Jesus was actually born in the summer. What is this evidence?

2. What major Roman feast is the date of Christmas close to?

3. What is the most significant "historical" event in the christmas gospel stories for which external evidence should certainly exist, but for which there is none in the historical record?

4. What is the favorite Christmas song of Jack Webb (of the old Dragnet tv show)?

5. What is the difference between caribou and reindeer?

6. Which of Santa's reindeer was famous for farting?

7. Name two physical impossibilities in the Twelve Days of Christmas song (there may be more).

8. What, exactly, is referred to by the phrase "Immaculate Conception"?

9. What christian doctrine is based the gospel mistranslating a Hebrew word in the Old Testament, and what was the word?

10. According to the gospels, what were the names of the so-called wise men?

So there you go. The night's winding down, so get wound back up and take the quiz!

2011-12-11T20:46:00.011-05:00

Picture Sunday

Hello, blogees.

Well, after last week's blog, I felt like I owed it to my tens of readers to get my buns out and get some pictures of the big nativity scene in the town. And today I did just that.

Today was cold but sunny, and I got a few snaps.

Here's one of the whole shebang.

Hey, have some hay there, Mr Donkey.

(The picture doesn't do it much justice, but up close, that is one real-looking donkey. And he has one of those eyes that follow you while you walk around.)

Sadly, my sister isn't on his back, but here's the camel, flanked by a rather large sheep. Hell, they're all large.

Here's the manger, and I'm telling you that wise man to the left is one tall fellow. Way over six feet.

And here, yes, here is our little buddy, right in the middle of it all.

And pardon me for being so bold, but that is a d-o-g dog.

And one intense little pooch, too. No one's escaping from this nativity scene anytime soon.

Oh. maybe that's it. He's a watchdog. No thefts, no vandalism at the manger this year!

Good boy.

2011-12-06T19:28:00.003-05:00

A (Divine) Boy and His Dog

Hello, my friends. This is a Christmas blog, my first of the season. Maybe the last, maybe not. We shall not know.

It all started way too early, of course, the weekend before Thanksgiving. Because Christmas decorations are always put up too early nowadays. Poor Thanksgiving, the forgotten holiday. No one cares about it. They're too busy thinking of Christmas.

But it's been quite the talk of the town in our little burg here.

For years, we've had the same nativity scene in our town square. And yes, I know, but this is not what this blog is about. I'm from Mayberry, USA, remember - the fact that we put a nativity scene in the town square is a non-event. Even the non-religious among us don't care enough to cause a fuss, because we all like Christmas, and so no one's calling the ACLU anytime soon.

So let's not even go there, OK?

So, this is what the thing is. For all those years of having the same nativity scene in the town square, well, as you might imagine, it's gotten some wear and tear. Joseph's and Mary's noses have broken off, the sheep's a little wobbly because one of his hooves is too worn, and Joseph and Mary don't need to rock the cradle, because it only has three legs.

And so, this year, someone decided to spend some bucks.

Apparently, an anonymous benefactor has gifted the town with a brand new nativity scene to put in the town square.

And let me tell you, it's something else.

First of all, besides being new and shiny, it's life-sized. Humans, animals, everything. Life-sized.

My sister thinks this is the greatest thing ever. She's made me promise that before the holiday ends I'll go with her to the town square and take a picture of her with the giant camel. Maybe with her sitting on it.

And yes, it's a very nice nativity scene, built to scale, and no broken noses or wobbly hooves.

However.

Well, wait. First of all, an aside. (You all know how I love a good aside.)

My dear old dad came into the office the other day, he rode the bus into town to get a haircut, and he was telling me that the new scene was all the talk at the barber shop.

One of the barbers announced, and I can't denounce it, because Lord knows I don't know my Biblical scripture, and Dad couldn't either - but this barber said the wise men were placed wrong at that scene, way too close in, because apparently they didn't reach, and meet, well, Himself, until he was about two years old.

And I was so happy to make my dad laugh when I said to him, "Well, if that's true, they need to place the wise men round about my house (about 1/2 mile away)."

Har de har.

But that's not where we're going here in the blog about the big fancy nativity scene.

Everyone in our office has driven by this scene, there in the town square, a few times a day, since before Thanksgiving. And it didn't take long for us to start discussing it.

OK.

So you have the life-sized figures, the life-sized Joseph and Mary and Baby Gee, and the camel and sheep and lamb and ox and ass.

And there, sitting, drawing a bead on the Baby Gee, is ... a dog.

Well, it has to be a dog. I looked really closely. I wondered if it was a wolf, or a jackal. It's not. It's a dog.

He's in the basic "sitting dog" position, with his head pitched forward. He's about 6 feet away from Baby Gee, looking right at him, as if to say, "Hello!"

None of us has ever heard of a dog at the nativity. I've researched it. I mean, it might make sense, if there were sheep there, there might have been a sheepdog there.

But this dog isn't made like a sheepdog. It's just a smooth-coated black dog.

We have, there in the office, discussed this to no end. Way more than why a town can put up a nativity scene and no one cares.

So, was there a dog at the nativity?

I'd sure like to think so. I mean, dog is man's best friend, right? And every boy (or should I say, Boy) needs a dog in his (or His) life.

You know, years ago, I read a little blurb that said "Dog is God spelled backwards." And I believe it.

So welcome to the nativity, Mr Arf-Arf. I like you there. (And so does Milo.)

2011-11-13T22:45:00.005-05:00

Ow! My Back (pt 2)

So, my lovely blogees. When I last left you I'd been kicked out of our city's armpit ER with a pain pill to tide me over.

Yeah.

So I went into work Monday (because, yes, that's how I roll) in much pain, screaming out in horror when I had to take a shower, go to the bathroom, and pull my pants up and such.

So finally I decided to call in sick Tuesday (do you know what a massive thing that is for me?), and see Smokin' Dr Javier to see if, in fact, I needed that MRI I didn't want to have because it was not paid for my by insurance, the "Never Pay Policy."

Smokin' Dr Javier hit my knees with the little hammer, and then made me stand up. He ran his hands along my back, said, and I quote, "Ahhh," then stuck his thumb in a place in my buttocks that almost took me to the ground, and I was holding on to his 95-lb ass, so he almost went down with me.

I told him this was most precarious, as we didn't want to be found in the floor together all tangled up like that, as tongues would wag, and he laughed, then helped me to a chair and started writing.

His writing contained a refill of those pain-killing drugs I got in the ER, but not an appointment for an MRI. Instead he told me, "You need physical therapy and you need it immediately. Even one session could help." He told me to go home and wait, and he'd have me an appointment with someone he highly recommended. With a physical therapist.

And so at noon Tuesday, I met my new hero, Dr Everton.

I walked into his office and he started asking me questions about my situation. I found immediately he was British, which of course endeared me to him. He had a very droll sense of humor during all of the investigory questions.

He made me move this way and that, then told me that although I was in great pain, he thought my situation was not so dire. I had twisted and inflamed ligaments rubbing against my sciatic nerve. He also used the word "sacroyilliac" many times, which as a podcaster of the Hucklebug, I found comforting.

During our introduction and his making me go through some basic back and leg movements, we (somehow, I honestly can't remember) got to mentioning English football. That's when he told me he was an Everton fan. (Sorry, Stennie.) Then he asked me to put slip off my "jumper"(it was just a shirt) and put on the hospital gown he'd given me. I started doing that immediately, and he said, "Oh, no, let me at least leave the room first, love."

OK, this was my guy.

After I'd put on my hospital shirt and he made his way back in, Dr Everton asked me if I thought I could lie on my stomach on his bed. I did my best, and then - then! - he began to tell me how he was a "hands on" therapist.

He lowered my pants and undies, brought out some oils and an ultrasound machine, and began to rub.

And God, how he rubbed.

He massaged my hips and nether regions like you wouldn't believe. All the while, he told me his story (he was from Liverpool and began life as a printmaker, then followed his now-wife to Amsterdam where he studied physical therapy). He did a perfect Beatles Liverpool accent and a good Newcastle Geordie accent. We talked back and forth about England. It was bliss.

After the massage, I got off the table, and still had that screaming (remember?) sensation, but I felt better. I could almost stand upright. He scheduled me for another appointment on Friday. To be honest, I couldn't wait.

He gave some exercises to do in my chair at home and at work that would help loosen up the muscles. Push the back in, feel the strain, then relax the back, feel it let loose. He said to do it all day, every fifteen minutes, no matter what (even on the toilet), then I needed to move.

He was worried my insurance wouldn't pay for his sessions. (What are you talking about? I knew it wouldn't, but I was prepared to pay it myself, whatever the cost.) After I got home that Tuesday, he called me at home to ask how I was doing, and to say that the insurance wouldn't pay, and he was so sorry (Mr Socialized Medicine), but he'd try to get the "Blue Cross" rate for it for me. Didn't matter to me. That ass massage was golden. (And let's be honest, his working the system, less than half the price of an appointment with Smokin' Dr Javier. And still, he apologized. What a guy!)

So I came home and did my exercises. Push, push, feel the strain, then relax. Then move. Get up and lumber around the house or office. Where the first step made me realize how much pain I was still in. Well... hoo de hoo.

I saw him again Friday, and told him I wasn't so much feeling it (I was near tears when I entered his office), because all of the things I do in a morning's time (showering, taking Milo out, going to the bathroom, getting dressed) were the things that made me scream out in pain.

He wasn't the least bit worried. He told me that the push and strain exercises would help, but the key was to move. All the exercises led to movement. But - before my next ass massage - which, let me tell you was wonderful and I swear I could have one every single day - he stressed "movement" wasn't lumbering around a house or office, it was moving my sore leg and hip.

And so I got my ass massage (which, let me tell you, etc), and after I got back to work after that, I stood up every half-hour and moved my leg. This way and that. Leaned to the right and left. Put my leg forward and back.

And I'm not kidding - by about 2pm, I was really starting to feel a difference. I could move! I could stand up and walk without crying. I went to the bathroom and didn't once scream while pulling up my pants!

That Dr Everton knows his stuff!

And so Friday and most of Saturday was a revelation. I could do my normal daily tasks without screaming and crying. (Remember screaming and crying?)

Saturday was not so good, and all my fault. I drove the drive to B'burg, then watched a movie with my buddies, and didn't do the whole "strain-push-get up and move."

And how I paid. Saturday overnight was torture, I got almost no sleep.

BUT!

I got up Sunday morning and started the whole thing again. Push, strain, move. Move, move, move. It helped, almost immediately.

I see Dr Everton again tomorrow. I can't wait to tell him I've had some progress, but more than that, I can't wait for my ass massage.

Insurance or no, "Blue Cross" rates or no, I want that ass massage. Forever. From tomorrow till the end of time.

With the rates he got me from his apologies that we in the US have no socialized medicine, I'd be happy with two ass massages every week the rest of my life!

But I'm progressing, blogees.

Slowly. Did I mention I can't wait for my ass massage tomorrow?

2011-11-13T18:16:00.004-05:00

Ow! My Back! (pt. 1)

Hello, my long-lost blogees.

Yes, I know, I've been away a long time. I'd like to say that's because I've been off doing really exciting things, but, well, you know me. That's not the case. I've just been living my normal life.

And speaking of my normal life - hey! How about my back?

I've often talked about my back being "out," throwing out my back when lifting and slinging and doing hard tasks around the Poderosa, the things one has to do because only one lives at the Poderosa.

But then.... There's that other thing I've mentioned.

I don't know if you yourself have heard me mention it, but I have, many times. Between work and doing Paw Duty and working every day and living a life at a house where's there's only one gal to do all the stuff. "I'm just a mule, and one day this mule's back is gonna break."

And well, it did.

Over a week ago I found myself down in my back. And I'll be honest right here in the old blog, I have NO IDEA how it happened. I got up on a Tuesday. I got ready for work and got ready to leave, and I took Milo out for his pee and poo and got dressed and everything was as usual.

Then when it was time to go to work, my windshield was frozen over from the cold, and I had to scrape it, but then, I've scraped windshields for over 10 years, right?

I came into work, sat down, took a phone call, then went to the bathroom. And when I came back to start the rest of the day, my back was out. It hurt. I had no idea why. I was OK during the ice scraping, during the bathroom break - it was a mystery. But my back hurt, and that was it.

I endured it that entire week, babied it and tried to get it better, but to no avail. Then came the weekend. The weekend I had Paw Duty.

That was the Saturday after the initial Tuesday of my back going out. I didn't particularly want to do Paw Duty, but it was my weekend, so that was that.

There was a point, right there in the grocery with Paw, where I started to cry from the pain. I put my shirt up to my eyes to catch the tears. It was not a pretty sight. But still, there were cans and bottles to be lifted into the cart, and I did that, because I'm a dutiful daughter (mule), and that's what one does.

When we got the groceries back to Paw's house, he saw my shape and said, as he has in the past, to be honest, "Now, I'm carrying these bags into the house, you don't lift anything." And for the first time ever, I took him up on his offer.

I let him carry the bags into his house, then I went home. And I hurt. I kept thinking, "If there's just one place I could find a little peace...." and so I made that Fatal Mistake.

I went to bed.

I slept in my bed for over two hours. Which was nice, to be sure, but then I woke up and had to get out of bed.

And I couldn't.

My back had completely seized up. The muscles were gone, and all I could do, once I finally lifted myself from the bed, was to lumber around my house, screaming and crying.

Yeah. Screaming and crying. Remember that.

During all that screaming and crying, I wasn't sure what to do. I kept thinking of dialing 911, but you know, I have Milo, and I couldn't leave him in an empty house while I went off to the hospital.

So I called the parents.

I told them that if i could get in my car and drive the 2 miles to their house, I was coming, so at least Milo would have a place to stay if I had to confine myself. I threw Milo into the car, and screamed my way to their house.

And still....

It's hard to explain. In my town, the local hospital is an armpit. No one wants to go there, including myself. I tried to come up with any way possible not to end up in their ER.

I walked, I sat, I bended this way and that. I did everything I could think of doing. Three hours later, I finally decided that if I felt this way now, tomorrow and the next day couldn't be much better. I finally gave my dad the go-ahead to call 911.

And so they came.

Yep. So I screamed my way in an ambulance to the local ER, every bump and curve being a new reason for me to scream my lungs out.

I arrived at the ER and got evaluated. Yeah. I was a bit worried that I was one of the Saturday Night Crowd who wanted drugs (that's a natural around here), but they still went and looked me over, and did an X-Ray, and blood and urine tests.

Turns out I had no infections, and my X-Rays of the bones showed nothing amiss. They told me to follow up with my regular Dr, Dr Smokin' Javier, and that maybe an MRI was in order.

Yeah, OK. Total ER visit not paid by insurance, and now an MRI? I knew this routine.

They said they'd give me a shot to help the pain, one that would last for about two days. It didn't even last two hours. I was able to ambulate for a moment, then when they pronounced me ready to go, I was still unable to walk, screaming and crying (remember?) and leaning over various pieces of furniture to exist.

My dad (who had ridden in the ambulance with me) and I were kicked out of the ER. We had way no home, no one to call to get us home, but it didn't matter. We were duly released, and so we had to leave. It was 4:15 am.

The only person we knew to call was the bro-in-law's dad. He's a wonderful man who has spent his retirement taking care of lost souls. Oh, Lord, were we lost souls. He came and got us, and I professed such embarrassment that it it was, well, embarrassing.

I got two prescriptions to take home with me. One was a muscle relaxer, one was a pain pill. They gave me an extra pain pill there at the ER, and I took when I got home around 5 am. I slept a little bit, which was blissful, but let's be honest, I was wrecked and that was only a spot-relief.

But any relief was welcome as I slept a bit on Sunday, and went to work on Monday, cause that's how I roll, of course, but I was in just as much in pain.

I needed help!

So I followed up with Smokin' Dr Javier on Tuesday to see if that (non-paid, remember my health insurance) MRI was needed.

Stay tuned - what happened? Did I get better? Did I have to pay for an MRI I can't afford?

It's worth another check back, I promise!

2011-08-28T21:08:00.005-04:00

The Lamb of God, or Dog Park Antics!

OK. I had a wild weekend at Mr M's. You don't need to know about it. It just involves the fact that I have Sciatica and Mr M gave me some drugs to combat it.

OK. That's over.

The day after all the pain, I knew I had to come back home and do Paw Duty and get ready for the week, which entailed big hulking bags of trash and all, but like I said, that wasn't a factor in this story.

But I knew when I left Mr M's for home and Paw Duty, first I had to take Milo to the dog park.

Milo loves the dog park. And I do, too, I love watching him run around and trying to make friends, and when he doesn't make friends, Mr M says it's my fault because I've turned Milo into a sissy and no dogs want to play with him.

And I'm prepared for that, I tell you!

But today!

Today, Milo and I (but not Mr M, the poo-pooer) went to the dog park to play. But I wasn't quite prepared for what transpired.

For, my dear blogees and readers, Milo became a sheep.

It's true!

I'm not sure about how it happened, or the metaphysics of it, but my dear, sweet boy became a sheep.

And here's the story.

I let Milo off his leash immediately, and he ran and romped and scrambled around trees and benches. He met people and got petted and was a decidedly happy doggie. And I was happy watching him. There were at least three other doggies his size he enjoyed communing with.

And then!

Then about 3 minutes into his foray into the dog park, he became a sheep. And like I said, I know not how it happened.

See, there was this other dog. A dog only an inch higher than Milo, but a dog who was black and slim-coated and who had a shepherd's face.

And in that 3 minutes, for some strange reason, that dog decided that Milo (fluffy though he is) was a sheep and that Milo was his sheep!

I'll give you the punch-line first. Milo was totally oblivious to him (well, except for the fact that Mr Shepherd didn't want to play with him, but Milo's used to that), and just loped along doing his thing. He ran around trees and hiked. He found little doggies to sniff on. He roamed and found his way to the water bucket and the "Poo Drop Off" station.

All the while, this little shepherd dog had drawn a bead on him. He tracked Milo. He followed, with his eyes, every move Milo made.

If Milo loped to trees or dogs, this dog followed him, watching intently, shifting this way and that, and hanging a few steps behind.

If Milo decided to take off and run, this shepherd dog chased him, right on his hip, guiding him whichever way he thought he should go.

At one point, Milo decided (obliviously, of course) to go to the shepherd's owner and say "Hi." When this happened, the shepherd nipped Milo's nose as if to say, "No! You don't do that!"

Milo was totally that dog's sheep. (or bitch, decide.) It was only still so sweet because Milo had no idea what what was going on.

But the people did, and for 45 minutes at the dog park, Milo and that shepherd were stars. Everyone was getting it. I pulled out the Flip camera at one point, but realized it was now too late to catch all the good antics.

When Milo finally wound down and I decided to take him home, we left, and found out that the shepherd was also leaving - and he was parked in the van beside ours!

I told his owners to hang on, that if their doggie realized this, he'd grab the wheel and follow Milo home.

But he didn't. Milo panted a lot, then fell asleep and we made it back home.

But it was a magnificent doggie park day.

That's what I long for on dog park days, you know.

2011-08-24T18:31:00.004-04:00

Whatever It Takes!

Ahhh, the wonderful Degrassi theme song. "Whatever it takes, I know I can make it through."

And boy, what they have had to make it through in the past years.

It's no secret (though I'd certainly like it to be) that I'm a great fan of Degrassi. You don't know Degrassi? It's the Canadian TV show about kids at a middle school, it used to be 'Degrassi Jr High' (back in the early 90s), then it simply became Degrassi, It became that because, after the final show of the original series, the original Degrassi Jr High burned down. That was supposed to be the end of Degrassi Jr High.

Or not.

Well, with a gap in the middle. And that's OK. In the early days, we had Stephanie and Lucy and the twins, and Kathleen, whose boyfriend abused her, and Joey Jeremiah and Snake and Wheels, who formed a group called the Zit Remedy, who had an almost-hit, "Everybody Wants Something." ("Everybody wants something, they'll never give up, never give up! " It was almost New Wave Gold.)

The old Degrassi also had Spike, an adorable new-wave girl with a mohawk who loved the Pogues and got into some real trouble and had a baby out of wedlock. That was the serious storyline in that day (excepting Claude and Caitlin and the fact that he committed suicide for her and there was a big PSA about it), during the big run of the original Degrassi.

I used to watch the old Degrassi when I was a thirty-something, laying in bed on the weekends, and although I knew I was too old to care about it, I still cared. I couldn't help it. It was a good show, with good characters I wanted to follow. And the old Degrassi ended in that last episode, with their whole school burning down. Wow.

The old Degrassi died.

And then!

Several years ago, Teen Nick started showing a new Degrassi! And the premise was golden!

Spike's out-of-wedlock child from all those years ago was now a student at Degrassi! She was named Emma, and had a whole lot of new classmates to go to school with, and it was all as it was before. Right?

Right!

I loved it. I was even older then, so I should have liked it even less, but that makes no difference, because I'm a fool and I like all that stuff. And you know what? This show was good! And I thought it was cool featuring Emma's new schoolmates.

But! It also featured Snake, who was now a teacher at Degrassi, and Joey Jeremiah, who was now used car salesman who had a kid at the school, and even Caitlin, who was now a famous news reporter. And even Spike, who ended up marrying Snake!

And new students, like Ashley and Craig (the cool guys and musician couple), and Liberty and JT and Toby (nerds), and Spinner (bully) and Paige (cool girl). There was a whole new show for me to love.

I was in heaven.

And so I've followed it ever since. Sincerely.

Wow. What's happened in those new years I've been following? There's no way I can explain it all. But....

Now, I'm telling you, for this time the new version Degrassi has been going on, I've been watching it for all of them.

I've seen, all these years, nerds JT and Liberty have a baby they gave it up for adoption, then JT being murdered in a fight by a rival school. I've seen cool girl Paige flunk out in college (where did she end up? we don't know!), and Craig, the cool musician, having a bit of Canadian fame, only to become a drug addict. I've seen Jimmy, the basketball star, get shot and be confined to a wheelchair. (Odd, that, Jimmy was Aubrey Graham, who later became known to the world as the rapper Drake. And he suddenly forgot his Degrassi roots.)

I've seen kids come and go. (Which is fantastic, that a show lets kids graduate and leave the show.) And right now we have none of the original New Degrassi Kids, but kids like Holly J and Anya and Sev and Fiona the alcoholic and that couple whose name I can't remember who had a baby and now are sparring.

And I just keep watching on.

However.

However - this latest version of Degrassi has been shown on Teen Nick every night of the week this summer, advertised as "Once It's Over - The Season Is Over." Huh? So the show's not over, only the season is. Right? I'll still get to watch later on?

I'm very afraid it doesn't matter.

This latest Degrassi summer blitz has been, well, something approaching abysmal. We've got Luke, who was brought in last season on a whim and is now a major storyline, a jock who got involved with a bad girl and got the crap beat out of him by a gang. Now he's loopy and participates in a Fight Club. We've got the normally fantastically sassy Holly J suddenly finding out she's adopted and needing a kidney and looking for her birth mother. We've got people with strange mental disabilities, gambling addictions, having flings with teachers - well, yeah.

We've gotten everything you see everywhere else anyway. Even on reality TV, where that's supposedly really their lives.

We've even gotten Anya saying, "You know, I was a twin," when it is nowhere in her history that she even has brothers or sisters! Continuity, please?

I'm getting pretty fed up with Degrassi. And I'm getting pretty mad at them.

This was my sweet show about kids in a Canadian town and their sad existences going to school. Now it's so over the top. The end of this season of Degrassi comes at the end of this week, and I don't know where in the hell they can go from here.

All I can hope is some more kids show up and I get interested in them.

Oh, what am I talking about? I'll find a way to get interested in them. Good or bad, I'm a Degrassi addict.

Whatever it takes, I know I can make it through! (Well, they can. I'm not sure I can.)

2011-08-01T18:28:00.003-04:00

Happy Birthday, Change Your Name

Back when I was a kid, when one became 30, one was officially old. Funny how growing closer to, then passing, that milestone makes a person see how absolutely ridiculous the thought was.

I'm sure many of you have read it on the old interwebs. Today MTV turned 30. And you know, in the case of MTV I think 30 may well officially be old.

Well, it's a load of old claptrap, anyway.

See, that's the thing. Almost every article I've read today about the once-gigantic network's b-day has said the same thing. MTV is no longer MTV. And it's not, or at least the MTV we late baby boomers fell in love with.

I'm sitting here looking at MTV on my cable-TV info roll. For the next 18 hours, we have MTV-generated reality shows, a block of repeats of a 10-year old sitcom, and one show that - hey! - almost resembles something having to do with music! A look back at performances at old Video Music Awards shows.

And that's the thing. For a network that calls itself Music Television, and whose stock in trade used to be video music clips, MTV really has nothing whatsoever to do with music anymore. In fact, that they still put on the Video Music Awards is absolutely ludicrous - they don't show videos!

I am one lucky gal. I was there at the beginning. I mean, how my little town, B'field, got in on the ground floor of MTV's birth, I've no idea. Maybe it was cheap enough in the beginning that our cable company thought, "Oh, what the hell..."

I was 21. I saw it, and I loved it. It wasn't polished, to be sure, but neither was I. Unslick video clips, unslick sets where semi-slick VJs introduced those videos and told us a little about the people doing them.

And in fact, for any of you around in the early days - they didn't even broadcast for a whole hour at a time! Twice an hour, the network would go to a break, where standard stock footage of rockets firing would show while generic rock music played.

But for those 40 minutes an hour of music - well, for a girl like me, it was heaven. I saw stuff I'd never seen before. I was discovering people I never knew existed, and was buying records like crazy. (Hey - anyone remember Ph.D - "I Won't Let You Down?" A most obscure song that would have never seen the light of day if not for the old MTV.)

The Go-Gos. Captain Sensible. Devo. The Pretenders. Nick Lowe. Ian Dury. A whole new world was opened to this small-town gal.

Eventually, there became updates once an hour, "MTV News," where we'd hear about our favorite bands. Then, as it caught on, bands would start visiting the set for interviews and silly fun. Silly fun because they figured no one was watching anyway!

Then came more bands to discover. And albums to buy. And bands to see on MTV in the studio. Within two or three years, MTV became a lifeline for folks in small towns like me, with no cool radio stations.

Then - people started discovering MTV. It became the Big New Thing saturating the market. And although I'd watch a good five years more, that's kind of where MTV ended for me.

Michael Jackson made "Thriller." Madonna came along and modeled her career after the music video. Artists thought of their video before they thought of their song. And MTV started to sound just like radio. Which, for me, though I still watched, was the end.

Then, MTV decided to explore. They started making their own shows. "House of Style," and probably what ended it all for them, "The Real World." They saw they could cheaply produce their own shows that people would still watch. OK, we'll still give you your music, but, hey, look at this.

More shows came along, and less music, and then MTV basically died. There were no more blocks of videos, or VJs introducing them, or "Music News." It was, well, it was what we know now as MTV.

So now instead of obscure bands people like me would never hear of, we get to see "16 and Pregnant," "True Life," "Jackass," "Real World/Road Rules 156," "Awkward," and the show that is surely a sign of the Apocalypse, "Jersey Shore."

MTV is not MTV anymore.

But here's another thing.

If they would go back to the original idea, to playing videos all day long, would I care?

The whole thing about MTV not playing Michael Jackson's video turned into a big "they're racist" movement, and I don't know if it was or not, but I almost wish Michael had never made it on the air. Because by playing Michael Jackson's videos, that meant MTV had to play everything else that came out, no matter what the genre.

And so, the big topic - all those people celebrating MTV's birthday but saying, "Give us back our old MTV!"

What if they did that? I mean, if MTV played videos today, what would we have? Rap/HipHop, Country-Pop, TeenDreamShit, Emo bands.... Would I watch? Of course not. None of that means a whit to me. And to be honest, MTV, there's nothing more you can help us discover. There was no internet when you were around in the beginning, we can find any music we want now.

So - what to do? To be honest, here's my suggestion. Just keep MTV what it is now, let it make all the money its officers can hold. But don't call it MTV. It's not MTV. There's no music in it at all.

How about PCTV (PopCultureTV)? CRTV (CrapRealityTV)? STV (ShitTV)?

You decide, MTV.

Just change your name, and leave us old fans with our memories.

2011-05-31T22:36:00.008-04:00

Our Loss of Innocence

There's something that is in my past that I only think of from time to time. Well, now, anyway. It was a horrible thing that happened in my little, happy, safe area.

For a long while, the only time it ever crossed my mind was back in the day when I would head to Narrows, the town where my dear Mamaw (died 1991) lived. Because it was "on the way."

But this past week, when I did Paw Duty and ended up at his house after unloading groceries, yes, coming right into Granny and Paw's to read the day's paper as I always do (and I mean, it's B'field, that usually takes 5 minutes), it was all brought back to me.

Because Paw Duty was on Sunday this week, and the Memorial Day Weekend version of the Telegraph (or the "Tell-a-Lie," as it's lovingly called around here) did a major story on the event.

It was 1978. I was a senior in high school.

And the headlines of the Memorial Day Weekend that year screamed, "Two Local Youths Murdered."

There were two B'field young folks. They'd met for a Sunday night date and headed down Rt 61, which is known to us all as Wolf Creek.

It's a beautiful drive. A winding road along that very Wolf Creek, with points on the road where one can pull off and experience a lovely place, full of nature. Small beaches, that creek, and endless greenery.

Which is what these two young lovers did.

However. Another young boy and his girlfriend, who were simply driving home from their own date, drove by a fire on Rt 61.

They thought it was simply a case of kids setting a fire in the trash bins on the picnic areas of Rt 61. But they decided to investigate. And what they found.

The fire was not a trash bin, but a pickup. The boy of the couple investigated, and found that the truck on fire also held a man in its bed, burned, with a bullet in his head.

They went to a local residence to call police. Who came with the fire department, and while whey were trying to put out the fire of the truck by getting buckets of water from the nearby creek - they discovered in the creek - a girl draped over a log with her face in the creek.

Our local happy loving couple.

I can tell you, because it was what I knew at that time. The girl was a former cheerleader for a local high school, big in civil studies, was a new enrolee at Marshall University. The boy was loved by all who knew him, was a page in the House of Representatives in our own Congress, and was also a Marshall University student.

I can actually remember the girl of the couple being a cheerleader for our rival (B'field, WV) school. I saw her cheer at basketball games.

They were our best and brightest. And now they were murdered, with no clues as to why.

And so they were gone. And the investigations began.

There were two or three persons they honed in on, now all dead, of course, but there was never a person they were sure of. No indictments ever came.

As it stands now, the murder is considered a "cold case."

All I can say at this point is that their sad murders were a total loss of innocence in our lives here.

Before this happened, no doors were locked. House or car. No one ever thought anyone might break into a house, to steal, vandalize, harm. No one thought their persons might be at risk for people wanting to kill. That ended overnight.

Then we all became wary of anyone on the streets who might approach us. No hitchhikers were picked up. No strangers were welcomed into homes. No more taking off with friends without a care in the world.

We became like the rest of the Big, Bad World.

Sad, but understandable.

The saddest addendum, though, is that no one has ever been indicted for the crime. No closure. I can only hope some reality TV factory could pick it up and at least give us a lead.

It would be nice if life's mysteries got wrapped up and solved and little bows tied around them.

It was the end of my innocence, and a lot of other folks in this town.

2011-05-24T20:08:00.013-04:00

Picture Sunday Addendum!

Hey! Remember the other night when I told you I had pictures from the DeepFatFriar but couldn't upload them? Well, I got smart and found a way!

OK. So the DFF is doing some home improvement. His current driveway was a caution.

So he bought a buttload full of gravel to work on his driveway.

There were no gulleys or ditches to keep the rain from washing him out.

And now, here's what his driveway looks like, after a lot of wheebarrowing and working and placing of gravel. And gulleying.

And yes, there is video of the rain, but before that, look at a better picture of his labyrinth than I took.

And now, finally, check out this rain. Ick. We've all been having rain like this around here.

So there. Addendum!

An addition! Look at the picture of the gravel, and tell me what DFF's license plate means! No prizes, just kudos from DFF and me!

2011-05-22T21:10:00.011-04:00

(Fractured) Picture Sunday

Oh, my God, yes, here it is, a Picture Sunday! (Yes, I'm surprised, too.)

After many weeks of boredom and Paw Duty, I finally got a weekend away to head to B'burg for practice. Practice? Yes, practice.

You see, after his triumph last year with the "Two to Nine" recital, Mr M has decided to outdo himself. With his this year's "Two to Eleven" recital. Yes, a recital ending with eleven clarinets, just count them, I know you won't. And though I was the first to be wrong in telling him the Nine Clarinet recital wouldn't work, I am very happy in being the first to tell him the Eleven Clarinet recital won't work. I was wrong then, hope I'm wrong now.

And I have to say, the trip to B'burg Saturday, in the sun, with Milo in tow, was lovely. What a nice drive.

And so I attended my first recital rehearsal. It was pleasant. Nine clarinet players playing various numbers and getting to know each other. You know, most clarinet players are very nice and personable. It was quite the social event.

However. However!

I have been called upon to play the bass clarinet on two numbers. This would be a normal happening, except for one thing.

I don't know how to play the bass clarinet!

I mean, the bass clarinet has the same clarinet fingerings, but then again, it's not the same. Huge mouthpiece, fingers way removed from a regular clarinet.... Well, I can't explain, but it's just different.

Imagine my surprise when I was called upon on that first piece, to play a high B and high C, and I did! I thought I was in high cotton, but after that it was mainly squeaks and ugliness, and now I'm all hinky.

But Mr M lent me his bass to take home and work on. Which I will. However, he told me about how delicate the bass clarinet is, and how it can be damaged just putting the joints in place or storing. I played it a bit today, and then decided on my own method of storing.

A fleece blanket can only be good.

Well. So much for clarinets.

I've been waiting for two weeks to head east as well so I could stop by and visit the DeepFatFriar.

As you may or may not know, the DFF lives at Poderosa Central. Of course, I'm the Poderosa, Mr M is Poderosa East, and there in between.... DFF has his home which he has agreed should become Poderosa Central.

And he's been doing some work there!

And this is where our Picture Sunday becomes a Fractured Picture Sunday. Because DFF gave me some pictures and video that I can't upload and therefore regale you with.

But he's working on his land! He is working to make it a lovely place!

He's working on his driveway to make it lovely. He's digging gulleys and the whole thing, and sadly, he gave me pictures and video (of a flooding rain on his driveway which was amazing), that I don't seem to be able to load and show you.

I mean, he's been wheelbarrowing loads of gravel and everything else to make it work. And it IS working, though I can't show you, because the disc of pictures and video he he gave me that won't load.

Yes, he had the experience, as all of us here in the south valleys did, where those rains came and said rains washed his driveway basically away. And sadly, I can't show you that either, because the amazing video he shot won't load.

There were many shots of rain and gravel!

However!

Our Friend DFF isn't just working on his driveway!

He's also working on his yard, and that I can show you. Because I was there today today to take a picture with my own camera.

And well, I have to say... driveways and floods and the rest, this is the picture of the day.

See, DFF was doing some mowing, and decided to become creative. And he mowed a labyrinth right into his yard. And I was lucky enough to capture it.

Yes, there is the labyrinth, with DFF and Milo right in the middle of it. I think it's magnificent. I hope you do, too.

Maybe by the time he gets his driveway finished, I'll find a way to upload the video of his flooded drive.

Or not.

It's a fractured Picture Sunday. But not really. The labyrinth is worth it all.

Happy week.

2011-04-26T20:11:00.003-04:00

The Way People Act

Boy, did I have a day and a half today.

I had double Granny and Paw Duty. I was to have Granny in Mt Airy, NC, by 11:30 for her dermatologist's appointment, then get them both back on the road, lunched, home, and get Paw to his surgeon's appointment.

(I've been away so long I haven't even had a chance to tell you that Paw had to have a squamous skin cancer removed from his hand last week. All went well until he started getting some infection, and he started being in constant pain, and his hand swelled up like a balloon at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. He needed desperately for the surgeon to see it today.)

It didn't seem like a biggie. I mean, we're normally home from Granny Appointments at about 2:30, and Paw only needed to be at his Paw Appointment by 4:30.

So we headed out, and about 15 minutes into the trip I got what I most didn't want. Rain. It rained on us on and off all the way there, but it wasn't horrid rain, and so I thought, "Hey, I can deal with this."

Then when we got to Fancy Gap Mountain around the VA/NC border, we got signs announcing a fog advisory. And well, my Lord.

The fog was so thick it was just nigh-on impossible to see. And I considered myself very lucky to be behind a car with its lights on so I could follow tail lights, and most of that area of 65 mph road became about 40 mph. But I was fine with it. I could slowly follow a car and (as long as he didn't run off the road) get where I was going.

But here is the first way people act.

There were passenger cars and huge 18-wheelers passing us at over 65 mph. Could they see through a fog the rest of us couldn't? I have no idea. Were they in some sort of emergency where time was of the essence? No idea there either. All I know is that they couldn't be content with keeping a safe speed and distance, and Paw and I talked a bit about "people like that who cause the 20-car fog pile-ups."

And so I followed my new car friend (thanks!) down the mountain and the fog cleared, and we still got to Granny's appointment over a half-hour early. They took her right in. The doctor was in fine form today and joked a lot with her while she took her first shot of the new medicine she's worried about, the kind of "last ditch" effort to combat her psoriasis. (Sometimes this Dr can be quite the smartass, and at other times, his joking is actually quite comforting. Today he kept telling Granny her shot was with a 12-inch long thick needle with a jagged edge. It took her a minute before she started laughing.)

And so we were on the road back home at 11:40. And that was good! In fact, it was so good I told the folks I was going to take a little detour. We have always wondered if there is actually a "town" of Mt Airy. See, Mt Airy associates itself with the Andy Griffith Show's Mayberry, even though when the show aired, we viewers always kind of associated Mt Airy with Mt Pilot. "I won't take more than 10 minutes out of your day," I promised, and headed straight through our red light instead of making our normal left.

And this is another way people act.

There was a little blue pickup behind us at the red light. And when that light turned green, I proceeded through it very slowly, because there was a fellow trying to cross the street. Well, I like to give pedestrians the right of way, so I crept along until he got to the other side. He gave a cheery wave, and I reached the next intersection and turned right.

I started up a little 25 mph double-lined road, ambling along, hoping to find something. And imagine my surprise when the truck behind me passed me up on that double line. I looked over, a bit shocked, and found him looking at me and yelling. "Hey, it's 25 and a double line!" I said back, as if he could hear me. And I really wanted to add, "You prick!" but since G and P were in the car I left it at that.

And we did find the main street of Mt Airy, Mayberry, Mt Pilot, whatever, and it was really charming. My favorite part of it was at one spot they had parallel parked on the street a police cruiser that looked just like the one Andy and Barney drove. We made a circle around, and got back on our regular route in about 8 minutes flat. And back home!

We headed up ol' I-77, and when we got to Fancy Gap Mt again, there was a different sign. I liked this one better - it wasn't so formal. It said, "Fog! Fog! Fog! Caution! Caution! Caution!" I started looking for friendly tail lights.

As it turned out, it didn't matter.

Around Mile Marker Two, we came to a complete halt. Complete. This wasn't any construction thing, this was a wreck, we knew it. We sat still for about 10 minutes, then realized we were stuck and that was it. We turned the car off.

The punchline? We were stuck in that standstill for an hour and five minutes.

However, here is another way people act.

People got out of their cars. They walked forward a little. They talked to other drivers. Both the car in front of ours (the most adorable Westie) and the one behind ours (a little yappie in a pink dress) held dogs. People played with the dogs. People tweeked the cheeks of babies their parents had gotten out to keep them moving.

A foreign-born couple walked up past us all, and were gone for a long time. When they finally came back, Paw rolled down a window and asked if they knew the situation. The girl, in a burka, said that apparently there was a nine-car pile up five miles ahead. Involving tractor trailers, cars, and a horse trailer. They were trying to clear it, she said. Then she said, she said to us, "Hopefully it will be cleared soon. I hope you have a great trip and a great day."

About halfway through the stoppage, I just decided to nap. My window was down because there was a good breeze blowing, and I was leaning against my window with my eyes closed.

I heard something in my ear, then roused and screamed.

The woman who was at my window was mortified. She apologized profusely, and was so worried that I was upset because she'd come by. The reason she came by? She had some homemade Italian Ham Pie, and she was wondering if anyone wanted some of it.

Well, I thought that was the sweetest thing ever, so I said, sure, and I took a piece big enough to share with me, Granny, and Paw. She went on up the road offering it to all the cars in front of us.

The pie was fabulous, and when she came back down empty-handed, I told her it was great, and thanked her for her kindness. And she apologized again for scaring me.

We all became a little community of stuck people. We all became friends for that hour or so.

And finally, traffic started to move, but we realized we were getting late at this point.

When we reached the normal exit where we have lunch, I asked the folks what they wanted to do. We were over an hour behind, but could probably still make our time for Paw if we kept it quick. Paw said, loudly and emphatically, "Well, I want to have a good lunch!" and so we hit that exit.

We had to decide between the normal local place we go to or Shoney's. We figured Shoney's might be quicker, so went there. Dad was hankering for a patty melt and I was hankering for their old staple, the Shoney Burger. When we got there, neither were on the menu anymore.

And here is another way people act.

Our waitress, who was way overworked, could have just said, "Sorry, we don't have those anymore." But she didn't. She was very sympathetic, saying that she knew people still wanted them and she liked them both too, and she was so sorry that she couldn't offer them anymore.

And I have to tell you, I admired that because it reminded me of me. There are certain concrete facts of TheCompanyIWorkFor that I cannot change, but I always try to look at the other person's point of view. I'm glad Paw gave her a good tip.

After dinner, I have to admit we were getting late. I got G and P in the car and announced, "OK. We're getting out of this lot and hauling ass till we get Paw to his appointment." We got back on ol' I-77. We drove for about two miles. We came to a standstill again.

"Oh, crap," we said simultaneously, but this wasn't like the last stoppage. This one was much worse. It was a stop, drive at 1 mph for 6 feet, stop, drive at 2 mph for 10 feet, let all of the friggin' lane changers get in front of you....

I have to tell you, my friends, I was getting hinky. It was stop and go traffic. There was no homemade Italian pie. There were no nice people wishing us a great day.

And then....

I realized there is another way people act. Namely, me.

I realized that about 8 miles ahead was a bridge that drives me crazy. (You know, bridges are my fear. I blogged about it. Being stuck on a bridge on Christmas Eve about five years ago and totally losing it.)

Even thinking about being stuck on this particular bridge, so high with such a big drop, in inching traffic surrounded by 18-wheelers and logging trucks, started the tears. I told the folks so they would know why I was freaking out.

My dad, dear old loving Paw, was having none of it. He basically yelled at me. "That bridge crosses the New River. If we want to get home, you have to cross it."

With the stop and go traffic, we were now completely late for his appointment. And I had about 20 minutes or so to contemplate the bridge. I cried a little, I did a little of "oh please oh please oh please," and I kept driving at 2 mph.

Mom was trying to be cheery, Paw was getting huffy. He wanted to get to his appointment. Which I understood.

Then the most amazing thing happened, which has nothing at all to do with the way people act.

Just as I was getting in a psychotic state, about 100 yards from the bridge - the traffic just opened up!

Both lanes started moving, and I crossed that bridge at about 40 mph and got to the other side, and I felt like a complete fool. And I was never so happy to feel like one.

We made our 90-minute trip from Mt Airy in 4 hours, but still got home in time to get Paw to his appointment, and with enough time for me to zip by the house to get Milo a pee. (Bless his heart. He needs a great day.)

And after a wait for Paw for 45 minutes at his doctor's, in jeans I really shouldn't have worn for the trip (I told Granny I then felt like I was in a cast), we got him taken care of and I got him back home.

The moral of this story? Well, all I can take from it is that there are crappy people and good people everywhere. But I've met the good people, and I love them.

2011-04-26T19:58:00.001-04:00

2011-04-17T21:20:00.011-04:00

Picture Sunday!

Hello, blogees! Hello, end of weekenders! Hello, all!

It's been forever! How are you all?

Let's try a little Picture Sunday!

Well, how the hell are you? I listened to the oddest opera in the world, and then -- well, silence. I promise, it wasn't the opera that silenced me, it was just life and laziness.

But after many completely benign weekends, I had a weekend that forced some pictures from the old - old? new! - camera, and so I thought I'd try to make a Picture Sunday.

Well, let's start at the beginning. I'd spent many days this past week wondering what in the hell I was going to do this weekend. Mainly because my boys, the Hackensaw Boys, were at my favorite venue, 123 Pleasant Street in Morgantown, WV, this weekend. I mean, how could I miss that?

Well, as it turned out, I could. The Dear Nephew couldn't make it, and my cousin Jacob couldn't make it, and as odd as it may seem, for some reason that made me realize I myself couldn't make it. I felt I could drive the five hours with someone, or could even drive the time if I was meeting up with someone, but driving by myself and going to the show by myself? Well, I guess times have changed and I have gotten old. I just couldn't fathom it. I said "no."

And I would have been more depressed than usual, but I had a back-up. Turns out that same Saturday night my second favorite live band, Southern Culture on the Skids, were in R'noke that same night! Mr M said he'd go with me, as did the cousin Jacob! I got tickets for the three of us, and we all made the trip.

Now, I have to tell you, though SCOTS are based out of North Carolina, Mary(bassist) and Dave (drummer) are actually based out of R'noke. So it was a bit of a homecoming for them, so the show was something of a festival.

The show was held at the Jeff Center, a very nicely remodeled theatre. We got there early, and got second row seats. However - we were told that the little wooden section in front of the seats was going to be reserved for dancers, so if we wanted to sit in our good seats, we'd be looking at peoples' butts.

And though I loved those seats, after the opening band I figured, "Hey, I don't want to look at local peoples' asses," and headed to the little dancing area. Luckily, cousin Jacob followed suit. (Mr M did not.) And after a wait but right on time, Southern Culture took the stage.

And they played their hearts out - it was a great show. I think I've mentioned it here before, but bassist Mary Huff (an R'noke native) is my heroine. She is cool beyond belief. She did all her greatest solo numbers. In blue wig and sunglasses to match!

But the whole band tore it up all night.

When it was all over, we headed back to the car. I thought it was just me, but found out soon enough it was me and cousin Jacob - there comes a time when you are just too old to dance for 2 1/2 hours non-stop. (Had I gone to the Hackensaws last night, I fear I would have been taken out of the venue on a stretcher!)

But we made it home. After an hour or so of hilarious conversations between Jacob, Mr M, and me that had us laughing till breathing was hard to do. I tell you, when you make each other laugh till you can't breathe anymore, that is a gift.

Then I woke up this morning.

I woke up this morning barely able to move from all the dancing the night before. But I drug myself up, got Milo out for a pee, got to Mr M's kitchen to make some coffee, and set about the business of waking up and getting ready to get back home today.

Then! Mr M got up.

As I was getting ready to go home, Mr M started telling me how I should take Milo by the dog park on my way back home. I wasn't so keen. I mean, the day before, the day of the concert, it rained so hard we couldn't even see a foot past our window. I had no idea what the dog park might look like today.

Well, Mr M was having none of that. "Who cares if there's mud? Who cares if it's dirty? If you're not prepared to have Milo get dirty, you have no right to have a dog!" he said.

Well, I was dubious, but you know, Milo did need a run, and it was sunny and fairly warm today, and so, oh, fuck it, I thought I'd take him to the dog park.

And Milo had a ball! There weren't a huge amount of dogs, but he found a Fox Terrier and a Yorkie he loved playing with, and there were even bigger dogs that all played with him, and all the dogs were having a great time.

For about 20 minutes. Then for some reason, Milo ran up a little mound by a tree, then tumbled, side-over-side, right - *plop* - into a mudhole. His entire right side was covered in wet mud.

His tumble was magnificent, and my reaction was too. I screamed. And - the entire dog park crowd erupted in cheers and applause!

Well, upon seeing the reaction, Milo - Mr Entertainment - went right back up the hill, tumbled down again, and landed with his entire left side in the same mudhole!

Thank God I keep a fitted sheet in my car. I had to put it over the passenger's seat to get Milo home.

When we got home, I loaded all my own luggage from the weekend into the house, then got him, led him into the house and to the bathroom, stripped down, stripped him of harness, leash, and collar, then we both got in the shower, where I wrangled with him for 20 minutes trying to get him clean.

Then I had to step back into my clothes and go to Walmart and walk every inch of it shopping.

It's one of those stories I said might be fun a year after it happens. But you know what? It's only a few hours out, and I'm already giggling.

I guess that's the Power of Milo.

Happy week.

2011-02-15T20:30:00.003-05:00

What's Opera, Dick?

This past Saturday, I had one of the more surreal moments of my life. And considering my life, that's saying something.

I had Paw Duty, taking my dad around to all the places he needs to go to get his shopping done. It turned out to be short and easy and fun, and we had a nice day. But that wasn't the surreal part. It's always kind of fun to go out with Paw. We laugh a lot.

But boy, did we laugh on Saturday.

I got into the car to head out for Paw Duty, and my radio was turned to the only station I ever listen to. See, I'm not big on the radio as a rule, and when my radio is on, it's only turned to one station. The NPR station out of R'noke.

My favorite Saturdays are "Saturday Classics" afternoons. I don't know, I like them. The fare is light and recognizable, and the announcer is happy and makes the occasional classical music joke, and it's generally just a happy few hours of show.

However, all that fun and frivolity comes to a screeching halt when The Met is in session. That would be your Metropolitan Opera, and when they rev up their motors, local programming is no more.

And apparently The Met had decided to put on a big show Saturday.

Now, I don't have a bit of trouble admitting that I'm just your regular old gal, and I hate opera. I think it's dumb. I don't get it. Sure, I might like the one-off song from an opera, "Largo al Factotum" comes to mind most readily, but I like Michigan J Frog's Looney Tunes version way more than any tenor who might be singing it on a stage. And many's the time Mr M and I have entertained ourselves singing the lines from "What's Opera, Doc?," "Oh, Bwoomhilda, you'we so wovewy." "Yes I know it, I can't helllp it."

But there it was. I got in the car on Saturday and started it up, and there was opera staring me right in the ear.

However, after only a few seconds of listening, I realized something odd. This wasn't your run of the mill old-time Italian or German or French fare. This opera was...well, it was modern!

And it was weird! I wasn't sure I'd ever encountered a modern opera. So I listened on the five or so minutes to Granny and Paw's, and that's when I first began seeing my soul lift from my body and hover around.

I mean, it was opera and no mistake. Overblown voices singing their dialogue. (That's what I hate about opera. Sing the damn songs and speak your dialogue, thank you very much!) But the dialogue was just, well, it was weird. "Ahhhhh, we're in the car, and we're driving, and isn't it looooovely!"

Shaking my head, I arrived at Paw's. He was waiting for me at the door and came out to the car. I didn't have to turn off this piece of weirdness. When he entered the car, I hiked the volume a bit and told him I was listening to possibly the oddest thing I'd ever heard.

And so we headed to the store and listened. Paw seemed to be as bemused as I was, and when a soprano sang, "This is a lovely piiiiece of laaaand, what a beautiful spot for a piiiiicnic!" we both got the helpless giggles and tried our damnedest to figure out what in the hell this must be about. Paw started calling it the "Down Home Opry," about country people going out to have an "all day meetin' and dinner on the grass," and I took to calling it (via the Andy Griffith Show) the "Traveling Religion Opera," about Pentecostals traveling along trying to convert people. But sadly, we reached our store, and we had to leave our show.

So we went in the grocery and got our stuff done. And came back to the car, started it up, and this piece of theatrical claptrap was still going on. We laughed just at the fact that it was still going, and still tried to figure out what in the hell these people were singing about. We didn't get far.

I got back to Paw's, and helped him carry in groceries, and hung out with him and Granny for a little while. But I had to get back home again, to tend to Milo and to make a meat loaf because Mr M was coming over that night. I got in the car to go home. The opera was still, well, raging.

And I say "raging" because things had really picked up since I left Paw! A man was using a whip on another man! And he was singing, "I'll use my whiiiiip! Whip! (crack!) Whip! (crack!) Whip! (crack!) Whip! (crack!)" And a woman was wailing, "Ohhhh, do not whiiiiip that maaaaan!"

And that's the first time I started to think, "Oooh, this is an opera about the Civil War!"

And that thought was all but confirmed for me when a man sang, "See him standing like a Stooooonewall! [Stonewall Jackson, right?] And he [and I'm not making this up, folks] stinks, stinks, stinks, stinks, stinks with success!"

Well, I was having a surreal ball, and I had to run just a quick couple of errands for myself before going home, and man, was I happy about that, because I got to listen to this shit some more, and then came the point where I got back in my car to finally start heading home, and then something musical slapped me right in my rube face.

After the whipping (crack!) and the Stonewall and the stinking with success, all of a sudden the music slowed down, and a woman started to sing. And here's what she sang.

"IIIIIIIIIII am the wiiiiiiife of Maaaaaao Zedonnnnnnnnng!"

What?!?!

Well, this just put me into outer space, and I was almost home at that point, my soul beating me and my car home by a few minutes, and to be honest, I just wanted to sit in my car for the next half-hour and listen to this awful drek-o-rama.

But!

But I remembered I had the R'noke NPR station tuned in on iTunes!

I got out of the car, loaded my groceries and other sundries into the house, pulled up iTunes, and played NPR in the house. It was 3:30. I was thinking there couldn't be more than a half-hour left of all this, I mean, "Weekend Edition" had to start soon. And after that half-hour, when it was all over, I'd have to hear what in the fucking hell I'd been listening to.

I listened while I made up the meat loaf. I listened while I spot-cleaned the house. I was done until Mr M came, and this crapola was still going on. I sat down at the computer and continued listening.

And then, finally. Massive applause. It was over!

Well, it wasn't over, but the second act was. And after the second act ended, an announcer came on telling me what the hell I'd been listening to off and on for the last 3 hours.

And hey, there might be people out there way smarter and more erudite than I, and you might already know, but I had been listening to an opera called "Nixon in China." Written by someone named John Adams (no, not the president) in 1987 (see?).

And I almost turned it off there and then, having gotten my answer and expecting Mr M, but I figured, "Oh, what the hell. I've invested this much time in it, why quit now?"

And boy, am I glad I decided that. Because what I've had missed....

As Mr Announcer told us his very self, Act 3 of "Nixon in China" takes place while Henry Kissinger is in the bathroom. (I guess this allowed Nixon and Mao to converse freely between themselves.)

And so I got to hear the opening of the act, where a big-voiced man playing Kissinger sang, with gusto, "IIIII have to gooooo to the tooooilet! Wherrrrre is the toooooooilet?"

I kid you not. I totally blacked out at that point and remember nothing after it.

And so at 5:00 it was finally over (four hours after it began), and "Weekend Edition" finally began. But it didn't matter what the news of that day was, nothing could beat a place for a picnic, a man being whipped, and Henry Kissinger having to pee.

And yes, it was still dumb, but it was dumb in a way that made me and Paw laugh hysterically together. After it was all over, I called Paw and told him what we'd been listening to, about how I started to think it was about the Civil War, then the wife of Mao Zedong showing up, and about Henry Kissinger going to the bathroom. And he laughed even more.

And so, thanks, Mr John Adams. I know you wrote your opera in all seriousness, and have probably entertained highbrow people and made them think and rub their chins and discuss your work at dinner parties, but you also unknowingly made a regular old gal and her regular old dad laugh together and have a really fun bonding afternoon.

I doubt you'd appreciate that very much, but the gal and her dad sure do.

2011-02-14T19:59:00.004-05:00

Grammy and Paw

Oh, Lord have mercy. First blog of the week, and I already have to apologize. Man, that's a bad pun, even for me.

But you see, I watched the Grammys last night. I wasn't going to admit that in public, but now that I have, I guess I may as well blog about it.

"Grammy?" OK, that's obvious. I guess "Paw" would refer to Mick Jagger showing up.

Now, I have to tell you right up front, I have hated the Grammys my whole life. And that's kind of what prompted this whole blog. You see, I would normally not watch them under any circumstances, seeing as how, well, I've hated them my whole life. But a couple of things happened that got me watching this year.

First of all, there was nothing else on TV last night. At all. And I was home with a lot of free time. And second, I heard the Avett Brothers were performing.

OK, so the stage was set for me to tune in. But wait. There's kind of a third thing, one that goes into the whole "I've hated the Grammys my whole life" thing.

See, as anyone who's read any of the press about the Grammys today knows, the big story of the night is that someone won the Best New Artist Grammy that apparently only 1% of the population has heard of. Her name is Esperanza Spalding. To be honest, I'd never heard of her either, but she seemed to be a lovely girl, and she plays jazz bass, which is just fine by me.

She won over several more popular artists, namely Drake (who began life on "Degrassi: The Next Generation") and some little dude with a lot of hair named Justin Bieber.

And the Bieber fans are livid about this. How dare some unknown take the Grammy away from their Chosen One, their version of Jesus, Our Lord, at least for the last 12 or so months.

And this, my friends, is why I'm writing my whole Grammy (and Paw) blog tonight.

The reason I began hating the Grammys is because I watched them when I was a kid, and none of the people I liked won. I liked teen idols as a kid? Then Sinatra and Dean Martin won. I liked Elton John as a teenager? Then Fleetwood Mac and Jethro Tull won. It was maddening. "What's wrong with these people? Don't they know good music when they hear it?"

And there are two things I could say about this. The first is that no, they don't know good music when they hear it. They're bloated fatcats who vote for who they want to, and you'd better like it or lump it. The second is that no, you're a kid and your taste in music sucks, so you'd better like it or lump it.

And that is exactly what I'd like to say to the people last night whose favorites didn't win. The Grammys will never make you happy, so please, do what I did. Realize that they do in fact suck, thumb your noses at them, and go out and discover the people they don't reward with their little grammophone trophies.

Elvis Costello didn't win Best New Artist? Well, fuck you, Grammy People, I'm going out to find people even more obscure than Elvis (at the time)! And I did, and I'm glad I did.

So there. That's out of the way.

Now, about last night's show. Whew, where to start. First of all, as I was sure it would, it made me feel very old. I generally have no trouble admitting I'm way out of the loop where today's music is concerned, but Holy Jumping Shitballs, it was brought home to me during last night's show. I may have known a few names of people throughout the night, but there were few to whom I could explain their nominations this year.

So of course, the nominees and winners meant little, but I got over that, because over the years I've come to expect that.

However, there were a few points that I did care about, enough to have the whole show get up my nose. (Which happens every time I watch, and I even expect it, which begs the question, "Why do I watch?" and the only reason I have for this is that I am the proverbial glutton for punishment.)

And so I shall try to address them here, quickly, but you know me, so it probably won't be so quickly.

OK, here we go.

1. During the Grammys I saw: "The Wannabe" Lief Garret, Sam Cooke, Marvin Gaye, Tammy Wynette, Joy Division, Aretha Franklin, Madonna, James Brown - can't anyone be original? Is this what 2011 has brought us to?

2. When did the Grammys decide that the whole show would be (first) performances all night? I had watched the damn show for over an hour, and after that over an hour, only one grammophone had been given out. At the end of the night, and I don't know, I'm totally guessing here, no more than 15 awards (of roughly 4000) had been presented.

3. When did the Grammys decide that the whole show would be (second) all these odd combinations of people singing together? Can't one artist just come out and sing a song? (OK, apparently they can, Arcade Fire did just that.) But it seemed no one could take the stage last night unless they were accompanied by at least two other people. And OK, fine, seeing John Mayer (hate), Norah Jones (hate), and Keith Urban (don't care) doing a version of "Jolene" was great (it really was nice), and seeing my Avetts with Mumford and Sons (I saw them for the first time and they were good) and Bob Dylan (well, what can you say?) were great too - it seems they just want to frontload all the stars to make you overload, like having too much cotton candy at the state fair.

4. Speaking of having 4000 Grammys now, remember when they used to have commercial breaks or downtime where they read the "lesser cared-about" awards? Before breaking for Revlon or Target, someone came out and read the "Best Traditional Polka" or "Best Spoken Word Under 4 Minutes?" Well, screw that - apparently no one cares anymore, so if you won a Grammy for that, you're screwed. In fact, your Grammy (and Paw) listening at home never got to hear your unknown name mentioned. Hey, if winning a Grammy is so important, why the hell don't they at least read your name? Oh yeah, because Justin Bieber needs to dance with Usher.

5. Since when is it OK at the Grammys to lip sync? I don't care what anyone else says, Lady Gaga was lip syncing. And hell, let's get this out of the way right now: that song she "wrote" is just Madonna's "Express Yourself" - I mean, why else would I have been singing "Express Yourself" all day today at work - no other reason - but she was hopping and dancing and running around, and there was not a single hard breath in her microphone. Not a bounce while she was hopping. She was lip syncing, and anyone who says otherwise is a fool. Oh, and someone in the press today mentioned that Rhiana (yeah, right, Rhiana, like she has talent) dropped her microphone at one point to her waist, and her vocals still continued loud and strong.

6. Mr and Mrs Will Smith, would you please take your kids out of the public eye and put them in school? Hell, put them in "Half-a -Day" school, so then you can use the other half a day to send them to acting and singing school. They are not talented, they're regular untalented kids. Stop using your famous feet to kick through the door to make them famous now. It does nothing but give them a false sense of security and talent, and annoys the rest of us. Let them try again when they're 18 or so and have a little learning under their belts. Your son is not a singer or actor, and your daughter is not a singer or fashion designer. You all seem like nice enough folks, but this shoving of your kids down our throats when they're so untalented makes me want to punch your kids in the face, which I know you don't want, so teach them a little first, OK??

7. This is the Grammys. It's about music. Or so I thought. Why are Seth Rogen and Jason Siegel there introducing acts? Besides the fact that they movies to promote? Why are Eva Longoria and Selma Blair and Kim Kardashian getting coverage for showing up? We have enough celebrities in each category - we don't need to cross-breed.

8. I'd heard of Arcade Fire, but didn't know anything by them. And though their first performance was widely panned, I have to say I loved it. OK, the bike riders onstage were more then lame, but they themselves - 8 or 10 people making up a band, thrashing, people singing into bullhorns, a keyboardist screaming for five minutes into a microphone - that's excellent, and I'm happy you won the so-called best Grammy of the night, even though I may never listen to you again. (Although the fact that when you did win the so-called best Grammy of the night, you went to sing again, which seemed more than rigged.)

9. Ricky Martin, if you ever wear silver lam�é pants again, I'm hiring a hit man on you. I mean it. You've already come out. We all know it now. You don't have to advertise anymore.

10. Gwenyth Paltrow, you are an actress. A marginal actress, with a couple of good performances. You are not a singer. Your voice is mediocre at best, and that's stretching it. Quit singing, on television and with recording artists better than you are.

11. What in the hell happened to country music? A lame-ass country song won both Song of the Year and Record of the Year, and a couple of other grammophones, and the song that won for Best Country Song was not only lame, but a total rip-off of a fantastic song from a decade ago, "This Old House," by the Rice Brothers. You have some atoning to do, Country Music - go to Robbie Fulks and genuflect.

12. Dear Grammys: We know you only gave out 15 (or so, I'm still guessing) awards last night, but with all those silly performances, your show was 3 1/2 hours long? If you're not going to give out real awards, and not even announce the "lesser" (to you only) awards of the night, anything over three hours is a crime against humanity. And I'm thinking of having you brought up on the charges.

OK, so that said, I fell off to sleep a little after the Grammys ended (30 minutes - at least - overtime), but I drifted in sleep in fits and starts, shaking with the knowledge of what music has become.

Hey, maybe that's why I don't sleep anymore. I know what music has become. Or not.

On an up note, though, Gwyneth aside, I like that "Fuck You" song by Cee-Lo. It's catchy and funny. He should have been allowed to do it alone, and with all the profanities intact. Oh, and much as I hate to admit it, Mick Jagger ("Paw") doing Solomon Burke was fine indeed. He danced longer than I ever could have, and he's older than I am.

Seacrest out.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Milo played at the dog park yesterday. However, he rolled in the dirt for 45 minutes with a Schnauzer. Like you do. He is so filthy he's like Pig Pen from Charlie Brown - you pat his back, and a cloud of dirt appears. I hope I have the strength to throw him in the shower tonight. Or at least tomorrow night.

2011-02-07T21:37:00.006-05:00

Picture Monday

Ooooh! Yes! The elusive Picture Monday has reared his head!

Well, it's all a mistake on my part, really.

I had complete plans for a Picture Sunday. You see, of course, on Thursday I saw my beloved Hackensaw Boys.

It was a bit of an odd show. Boys in fine form, make no mistake, and as sweet as ever. However, the sound was horrible, some local guy (I think) was doing it, and I don't understand why, after the sound check and everyone's happy with their mike levels, those levels can't just stay exactly where they are. But no, they'd go up and down, every time someone came in to sing lead his mike would be off and there'd be silence, while the backing fellows would be nice and loud. It got to be right maddening.

Also, I didn't have Taytie and Paul, my boys, there to dance at the front with, I went with my cousin Jacob. And not only is she more of a sitter at concerts, she was also nursing a mighty bad cold that night. So we took a table (on really uncomfortable "high stools" - those things are murder if you have short legs), and watched from pretty much the back of the room. However, once I ventured to the front near the end of the show to take some pictures, I realized it was so hot up there I probably wouldn't have survived stage-side, anyway.

Ahh, pictures. I did mention those.

It was toward the end of the show I ventured up for pictures because I was on a mission. Well, to be honest, Sherman and I were on a mission. See, as those with me from the beginning of my Hackensaw Odyssey may remember, it's kind of a tradition for Sherman to have his picture made with anyone who plays onstage as a Hackensaw Boy. He gets the new members, the substitutes, the regulars ... and they're not just him sitting on the stage with them, they're actual portrait pictures!

Well, as would happen, there has been a new percussion/charismo player of late, seeing how Justin (Salvage Hackensaw) is stuck in California. Well, he's not so much stuck, he's there with his wife doing art and being happy and only playing gigs on the west coast. In his place has appeared Nugget Hackensaw. He was most excellent onstage, drumming and banging and singing and being very happy and cordial, and so Sherman and I headed out right before the end of the concert to get his picture made with the newest Hackensaw.

I snapped several concert pics near the front of the stage, then it all ended, and I went looking for Nugget (whose name is Brian) to make a total fool of myself. And - I did just that! I told him about the tradition of Sherman, he laughed, especially when I mentioned he would now be in the Sherman Club, and he sweetly and happily posed for a picture with the boy, Sherman in one hand, can of beer in the other.

Then after it was all over and Cousin Jacob and I were out in the car, that I realized something horrid. Seems I don't know my new Christmas camera quite as well as I thought. Sure, it was the updated version of the one I had before it, and I just assumed all was well as I was snapping. The concert pictures were bad. The picture of Nugget and Sherman, horrible. So blurry not even Paint Shop Pro could fix it.

Epic Hackensaw fail. I'm surprised Sherman forgave me.

And so that was that. I had no pics for Picture Sunday. I mean, I wasn't so worried about concert pics of The Boys, you've seen a million here. But I wanted that Sherman picture with the New Boy. I gave up and went to bed Sunday.

But! But!

I got up this morning and had to get the trash out, which meant doing Poo Duty!

Now, last week here in B'field we had some massive winds. The kind that I feared when taking Milo out for a pee, I'd be flying him around like he was a kite. I got up the next morning after said winds, and yes, my poo container, where I keep all my little seal-tight baggies of Milo's poo for the week, had clean blown away.

Now, this poo container was anchored down by a full gallon can of paint inside it for heft. When I got up that morning, the can of paint was still around. And the lid, some 50 yards away. And 10 or so sealed bags of poo, all over the yard. But no poo container itself. Blown clean away.
And so I had to head out to the store to buy a brand new poo container.

When I got to the store, they did not have the indiscreet gray container I had before. They had navy blue, clear (clear? ack! everyone can see it's poo!), and a deep pink. I chose the deep pink, thinking somehow it would match my new burgundy roof and my old burgundy shutters. It doesn't. But it is distinctive, and hopefully will give at least one passerby a smile.

But here's the thing. Didn't notice it at all until this morning, after I'd wearily dragged out three (yes, three, I've been cleaning out the back bedroom) huge bags of trash this morning, and it was time to fill one of them with the contents of the new poo container, that I noticed this golden nugget.

I flipped off the lid of the new poo container, and noticed a sticker on the inside of the lid. And this is what that sticker was.

Yes! Listen to me, friends! Parents, do not, under any circumstances, put your baby in the poo container! First of all, it's outside in the freezing cold. It is also still anchored down with a full gallon can of paint, so the baby will be very cramped. Plus, how traumatized will the little tyke be, snapped into that container with a week's full of poo?

Heed my warning before it's too late!

I mean, really. Put the baby in an airtight container? What have we come to?

Happy week.

Betland's Olympic Update:
*Milo finished his round of meds today. I am totally convinced he will go back to his old ways now that it's done, and that I have a perpetually stressed-out doggie, and that we will just get together and jitter ourselves into oblivion.

2011-01-30T23:02:00.003-05:00

(Moving) Picture Sunday

Had a nice weekend in B'burg. On Saturday and Sunday Mr M and I took Milo to the dog park. It was warm and full of happy dogs and people.

I put together a little footage.

Happy week.

2011-01-23T21:45:00.007-05:00

Picture Sunday

Hello, end of weekenders, and welcome to Picture Sunday.

Didn't travel this weekend. In fact, didn't leave the house Saturday. Cleaned and made a new crock pot recipe, Pork Chop Beans. This is one all of my friends rave about, so I was game. Mr M came down to join me.

Didn't get a picture, but it didn't really matter, because I didn't see what all the fuss was about. See, the pork chops are supposed to season the beans, but I thought it was all a rather bland concoction. I think Mr M liked them a little more than I did, but it was agreed all around they needed "something."

However, I did, for the first time ever, make cornbread, and it wasn't bad. Not as good as my mom's, to be sure, but hey, she's been doing it sixty years and this was just my first time.

So, Mr M and I had dinner and watch a couple of movies, one of which I'd already started before he got there and he was kind enough to let me finish. It was a lazy evening, and I was grateful.

Mr M had a request last night, though, before he left. Seems we found out Milo loves for Mr M to pick him up and carry him around. He requested a few pictures of him and "his" dog.

I like the next one. Notice the look of admiration from Milo.

Then today it was Paw Duty, getting him to all the stores, and I got home around 3:30 and decided to make up a big pot of stew I could eat on a while and freeze for later. Did the kielbasa stew with cabbagge that I tried a few weeks ago and liked so well.

If you like kielbasa and cabbage, you'll like this one, and it's very easy. However, with those ingredients, as I was telling LilyG online today, there's enough gas in the pot to blow up your entire neighborhood, so be careful.

Then watched the football tonight with barely one eye, napped a bit, and thought about how in the hell I'm going to get three large full trash bags, each weighing about 30 pounds, out to the curb tomorrow morning.

Then I stopped thinking about that because it was too depressing.

Happy week.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* I'm getting mighty tired of Milo dragging me out in the single digit temperatures by giving me the "pee look," when all he really wants to do is bark at a rock.

2011-01-18T00:04:00.011-05:00

I Think There Might Have Been Shame

Hello, my fine blogees. Have you missed the blog? More importantly, have you missed this week's Hucklebug podcast? Because the reason it was a repeat was because of me.

Stennie is so kind. If I have something planned outside of podcastland, she just goes with it. She's the maven editor, you know. Really, anytime you listen to the Hucklebug, it's all due to the talents of Stennie.

What she went with this past week was that I had a social opportunity, and I wanted to take it, and apparently, she was OK with it too. She put up a repeat show, which is still great to listen to, of course, and I hope to do just that tonight.

Here's the whole reason for the repeat.

Earlier in last week, Mr M came to me with a challenge. "Hey, this Friday, I'm doing Music After Midnight. Before that will be the 'No Shame Theater.' The DeepFatFriar is performing there, then after, I'll play. Hey, why don't you come along and read something of yours too, at No Shame, and we'll make a night of it."

Well, I'd heard of Music After Midnight, because Mr M had played there before, and I'd heard of the No Shame Theater, only because Mr M had told me about it. "People get up and do stuff, and Lord, what they do."

Oh, my God. Could I read something I'd written at the No Shame?

At first I thought "no." Mr M told me I only had three minutes to be onstage. Well, you know me. Diarrhea of the fingers - I have nothing under three minutes.

But I looked around and found a short little thing I wrote that was under two minutes. It was spectacularly silly, but it was under two minutes. I chose that to read, if in fact I could actually read something I wrote in front of some people.

As we were heading to the theater in R'noke, I found that I actually had five minutes. For that was one of the three rules of the No Shame Theater.

1. You only have five minutes to do your thing.

2. Anything you do must be original. If you sing a song, it must be your song. If you tell jokes, they must be your jokes.

3. You cannot break anything. Including the law.

I signed up for my meager reading, and started getting hinky. And we got there very early, so I had lots of time to get hinky.

I think it was a blessing that I came third in the whole evening's readings. I'll tell you why after.

Anyway, the third person along, they called my name. And I ambled out to read what I'd written. The sound is a little suspect, so if you want to read along, you can go here. (If you want to follow along, http://betland.blogspot.com/2003_12_01_archive.html and head for the blog of Dec 3d, 2003.)

Yeah, being third on the bill helped me. Because if I knew all the others (7 of 11 people on the bill) would be people from the theater dept of a local college, I'd have never gotten the gumption to go onstage. (They were all polished and ready to appear onstage. Unlike yours truly.)

But all in all, I did it, and I'm glad I did it.

But - would I do it again?

In fact when asked that very night, I didn't know how to respond. Sure, I did it once, so I should be able to do it again. Then again, I know how I felt, aware my knees were crumbling as I read, and I don't think I could deal with that feeling ever again.

But again, I'm working on stuff I've written I can pare down to five minutes to slay them with. Oh, Lord.

So I read my little thing. I got a couple of tee-hees from the crowd.

But also, though. The whole time I was onstage reading my little silly thing, with my knees falling out from underneath me.... I mean, I truly honestly thought my knees would collapse and I would have to be carried from the place to the local hospital. It was bizarre.

And all the theater people took the stage with their bits. Some good, some not. Eighth on the bill was the DFF with his poems. Five short and unrelated poems. He was fantastic. My favorite of his?

The Scouting Choice

Bigotry or cookies.

Yeah, think about it. Again, brilliant.

Anyway, the No Shame ended and the Music After Midnight began, where Mr M played his piece in strange circumstances. (His accompanist, the lovely and talented Cara, was behind a screen where he couldn't see her.)

It finally ended late into the night (after 1:30), and we all headed back to B'burg. But it was fun, a good night where me, the DFF, and Mr M all put ourselves on the line.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* My two favorite jokes went completely unlaughed at...
1. The ruler's residence would be the Parker House. (crowd way too young)
2. Children everywhere treasure the book Rebecca of Pepperidge Farm. (no idea, it's a winner to me.)

2011-01-11T18:52:00.006-05:00

'Rent Rant, or Drip Drop

Hello, loves. I'm going to do a bit of parental ranting tonight. So I of course have to issue my first disclaimer of 2011.

Which is, of course, I love my parents. They're crazy, and I love them. They're exceedingly good and kind people, as anyone who knows them will attest to.

And they drive me nutso sometimes. As you well know, this isn't the first parental tale you've seen here.

So let's hop straight to my mom, aka Granny. Granny has been unwell for the past three years of her life. She's gone from vivacious and peppy to hunched over and shuffly. She has a raging case of psoriasis and several other medical concerns. And while I hate this, and would not wish what she's going through on my worst enemy, I hate it more that she doesn't try and fight her situation at all and seems perfectly content to sit in a chair all day. She only leaves the house to go to doctor's appointments, which she loves doing, and I think herein lieth the problem.

As you might imagine, my mom isn't overly abundant on immunity. Her immune system is quite, well, it's damn near non-existent, if you must know.

In October, she had to have a cataract removed from her eye. Surprisingly, it all went quite well. Well, until she went from opthamologist to optometrist to have her glasses changed. Then good ol' Dr T, our family opto forever, looked in her eye and found a virus.

Yes, a virus, living right there in Granny's eye.

Dr T said this is quite rare. So rare, in fact, that this was the only time he'd seen it happen, which is apt, since if there's one person a virus would pick to latch onto, it would be Granny. Dr T said things like this can happen because after something like a surgery, one's (non-existent) immune system was at its lowest point.

He gave her two kinds of drops to put in her eye. This was around Dec 10th or so. The VK drop, the Virus Killer, was to be put into her eye at three hour intervals, starting at 8am. 8, 11, 2, 5, and 8 o'clock.

And so she's been going back and forth to see Dr T, and he's been looking right into her eyes, and he's still been seeing this virus. And giving her drops.

Well, I took her to good ol' Dr T yesterday, and he was all excited to look right into her eyes again, and then when he did, he became rather frowny. "It's still there," he said. He also said, "We have to kill this virus, because you're in danger of losing your cornea."

And that's when my mom, aka Granny, blurted out right there in the office, "Well, I can't get those drops to go in, and Paw can't see to get them in."

And good ol Dr T looked at me as if to say, "What the hell kind of daughter are you?"

And I looked back at him as if to say, "Now listen here just a minute, sir. This is the first I've heard of this, too."

Yes, for almost a month my mom has been attempting, with the help of my dad, to put drops in her eyes five times a day that aren't going in, and apparently neither of them thought it might be, oh, you know, semi-informative to tell me, my sister, a neighbor, or good ol' Dr T himself that they weren't getting the hang of it. That's my folks. The Granny & Paw Club. I've mentioned it here before. They're so wound up in each other they won't let anyone else be a part of the little club.

So, here's what good ol' Dr T did.

A new prescription for VK, the Virus Killer drops. He gave it to me. With the missive, "You're going to have to make sure she gets these in her eye five times a day, every three hours, starting at 8am." Then he handed me some other drops. "These can go in whenever she wants, they're to keep her eyes moist, but can't be put in less than an hour after the Virus Killer."

Then he asked Granny if she still had the steroid drops he'd given her, she said yes. Dr T turned to me. "Those have to be put in twice a day. They can be put in as soon as 10 minutes after the Virus Killer drops, but no sooner."

Finally, he went off and returned with another little bottle and gave it me. "These are antibiotic drops. I want them in twice a day, not with the Virus Killer."

Sitting there in his office holding a prescription and five boxes holding eye drops, I uttered, "Um. So when exactly do I move back home?" It was a joke, you see.

And good ol' Dr T's reply was, "Well, that's actually what I'm suggesting." I stomped every toe on my left foot with my right foot to keep from yelling out "fuck."

Well, I took Granny home, dropped her off, took the prescription to the drug store, and got up with the sister by phone. I told her the situation, and that we had to come up with some sort of schedule for all this dropping. Although I knew we'd be the ones who'd end up dropping, from exhaustion.

This is what we came up with.

The Virus Killer drops at 8, 11, 2, 5, and 8. The steroid drops at 11:10 and 5:10. The antibiotic drops at 10 and 4. Then the rinsey drops at 9, 12, 3, 6, and 9.

And that, my friends, is a shitload of eye drops.

Add two working sisters to the mix, and you have, well, you have something of an impossibility.

And then a light bulb appeared over my sister's head. "I know what we'll do. We'll get C."

And it was a brilliant idea. C is a relative of my friend, workmate, and mother figure San. She's an expert caregiver. It's what she does. She can take care of an elderly person, get them where they need to be, make conversation, and she's just an all-around nice gal.

I told the sister this would never work, that C is not a card-carrying member of the Granny and Paw Club, and that they would fight us tooth and nail on this. "I don't care," the sister said. "They're getting C. We can do the 8am, and 5 and 8pm, but during the day, they're getting C."

So yesterday we went to the folks' house together and told them what was going to happen. And you know? They didn't fight us on it. I was amazed. "That went well. Too well."

And so, today C showed up to start putting in drops and be the nice person she is, and we found out later - Paw bucked. He didn't like her drop putting-in, or schedule. And at one point he told her, "I don't think you realize who's boss around here!"

To which C replied, "Yes sir, I do. [Bet's sister] is the boss, and I have to go by the schedule she gave me." I'm so sorry, I just had to have a giggle at that.

So Paw has been dethroned as the president of the Granny and Paw Club for now, and he's not happy. Granny's happy, because three people are taking care of her and putting drops in her eye and asking if she's OK.

The sister and I are happy, because we don't have to leave our jobs once an hour to put drops in Granny's eye.

Poor Paw.

And I have to say, after taking my 8pm turn tonight, driving "between the bridges" to their house on horrible icy roads, I can totally understand why they couldn't get those VK, Virus Killer, drops in her eye. They're very, very thick.

I can not understand, however, why in the hell they didn't just tell anyone!

*sigh.* Wonder if there's a secret handshake to the Granny and Paw Club?

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Well, I did what I swore I'd never do. Go to another groomer over my old one. Señor Taylor is just too busy nowadays, so I called the new groomer in town. I really enjoyed what he said on the phone about cutting mutts, so we'll see. Appointment tomorrow!

2011-01-09T21:01:00.005-05:00

Picture Sunday

Hello, end of weekenders, and welcome to a rather small Picture Sunday.

Really only two things to say.

One, I got a very nice surprise in the mail Friday from Hucklebug podcast listeners ThePete and Siskita. They sent one to Stennie and to me, and oddly enough, we both got ours on the same day.

It's a baby sock monkey! I think he's adorable. His name is Jackson, and although the Poderosa gang is pretty fond of him too, I think I'm taking him back to work with me tomorrow. He's just such a happy-looking fellow I think I'd like to have him there to cheer me up.

Thanks, ThePete and Siskita!

Two, I got a nice crock pot for Christmas from my friend, workmate, and mother figure San. I've been kind of wanting one for a long time, but never bought one because I honestly didn't know where I could find the space for one. Well, I'm going to have to find the space for one, and I got it out this afternoon and decided to try my first crock pot recipe. Lasagna.

I was dubious, I will admit, about the workings of the pot and the ingredients in my lasagna.

But I mixed everything in, turned the button to "low," and let the good times roll.

And proving wrong the old wives' tale that a watched pot never boils, because I checked on that pot every 20 minutes or so, in less than four hours I had a lasagna.

And it was very good!

Tasty, the special noodles I used cooked right up and weren't gummy like I'd feared, all the ingredients mixed together well, and I'm happy to say my first crock-pot experience was a good one.

And Jackson thought it was good, too!

And that's about it for this weekend.

Happy week.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Had plans to give Milo a bath tonight. I'm losing the will as the minutes tick away.

2011-01-04T20:21:00.007-05:00

Who Am I to Talk? Mine in High School Was a G-Man!

It all started with a great laugh on a bad night.

The bad night first. That would be last night, the night of the Orange Bowl, where my beloved Hokies got their heads (and various other parts of their bodies) handed to them on a plate by Stanford. It was an abomination, yet I watched till the bitter end.

But now the great laugh.

On Facebook, my new pal, the Nephie's galpal, Miss A, made a comment about the only reason she was watching the game was that Stanford had the worst mascot in history. I hadn't seen it, so I asked her about it. I mean, Stanford is "The Cardinal," referring to their colors. I said, "What is it, a piece of red?"

Oh, no, came the missive from Miss A. It's a tree. She advised me to google it. And when I did, well, I mean, my Lord. I cracked up, and spent the entire rest of that awful game hoping for just one look at the thing. Sadly, that look did not come.

Then some other commenters on Facebook posted their examples of horrid college mascots, and I knew there was a blog in there somewhere. So I did some research today.

And what I found. Well, let me tell you!

I've always thought I was rather doomed with mascots. I went to high school at ol' Graham High, and we were the G-Men. We never had an actual mascot till I was a senior, when a brave soul decided to dress up as a G-Man, in trenchcoat and fedora, and wander the stadium. In the Nephie's days in the drumline, though, the whole drumline dressed as G-Men, in the same trenchcoats and fedoras, and that was cool beyond belief. But by then I was out of the picture.

And although I didn't go to Virginia Tech, they're "my guys." They play right there in B'burg, my second home, and I love them and going to their games. They're the Hokies. Well, uh, yeah. What in the hell can you do with that, right? However, the original name for the Hokies is the Fighting Gobblers, no better, I'm sure you'll agree, and their original mascot was adorable and I love him till this day.

Then around 1985 or so they changed him to a more robust turkey, in fact, a turkey with breasts so big he needs a GG cup, but he's still fun and we all love him. You know, 'cause we're those weird folks who call ourselves Hokies.

But believe it or not, there are schools out there cheering and rooting right along with their mascots, and their mascots are some seriously weird-ass creatures. There were pictures I saw right there, right there on the internet in front of God and everybody, that made my hair curl. Which sucked, because winter-time is the only time of the year I enjoy me some straight hair.

So let's get to it. I wanted to do a Top Ten list of the worst college mascots, but it became too upsetting, so I have to go with a Top Fifteen.

The Top Fifteen Worst College Mascots

15. The University of California at Santa Cruz, Banana Slug: Now, Marla (MarlaMarla) suggested this, and I have to say it's a dumb idea for a mascot. But then again, if you've ever seen "Pulp Fiction," you know that Vincent Vega wore a Banana Slug shirt in the movie. So, dumb mascot, but - cute mascot in foam rubber form, so he only weighs in at 15.

14. University of Dayton, Rudy Flyer: I don't know, he's like a big gas station attendant with dark goggles. Dayton are the Flyers, this is true, but this dude has no plane to speak of, he's just walking around wondering what to do next. If you think about it, it gets a little creepy.

13. Providence College, Friar: Ick. This is not the type of Friar I would want to seek spiritual guidance from. (Maybe I should consult the DeepFatFriar on this dude.)

12. Pepperdine, Wave: Doesn't this guy look like a fermented Max Headroom? In any case, Pepperdine, and waves in general, are supposed to be cool, and this poor fellow looks like he's in his worst pajamas and what are supposed to be ripped muscles come off as, well, more pajamas. Oh, the shame.

11. Southern Illinois University, The Saluki: I've always thought the Saluki was a most beautiful dog. Well, until now. Sic' him, Milo! He can't fight back with those yellow teeth.

10. North Carolina School for the Arts, Fighting Pickle: OK, this only makes the number 10 spot because NCSA only has intramural sports, and therefore, we'll never see the fighting pickle on ESPN. But he is indeed the official mascot of the school, so he deserves a mention. I'm not sure about the headphones, I guess he's listening to Kraftwerk, arty pickle that he is. All I know is that I've had pickles fight my digestive system late into the night, so he might be very feisty.

9. Stanford, The Tree: Yep. That's him. He's a tree. Not even a cardinal red tree. He's a demented Christmas tree, the kind you see on Christmas Eve after too many egg nogs. He's as badly put together as your 80-year old Aunt Edna when she goes out to the store. And - he has no arms. So if he falls over - well, "Little help here? Little help for a fallen tree, please?"

8. St Louis University, Billiken: I don't know who St Louis University is, and I don't know who Billiken is, either. He's some sort of mouse/cat/dog/thing hybrid who scares the children who dare to come to sporting events. And shame on him.

7. Wichita State, WuShock: This came via Facebook comment from Mike the blogless. Yeah, he was right on the money, too. What the fuck? Is it an angry bale of hay? Is it the wheat we hope never makes it into our bread? Is it what shows up in our dreams when we eat pizza at 1am? I don't know. I'm just glad we don't play them.

6. University of Tulsa, Captain Cane: Oooh. I guess that means a hurricane and not sugar cane. But really, who knows? I was so struck by this fellow because he reminds me of my Nervous Breakdown. I mean, look at that head!

Now we're getting to the goodies, folks....

5. University of Nebraska, Lil' Red: Now, I have to tell you, my friends, Lil' Red is rather new to the fold. The stalwart Nebraska mascot is a foam rubber Cornhusker named Herbie Husker. Yes, he's a big foam rubber man with a cowboy hat who just wants to be a dentist. No, wait, that's Hermie Husker. This abortion of a mascot, this Lil' Red, showed up 10 or so years ago and is so horrid that every time we see him, my sister and I cry out "Corn Boy! Corn Boy!" as if our eyes are being gouged out. He is rubber and inflatable, and a blight on the land. Here you get a moving picture visual. If only I had a pin.

4. Xavier University, Blue Bob: What is he? And more importantly, should Cookie Monster sue? I don't know, but God help us, he's ugly. He should be killed immediately, if only for the shoes.

3. University of Arkansas at Monticello, Boll Weevil: So that's what a boll weevil looks like. A new one on me. Looks like the love child of the Domino's Noids (remember them?) and the Great Gazoo. Imagine the shame of being this for a whole game.

2. Scottsdale Community College, The Fighting Artichoke: You know, I've never fought an artichoke. Are they really that tough? I think if you got in a good knee-kick, you could take this vegetable down for the count.

And yes, the Number One Worst College Mascot Ever -

1. Delta State University, The Fighting Okra: OK, let's get this right out of the way. I've fought with okra before. Fried some up, put it on a plate, and about two hours later, my intestines were in the fight of their lives. And they lost. So I guess there's something to this Fighting Okra thing. But Lord, have mercy, what a mascot. Have you ever seen anything quite so horrid? Is it an okra? A pickle? A cucumber? Well, they say he's an okra, and if that's true, I'm sure Delta State's opponents all over the schedule are sitting on toilets everywhere bemoaning their fates.

So, there you go. Have one that's worse? Yeah, right. I dare you! Let me know!

2011-01-02T22:21:00.009-05:00

Picture Sunday

Well, happy 2011 to you all, my blogees. And welcome to the first of what will hopefully be more than five or so Picture Sundays for the year.

As most of you know if you read the below blog, I had some distinct plans for New Year's Eve. The DeepFatFriar and I were attending a Murder Mystery Night. The hinkiness was starting to set in about the time I wrote about it.

And it all started off on quite the weird note.

DFF and I arrived at the Unitarian Church, where the event was being held. There was no electricity in the church, and in fact none in the whole neighborhood. The hosts of the event had done some checking, and were told it wouldn't be back on until about 9:30 that night. And so the whole party, including wine, dinner, dessert, suspects, props, and possibly victim, though I didn't personally see him myself, had to pack up and move elsewhere. The hosts asked if it would be OK to just do it at their apartment.

And so the Caravan of Murder took off to a different part of B'burg.

We began with wines and cheeses, and getting to know each other, though most people did except me, for I think they were all of the Unitarian persuasion and went to church together. They were all extremely nice and friendly folks. Then dinner and more conversation followed.

Then, my friends, it was time for the mystery to begin. And I immediately lost all hinkiness because, well, I don't know if this is stupid or not, but I had imagined this to be a thing where we were all like actors. You know, that we'd be up moving around, walking and talking like we were on Broadway.

Turns out, it wasn't like that at all. We sat around the table, just like we were playing any other game (and you know, I like games), and we were given our character booklets, secret clues, and the rules of the game.

And so the fun began. And it was fun, it was fun because these people suddenly became their characters. Accents were adopted, gestures, and before long we were cracking each other up. At the beginning of the game we were all given pads on which to write down clues, and I finally abandoned that completely, because I was just having so much fun watching everyone.

The "secret clues" were pieces of paper to be opened at various times by various characters, and were pieces of evidence that incriminated another member of the game. And every time one of those clues showed up, and someone found a way to work it in - "Oh, and speaking blackmail, maybe this would be of interest to everyone!" - with a clue being flung open.

So for three rounds and a couple of hours, we all pointed fingers at the others and defended ourselves as we tried to figure out who killed Barry Underwood, owner of the Underwood Wine Estates.

Could it have been Ralph Rottengrape, the victim's cousin and new owner of the winery? Or could it have been his wife, Tiny Bubbles, who uses her maiden name because she can't stand to be known as Tiny Rottengrape, who was also the victim's fiance at the time of his death?

Perhaps it was Otto Von Schnapps, German wine merchant, who likes wine, women, and money? The latter a lot. But maybe it was Papa Vito, who came from Italy to the Underwood family 60 years ago with a root from his father's grape vine, and who has lived at the estate and worked it for years.

But there's always Heddy Shablee, owner of the Shablee Vineyards, who was the victim's arch rival. Since his death, a series of unfortunate circumstances have come Heddy's way. And then, it could have been Marilyn Merlot, once queen of the Wine Festival who went on to become a movie star - and may have been the last person to see the victim alive. One thing's for sure. It wasn't Bud Wizer, the FBI agent who's on the case.

Well, looks like I should have been taking those notes I quit taking, because when it came my time to guess the murderer, I was stumped, and in the end I fell for all the red herrings. In fact, only one person guessed the murderer - and got it for all the right reasons! And that person, and I doubt it will surprise anyone, was the DeepFatFriar himself! Or, shall I say, Herr Von Schnapps?

After it was over, we were served an absolutely fantastic homemade tiramisu by the hosts, had some more friendly conversation, then it was time for everyone to head back to reality. DFF had to get home, and I landed at Mr M's, where we watched the ball drop and I fell asleep not long after.

But it was fun, and I did something I'd never done before.

Oh, one of the partygoers liked my prop, a basket of Heddy's new vintage, and wanted a picture. And that's my secret clue telling everyone that I wasn't so much a vintner as a money laundress.

So there you go. What's a little money laundering? At least I wasn't a murderer.

Happy week.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Oh, I guess I could tell you. It was Papa Vito.

2010-12-29T18:28:00.003-05:00

What Are You Doing New Year's Eve, or Whodunit

Hello, blogees, and welcome to what will surely be my last blog of 2010.

Sadly, I will be saying the same thing to 2010 I said to 2009 this time last year. "I hate you, I smite you, and don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out." And to 2011 I shall say, "Welcome, my new friend. Have a cookie and a drink. Let's be friends." Of course, I said that same thing to 2010, and look what he did to me.

Now, I've lived through many a New Year's Eve. Some good, some not so good. One of my favorites was spent completely alone, curled up in the Comfy Chair, playing with colored pencils as the ball dropped.

I've been at big parties at people's houses, and at big hotels full of revelers (normally associated with going to Va Tech Bowl Games) that were generally miserable. I've spent my share with the Sauerkraut Band getting so inebriated I honestly forgot what happened on the night. I can only assume a good time was had by all. (To paraphrase from what they used to say about Studio 54: If you can remember what happened, you weren't really there.)

So when I got an invite a little while back from the DeepFatFriar, it was different and intriguing, and I just couldn't say no.

See, I'd just gotten home from work and was hanging around the computer catching up, and I got a Messenger boing from DFF. He asked if I had plans on New Year's Eve. I said I didn't, no one in the SKB had even mentioned a party, and he asked if I'd like to do something with him.

Seems he'd bought, at an auction, entrance to a Murder Mystery Night. It was being held at his church, the Unitarians, and he was wondering if I'd like to come along and be a part of it all.

Well, here's the thing. As said above, I've had my share of drunken revelry, and I've hated this entire year, and I thought, "Hey! What a new and interesting thing, a good way to stay out of trouble and start the new year with a little something different!"

And I accepted right there and then.

DeepFatFriar told me he'd email me with all the details I needed to know, and I said fine, and didn't think much more about it than, "Ooh, I have real plans this year."

Then the email came, and as you might expect, if you know me but one whit, I started to get hinky.

The first hinkiness came at just reading the logistics and my part in it all. Seems the night is called "A Taste for Wine and Murder," and here is, and I quote, the theme of the evening.

This mystery is set in the wine region of Napa Valley, California. Five years ago, Barry Underwood, owner of the prestigious Underwood Wine Estates, mysteriously disappeared during the valley's annual wine festival. A massive search at the time failed to turn up any clues and the case has been in the FBI's unsolved files since then.

Now, five years later, it is once again the annual wine festival in Napa Valley. Last night, family and friends gathered at the stately Underwood Mansion to celebrate. At midnight, a minor earthquake shook the mansion, causing an old wooden floor in the wine cellar to buckle. Barry's well preserved body was discovered under the cedar planks.

It is a clear case of murder and you are one of the suspects.

Well! I am, am I?

Then I read on, as to who I'm supposed to be for the evening. And although it says, notice, "suggestions," I've just gone all to pieces over this.

Heddy Shablee - The owner of the neighboring vineyard and a fierce competitor of the Underwoods. Barry's disappearance has uncorked a new vintage of troubles for unhappy Hedy.

Costume suggestions: Flowered skirt, off-the-shoulder peasant blouse, sandals or bare feet, headband of flowers, carrying a basket of her best vintages.

Custom suggestions are entirely optional.

Oh, my. Oh, my, my, my.

I'm expected to wear a skirt and peasant blouse on New Year's Eve? I don't don a skirt in my one church appearance per year!

I want very much to take Heddy in the opposite direction, with jeans, Birkenstocks, flannel shirt, and severe hairdo. But could I be so bold? Would I offend the putters-on of the Murder Night? Can I find some common ground in between?

And then, I got to thinking about the night in whole. I have to be this character. Can I do it? More importantly, did I do it? Am I the killer, or am I just filler? Will I have some sort of skeleton script to tell me where I was during the murder, or is this the second coming of Second City, a totally improvised night?

All I can hope is that the assembled throng are as naive as I am.

I've set tomorrow afternoon to look around for an outfit, and maybe once that's done I'll feel more like Heddy Shablee. Or not.

But you know, I'm trying to tell myself that other than the DeepFatFriar, who knows I'm crazy anyway, these other people have no idea who I am and will probably never see me again. If I fuck it all up, well, at least I'll give them something to talk about for a while.

But my biggest hope is that I can crawl out of my shell long enough to ham it up as Heddy Shablee, however she's dressed, and make at least one person, or even myself, laugh.

I mean, isn't this what these things are about?

They're not? They're serious mysteries? Oh, shit....

Oooh. I just thought of something. Since myself and the victim were arch rivals, maybe I can work in the line, "Flames! Flames on the side of my face!"

Happy New Year's, everybody!

2010-12-26T21:29:00.010-05:00

Picture Sunday

Well, hello, you end of weekenders! End of holidayers, end of yearers, even. And welcome the final Picture Sunday of 2010.

Yep, it's been a while. Busy time, Christmas. Well, and that other problem. Remember? I broke my camera the last night of Oktoberfest this year. And even though Mr M loaned me his, I don't know, the pictures just weren't happening.

Well, lo and behold. A request from Santa, who's in really tight with my mom and dad, and I am the proud owner of a new camera. Been playing with it off and on today, and well, let's show you want it can do!

It can take pictures of its own box! (That's something approaching a self-portrait.)

That present was opened Christmas morning with the family. We all gathered around 11 am, opened presents, hung out, then it was time to part for a bit before we'd all convene at the sister's for Christmas dinner.

Mr M came down and we had present time. And talk about your cool presents....

A new Flip, in HD! And white! Can't wait to start using it. Comfy Chair Movie ideas, please!

Then on to the sister's in the driving snow, a nice dinner, and Mr M and I cut out a little early so he could start home in the elements, and I could get to my next event of Christmas Day.

See, my long-lost but newly-found (well not anymore, a year now) high school buddy The Daughter C was in for the holiday, as was our other high school buddy The Daughter O. I was to pick up Daughter C and we'd both head to the O house and have a nice visit.

The snow was still coming down hard and the roads were untouched, but I headed out to the old neighborhood, "Between the Bridges," as 2d Son C calls it. The fact that the roads hadn't been touched was actually an advantage, lots of snow for traction, and no one was on the road so there were no idiots to dodge.

Now, I saw Daughter C for the first time in years back in October. I'd not seen Daughter O for - well, I honestly don't know how long it'd been. I remember a short conversation with her when the nephew was a toddler. So let's estimate 20 years.

And it was great. There we were, all 32 years after high school, looking the same and different and picking up exactly where we left off. I mean, for however much our lives have all changed, we all sat there in the living room, the three of us, Mom O, and two dogs, and there was never a moment's silence in over three hours.

And we laughed. A lot.

Daughter O had brought her doggie, Walter, in for the trip, and I fell totally in love with him. And I think he liked me a bit too. He kept putting his paw on my arm. I was sure by the end of the evening he was going to ask me out on a date.

It was fun and cozy and familiar and new, and the perfect way to end a Christmas Day. But the hour got late and the snow was still falling, so Daughter C and I had to say our goodbyes, hopefully not for another 20 years. I dropped Daughter C off and when I did, she gave me a little something.

She stressed it wasn't a Christmas gift, probably knowing me well enough to know I'd be mortified to not have one for her in return. It was - and she prefaced this with, "Now, I don't really understand all the things with your stuffed animals," to which I laughed - but it was the brand new mascot of the Richmond, Virginia baseball team, the Flying Squirrels. Yes, it was Nutzy, the Flying Squirrel!

Well, as you can see above, the kids just love him. And he does flying feats of derring-do for them in the living room. So he'll be here with us, at least till the baseball season gets into full swing. Sherman's offered to arrange a meeting between him and Rocky the Flying Squirrel, who of course Sherman is great friends with.

OK. And that was Christmas. Low-key, lazy, snowy, and nice. And you'd think that would be the end of the blog, right?

Well, you're wrong!

Today I'd decided to have a little celebration for myself. See, on Thanksgiving I ended up having two dinners at two different houses, and came home with not a single leftover goodie to my name. So earlier in the week I started toying with the idea of taking today and having my own little Christmas dinner.

Mr M was hoping to join me again today, but the snow was just too bad for a trip from B'burg. So it was just me and the gang at the little Poderosa Post-Christmas Dinner.

I started by putting a small turkey breast in the oven and got it nice and toasty.

Then I made some sausage stuffing, hoping it would be as good as Mr M's.

I forwent the mashed potatoes, I can have them with leftovers. Put them both on a plate, and I had me a real little Post-Christmas dinner!

And it was really good! The turkey was moist with a crusty outside, the stuffing was almost as good as Mr M's, I curled up in the Comfy Chair and turned on the tree lights and the TV and ate my fill. Then as happens on these occasions, I took a little nap for about an hour.

Then in an amazing turn of events, I popped up post-nap, started getting the turkey off the bone, got everything cleaned up and put away, and even got Sunday trash duty done to the point of having the bags already out on the curb, anchored in the 8 or so inches of snow we have (and are still receiving).

And it was a good day. Now all that's left is to take the tree down, which I'll shoot for tomorrow night.

Happy week, and happy rest of 2010 if I don't post before.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Hope you all had a nice holiday as well. I've still got New Year's Eve coming up, which could be a real interesting story to tell.

2010-12-05T21:58:00.013-05:00

Picture Sunday

Hello, end of weekenders. Welcome to a special edition of Picture Sunday.

I got a most fortuitous email yesterday. It was from my old buddy the DeepFatFriar, offering to take over the Picture Sunday helm this weekend. He titled his email "An Offer You Can Refuse," but really, that is one I definitely could not refuse.

So let's turn it over to the Friar!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thanks, Bet, for letting me report on the big doin's in the little town I don't live in. (I live about 239 feet outside the town.)

The town I don't live in is not the biggest town in the county. There are only 1300 or so people in it. (The biggest town has over 4000, and the entire county about 17000 spread across about 350 square miles.) But it is widely acknowledged to have the best Christmas parade in the county. There are several reasons for this: it snowed during the Christmas parade, as is only fitting; it is a drive-in parade--you can watch it from inside your car; they throw candy from the floats and vehicles, so it is like hollowe'en, only different; and it was, this year, seventeen minutes long--brevity really is the soul of paradical wit. And it's better than the Macy's parade in every way.

And I want to apologize for the quality of the pictures. It was dusk and snowing. The little camera did the best it could. It really did.

So here is the parade route, lined with the cars you can watch it from. One of them is mine.

As you can see, there are a lot of cars there. But to be fair, people mostly got out of them when the parade started. We're tough people in the town I don't live in. We can handle 17 minutes outside of the car to watch the parade. But we leave the motor running and the heat on.

Here is the first vehicle in the parade.

And here is the first float, sponsored by a radio station I never heard of, or heard.

The local cub and boy scout troops came next. The cubs walked, but the boys rode.

They were followed by a truck from the local telephone co-op, then the Woman's Chorus and Chorale form the county high school.

Unlike the Macy's parade, the groups here did not perform along the way. They just threw candy. (I told you our's is better in every way!) This group was followed by some church floats and emergency vehicles and the local beauty contest queen and more emergency vehicles from all over the county and our own dear little town.

I told you the camera was having trouble with the conditions. Let's try that again, as this was actually my favorite float.

I'm really sorry I couldn't get a better pic of that. It was great. It's "The Christmas Train." On the side of the engine, it says, "Powered by the Gospel." I wanted to follow them a quarter mile to the end of the parade route and ask them exactly how many gospels they had to burn to power the float down the parade route. But it was too damn cold and the parade was not over. Yet.

More emergency vehicles. At least one of which was picking up people along the way who apparently were overcome by the grandeur of it all.

And even the Macy's parade did not have a river raft in it.

And still more emergency vehicles. I hope nothing bad happened in the rest of the county, because every vehicle and person who could have done anything about it was in this parade.

And then, no sleigh, no reindeer, no fanfare, Santa and the missus.

And that was that. Seventeen minutes start to end. Given the size of the town, I think it was at least as good as the Macy's thing, the official "As Seen on TV" Parade. If we had ten million people in the little town I don't live in, we could probably put on a parade with all those baloons. In fact, we'd have to. Because if there were ten million people in the town I don't liive in, they'd have to be stacked 147 deep to fit in it, so the parade would have to be balloons to get through the town floating over the bodies.

So that's that. Merry Christmas, all y'all.

----------------

And that's it from Friarland. Thanks, DFF!

Happy week.

2010-11-21T21:52:00.006-05:00

Picture Sunday

Hello, end of weekenders. Lazy weekend here at the Pod. Today was filled with some failures, but at least I kept busy at them. (They all had to do with videos and computers.)

However!

What a difference a week makes. Another week, another stew.

Well, kind of. This was actually a soup. I had to choose between kielbasa soup and kielbasa stew, and I chose the soup, it sounded easier and had less chopping involved.

Tomaotes, onions, green peppers, celery, three kinds of beans, kielbasa, then the water and spices. And wouldn't you know, it came out stewier than Some Dude's beef stew.

And it's quite tasty. Slap a salad down beside it, and there was Sunday dinner.

The other one, the kielbasa stew has cabbage in it, though, and since I bought an extra kielbasa I might do that one next.

After all my project failures and a little dinner, I sat down to watch "The Amazing Race" and shake off the day. Milo took a place on the couch, where he immediately sacked out.

That is a happy boy. Then he meandered over and took a closer position. Right on my shoulder.

So, there you go. A nice weekend at home. Now time to gear up for the cooking for other people. Yikes.

Happy week.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Hey! I got two movies watched this weekend!

2010-11-18T21:05:00.002-05:00

Stewquation

For some reason, I know not why, I got all domestic and decided to make a big pot of beef stew.

Now, I'm normally not that high on beef stew. The reason for this is the beef. I always find it rather tough, no matter what kind I buy. I also always find there are too many potatoes in beef stew. I mean, big ol' hunks of potato in every spoonful.

But I was loafing at work on Tuesday. It was an honest loaf. I was caught up on all my stuff, and for some reason we were extremely slow, so I hit the internet and started reading the news. And there at the bottom of the msnbc.com homepage was a little picture. Underneath, the link said, "Coffee + Beer = Beef Stew."

And I'm sorry, but that's just a link I have to follow.

It was a video link, of a segment from my old daily nemesis "The Today Show." Some Dude and Al Roker were in the little fake kitchen there, and Some Dude was going to show Al how to make a beef stew that would knock his socks off.

And here's what he did. He browned up some beef in a big pot. He then threw in, and I mean threw in, and encouraged Al to do some throwing too, but he threw in some chopped red onions (which I like so much more than whites, and infinitely more than yellows). Then Some Dude showed Al how to cut carrots so that each one is the exact same size and they don't get bigger as you go up the carrot's widening face. I liked that, too. Then he and Al threw the carrots into the pot.

The celery was just plain old celery, but Some Dude threw it in with gusto. He then threw in some garlic, and let it all cook and carmelize.

Now this next part made me quite the fan of Some Dude. After the beef and vegetables were nice and carmelized, he said they had to reintroduce the flavor from where the beef bits had stuck to the bottom of the pot. And to do that, well, he just had to use a half a cup of whiskey.

Once the reintroduction had taken place, and really, what reintroduction isn't better with a little whiskey, then the stalwart stew staple potatoes were thrown in, and it was liquid time. Some beef stock, a half a cup of stale coffee, and two pints of Guinness Stout. Neither Some Dude nor Al threw the liquid, and I'm glad about that, although it would have been fun to watch all that beer fizz like crazy. Some rosemary and thyme sprigs were thrown in (but no parsley and sage), and there was a stew right there in the fake kitchen.

And that was it. Video watched. But since the weather's turned cold I've been wanting to make a few soups and chilis I can eat now and freeze for later, and I just decided I'd make this stew with the whiskey and beer and even coffee to sober me up the next day.

I went to the grocery Tuesday after work. It was looking like rain. I forewent the umbrella anyway. I bought a few groceries I needed, then all the ingredients for the stew, save for the whiskey, but I had enough left over from the weekend to keep me out of the liquor store. I came out with my newly-bought groceries in bags in the cart, and walked right into - a hurricane.

Well, I'm calling it a hurricane. The rain was pouring, the wind was blowing. Blowing the rain into my face and on my glasses. Rain had collected in the parking lot till it lapped over my shoes. I did some throwing of my own before the stew even started, throwing bags as fast as I could into the back of podmobile2. When I was through, I looked like I had stood in the shower for twenty minutes with my clothes on.

I climbed into the car and drove home, water dripping from my hair into my face the whole way. I backed into the driveway, unloaded the bags, took Milo out - hey, why shouldn't he get wet too? - and came in to unload my groceries. All the bags had about an inch of rain in them. It was a wet sort of time.

But anyway, after a change of clothes, I got right into putting, no, wait, throwing my stew together. Did it just like Some Dude did it, throwing with gusto. And I have to say, that carrot trick is awesome. I want to have carrots with every meal now just so I can cut my carrot pieces all the same size.

I'd thrown in the first veggies over the browned beef, it carmelized, and I added my too-expensive-for-this-dish whiskey. Then I added the dreaded potatoes, stale coffee, beef stock, and the two pints of Guinness Stout. Boy, was that Guinness stout. A big ol' thick foam engulfed all the other ingredients. In fact, after tying my rosemary and thyme (but not parsley and sage) in a little string, I threw them in. The beer foam was so thick I had to sink the poor little spices with my stirrer.

I took it to simmer and let it go. I made something else for dinner because I wanted to let this take its time and stew into a stew I could be proud of.

At the end of the night, I got out a large tupperware container and looked at my stew. Then I got out another large container. I had enough stew to feed the whole town. I began ladling it, dividing ingredients between the two containers. And as I did that, I started to notice something. This wasn't really a beef stew. It was a beef soup.

It had no thickness to it at all. It was basically all those things I'd so happily thrown at the pot, floating in broth and beer. I was disappointed, to say the least. I mentioned it to Mr M, and he said I needed to add some corn starch. And he was right. Some Dude hadn't said anything about a thickening agent.

Had I missed something? I ran back to my recipe and pored over the ingredients. Nope, nothing there. Sure, there was some thickness when all that Guinness foam was floating around, just like there was in the video, but when it fizzled out, I was left with a limp stew.

I of course talked to my friend, workmate, and mother figure San the next morning, Wednesday, and she agreed with Mr M. I went home for lunch and heated some of this stuff up, and, well, it just wasn't what I was hoping for. I took the second container of the limp stew back to work and gave it to San. "Here, do anything you want to it, and tell me if you get anything better than it is now. I'll do the same with my share."

After work it was to the grocery once again for corn starch. When I got it boiling, I added some broth to the corn starch and put it in the soup. And I was starting to get some stew! I had stew, people! Near the end of cooking I threw in, at this point I couldn't just lay anything in there, a bit of cilantro. Then when I'd ladled it into my bowl I thought "what the hell," and sprinkled some Frank's hot sauce over the top. (Everything is improved by Frank's hot sauce.)

And it looked like this.

And it wasn't awful. The beef was more tender than I was expecting, maybe the Guinness pummeled it into submission, there were still too many potatoes, the thicker sauce was nice and comfortable. But it wasn't that great. I looked down at my feet, and my socks were definitely not being knocked off.

I'm blaming the Guinness. I can drink it if I have to, but it's definitely not my beer of choice. I started thinking about nut brown ale. Wonder if that would give it a warmer, cozier taste.

No matter. I don't know that I'll try that recipe again. I have others in the bullpen I'm more interested in getting at. All I know is that the equation that got me interested in the first place is wrong. It's not "Coffee + Beer = Beef Stew."

I'm leaning more toward "Coffee + Beer + Regular Beef Stew = A Nice Night In."

Kielbasa stew is up next. And I have plenty of corn starch just in case.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* And the meal I made Tuesday night while the stew cooked? Well, folks, I made the best Reuben Sandwich I've ever made in my life. I can't wait to make it again. As soon as I go to the grocery again for more rye bread.

2010-11-17T19:30:00.010-05:00

Confession Time!

Yes, my blogees. I'm Bet, and I'm a wayward blogger. It's been 16 days since my last blog. And I'm back to make a couple of confessions to you all.

The first confession is that I'm going to quit apologizing for not updating my blog more. I'm sorry about it, to be sure, but less and less sorry, and something has to be afoot that's making me not make time to do it. I don't know if it's that I just don't care that much anymore (I'd like to think I do), that I don't have anything worthwhile to say (sadly, I'm feeling this more and more), or that I have that newly-diagnosed mental illness, Blogophrenia, which makes blogging impossible (I don't, and I made that up anyway).

So all I can say is that while I try to get back into blogging shape, I hope you'll all be nice enough to check back every week or so to make sure I'm still alive and still typing. If you do, I'd be ever so grateful. But don't expect miracles. Election day this year should tell you that.

Speaking of election day this year, that's kind of where my second confession comes in. In a roundabout way.

See, my buddy Stennie and I do the Hucklebug podcast together, and we made a solemn pledge to our listeners. We took on the Herculean task to watch Sarah Palin's new reality show on TLC so our listeners wouldn't have to watch it themselves. We were being extremely selfless when we made this pledge, but it was an honest pledge. We care about our listeners, and wouldn't dream of having them suffer through Sarah's reality show.

An aside here, because if there's anything you know about me, it's that I love a good aside like a fat baby loves mashed potatoes. TLC stands for "The Learning Channel," and they have shows like "Jon and Kate Plus Eight," "19 Kids and Counting" (about the horrid and ever-mulitplying Duggar family), "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant," "Say Yes to the Dress" (about bridezillas and their gowns), "Sister Wives" (about a polygamist family), "Toddlers and Tiaras" (about child beauty pageants), and "LA Ink" (about tattoo artists). What exactly we're supposed to learn to enrich our lives about all this is a mystery to me. In fact, my sister has lovingly renamed TLC "The Trailer Trash Channel."

OK. So the premiere of the Palin show, which if I'm not mistaken is called "Sarah Palin's Alaska," like it's actually about Alaska, was Sunday night.

Sunday was not an especially stellar day for me. I learned while visiting the parents that day that one of our neighborhood gang of kids when I was young, a guy one year older than I, had passed away. It was also the 40th anniversary of the Marshall University plane crash (which wiped out their football team), and I spent much of the evening watching the documentary about it, "Ashes to Glory." It's an amazing documentary, and though it ends on a high note, the interviews about the actual crash are just gut-wrenching.

Then I watched "The Amazing Race," and got all pissed off about winners and losers. Then - it was time for Sarah's show.

I duly turned in, just like I said I would. I watched. Well, I watched until I decided I absolutely could not watch anymore. I looked at the clock at the point I could not watch anymore. It was six minutes into the show.

Yes, apparently six minutes of Sarah Palin is all I can stomach.

And I marveled at that. I mean, I'm the person who rails against Glenn Beck on the podcast while Stennie yells, "Quit watching that shit!" I can watch over half of his show, screaming at the TV screen, blaspheming. I don't know how I do it but I do, vitriol at the boiling point.

But I couldn't stand more than six minutes of Sarah Palin and her brood.

Because, in six minutes, here's what I saw.

Sarah in her palatial estate. Not the Governor's Mansion, her own home. Now, I thought her husband Todd was a fisherman. She lives in a huge waterfont estate. They obviously didn't move into it after the book deals and money from the TV show. And I'm sure there's dirty money involved in that house.

And - Sarah and her neighbor. Of course, a guy writing a book about Sarah rented the house beside of hers, which is his God-given right, and we got to see Todd and Sarah making fun of him and talking about how he was writing a "hit" piece on them, and playing the "victim" card at every turn.

And - Sarah whoring out her youngest daughter. There she was, cutely licking cupcake batter off a spoon. Sarah's already whored out Bristol (and we see how well that went), and the little disabled one (and she should be ashamed), and the middle daughter, Willow - well, I don't know if you've seen it yet, but Willow and Bristol got involved in a Facebook flame against someone who dissed this very reality show that, well, I don't even know what to say about it. Willow was calling people "faggot" all over the place, but what distressed me more was that the poor girl can't distinguish between "your" and "you're." Uneducated heathens.

And - Sarah talking about, to counter the "hitman" author writing the piece against her, they're building a higher fence around their huge estate. And Sarah said, with a wink to the camera, "Just like people think we should build a big fence around the country to keep illegal aliens out."

And that was it. That was the point where I said "enough."

Because that's when I also realized, "Holy Lord and Holy Shit and Jesus H Christ, this is nothing but a nine-week political commercial." Which I knew anyway, but wasn't expecting it to be so obvious, for some reason, there on the Trailer Trash Channel.

And that pisses me off. I mean, I can't tell you how this pisses me off.

While other politicians who are hoping to be president someday have to wait till election season and then pay millions of dollars to come up with 30 minutes of show for their campaigns, here is this empty-headed vacuous shithead with a nine-week reality-show-campaign commercial - that she's being paid for!

And that's just not fair.

Our country is fucked. Our country is fucked beyond repair.

I could go into the whole "Dancing With the Stars" thing, which I'm only watching with one eye (I promise), and how Bristol Palin was one of the three worst dancers in the stable and has now made it to the final round, because her mom shows up in the audience and right-wing websites beg people to call in and vote for her.

But I won't.

All I can do is hope that somehow, somewhere, Sarah Palin will fuck up enough that even the "on the fence" crowd will see what a sham she is. (The teabaggers wouldn't care if she killed puppies with her bare hands.)

But something tells me it won't matter. You know, when she and the whole teabag thing started rearing its head, I talked about how it scared the shit outta me, and everyone said, "Aww, you're crazy. People will see through that."

I won't say, "I told you so." I hope I won't, anyway.

But I probably will.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* You know, my regular camera is broken, that happened the last night of Oktoberfest. (Don't ask me, I was drunk.) So I'm using an old camera and the pics just aren't that good. However...

* Saturday the 13th was Mr M's birthday. He came down to the Pod, and we had a lovely evening. Helped by the fact that the Gang at the Poderosa spent the whole weekend making him a birthday card. I tried to get some photos.

The inside contained pictures of all the Poderosa Gang, plus some added hijinx (Sherman and Huckie playing Jenga, and even the Dwarves). Mr M was happy.

2010-11-01T21:32:00.003-04:00

A Fable

Once upon a time there was a little girl who lived in a small village in the dales of the Land of Nod. She was a good girl, for the most part, and she had many interests, one of which was playing the licorice horn.

She had played her horn for many years and with many people, and loved music of many kinds. But one fateful day, she went to a special happening. She went up the Big Green Hill, to have dinner in the Magic Stable and listen to the Red Cabbage Orchestra.

The little girl was amazed. She sat, feasted on treats, drank the Magic Elixir, and listened to the orchestra. "That must be so much fun!" she exclaimed, wide-eyed. "That must be the most fun thing in the great wide world!"

And so every single year, the little girl would travel up the Big Green Hill and visit the Magic Stable. And listen to the Red Cabbage Orchestra. She would eat treats, and drink the Magic Elixir, and laugh and sing. And it would fill her will enough glee to last her till the next year.

And then one day, something wonderful happened. See, the little girl had a friend, Grinchmond, who was a troll, but an affable sort of troll, and he had recently become a member of the Red Cabbage Orchestra. He had set about to have the little girl become a member of the orchestra, and he finally became successful. The little girl was asked to join the Red Cabbagers as a member and play in the Magic Stable.

While over the moon with excitement, the little girl was very nervous. Could she do it? Could she play her licorice horn well enough? Would the other members of the orchestra like her?

After the first night in the Magic Stable, all fears were put to rest. The other Red Cabbagers were extremely welcoming, she played her licorice horn well enough, and everything fell into place.

And the little girl had realized happiness beyond her wildest dreams.

And so for years, the little girl went up the Big Green Hill, ate treats and drank the Magic Elixir, played in the Magic Stable, and was a full-fledged member of the Red Cabbage Orchestra. She went to other places, too, traveled all over the Land of Nod to play her licorice horn with the Red Cabbage Orchestra. She came to regard the Red Cabbagers as her best friends ever.

Of course, in the Magic Stable, as with all other places over this great wide world, it was not all sweetness and light. Sometimes the golden blarehorn players could be very obnoxious, and the little girl had to travel many, many miles up the Big Green Hill to the Magic Stable, and the little girl also had to balance playing with the Red Cabbagers with her real job, making yummy cupcakes in the little village for some very demanding villagers.

But when things got obnoxious or tough, the little girl would simply roll her eyes and shake her head and accept it as part of the wonderfulness that was being a member of the Red Cabbage Orchestra.

But alas, the little girl started to become tired. Making cupcakes for demanding villagers and dealing with obnoxious blarehorn players started to take its toll upon her. She still truly loved the Red Cabbage Orchestra players and being in the Magic Stable, but she often became of a foul demeanor, and often swore that a monster, a mean monster that looked like a tornado wearing a diaper, would visit her once a year and make her very, very sad.

And still, she loved the Magic Stable and the Red Cabbage Orchestra and kept traveling up the Big Green Hill.

But, sadly, the day finally came when the little girl realized that it was all becoming too much. The blarehorn players were still obnoxious, and the cupcake-wanting villagers were still demanding, but now the little girl had ugliness in her knees and had grown old, and found she had to have the Magic Elixir to now enjoy her nights in the Magic Stable. She also had duties to perform for her mother and father, who were quite old and needed her help.

It was a very troubling time for the little girl, but she finally made a decision. It was her time to leave the Red Cabbage Orchestra and stop playing in the Magic Stable.

The last night of the Magic Stable season ended, and she knew what she must do. She gave hugs and kisses to all the members of the Red Cabbage Orchestra, tears starting when she hugged and kissed her fellow licorice horn player, then went to the conductor of the Red Cabbage Orchestra and told him this was her last season there.

When the little girl told him of her decision, the conductor hugged her, grabbed her tightly, then threw her in the Magic Stable oven and baked her till she was done. He then fed her to the Magic Stable kitchen staff, all great people who work for too little money, and they enjoyed her greatly as a feast that night.

Actually, this is not true, of course, for the Red Cabbage Orchestra would never cook the little girl, and the underpaid kitchen staff would never get such a feast. Instead, the conductor said this could not be true, and made the little girl promise to think about her decision down in the dell in her little village during the off-season. And the little girl said she would. Because the little girl was a good girl, for the most part, and didn't want to hurt the feelings of the conductor of the Red Cabbage Orchestra.

The moral of this fable?

Do not continue to do something you love if it wears on you so much it becomes something you hate. Unless you are like the little girl, a good girl for the most part, but a bit of a wimp, and promise to at least think about it during the off-season from the Magic Stable.

But unless things change a lot in the Land of Nod, the little girl has already made up her mind.

2010-10-31T23:26:00.003-04:00

Picture Sunday

Hello, end of weekenders. And welcome to another edition of Picture Sunday.

And although this edition of Picture Sunday only has one picture, that picture is winging its way to you from not only an end of weekender, but also an end of Oktoberfester.

Yes, last night was the end of Oktoberfest. And after a very long and hard season, we went out with a bang.

Here's the backstory.

For all of my years in the Sauerkraut Band, up there on the mountain at Oktoberfest, the rest of the band have suffered through "Trumpet Hell," or "The Night of the Seven Trumpets." There's always one night where everyone in the area with a trumpet comes up the mountain. Or old members from the past show up with their trumpets. There are so many trumpets, there's not enough room on the stage for everyone else.

It's most distressing, well, for everyone but trumpet players, but we get through the night.

Well, I had something of an idea this year.

See, I had invited my new-but-not-that-new clarinet friend Julia to come up the mountain this season, and she chose last night. So that made three clarinets for the last night. And....I started to think.

I asked Mr M if he would set aside his "I won't play up the mountain again under any circumstances" rule. He said he would. That made four clarinets!

Then we asked our clarinet friend Lisa if she was free to come up the mountain Saturday. She agreed. Five clarinets!

And in a turn of events that was not only bizarre, but made me laugh maniacally, our fearless leader Ed himself invited another sub player up the mountain the last night.

Six clarinets! To be unleashed on a totally unaware band (and leader)!

"Clarinet Hell," or "The Night of the Six Clarinets!"

For years, we few in the clarinet section had talked about how funny it would be if we could orchestrate our own night of hell. I mean, for seven or so years.

And we did it! And it was my idea!

At first it was a little distressing logistically, deciding where we'd be onstage, and who'd get a mic (there weren't enough), and all that. We moved this way and that, but once the music started, we didn't care, and everyone moved everywhere and played off both music books, and we all had a blast. The night went quickly, and in the end, having six clarinets up there really helped the sound of the band!

The trumpet section (who were a little short that night, oddly enough), the rest of the band, and Ed took it all in stride.

And so an epic legend was made. More clarinets than have ever been on the Oktoberfest stage.

Here we all are.

That's my moderately new clarinet friend Julia, Doc (Ed's invite), Mary, my longtime clarinet comrade, Lisa (there for the night), me (with boobs hanging out of my dirndl), and Mr M.

We did it! A legend is born!

Happy week.

2010-10-24T23:51:00.005-04:00

Video Sunday

Hello, end of weekenders! And welcome to, well, not a Picture Sunday, but a Video Sunday.

See, friends, this would normally have gone into my Comfy Chair blog. However, as you may or may not know, we've been having a bit of a problem with the Comfy Chair blog. When YouTube videos are uploaded to it, mysteriously, about a quarter of the right side of the video is missing.

Now, I have two computer mavens in my life, and I guess it's about time I asked either or both of them if this is fixable. But I haven't, so my latest movie will appear here, and we'll worry about that later. (If said mavens are willing to talk.)

And the last thing I want is for a quarter of the right side of this video to be missing, so I'll just upload it here.

See, this past Thursday I took Milo to Granny and Paw's for a run. Milo loves Granny and Paw, and he loves to run in their back yard. And I decided to take the trusty Flip camera along this day to try and get a little footage.

The result is "Not Much of a Dog."

Now, I have to tell you. I discovered the song "Not Much of a Dog" some years ago. It made me get quite teary, and that was when I didn't have a dog. Now that I have a dog, and a dog as great and wonderful as Milo, it makes me weep with emotion.

So if you have a dog, or a pet, and a rescued dog, or rescued pet, hopefully you will understand my outpouring of emotion over this song. (I mean, you can substitute "cat," "parakeet," "ferret," or even "pot-bellied pig" for "dog" in the song and still get the weeping emotion from it.)

And so, without further ado, here is Video Sunday, "Not Much of a Dog," starring Milo.

2010-10-14T20:30:00.005-04:00

There You Are!

My mom once uttered a line I swore I'd never myself say.

She'd had several bad happenings all in the span of a couple of weeks, culminating in her falling in the yard and breaking her leg. When she got home from the hospital she said, "I don't know else can happen to me."

That night, our house caught on fire.

It was a small electrical outlet fire, buzzed itself out before the 16 town fire trucks got there, and there was minimal damage, but, well, you know.

I've been having my share of bad luck lately. I sometimes feel like a black cloud is following me around. I'm getting through it, but it's not all roses and butterflies over here in Betland.

In fact, as mentioned in the blog below, my Nervous Breakdown hadn't even made his annual Oktoberfest appearance. I was managing on my two bad knees, trying not to think about the $600 difference in my bank-vs-check register (not in my favor), and I've been limping along, literally and figuratively, fairly well, thanks.

Until last night.

I'd made up my mind to do a little Milo Maintenance this week. The Dear Nephew, Señor Taylor, is happily ensconced at school, so groomings are few and far between. Milo's been getting a tad wooly, and smelling like a dog (gasp!), so I thought this week I'd bathe him, then try my hand at a mini-clipping to keep him tidy and also keep his next Señor Taylor grooming from lasting some two hours and wearing us all out. (Milo included.)

So last night was bath night. Now, here's how I bathe Milo, and if you don't like this, I'm sorry. I read where many people do this, and it sure works for us. I take Milo into the shower with me. Get him nice and wet, lather him up, let the spray rinse him off, throw him out the shower door, then clean my own dirty self up, and wash down the shower stall, all in one fell swoop. It beats doing the seven basic ballet positions over the tub trying to scrub him, then never feeling like he's got all the soap out while I rinse him over and over with water from a cup.

So last night I got the water running and grabbed Milo. By the way, Milo is not overly fond of this bathing method, but at least it's quick, and in short order he was wetted, lathered, and rinsed, and I threw him out the shower door where he could run like crazy and bark at me like, "What are you doing to me?!"

Job one done. Then I washed my own dirty self, job two done. I grabbed a few Clorox bleach wipes and cleaned up the shower, and it was all finished in record time.

"That went really well!" I said to myself as I was turning off the water and drying off in the shower. I then opened the shower door, stepped out...

...and promptly slipped on the bathroom floor.

It was something else, my fine feathereds. It happened very quickly, so much so that it was a shock to the system. Once I had landed in the floor, I realized just how I'd landed.

My bad knee, well, worse knee, hit the bathroom floor. Below the knee, my leg turned to the left and my ankle was against the outside of the tub. My bad-but-not-as-bad knee hit the tub floor, with the below-knee on that leg also twisted left, ankle against the far side of the tub. I was straddling the tub, or more to the point, I was impaled upon the shower door rudder on the tub. It looked a little bit like this.

And it hurt. It hurt, but I was silent. Until I realized I couldn't get up. But! Above me was the towel rack. I reached up for it to pull myself into a standing position - and it promptly dislodged itself from the wall and I fell back down into the same position.

And all of a sudden, there he was. My Nervous Breakdown. The little tornado with red puffed-up cheeks, in his diaper, and I began to scream.

It wasn't a shriek, like I was being stabbed. It was a throaty sort of scream. It went on for about nine minutes. And while it did, the Nervous Breakdown spun around the tiny bathroom, pointing at me as if to say, "Bazinga! I got her naked this time!"

I honestly have no idea how I got up. Something about pressing against the shower door rudder where I was impaled, and realizing that I was alone, so I had to get up somehow. I guess. The screaming went on even after I was up, and it turned into tears, mainly because I was now envisioning spending every trip hence to the grocery in one of those little motorized carts.

Soon enough I realized that I could in fact stand up, and the screaming died down, and my Nervous Breakdown whirled away, grinning. I walked out of the bathroom and looked into the living room, where I saw Milo lying, still wet, on the couch, looking at me like, "Having a little trouble there? Too bad, I had to go in the shower, my work is done for the night."

And so, Nervous Breakdown had, I got dressed and went on with my night. However, I will never again laugh at those "I've fallen and I can't get up" commercials, and I refused to say, "I don't know what else can happen to me."

And I went out today and bought a bunch of non-stick crap to senior citizen-proof my bathroom.

Oh, and speaking of today, my knees are relatively OK, but every single fucking other part of my body hurts.

And my Nervous Breakdown has been here and gone. So now I can get on with the business of living.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* AND - tonight I still gave Milo his mini-clip. It's no Taylor job, that's for sure, but he looks passable and is minus enough hair to keep things easy when he gets his real grooming. It sure was a bitch to get up out of the floor, though.

2010-10-12T20:27:00.002-04:00

(Lack of) Fire on the Mountain

Hello, friends.

I posted a Facebook status the other day. It went along the lines of "It's nearing the halfway point of Oktoberfest, and no sign yet of my Nervous Breakdown. Hope he's not planning a sneak attack."

Remember my Nervous Breakdown? He makes an appearance once a year, sometime during Oktoberfest, while I'm working and traveling and playing and living a life and bankrupting myself buying gas and all that.

And he looks like this.

Maybe he's currently off on a birdwatching trip or something.

Anyway, I'm now in what I think is my seventh year with the Sauerkraut Band. For the past three years, I've had long conversations with myself about it. And usually those conversations begin the same. "Will this be my last year with the Sauerkraut Band?"

And I have several buddies who tell me it should be, told me all three years I've wondered. And yet, I can't come to any conclusion myself.

So far this year I've played six gigs up the mountain. One was great, that was the one the Dishy Michelle and the Dear Nephew and his buddies were at. There was one that only became good after I got nice and snockered (yes, I had a driver), and one this past weekend that was really good because there was a table of people who fancied themselves as clarinet groupies and loved everything we did.

The rest have ranged from tiring to annoying to the one this past Friday, which I can only classify as abysmal. Here's the story on that one. Someone anonymously left (and I guess, dealing with the product, it had to be anonymous) an "unattended package" outside the barn. A couple of band members opened it, and it contained three jars of moonshine. Apple pie, pineapple, and pomegranate. Before long the band got into it, the audience got into it, and I swear to God I think I was the only sober person up the mountain. (Not only was I driving myself that night, but I avoid moonshine like the plague. It's like drinking jet fuel.)

Well, for the first two hours of the show, people were over the moon. They were dancing and hooting and they just loved everybody, but by the time things were winding down, people got legless, sullen, loud, and argumentative. And I thank Himself for two things that night. One, I had to hotfoot it down the mountain to virtually meet Stennie for the podcast, and two, Mary was nice enough to take up my clearing up after the gig duties and let me hotfoot it. Thanks, Mary.

When I've had this conversation, this whole "last year" conversation with myself this year, two things keep weighing heavily upon my tired head. One is my age, and one is my knees.

My age is my age and I can't do a damn thing about that, sadly enough. Until last year, I was one of those people you hate to whom age is just a number - I never felt my age, I felt like some young thing with the whole world ahead of her. And though last year was a horrible year for my whole family, and this year isn't much better, I just realized I'm now an old maid who lives a bad lifestyle and though I should be doing something about that, I'm not.

And alas, there's not much I can do about my knees, either. And I guess now is the time to tell you all about that, but I'll keep it short and give you the Reader's Digest version.

I know you've all heard me blog about my thrown-out knee and the trouble it's caused me, and my biggest fear, the one where I favor the bad knee so much that my other knee starts to hurt, has now come to fruition. So I finally got in enough of a state about it to do something and saw an orthopedist, in hopes he'd give me a cortisone shot just to get me through Oktoberfest.

I did that the Monday that Dishy was visiting, and I found out something rather interesting. I was told I had "endstage arthritis" in both knees. I was gob-smacked. I mean, isn't the stage after "endstage" death? I have 50% deterioration in both knees, and knee replacement is a certainty for the future. We know not when, because we just have that one x-ray and don't know how long it's been advancing. So my knees are terminal, but I got my cortisone shot to get me through Oktoberfest.

The shot hurt like a mofo, but afterwards I was in knee heaven. For about 16 hours, after which I was sitting in a Subway with Dishy, shifted my leg while still in a chair, and all hell broke loose. Now it hurts again, bad but not quite as bad and not while I'm trying to sleep, but I sure do wonder how much I paid for that shot that didn't even last a whole day. I'll be finding out soon enough.

The upshot of all this is, well, imagine going up the mountain after driving over an hour with one's knee in the same position, then standing, schunkeling, bouncing, Chicken Dancing, making merry, and walking inclines and declines on gravel, for some four hours. In a completely embarrassing move, I have had to take to sitting during some songs (I like to choose the marches because they're quite long, and people are marching around, so hopefully they don't notice), but then the last 40 or so minutes of the show, I just can't take it and have to sit down whenever I've become too decrepit to stand anymore. And believe me, my blogees, I sit in shame.

And so I drive, drive, drive up the mountain and have this whole "should I stay or should I go" conversation with myself. And on one shoulder sits the old maid with the bad knees, and the fact that we have this huge catalog of music but play the same songs over and over, and the endless repeatings of the show's "schtick" narration, and the horrible food we're fed, and the pay that should probably be more, and not having a designated driver so I can't drink and not care about all of the above.

But.

But on the other shoulder sits one big ol' entity.

I love the Sauerkraut Band.

I do. I love them, and I love the fact that I'm in the Sauerkraut Band. I went to a hundred Oktoberfests as an observer and watched them and thought how cool it must be to actually do that, and I then I amazingly got my chance to be a part of it. It's still quite mind-blowing. (Thanks, Mr M, for getting me in, even though you now think I should leave.)

I've often said the Sauerkraut Band changed my life, and I truly believe that. Before them, if someone would have said I'd be in a situation where I was drawing attention to myself and talking to strangers and interacting with all those people as such an extrovert - well, I'd have said they were batshit crazy.

Being in the Sauerkraut Band is like being in some secret society. Or a gang. We have all our own rituals and secrets, and there is nothing in this world like being with a group of people who have seen you at your best and your absolute worst, and they love you either way. I always feel like someone has my back with that bunch. It's warm and fuzzy. It's, well, gemutlichkeit.

And there's not a thing wrong with playing some music for people and having them leave us a little happier than when they walked in the door.

So that conversation is still going on, and it's still all up in the air. My Nervous Breakdown is still at large, and I hope he finds birdwatching interesting enough that he misses me this year. I guess maybe I'll know when I'm too old and crippled to be able to do it.

In the meantime I'll make merry, and sit in shame.

Betland's Olympic Udate:
* I wish I was still on vacation.

2010-10-10T22:20:00.011-04:00

Highly Recommended (A Picture Sunday)

Hello, blogees. And end of weekenders, and again, if you're me, end of vacationers.

Tonight's Picture Sunday tells a story. Last Thursday, my guest arrived. Yes, Michelle the Dishy, longtime poundsqueeze friend and Hucklebug friend, came to visit the Poderosa.

Now, I've known, well, in the virtual world, known Dishy some 15 or so years, and though we'd never met face to face, I feel like she knows as much or more about me as any "real life" friend, but still I was a little nervous about her arrival. You know, would my corner of the world be good enough for her?

Turns out it took mere minutes, there walking out of the airport, to realize this was going to be a great visit. I think it happened when I realized we were both "cold house" people. Funny how you discuss the strangest things right off the bat.

And if I'm allowed to speak for Michelle, we had a blast. Well, I know I did. Michelle was the perfect houseguest, ready to go along with whatever the plans were for that day, we laughed, we talked, we met the family, we spent time at Mr M's, Poderosa East, and, well, of course, Dishy met Milo.

Milo totally loved Michelle. I became invisible while she was here. Well, except for her very last morning here, Tuesday, when she came to me complaining that Milo wasn't paying attention to her. My theory? I think he thought that Michelle had moved in, was the "new girl who lives in that back room," and now he was used to her. Until then, he'd never known a houseguest to stay more than one night. She was just another person here, like me.

And I'm thinking my theory was proved when we got back home after taking Dishy back to the airport to fly home, and he came in the house and immediately started tearing around looking for her. Nose to the ground through every room, then confusion. I'm scared to death he thinks I killed Michelle, or made her move out right after she moved in.

Anyway, we both have a hundred stories to tell that would probably only be interesting to the two of us. But it was the best vacation I've had in years. And in fact, Michelle came up with the greatest idea. A poundsqueeze/Hucklebug exchange program of sorts, where we all just go visit each other across the country. I think it could work!

But I know you're asking, "Where are the damn pictures?" Well, let's get to some!

Of course the timing for the visit here was because I've invited Dishy to Oktoberfest at Mountain Lake a hundred times, and she's always wanted to come up. So Friday and Saturday night were devoted to that. Friday was fantastic, because Taytie the Dear Nephew and two of his buddies came up (that was another requirement - she must meet Taytie, who she's been hearing about since was about 8), and all of us had a fine time. Saturday was a little dismal, the food was horrible, but - Mr M was in tow, and that meant a designated driver, so the alcohol flowed and that made things easier.

From the first night, Dishy meets Jude the Corruptor!

Did he corrupt her? I'm afraid only Michelle knows the answer to that!

And here's one of some of the SKB welcoming Dishy up the mountain on the second night. Dammit, smile just once, Mr M!

Of course, Michelle met Sherman and the gang. Boy, the fun we had. Tag, chinese checkers, she and Good Luck Baby Lily colored together, Bunsen did a few scientific experiments for her.

Here's Dishy and Shermie.

And then the whole gang piled in to get in the shot.

Oh, and way late into Tuesday morning, after we'd spent our Monday together lazing around watching bad TV, then indulged in some pizza, beer, and Eddie Izzard videos, well, a few dead soldiers.

The soldier on his side was my fault. I couldn't finish the last one, and had to pour half of him out. So he didn't get to stand upright.

OK, the last picture...

Not sure how to explain this, except to say that Dishy cracked me up by asking if I hold crucifixions in my back yard. I cracked up because I've been waiting for some observant soul to ask that. See, I used to have a clothesline in my back yard, one I never used, and Mowing Boy One asked if he could cut the wires on it because he kept getting tangled up in it. Of course I said "cut away," and so now I have two crosses in my back yard for no apparent reason.

Dishy really wanted to make this picture before she left.

It all worked out fine. We took her down before any harm came to her.

Anyway, it was a great visit, I had a blast, and now it's time to go back to the Real World.

Happy week.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* I don't know what's going on, but Sherman and Mr M seem to have some secret code language going on that they love to flaunt in front of me. I'm tired of passing along messages to each of them I don't understand.

2010-09-19T22:31:00.002-04:00

Picture Sunday

Hello, end of weekenders! And welcome to another edition of Picture Sunday.

I must admit, most of my pictures are of the "catching up" variety.

First of all, this weekend was the first weekend of Oktoberfest. Yes, I know, it seems way too early for that, I thought it myself. But up the mountain I went. It was a fair night, small and enthusiastic crowd, my knee hurt so much I was of a very foul demeanor, and you know, I'm worried about this knee thing. I'm afraid it's going to ruin Oktoberfest for me this year.

Didn't even take my camera up the mountain, but you have all seen a lot of Oktoberfest pictures, so you're not missing much.

So let's get to the old business.

Well, how about this!

Last weekend, Sherman completed his vegetable stand selling. You know he grows vegetables all summer, then sells them at his stand at Mr M's. He makes lots of money, then gives it all to charity. He's such a good boy.

Of course, you know that every year he grows his own "special plant." He's had the Shermanhead peach, Shermanhead melon, and several others.

This year, it was the Shermanhead celery.

Also last weekend, Mr M, who owns the Assmobile and has for some 14 years, bought a new car! A new Assmobile, Assmobile2!

It's a Hyundai Genesis, which, I must admit, I'd never in my life heard of, but it's a very pretty car. Last weekend he called upon me to drive it from the dealership home, with a couple of stops on the way, and I have to tell you, I was nervous. I mean, driving someone else's new car. It was raining and foggy, and I probably waited about ten minutes to pull out onto the highway, because if there was a car within 100 yards, I wouldn't pull out.

Here's the new Assmobile.

Sherman and Huckie wanted to get into the act, too.

And of course, if he'd let me drive it, he'd let Sherman drive it.

Mr M loves his new car.

On Thursday, the dear nephew came by and gave Milo a new haircut. Wonderful, more so than usual. We decided to cut him a little shorter, since The Nephew's back at school and cuts will be farther and fewer between.

After it was all over, there was a lot of hair around. So much, in fact, that we could make a second doggie. Another Milo!

By the way, I didn't snatch Milo's nose. It's a piece of dog food.

Now, to more current matters.

I cleaned out my refrigerator today!

It was a chore. My refrigerator needed a major cleaning. But trash day is tomorrow, so the time was right. After a couple of hours and a lot of throwing away, I got everything all spiffy.

And when I say "a lot of throwing away," it's a shame how wasteful I can be. Olives. I bet I threw away 1000 olives past their sell-by date.

Anyway, after everything was all spiffed up, I took a picture.

That's Chilly Willy relaxing in the fridge. He gets hot a lot down here in the south. We let him relax in the coolness.

Happy week.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* My God, "Mad Men." Mrs Blankenship!

2010-09-12T22:23:00.011-04:00

Picture Sunday

Hello, end of weekenders, and welcome to a very sad Sunday for me. Because, my friends, not only is it the end of the weekend for me, it's the end of a nice long vacation. Tomorrow it's back to the grind.

However, let's dwell on the good. I have pictures.

Well, let's see. Mr M and I went up to Cleveland for the big air show last weekend, which I mentioned in this week's blog. I took no pictures of the air show action, I spent all my time manning the Flip camera. I have air show footage up on my Facebook page, but not You Tube, because it was too long for acceptance.

But first, the bad news.

Yes, Sokolowski's was closed for the weekend. That was how we were going to begin the weekend, with a nice meal at the restaurant Anthony Bourdain and Harvey Pekar went to on Anthony's show. Not to be, though. Bummer.

Now, to the good.

I met a rubber Air Force Man at the air show!

Loved the Big Rubber Man. Mr M said it was Otto from "Airplane!"

Hey, and here's a nice new state-of-the-art passenger plane.

Pretty, but unfortunately, here's me on the inside of any plane.

You know, it's odd I like air shows, and being in airports, as much as I hate flying.

And sadly, for any more air show stuff, well, Facebook me is all I can say.

Oh, except Sherman's souvenir aircraft.

Then after my return I headed off for an overnighter in North Carolina with my cousin Jacob. It was fun, we watched TV and ate and drank and giggled way too much, then the next morning we did a little bit of shopping.

I found some Skull Candy ear buds for my pink iPod.

Then we hit a doll shop that was chock full of stuff. Their dolls were extremely expensive, but that didn't bother me, I don't buy dolls anymore. However, they had some accessories, furniture in particular, that were great and really cheap. I couldn't resist a few things for the gang.

First, Sherman got a new school desk!

Huckie got a very tasteful parlor chair.

And finally, Peabody got a luscious reading chair.

So there you go. Now back to reality.

Happy week.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Hey, remember my triumphant parachuting with the Golden Knights at last year's air show? Well, Mr M got me involved in another act this year. He's keen to tell you all about it (with pictures), and that will be coming very soon.

2010-09-08T16:27:00.004-04:00

Learning to Like It

Hello, blogees. It's been a while.

I'm taking a much-needed vacation this week. It all started with a trip to the big air show in Cleveland this past weekend. Well, actually it began on the Friday before when I had to drop Milo off at the boarding place. Boo hoo.

The trip to Cleveland was quick, but still fun. We did in fact go to the big air show, and it was fine, lots of flying aces and derring-do. We saw the Blue Angels, who were excellent, even though I actually liked last year's headliners, the Thunderbirds, better.

The disappointing part of the trip, well, besides having to leave so quickly, was that on our arrival, Mr M was going to take me to Sokolowski's, a local diner with great ethnic food and the added plus of being where Anthony Bourdain took Harvey Pekar when "No Reservations" went to Cleveland. We got there, and it was closed for the Labor Day weekend.

Anyway, there will be a picture of the closed Sokolowski's, and a few others, later this week. I didn't take a lot of pictures on the trip, so don't get all excited, and I can't upload them tonight.

And the reason I can't upload them tonight is because I'm not at the Poderosa. And it's kind of the reason for tonight's blog. I'm doing my first-ever remote blog via netbook. Betland has picked up and moved, for this blog, one state to the south.

It's a bit of a story, me and my netbook. I don't think I've ever mentioned it here.

See, it all started when I came into a bit of a windfall around Christmas. I'd decided that I would bank most of it, but keep enough out to get myself something special. Something I wouldn't normally buy for myself. I was thinking laptop or netbook. And after realizing what I'd be wanting out of the machine, a kind of secondary computer, something to take on the road to Mr M's and surf the net, I realized that the netbook would be the way to go. So I ordered one.

And when it came I was very excited. I immediately named him Neddy Booke, opened him up, and looked around a bit. They keyboard was small, the screen was small, well, Neddy was a small guy all over. I despised the touch pad method of navigation. Of course not much was loaded into Neddy, so I basically just played a game of Freecell and called it a night. And it stayed that way for a while.

I soon got the networking system I needed to be able to access internet in other parts of the house, like from the Comfy Chair. I downloaded the chat program the Poundsqueeze gang chats on, but I never once joined chat from the netbook. Mostly because of the small keyboard and screen, and the fact that, to me, Neddy always seemed a bit slow in the performance department. A lot of url links fly around during chat, and I just imagined myself being mired down in them, all the while hitting the backspace key over and over again from all the mistakes I'd be making on the tiny keys.

Oh, sure, I've lugged Neddy to Mr M's every trip, and I spend a half hour or so on Facebook, and every once in a while I'll open it up in front of the TV and Mr M and I will chat a bit. But I just don't use it like I thought I would. Certainly not like other netbook users seem to be working theirs.

And so finally I came out to the world. I was just not that happy with having a netbook, and wished I'd have gotten a full-fledged laptop instead.

A couple of weeks ago an opportunity presented itself to me to buy a used laptop at a very good price. I was seriously considering it. Still am, to be honest.

Then I stopped and took stock. I'm not really in a position lately to be throwing money around, even the very good price I was offered.

And it wasn't really fair of me to chuck Neddy overboard when I really hadn't made a concerted effort to like him. It was the electronic equivalent of dismissing a possible friend with a wave of the hand because he has crooked teeth. So I tried a few things.

The first was to install Firefox. I hate Internet Explorer, and why I didn't install Firefox the very first day Neddy arrived, I have no idea. Surfing around in Firefox is a great improvement.

The next thing, I got a wireless mouse and put that damn touch pad to bed. And that really helped, even though as I type this, sitting on a hotel bed in North Carolina, said mouse keeps moving and rolling all over the place and I can't catch it.

Then I downloaded an email program. It always pissed me off that Neddy didn't come with one already included, but why I didn't install one till now, I have no idea. I guess I forewent lighting a candle so I could curse the darkness. I'm not sure it's the best program in the world, but I have gotten emails on it, and can send an email without having to go to my provider's website.

And the other stuff, the smallness of the keyboard and screen, not much I can do about that. The only thing that'll get me used to that is more usage, which is precisely what I'm trying to do right now. Remote blogging from Neddy, which is one of the advantages I'd imagined of this thing at the very beginning.

So I'm trying. We'll see how it goes. Maybe once I've loaded a few more things in, like Text Twist, Neddy and I will become even closer friends. But we're working on a relationship.

2010-08-29T21:27:00.007-04:00

Picture Sunday

Hello, end of weekenders. Welcome to a pretty thin edition of Picture Sunday.

When last I left you, I was fretting over my roof. I couldn't get anyone to come over and look at it, and I spent a rather damp evening at the Poderosa as water came running through my window blinds. Hopefully, Dad's guy would come over.

Well, he did. He came over, and the prognosis was not good. I had several places that needed to be patched, but worse, I had two, and I'm quoting here, "mushy spots" at the front of the roof. A new roof was suggested.

And you know, all it took was hearing it for it to not be such a big deal anymore. I knew when I bought the house it was on the back half of its life span. So it was time.

Now I had to decide, roof like the old one, or one of the new cool metal ones? The prices actually weren't that different. So metal it would be. I wasn't expecting to get it put on for a couple of weeks, but shipping worked out and the weather was nice, and Wednesday I came home for lunch and drove into the driveway of a house with half a new roof already on.

At the end of the day I was the owner of this.

I like it. It's spiffy. It's snappy. I just find myself now wanting it to rain so I can find out if it sounds different.

The roofer was to meet me Friday after work to look at the inside places, but, well, he didn't show up. Sigh. Hopefully next week.

One last thing, if you'll indulge. This is a picture of my uncle, Carl, and his wife Maria.

I lost Carl this week. I loved him a lot. They lived in Reno, but came to visit often, and we'd always have a great time. He was a great guy, full of laughter and good humor. He made a lot of people happy, which is not a bad legacy to have at all.

Happy week.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* In case you haven't seen it, there's a new movie up at the Comfy Chair Cinema. It's silly! I really wanted to make a silly movie, and I did!

2010-08-18T22:32:00.004-04:00

The Proverbial Straw

Hello, blogees.

It's been a bit of a downer week here in Betland, that all came to a head today.

I can't remember if I've mentioned it here before, but I'm having some Poderosa problems. One of the several hairline cracks in my living room ceiling has had some seepage through it, and it's been kind of freaking me out.

And the thing is, the fact that I'm probably going to have to have roof work done, if not a whole new roof, is only a small portion of the freakout. The large portion is that I can't get anyone to come out and look at it to tell me what's wrong.

Upon the first discovery, I called Ricky Ricardo, who took care of the Shower Wall Debacle a few years ago. I trust him with anything around the house, but when I told him what was going on, he said it sounded like a roof problem and that's just something he doesn't do. But! He knew someone who did, someone he worked with, and he'd tell that guy the problem and have him call me.

I never heard from him.

And of course, I was hinky about living under a shaky roof, especially since it's been raining here almost every day, and so I called someone else my dad knows and has had do some things for him . I dialed up, got his wife, explained who I was (it never hurts that they know my dad), what was wrong, and gave about four phone numbers where I could be reached. He was supposed to call me when he got in that day at five.

He never did.

This past Friday I was gearing up for a very busy Saturday. I had to get Milo in to the vet's office for his yearly shots, I had Paw Duty, taking him around all the stores he needed to go to, then Mr M was coming down that evening and I needed to make a pot of chili for dinner. Then some time Friday afternoon I got a phone call. It was Ricky Ricardo's guy. He said he could come over at noon on Saturday and look at the Poderosa, and well, I just had to fit him in, right? It might be the only chance I'd get. I said come on over.

The vet's went well, Dr Steve loves Milo, and laughed at him and talked about his personality and his great teeth. He got shots and flea stuff and heartworm stuff and I left broke but smiling. I hurried back home in case Ricky Ricardo's guy might show up early.

He didn't.

In fact, he didn't show up at all. That I know of. Finally at 1:15 I'd had enough, said, "Fuck it, I'm not going to sit around and wait all day for him to decide he's bored enough to come over," and I left to get Paw and finish the rest of the day. And I'm still miffed over it. Don't make an appointment if you're not coming. At least without a call.

And so my ceiling was still as it was and I had no idea what kind of a roof I was living under, and then last night came along. Another incredibly hard rain. I was sitting in the Comfy Chair with Milo and he was chewing one of his toys, and I started noticing an odd sound. An odd sound that didn't sound like chewing.

I turned off all the sound in the room and realized that yes, it was what I had feared. It was definitely a dripping noise. I got up to investigate, and here is what I found. And you can believe this or not, but I was there and saw it, so I can tell you it's the God's honest truth.

Water was dripping down my window blinds. Dripping onto one of my end tables and back behind it into the floor. It was coming down the actual blinds and was also traveling in beads down the cord that lifts and lowers them.

And as always I said, "Oh, shit," only louder and with a bit more panic, and got a step-ladder and started investigating the water. And here's the thing. This water was dripping down my window blinds because it was coming from my window blinds. It was coming right out of the hole where the cord is that lifts the blinds.

I couldn't get the blinds out of their slats, so I lifted them all the way and looked behind them. The window seemed to be dry, as was the window pane and wall above it, and the roof. I lowered the top part of the window down, then put it back up, made sure it was tight as it would go, and locked it. I got towels for the floor and table, and a small towel to poke in the hole in the window blinds.

And I started drinking, because really, that was about all else I could do.

That seemed to do the trick, the small towel shoved in the hole wasn't sopping wet this morning, and my dad, love his heart, called his guy this morning himself. He has that voice. I waited to see if either of us would get a call back.

I came home for lunch today, took Milo out in the hard, pelting, neverending rain, came in, checked my window, kept good thoughts, and it didn't seem to be dripping. I came here and fooled with some video technical computer stuff that was making me want to tear my hair out, and finally found a solution.

However, by the time I found that solution I had about 7 minutes to fix my lunch, get it packed to go back to work, and take Milo out one more time. I was rushing around like crazy, and got my beautiful deli turkey and provelone on rye all fixed (I treated myself with a little Thousand Island dressing on it), and went to get some aluminum foil. I had only a small strip left on the roll. I went ahead and wrapped my sandwich, but the foil didn't go all the way round it. I devised plans to carry it so it wouldn't get wet in the rain.

I pulled into the parking lot on two wheels, five minutes late, and started gathering a mass of crap to carry into work. Bag, umbrella, little canvas carry for water and ice, small bag of chips, small container holding pickles, and my beautiful half-naked sandwich.

And I stepped out to notice that the rain had let up considerably, and I started up the lot through the alleyway to the back door of our building. And about four steps from the door....

I dropped my sandwich in the muddy alleyway. Bare side down. My beautiful sandwich that was going to get me through the rest of this crapoid day.

I picked it up, walked into the building, into my office, hurled it toward the trash can, sat down, and boo-hooed like a baby. I can take a lot, but I can't take my lunch being stolen from me when it was less than a minute away from being in my mouth.

I ended up ordering a tuna sandwich from a place up the street, and although it was good it wasn't my deli turkey and provolone on rye with a splash of Thousand Island dressing.

Anyway, I don't know how things could get any worse than that, and later in the day dad's dude called and is supposed to be over tomorrow morning to look at the Poderosa. I have a feeling I can take the news. I mean, I lost my sandwich and survived.

It was the last two slices of turkey, too. I couldn't even come home and make another tonight for dinner.

Man, life's hard.

2010-08-11T19:36:00.007-04:00

What The Hell Time Is It?

I've started frequenting a new website. It's called crapatmyparentshouse.com, and as you might guess, it's full of pictures of crap at people's parents' houses. As you might also guess, it's a load of fun to look at.

The first time I went to this website I of course said, "Oh, man, I could fill 10 screens with crap from my parents' house." And coincidentally, I was there that very same day, and on that day and each visit since, I spent much time with roving eyes, searching for something to take a picture of.

Too bad it can't be the clock.

I'll tell you the story of the clock. It probably describes my parents as well as any story I could tell.

Way back in the early 70s when I was but a podlet, I bought my parents a clock for Christmas. Now, at the time I'm sure it was the big fashionable seller, I was proud to give it and they were proud to get it. It was a sunburst clock, with silver and gold bursts, and although it didn't look exactly like this...

...well, you get the idea.

This clock burst all over our den wall for years. It started in the old house on Lynn St, then made the move with us to the den over at Hillcrest. It ticked a lot of hours of our lives. It became rather unfashionable, of course, but it still ticked away, and as long as it did that, my parents saw no need to say farewell to it.

But my sister and I wanted desperately to say farewell to our old sunburst friend, and so on another Christmas I got a great idea. Another clock!

This time it was a small, square, basic number. Because I was into small, square, and basic. They opened the gift on Christmas, expressed happiness, and hung the clock that very day.

And all was well.

Until about a month later, when I went into my parents' bedroom and saw the old sunburst clock there on the wall. And a clock that out of date, and well, that big, it just became a flashy neon sign with sound, saying, "Tacky!"

When I expressed shock and horror over seeing the old clock, my mom's response was that it still worked, so why should they throw it away?

Then one fateful day our now over-25 year old clock stopped ticking. He had put in a good deal of service, and his time came. I was long gone by then, so I don't know the exact moment it happened. No, how I found out was that I saw it there on my mom's bedroom wall, well, not running. It stayed on the wall for a good five more years not working.

It's gone now, believe it or not, has been for a few years. I don't know what happened to it, but I wouldn't be a bit surprised to find out that it wasn't thrown away but is in a closet somewhere waiting for some kind soul to tinker with it so it can leap back into life and back onto my parents' wall.

Oddly enough, however, the small, square, basic clock I bought my parents back in the 80s still hangs on the den wall. It doesn't work, either. Ticks not one tick, but there it hangs. Many's the time I've been downstairs at the folks' house, looked up at the clock, and panicked. "Lord, it's almost 8! I gotta get home!" Then I realize that no, that can't be right, I'll yell upstairs for a time check, and find that it's only 6:45.

Well, I think it's 6:45. See, here's the thing. My parents have a downstairs clock that doesn't work. Then upstairs they have a fancy gold clock with twiddly turning things and curly numbers on it, it sits on top of their curio cabinet. It doesn't work, either. There's also another fancy gold clock in their china hutch. It doesn't work. I don't know where in the hell they get their time, but they seem to know. I mean, they're never late for anything, so they must be getting it somewhere.

Maybe I need to put a few clocks on the Christmas 2010 list. Or maybe I need to gather every clock they have, all stopped and all with different times on them, line them up, and send a picture to crapatmyparentshouse.com.

Or maybe I could just take a picture of the craftsy wooden calendar in the kitchen that says May 1998.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* So, did you guess the objects? Some of you did!
1. Yep, that's a bicycle helmet.
2. That's the top of my oven.
3. Very good, Kriz. That is indeed the Mona Lisa.
4. Nobody got poor Hermey the Elf.
5. Although I like the idea of Cheeto salad, those are some fancy toothpicks with the little frizz on top.
6. I thought everyone would get my broom.
7. And finally, friend to all, a roll of Duck Tape. (I tried to get the duck's beak there in the picture.)
* Thanks to all who played!

2010-08-08T23:24:00.010-04:00

Picture Sunday

Ouch. Blog goes from a Picture Sunday to a Picture Sunday. Someone hasn't been working hard enough.

But never mind. Hello, end of weekenders, and welcome to another round of Picture Sunday.

We haven't done this in a while, so why not? It's a mind-numbing edition of "Guess What It Is!"

For the uninitiated, the pictures below will be close-ups of everyday things. You have to guess what they are. Two disclaimers - first of all, I never know if they're easy or hard. They all seem very easy to me, but then again, I'm taking the pictures. And also, I always like to give a nod to Games Magazine, where I orginially saw this idea in their feature "Eyeball Benders."

So lets' get started. I'll start you easy. Anyone know what this is? You just might have one in your own house.

How about this? You should, I know you have one of these.

OK, then how about this one - if you don't get it, my feelings just might be hurt.

Some of you will get this one immediately, I'm sure.

I have a strange unexplained affinity for these. What are they?

Ahh, another easy one. Bet you'll all know it.

And finally, how about this object, friend to all?

All rightie, there you have it. If you want to make a guess as to what the pictures are of, just leave a comment. The only prizes are the pride of knowing you have good sight.

I'll post the answers with the next blog, which will hopefully (ha!) come Tuesday or Wednesday.

Happy week.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* The old iPod died yesterday. That wasn't fun, but it was fun going to pick out a new one. I got the newest generation nano (8th, methinks), pink, with four times the storage space as my old one. Spent all day here working with it and re-organizing and cleaning up my iTunes. Oh, hell, why not. Here's a picture.

2010-08-01T22:05:00.006-04:00

Picture Sunday

Yes, by request of Mr M - hello, end of weekenders! Welcome to another edition of Picture Sunday!

Yeah, Picture Sunday's turned into a bit of a red-headed stepchild lately, but let's welcome him back into the fold. Now, what's worthy of a visual this week?

First off, I spent so much time telling you about my Floydfest experience last weekend that I've only just realized that I didn't tell you about the weekend before that. That was the weekend of the BigAss Clarinet Recital, organized by no less a person than Mr M himself.

This was the recital I whined about in earlier blogs, the one consisting of duets, trios, quartets, all the way up to the finale, the nine-player piece. The one we'd never practiced with all nine players in the room.

I was reticent - oh, yes, I was reticent! I never thought it would come off. But I have to admit right here in the old blog that not only did it come off, it came off beautifully. Everyone did a great job. Well, everyone except yours truly, who muffed one of the arpeggios in the duet with my clarinet friend Mary. But one muff in a long piece - hopefully that's not what people will remember.

And the nine-player piece - it was called "Monochrome III," by Peter Schickele, it came out so well I still can't believe it. It was one of those things that happens that just makes one happy to have been a part of.

I uploaded some of the videos on my Facebook page, maybe I'll upload the audio here for those of you not on the Facebook. Anyway, it was a lovely (if hot and rainy) night.

And I had some special support from some of the boys who came along to hear the music.

Yes, Woody showed an interest in coming to one of our musical 'dos, and Huckleberry Hound was sure to have plenty of tissues ready. He gets so emotional when he listens to music.

And here's an after-recital picture of all of us.

That's, from left, The Very David Niethamer, me, Dixon, Rick, Colleen, Mr M, Amanda, Christine, Kelly, and Mary. Some I already knew, some I met during rehearsals, and one I only met the day of the recital. But such nice people, and I really enjoyed meeting and playing with all of them.

OK. What else is going on in Betland?

Well here's another picture I posted on Facebook, but if you're not Facebookally inclined or missed it there, I'll post it here.

You know how you see lots of stickers on cars nowadays - especially bigass SUVs and minivans - that are little stick figures of the driver's family? A stick mom, stick dad, a few stick kids, some stick pets, an occasional soccer ball or cheerleading megaphone?

Well, I'd been harboring an idea for about a year, but I couldn't find any of those stick figures anywhere. And lo and behold, last weekend my sister was out shopping and found some, knew what was on my mind, and purchased the stickers I wanted for my back window.

Yes, there's my family. Stick me and stick Milo! Thanks, sister!

And finally, speaking of the little doggie, we're having a little crisis in Miloland. It's the way it is now, you know, that I don't crate Milo anymore. I go off to work or the grocery or wherever, I close the gate into the den, and Milo has the rest of the house to roam while I'm gone.

And for a while, he was great. A perfect little doggie gentleman. Nothing was disturbed, he was waiting at the gate when I got home, and we'd say hello and go out to pee. (Well, he would. I like to pee indoors, thanks.)

But the past ten days or so, Milo has been making mischief. And it's driving me bats. Why is he doing this now? And what's worse, he knows he's getting into stuff he's not supposed to! When I walk into the living room and find something he's looted, say, one of Sherman's hats, and I pick that item up, he immediately turns tail and runs. "OhGodOhGodOhGod!" he seems to be thinking. And yet he does it anyway.

This past Tuesday I came home to find he'd found my change purse. And while I really was mad and scolded him with a serious yell and frowny face, somewhere inside I couldn't help but appreciate the irony of what he picked.

Yes, it was my Archie McPhee "Good Dog, Bad Dog" change purse. I guess he was daring me to take sides.

Now there's a change purse that won't be holding any more pennies.

Bad dog!

And so there you have it. A little catch up on Betland and a Picture Sunday to boot.

Happy week!

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Been watching "Arrested Development" on the Netflix Wii, and the new season of "Mad Men" on TV. Totally in love with "Arrested Development," still settling into "Mad Men."

2010-07-27T00:08:00.006-04:00

(Good Lord, but this blog is long. Get a cold drink.)

Mad Dogs, Englishmen, and Hackensaw Boys Fans Go Out in the Midday Sun, or I'm a Dirty Girl, or What a Difference a Day Makes, or My Trip to Floydfest

Hello, blogees. I was going to try to put together a blog about my weekend as a Sunday blog, but I had to gather my thoughts, and I'm afraid there were just too many thoughts and they kept running around like so many stray sheep.

Yes, this was the big weekend of Floydfest, festival of music, love, happiness, and hippiedom in beautiful Floyd County, VA. If you'll recall, the Sauerkraut Band were on the bill Saturday, then my SKB friend Susan gave me a free guest pass for Sunday.

Now, as often happens, I'm not sure where to start this whole tale. I guess I could start it by saying that while excited to experience the 'Fest, I was also dreading it quite a bit. And that's because of the massive heat wave that's gripped Virginia, and has probably gripped your little area as well.

I've spent a lot of my life afraid to make a certain admission, see? Because I seem to be the only one who suffers this affliction. But I finally realized there's no reason to hide it anymore, so I'll just come out right here in the old blog. I hate summer. I hate summer, I hate hot weather, and I hate the outdoors.

Sounds like a perfect match for Floydfest, huh?

Mr M and I got up early Saturday and started out to Floyd. I spent a fair amount of time watching weather reports the night before, and the word "oppressive" kept cropping up. Weather People like the word "oppressive." Triple digits they were saying, in heat and maybe even in humidity. I was already getting hinky.

Now, I had to take a clarinet along, of course, they don't furnish them on site, and since I wasn't relishing the thoughts of walking around Floydfest all day in a dirndl, I also had to take a change of clothes for after our set. So I brought along a backpack and packed it as lightly as possible. One change of clothes. "Good Karma" baseball cap. (hmmm, good karma.) Small shoulder bag containing Sherman (like he'd miss this?), a wallet, and the Flip camera. I wore my green goofy shoes with my dirndl so I wouldn't have to take extra shoes. Sunglasses. Small tube of sunblock. And that was about it.

We drove the tiny, winding roads (and thanks to Mr M's GPS lady, a piece of road that wasn't even a road) until we hit the parking area for Floydfest. Sadly, the organizers didn't give the whole band access parking, so most of us had to do it the general admission way - park in a huge hilly field, then walk to the bottom of said field, where old shuttling school buses would take us to the festival. We had to park way up the field, and got out and got our stuff together. Our friend Laine came along in her own car. When we got out of our cars it was about 9:45 and the heat was already stifling.

The bus ride was actually fun, riding these old buses over tiny gravel roads into the middle of nowhere. I met a couple of nice people who told me what a great time I was going to have, and some expressed interest in seeing the Sauerkrauters, and of course when they did, I told them all to go see the Hackensaw Boys on the main stage instead of us.

We reached the festival, got our all-access passes (they said "artist!" I got to be an artist!), and went in through the performers' entrance.

And there is where I discovered my first surprise of Floydfest.

And that surprise, my friends, was that although I was expecting this to just be a huge field, and parts of it were, a lot of it was not. In fact, I'm not sure my foot ever hit the ground that it wasn't stepping either on a rock, a twig/limb/branch embedded into the ground, or a hole. Yes, friends, I'd been there approximately ten minutes and I was already walking around like a drunken toddler.

Our entrance into the festival was right at the beer garden, where we were playing. We milled around a bit seeing if we could see anyone else dressed as silly as we were, ie, other band members, and we sure saw some people dressed silly, but it wasn't our kind of silly. So we headed on into the beer garden, where there were lots of trees and it was fairly comfortable, found a few other Sauerkrauters, and headed to the backstage area.

And I was starting to feel pretty good! I found a chair, and we were getting our stuff ready while the band before us was playing, and I turned around and there was my cousin Jacob. She and her husband had decided to pick Saturday to come as well, and she came back to say hello. She also said something else. "Guys, this is the only place you're going to get any kind of breeze or coolness. Outside the beer garden the heat is unbearable!"

Oh well. 15 minutes of good is better than none, I guess.

We had yet to take the stage when I discovered my other big surprise of Floydfest.

Yep, we were horsing around backstage and I noticed that my goofy green shoes had quickly become my goofy brown shoes. Covering my brown feet, which were attached to my brown legs. And that my brand-new dirndl and freshly-washed blouse and apron were - well, in a word, filthy.

Yes, what wasn't a field at Floydfest was a dirt/gravel/limb/branch/twig surface, and very dry dirt plus 11,000 people kicking it around made for some airborne filth just dying to cling to someone. Anyone. It was impossible to escape getting absolutely filthy.

But the time came and we played our set, and people really seemed to enjoy us. They Chicken Danced, they did the polka, they clapped along. And it really was a fun set and I enjoyed it a lot.

Now, sets are short at this thing, ours was 45 minutes. That's one reason I've never had a desire to do the festival thing. A band gets an hour at most. If you hate a band, you're forced to listen to them drone on for an hour. If you love a band, you only get to hear them for an hour.

So our set ended, and I packed up my horn and changed into my other outfit right there in the artists' tent in front of God and everybody, and a 10 year old boy. I was discreet, I don't think anybody saw anything more than my bra, and my philosophy on the whole thing is that if you want to look at my nekkid flesh, you have more problems than anyone can help you with.

Mr M and I walked out of the beer garden and I was immediately hit by the sun. Yes, the sun hit me, bonked me right on the head, and he'd brought along his friend Mr Humidity, who proceeded to reach down my throat and render my lungs useless.

We headed over to the performers' tent across the way, where we were given some cold water and told we could leave our stuff there if we wanted. Mr M declined on his horn, but I said, "Screw the horn. Who here's gonna steal a clarinet?" I took my water, drank a gulp, and poured the rest over my head, a ritual I would perform several times that day.

There's a large thoroughfare between the two big stages, and all along there are booths. Some sell things, many are food booths, there was a booth doing tattoos, and even a massage therapy booth - dollar a minute. And I was really tempted to go there and plunk down a twenty and let the good times roll, but I chickened out.

Walking the thoroughfare, we bumped into Ward and Ferd from the Hackensaws, who had also just finished their set, and since I wasn't interested in any shopping (except the massages), I stood a lot while Mr M and Laine looked at a few things.

And that's when I realized the old joke is true. "It's not the heat, it's the humidity."

Because when I was just standing there in the sun, well, I mean, don't get me wrong, it was hotter than 40 hells, but it was just the hot of having the sun beat down on me. It was when we started moving that it all became so oppressive (thanks, Weather People). There was just no air. We'd left the only trees back at the beer garden, and there wasn't a breeze to be found.

We walked what seemed like a mile but was in reality only about 100 yards back behind the main stage to the big peformers' tent, where as artists (did I tell you I was an artist?), we'd get free food, more free drinks, and a nice cool shady place to sit and eat. On the way I bumped into Jesse, Baby J Hackensaw, and said hello. We got into the tent and the line for the food buffet was about 150 people long. Boy, we artists sure do like free food.

Now, I have to tell you at this point that I'd been at Floydfest about 4 hours, heard music in the background but had only "seen" the band that played before we did, and I was already ready to go. I was hot, tired, hot, filthy, hot, and once had felt like I was maybe getting ready to fall to the ground. And I was hot. Oh, and I was also kind of whiny.

But Mr M and Laine had expressed interest in staying, so I was prepared to sweat it out, literally, but when the buffet line was 150 people long, I could see a little weariness hitting Mr M's face as well. I asked him what all and who all else he wanted to experience on the day, and he said, "You know, I'm kind of ready to go right now." So we discarded our plates and left the tent to find Laine, who as a non-artist (awww) had to go to an adjoining tent.

When we left our tent I saw two fellows standing talking to some folks, and I was so immediately in love with their look, I had to go up (yes, I did that on my own, must have been the heat) and say hello. They were wearing seersucker suits, bowties, little doody hats, and spiffy shoes. I introduced myself and told them I just had to meet two men dressed like that, and one said, "Oh, oddly enough, that's exactly how we meet most women!" They were incredibly nice, and were an act called the Two Man Gentlemen Band.

And so the trudge over rocks, embedded branches, holes, and more dirt began, back to the performers' tent to pick up our stuff, and Lord have mercy, the heat was just ungodly, and once again my head went "nyiing-nyiing-nyiing" like I might drop to the ground. And the walk to the shuttle bus pickup was no easier, in fact, it was a little harder because I was now laden with backpack and clarinet.

Now, when our bus deposited us back at the parking lot - let me stress, I wasn't going to ask. It was the only thing on my mind, but I wasn't going to ask. And God love Mr M for not making me ask. He said, "Listen, let's put all our gear right here, and you can stay with it while I walk back to get the car, and we'll load it down here." Oh, thank you, Mr M.

And so I plopped to the ground with the stuff, and sat there feeling my brain contract in the sun with every body movement, and also entertained myself by rubbing filth off my body, especially my legs. And I waited for Mr M. And waited.

And after about 25 minutes of waiting, I started to worry. And caught sight of a miniscule speck looking like Mr M walking sideways across the aisles of the field. "Oh, shit, he's lost the car," I said out loud.

And he had. 40 minutes later he came down the field in podmobile2, and no matter how horrid I felt and how badly I thought I was going to pass out when I stood up in the sun to load the car, all I could think about was how miserable he must have been walking up and down that field looking for our car.

We loaded the car, and I think I can honestly say I've never been so happy to leave a place in my life.

On the way home, I made jokes about how we were both like Pig Pen from Charlie Brown, walking around in our own little cloud of dirt, and when I put my sun visor down in the car, I popped up the mirror to look at my face. I swear, I looked like I was made up for a minstrel show. My face was totally brown, with the whites of my eyes shining out.

We finally got back to base camp, aka Mr M's, filthy and sweaty and hot and tired. Me more so than him. And I had something very important to think about.

I was supposed to go back to Floydfest the next day!

I have to be honest. I debated just bailing, just calling Susan and saying that Saturday had rendered me useless and that I'd gladly give my pass to another of her friends if they were interested.

But that would have been rude. Susan gave me her pass out of kindness. I should use that pass, dammit. And I told myself I was going to see the Hackensaw Boys on Sunday with Susan. And so I set my mind to head out again. With a new mindset.

First of all, and you'll love this, especially if you know me very well, I didn't shower. I can never remember being so filthy, and I didn't take a shower. I figured, "What the hell? After a walk into the venue, I'll be that dirty again, and so will everyone else, fuck it." And so I didn't bathe.

Sunday morning I got up early, pulled on some clothes and a hat, lathered myself with sunscreen, put an ID in one pocket and some cash in another, and headed off. I drank a bottle of water on the way for hydration, realizing that although pouring water over one's head was great instant gratification, actually drinking the water was better in the long run. And after getting lost no fewer than four times on Fearless SKB Leader Ed's printed directions, made it to the venue. With a pain in my stomach. (I don't know if it was the fact that I was stressed from getting lost so much or the fact that I'd eaten way too much fruit in an effort to rebuild my system after Saturday's excursion.)

I pulled into the parking field and discovered something miraculous. Apparently Sunday is Mass Exodus Day at Floydfest, so I got a parking spot on flat land about 75 yards from the school bus load center. Loaded onto the bus, talked to some more really nice people, got to the festival, handed in my pass, walked in the performers' entrance - and found a port-o-potty, where I had a serious gastrointestinal emergency event in a 120-degree port-o-potty, and folks, that's just not much fun.

However! It completely got rid of my stomach pain, and I entered through the old cool beer garden and headed immediately to the main stage where Susan's clogging troupe was performing. However, after getting lost all those times, I'd missed their set, probably only by minutes. I was bummed about that, but walked immediately to a water stand for more water, then stood by the thoroughfare to watch for Susan coming by. I was sure I'd see her heading out towards Hill Holler, the stage where the Hackensaws were playing. I looked and looked - no Susan.

I saw a large tent near where I was standing, loaded with people underneath, and there was a small corner of shade at the end, so I ducked under it to wait some more. And lo and behold, you'll never guess what was going on under that tent. It was a set by the above-mentioned nattily attired Two Man Gentleman Band! I plopped myself down right in the dirt there in the shade and caught almost all of their set, and let me tell you, those guys were so much fun it was impossible not to watch them with a big ol' goofy grin. They played a sort of 1920's jazz music with tremendously funny and clever lyrics, and they were so entertaining, I just thought they were terrific. (Check them out on iTunes, please.)

After that, it was getting to be time for the Hackensaws at Hill Holler, so I bought three more bottles of water (2 1/2 to drink, 1/2 to pour on my head) and headed that way. Now, the Hill Holler stage is a large slope of grass, and at the bottom of the slope is the stage. And I'm no fool, I'm 50 and fat and it was still extremely hot, so I knew dancing at the front of the stage was not for me on this day. Up at the top of the grassy slope are strategically placed railroad ties, and I found an empty one and sat down. Sure, the sun was beating down on me, but I was comfy on the tie, had a good view of both the stage and crowd (still looking for Susan!), and, I guess because God doesn't completely hate me, there was even a little breeze flowing by now and then.

I sat and watched the Hackensaws gather onstage, watched the crowd looking for my friend, and even met some more nice people sitting there on the railroad tie. (Really, I'm not kidding, I met such nice people at Floydfest. Lots of open, friendly folks.) And for a split second I thought, "You know, I probably could roam down there to dance a bit and....oh, come on! What the fuck am I thinking??!!?!" So I stayed where I was.

And you know, I never found Susan, and I so hope she was down there in the crowd dancing away, but in due time the Hackensaws started their set. And this was it - I was finally seeing the Hackensaw Boys at Floydfest! Their set was excellent. Just the right mix of old stuff and new. (Thanks for putting a good bit of new stuff into a short set, Boys!) They had so much energy and seemed to be having such a great time, and I've said it a hundred times, but they just bring such a joy of playing to anything they do.

I completely forgot I was sitting there with the blazing sun beating down upon me. I was just digging the music and watching the crowd having a blast enjoying them too. In fact, there was a point (remember the filth?) where the crowd started kicking up their heels in front of the stage, and they also kicked up so much dirt it looked like someone had started a fire in front of the stage and the smoke was rising upward. I couldn't stop laughing.

And so the Hackensaws ended. And it was time for me to beat it back to B'burg and back to reality. I was just steps away from the entrance to the site, to the old school buses, and I headed out, making yet more friends on the bus, getting back to the field and to the car, and when I left that parking field, I said, "Fuck the printed directions," and headed out my own way. The way I chose took me about 20 miles along the Blue Ridge Parkway, and I'm telling you right now, people, you cannot drive the Blue Ridge Parkway without having your soul uplifted to the highest heights. You want to talk about beauty? Drive the Blue Ridge Parkway.

Then it was to the town of Floyd Proper, up Route 8, back to B'burg to pick up Milo and my weekend's worth of luggage, and back home. Weekend completed.

And so now I can say I've done Floydfest. I don't know that I'd ever do it again. As these things go, I have to say that every single person I met, concert-goer, festival volunteer, vendor, everyone, was just great. As festivals go, I can't imagine any of them being any better run that this one. I'm just not sure I'm the "festival" kind of person.

But I'm so glad I went Sunday. It completely changed my memories of the experience that is Floydfest. It left me with a happy feeling.

Except for one small thing. Sunday night, blissfully back at the old Poderosa, after a shower so long my hot water started to wane, I still wasn't sure all the dirt was off of me.

Sadly, going back to Real Life on Monday, one can't be unabashedly dirt-covered.

2010-07-15T21:21:00.007-04:00

Happy Anniversary, Baby

I'm gearing up for the first of the two big weekends of my summer. This weekend it's - well, it's no Hackensaw Boys on Friday. I nixed that because logistically it made my brain hurt. I couldn't work out driving there and back, finding Milo accommodations, then still being halfway fresh on Saturday.

I have to be halfway fresh on Saturday because I have to be in R'noke at 1pm, and it's over 2 hours away. My clarinet buddy Mary and I are heading that way to meet with the lovely and extremely talented Cara. Cara plays piano.

Now, if I may slightly (or seriously) digress here, I don't think I've told you about the recital this weekend. My buddy Mr M came up with a wild idea some time ago. And it's a great idea, though I told him it wouldn't work. And so he's set out to prove me wrong, and gone ahead and organized this recital. It's called "Two to Nine," and features clarinets in ensembles of two, three, four, five, all the way up to nine players. The big finale will be a beautiful but complicated piece called "Monochrome III" by Peter Schickele, who some of you may know as PDQ Bach. Schickele also composes as himself, and as I like to say, for a man who made his fame and fortune writing comedy music, the really funny stuff he writes is the "serious" stuff he does as himself. Only the jokes are on the players of the music, not the audience. He just writes some really weird stuff, but I love it, and this piece is no exception.

Speaking of logistics, which I was above (no Hackensaws), the logistics of getting a recital of nine clarinets together is difficult, nay, I say impossible. We've yet to have a rehearsal with all nine players. A couple of them won't be in town until Sunday, the day of the recital. One of them was the principal clarinetist with the Richmond Symphony, so I'm not so worried about him, but.... But, well, he's going to be the concertmaster of the nine-player piece, so none of has practiced with him. The afternoon of the recital, we'll all head to that one golden rehearsal, try to figure out what the hell we're doing, and let the good times roll.

Anyway, let's get back to me being halfway fresh. As part of the "two" in the "Two to Nine" recital, Mary and I are going to recreate our duet from the Community Band's spring concert, only with a pianist. A pianist we've yet to meet with, until we find the lovely and extremely talented Cara on Saturday for one practice session. Then, well, as I said, let the good times roll.

(An aside here - we've been doing rehearsals for this thing for about 6 weeks or more, that's two trips to B'burg a week, folks, and Mary and I have been through pianist hell. In fact, the lovely and extremely talented Cara was a lifesaver to step in when she did. She fit us into an incredibly busy schedule.)

So. If I live through this weekend, and the jury's still out, I have two things I must do. The first is to go ahead and admit to Mr M that his brilliant but harebrained idea did in fact work, and that I was horribly wrong. And the second is to prepare myself for the next weekend.

The weekend after this one the Sauerkraut Band is going to play that hippie festival of music, happiness, and love, Floydfest. We've wanted to do this for years, and they've wanted us for some of those years, and it's finally going to happen this year.

Thing is, having never been there, I have no idea what to expect. I do know this - it's going to be hella hot and I'm going to be wearing a dirndl. And our entrance doesn't include parking, so I'll be schlepping all my SKB gear around on a shuttle bus. And the devil himself did the scheduling, because Saturday the Sauerkrauts are playing at the same damn fuckin' time as the Hackensaw Boys!

But no matter. I'm going to go with nothing more than a good time in mind. Then the next day, thanks to my Sauerkraut Band buddy Susan, I'll have a free pass for Sunday as well. Where our band is not playing and the Hackensaws are. So I'll get my 'Boys fix then.

Then I'm going to collapse for a while.

The Sunday of the recital, the 18th, is my dad's 80th birthday. As you may remember, our family has a long-standing tradition of not celebrating peoples' birthdays on their actual birthday, which is really good this time round.

And the Saturday before that, the 17th for those of you keeping score at home, is my mom and dad's anniversary. They will have been married 55 years, just count them, I know you won't. 55 years of complete wedded bliss and devotion, which is certainly mind-blowing in this day and age.

But it's another anniversary as well. It just happens to be the first anniversary of me and Milo.

Yep, it was July 17th of last year when I picked the little fella up at the shelter and brought him to his new home. I was so damn nervous. I was elated I'd found the dog for me, but I was nervous too. I hadn't had a puppy in a long time. Hell, I hadn't had a dog in some 15 years, and The Petster was about 12 when she died. That's a lot of time removed from puppydom.

Here's what I remember from that first day. Milo peed on me with anxiety when he was handed over to me at the pound. He had horribly unhealthy fur and a gnarled-up tail. I gave him a bath. He stole a piece of pizza off my plate and ran away with it. He cried for about 15 minutes when I went to bed, then was as quiet as a lamb.

By Sunday, he was already going to the door when he wanted out. In the next week, he was fetching.

And in the year that followed he got haircuts and combings and lots of love, and soon developed a beautiful coat and tail. He graduated from the Hi D Ho School for Dogs, probably by his cuteness more than any great obedience ability, but he still has that diploma. He's made people friends and doggie friends, and every mile I've logged to B'burg and back in the last year, he's been right beside me logging them too. He likes to watch TV with me, he's chewed his way through a hundred dog toys - but nary a shoe or piece of furniture. He's swallowed two footies and subsequently thrown them up, and I once had to pull a paper towel he'd eaten out of his ass.

We've been on many walks, though not nearly enough, we've cuddled in the chair nightly, and he's (reluctantly) let me take his picture in bandanas, hats, and a Snuggie. He's starred in a Comfy Chair movie.

And in what may be his biggest coup, after about six months, he totally won over my dad, who immediately disliked Milo because he was so against the idea of my having another dog. Now when I go over to visit, all Paw wants is to sit and pet Milo.

I've had a smarter dog, and a purely sweeter dog, but I've never had a happier, more adaptable dog. Milo has the perfect disposition.

Oh, he's stubborn. And I'm stubborn, and sometimes we lock horns. But we always make up within minutes.

He's such a great dog I often think he should have ended up with someone else. I often tell him that, while I'm ignoring him making a movie or running around late for work. "Milo, how did I ever get so lucky to find you? You are such a good dog you deserve a better person than me."

But there's a part of me that doesn't believe that for a minute. Someone else might have given him a bigger place to run, and more expensive dog toys, but no one could love him more. No one else would have composed The Milo Song to sing to him when he's anxious.

No, Milo and I are a match. If only we could make it 55 years.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* And now, it's time to take Milo out.

2010-07-10T03:56:00.001-04:00

Movie Time!

Hello, bloggees. Just popping in to tell you that I spent all of this week working on a new Comfy Chair movie.

The details, and the movie, are at The Comfy Chair Cinema. Go watch it, it was a labor of love (hi, Marla!) and a daunting task as well.

Hope you like it!

2010-06-29T21:52:00.005-04:00

Boy, Am I Lucky or What!

You know, I love mail. I get the mail at work, around 10:00 am, and it's always exciting when my friend, workmate, and mother figure San comes in with the daily take. Will she head back my way? She is! She is! What will I have? A package? A letter? A new Games magazine?

Ah, crap. Bills.

Well, that's how it goes most days. But every once in a while, I'll get that gem I'm hoping for. That happened one day last week.

When San headed back my way, she was carrying something quite large. It wasn't a box, it was a flat piece of mail, but it was bigger than your standard legal pad. I bounced up and down in my chair and resisted the urge to say, "Gimme gimme gimme!"

When San laid the mail upon my desk, I couldn't believe my eyes.

It was the Mona Lisa!

Someone had sent me the Mona Lisa in the mail! And if you don't believe me, well, naysayers, take a look at this!

Yep, there she is, mysterious smile and all. And look - you can even see (and feel, if you own it, like I now do) the canvas.

Apparently some art society wants me join up with them, and they must want it really badly, because as an incentive for my membership they sent me the Mona Lisa. I wish they'd have sent the frame as well, but I guess that would have cost too much to ship. I'm thinking about searching out the fanciest frame I can find, and placing right on my living room wall.

I know it's the real Mona Lisa, because it has all these facts on the back, like when it was painted and what a neato guy DaVinci was.

This past Thursday The Nephew came over to trim Milo. When it was all over I told him I could either pay him in cash or in priceless art. I showed him the Mona Lisa.

He took the cash.

Some people just don't appreciate the finer things in life.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Acrowinners, we have acrowinners! So, what is the title of your autobiography?
- Runner-Up goes to Capt A, with his "Luck Has Not a Chance."
- And this week's winner goes to LilyG, with her "Lace, Hairnets, Nylon - a Chronicle." Hey, I'd read that.
- Thanks to all who played, you've all done very well!

2010-06-28T22:30:00.003-04:00

Acrochallenge!

Hello, lovers of letters. Still out there? If so, join me for a happy round of acromania.

I'm not really much of a reader. I used to say, "It goes in phases. I'll read and read, then I won't ready anything for a while." That's changed. I'm assuming, unless a non-reading phase has lasted approximately three years.

So why this idea for an acrochallenge is in my head, I've no idea. But let's talk autobiographies. Everyone seems to be writing one nowadays. This week's acrotopic shall be, "The Title of My Autobiography." Now, this is the title of your autobiography, not mine.

All the other rules are the same. Everyone gets three entries to come up with the best acronym they can, one that matches not only the topic above, but also the letters below. The letters are randomly drawn from the acrobasket. The acrobasket published his own autobiography, "A Man of Letters." Then tomorrow night at 10:00 est I shall be reading the entries and naming the winners.

So, this week's acrotopic, "The Title of My Autobiography." The letters:

L H N A C

And there you have it - put down your books and acro!

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Well, still in the planning stages of the latest movie. Logistically, it just might be too difficult. Haven't given up yet, though.

2010-06-23T22:40:00.007-04:00

Poderosa News and Notes

Hello, friends.

OK, the week here at the Poderosa....

Went to B'burg over the weekend, where Mr M and I got a lovely visit from Sauerkraut Band buddies Seth and Susan. We had a great time, laughed a lot, then they had to leave, because Susan had to make a pie. (Father's Day, you know.)

Then Mr M and I went to a late-night showing of "Toy Story 3." Oh, man. Go see this movie. I laughed, I cried. I cried a lot. I don't know why I didn't think to bring tissues. I needed tissues.

Then I came home on Sunday, which was indeed Father's Day, and our whole family went out to dinner. We had a blast, made each other laugh, lots of good conversation, we came back home - and, just like after my birthday dinner, there was a point where Granny (my mom) plopped her wig on the table, and we knew the evening was over and it was time to go home. And so we did.

A good weekend.

Milo's Freedom Train is still going well. I only crate him at night now. When I'm at work, or have to leave the house for a while, I just close the gate into the dennette, and he has the rest of the house to himself. He's had a couple of "tear ups," like a discarded soap box and a fingernail file, but it's nothing big. He's growing up.

I haven't posted a picture lately, so here is Milo this very night, relaxing in the kitchen.

He's getting a trim from The Nephew tomorrow night. Woo Hoo! Get out the Swiffer Sweeper!

Now, this is big. I mean, big big.

You know, I like QuickDraw McGraw. He's lived with me for a few years now, and although he's pretty quiet as cartoon characters go, he's nice, easygoing, personable, and we all get along with him. Well, little did I know the pull he has in the cartoon world. He sprang a surprise on me Sunday night I was just not prepared for.

When I got back from having dinner with the family (after Granny plopped her wig on the table), I walked into the house, and guess who was there?

Woody!

Yes, QuckDraw had heard me say many times what a fan I was of Woody's, and had gotten in touch with him to invite him for a visit. Everyone was just crazy about him, including me. He's a hoot. And although space is at a premium here, and I keep saying there will be no more boarders at the Poderosa, I couldn't help but ask him to move in with us.

Woody wasn't sure. He has a whole group of characters of his own, of course. But after spending a few days here, and hearing the others talk about all the trips they take to visit friends and family whenever they like, Woody said, sure, he'd set up camp at the Poderosa for a while.

So Woody's a new member of the gang!

Here he is with his cowboy buddy, QuickDraw.

And here he is with the whole gang, having a little ride on Che Guellama.

If you'll look closely, you'll notice that there in the corner of that picture you'll see Baby Huckie. Remember when Huckie went to visit Maw Hound on Mother's Day in the WABAC and things went awry and Huckie ended up an infant? Well, Mr Peabody fixed the WABAC and got Huckleberry back to his old grown self, and we were all relieved.

Then, one day, we got up and there was Baby Huckie crawling around in the floor. It totally freaked Real Huckie out.

Now, we don't know how this happened, not even Mr Peabody, and we're not sure how to send him back in time to his chosen space. And until we do, Baby Huckie is here. We try to make sure he's fed and changed and burped, and Real Huckie is trying to come to grips with the fact that there's a baby version of him crawling around the Poderosa. Real Huckie's pretty adaptable, as most blue dogs are.

Boy, the fun never ends here at the Poderosa, does it?

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Had a movie idea rolling around, hoping to have the time to work on it, and now have another one rolling around! Could there be two movies in your future? I know not!

2010-06-16T18:39:00.006-04:00

Old Dogs, New Tricks

As I say every time I start a blog, I neglect poor Betland. I'll bet some of you think I've just given up on blogging and so you don't come here anymore, in which case you're not reading this, but you're probably not missing out on much.

The main reason I seldom blog is because I'm out of ideas. I blame that on a simple fact of late. I kind of hate my life. No, I don't kind of hate it, I really hate it. Now, don't fear for me, I don't hate living, I'm not going to jump off a building or anything. I just hate the version of life I'm living lately.

There's a long outline of why I hate the life I'm living right now, full of main topics and subsets, but I'll touch on the three main reasons.

I. Too Damn Much

Work of late has just been hell, and I'm overwhelmed. It's happened before in phases, but this entire year has been overwhelming. Six months is a fucking long phase, if you'll pardon the curse. I seldom leave work with all the day's tasks done, which of course puts me behind beginning the next day. It seems to never end.

Then along with that I'm traveling to B'burg for clarinet practices (an ensemble recital in July), and the Sauerkraut Band has decided it's time to record a new CD. Which is great, we've needed to some six years, but now seems to be the time we're all gearing up with rehearsals for that. Normally, I'd also have Community Band stuff to add to all that, but for now I'm giving Community Band a pass. If I have the time or inclination to hit a concert or practice, I might do it. Then again, I might not. Self-preservation.

And of course, there's Granny & Paw duty, which I have every other weekend. (On the plus side, my sister is very good about dividing G&PD. Thank you, Sis.) But after a long week at work, and knowing there's a rehearsal of some sort on Sunday, it's a little daunting knowing that Saturday will be spent going around to stores, then helping load groceries, unload groceries, and carry groceries into the house. Then I get home with my own groceries, and have no one to help me unload them and carry them into the house, so I do that myself.

OK. May not sound like much, but I'm tired.

II. Damn Pack Mule

I don't know when it happened, but in the past year or so, I seem to have become a full-fledged bag lady. I don't go anywhere that I'm not lugging a bunch of shit around with me.

I did a blog (one I actually liked) years ago about my pocketbook. How when I was a teenager, and even into my early 20s, I traveled with a drivers license in one pocket and some cash in the other. Boy, how things have changed.

This is the main bag I carry.

I love it for several reasons. It's orange, it's weatherproof, and it will hold everything. The problem with that is I've started to carry everything. My cute orange bag weighs so much it gives me a backache.

Then, to work everyday, I take a thermal mug of ice. I also need to take a 20 oz bottle water to fill the thermal mug with. I sometimes take a snack. I often take the anti-itch lotion I keep at hand for when my nervous itching (who would ever have thought that?) acts up. I often have to take my "personal case" back and forth to work, the one that holds bills and papers and the like.

I walk into work every morning like a damn pack mule.

Then when I go to B'burg, I have to lug a horn, a folder of music, and an overnight bag with me. If I want to take the netbook, threre's another bag. If I want to take whatever else to have there, books, magazines, movies, paper and pencils, there's another bag. Plus Milo. He doesn't go in a bag.

I travel everywhere like a damn pack mule.

III. What's Next

Isn't it nice to just be able to get up and leave the house? Well, I don't know, because I can't do that. I used to. It used to be my favorite part of being a single woman with her own house. I just grabbed the car keys and walked out. Where the hell did that vanish to?

I was trying to explain this to someone lately, and they looked at me like I was flat-ass batshit crazy. I was saying that every time I go somewhere I suffer something called "No, Wait," and it went like this. Say I'm going to work.

"OK, I've got this and this. No, wait, I have to do this. Oh, crap, to do this, I have to find this. Where is this? No, wait, it's here. Now I need to quickly do this. No, wait, to do this, I have to do this. But I have to do this first. OK, finally, I can leave. Oh, crap, after I do this. No, wait, first I have to do this...."

And on and on. Is it any wonder I'm always late for work?

IV. There Is No IV

Now, I'm going to throw something else into the mix here. It has nothing to do with the outline and all that stuff, it's just one more thing on my plate.

My adorable little puppy Milo is now a little over a year old. And he's turned into a teenager. A teenager with attitude.

This has mainly manifested itself in the area of his crate. Milo doesn't want to go into his crate anymore. It used to not bother him the least, he marched right into it like a little champion. Problem is, he also doesn't want to be given the entire kitchen. Every time I've given him the kitchen, I've come home and he's climbed the gate into another room.

Now, I never wanted Milo to be crated the rest of his life. My dream is to have him wander the house when I'm gone. But there are things in the house a puppy can get into. Not the kitchen, it's puppy-proof. That's why I wanted to start in the kitchen and work our way on from there.

This week, I've started Milo out in the kitchen two more days, and both of them, he's ended up in the living room. Crying, because he can climb the fence into the living room, but he can't climb it to get back.

V. There's No V Either, I'm Just Enjoying Making Roman Numerals

And now to today. Two things happened that lightened my spirit a bit. The first thing was that I had seen a little handbag I liked, smaller than my orange bag, and I thought I'd order it. It arrived. It was way smaller than I had imagined from the online picture.

Yep. That's smaller, all right.

Instead of getting all depressed and saying, "Well, there's $45 down the drain," I made a decision. I was going to pack the little bag from my big bag. When I ran out of room, that was it. I mean, do I have to carry a bottle of perfume with me? Sample sized hand lotions? How much change does one actually need lying at the bottom of a bag?

I got it done, and I took the big beloved orange bag and put it away. So as not to be tempted. I'm trying it out for a week. We'll see if - even once - I say, "Boy, I miss the [insert item] I used to carry around with me.

I also found a compact canvas bag with a handle. That will carry what I take back and forth to work with me. If it doesn't fit in the bag, it won't go with me.

And finally. I came home from lunch today, and there was - well, actually, there was no Milo. Once again, he wasn't in the kitchen. He'd climbed into the living room. I went in to see if he'd gotten into anything. He hadn't.

And so I made a proclamation, out loud. "All right, big boy, you think you're too old to be confined to a crate and a kitchen? Fine. Have at it." I took down the gate into the living room.

When I left going back to work, I gave Milo a treat, closed the unclimbable gate to the den, and headed out the door. (After doing "No, Wait" a few times.) He was whining as I left.

And when I came home after work, there was Milo hopping around to meet me at the den gate. I opened it, did a walk-through of the house, and not a thing had been disturbed. He'd been a good boy while I was gone.

And not only that, I leashed him up and took him outside, and he immediately peed and pooed. Yes, could have found a spot in the house for both of those, but he waited till he got outside.

So maybe my rebellious teenager just needs a little more responsibility. And he'll continue to get some.

And maybe I need to cut a lot of the crap out of my life. I'll keep working on that, too.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Consequence of blogging once every three weeks. Too-long blogs.

2010-06-09T20:54:00.003-04:00

The Things We Know, or The Perfect Whatever

I'd been thinking about this for several days. Leave it to my blogging buddy Duke to have a brain-snap with me and mention an article in his blog that I'd just read earlier in the day to make me realize I neglect my blog way too much.

Anyway, what I was thinking related to his blog and that article. It was a list - five sure-fire ways to lose 91 pounds a year. I liked what he had to say about it.

See, I work all day at TheCompanyIWorkFor, and in the few minutes of free time I have I like to do a little net surfing. Problem with that is it's never more than a few minutes, and TCWIF blocks a lot of internet sites, and so the surfing experience is never very satisfying.

And so I usually find myself on cnn.com or msnbc.com, and both of these sites, and many more, love them some lists. How to have perfect skin, how to have perfect hair, how to choose the perfect wardrobe, how to catch the man of your dreams, etc etc till you want to puke.

And you know, a list is a list, and I often read them even when I'm not really interested in finding the man of my dreams or the perfect wardrobe, and the reason I often read them is just to prove myself right about something.

These lists are always (well, except the one Duke referenced - it was a rarity) ten items long, the top ten whatevers, but it doesn't really matter. And here comes the part where I get to prove myself right.

Because the same five things always show up on whatever list you look at.

Want perfect skin? Perfect hair? Perfect wardrobe? Perfect man? Five of those ten ways to help you get them are always, and when I say always I mean, well, always:

1. Don't smoke
2. Don't drink (or drink too much)
3. Get plenty of exercise
4. Get plenty of sleep
5. Eat a healthy diet

I don't care if you're looking for ten ways to get the best deal on a car, or how to get a raise at work, or how to pick the right running shoe, I swear, those five things are going to be on the list.

And here's the thing. Well, here's one of the things. First of all, we know those five things are key to our happiness, so the experts say. Smoking, drinking, sitting around all day, staying up all night, and eating junk food are the expressway to Shitsville, Arizona. Whether we do them or not, believe me, listmakers of America, we know. You show me a person who thinks, "You know, my skin is horrible. I need to fix it. What??? Smoking and junk food makes a difference???" and I'll show you someone who needs to have their Lucid Person badge revoked.

And I guess the other thing is that if we all know those things, why are people muddying up their lists with these items? Make them all "Five Things You Didn't Know About That Can Give You The Perfect Whatever."

Or how about simply, "Five Things That Can Give You The Perfect Whatever*," and the article can begin with, (* of course, you already know about the smoking, drinking, exercise, diet, and sleep).

I'm waiting for that top ten list on how to get a good night's sleep where one of the list items is "get plenty of sleep." I know it's out there, I just haven't found it yet.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* You know, there really isn't too much to update around here. For those of you not Facebookally inclined, I guess I could tell the story of the Seven Dwarves.

2010-06-03T00:01:00.002-04:00

A Little Comfy Chair Love

Hello, friends.

The poor Comfy Chair Cinema. I bet you thought I'd forgotten all about it, didn't you? I mean, hell, I seem to have forgotten Betland, why wouldn't I?

Well, turns out, I haven't forgotten about it. I think of it often. I think of how much I need to make a movie and update the damn thing.

And the sad part is that, though I'd been blaming Milo for my lack of moviemaking, I had in fact made two movies in earnest, and had two more of music, and I've just been very lazy getting them posted to you. Not posted to Facebook, a fact for which I'm incredibly embarrassed, because not all of you are on Facebook, but their uploading is simpler and I don't have to make pithy introductions there.

I know, I'm a cad.

But tonight I decided to by-God put some stuff on the Comfy Chair. And so I uploaded four, yes, four, dammit, videos to the site.

The first, though it will appear as the last as you're scrolling down the Comfy Chair screen, is my 2010 Easter Extravaganza, "Peep Opp Ork Ah-Ah." With that title, you can probably guess exactly where it's going, but there you go.

The second is a clip of my dear Hackensaw Boys from a concert May 2 in the little burg of Floyd, VA. They're out in the crowd giving it all they've got. Lovely boys.

The third is my participation in the solo/duet piece with my clarinet friend Mary at the Blacksburg Community Band's spring concert. We're playing Mendelssohn's Concertpiece 2. This is in fact the band solo you heard me whine, bitch, and moan about here for months.

And the final is the movie I finished only this weekend starring no less a doggie than Milo himself. You won't want to miss this one, I promise.

So there you go. If you haven't seen those yet, head over the Comfy Chair Cinema and give them a try.

2010-05-26T22:53:00.004-04:00

Pictures!

OK, I'm sure you're all on pins and needles waiting to hear how the Milo Trim went.

Well, wait no longer - it was great!

Well, the results were great. It took two hours, Milo got really restless (until I started using Pupperonis to keep him occupied), and I had to sweep up enough dog hair to make a good-sized wig.

Here we go. A boy and my dog.

And a second one, which I used "animal red-eye removal" on, but it made Milo look like some sort of wild jungle creature. Sorry about that.

In the end, The Nephew did a terrific job. I got the haircut I've been asking for at the groomer's forever and never got. His head and tail have never looked better. And though it took two hours, if we keep on top of it, it won't in subsequent trims.

And thanks, Duke, we took your suggestion of starting on the back legs and measuring everything after from that.

Whew. Glad it's over.

2010-05-25T22:08:00.006-04:00

Open Door Policy

Boy, things sure do go wild at the Poderosa sometimes.

As you all know, I have a large cast of cartoon characters, monsters, a good luck baby, and llamas that live with me here at the Pod. It's enough, believe me.

But just because they live under my roof, that doesn't mean I can deny them their basic cartoon rights. Like the right to have visitors.

It's been a wild few days here. First of all, Friday night tag included no less a person himself than Yosemite Sam. Now, Yosemite has taken up residence with Mr M at Poderosa East, and they're a good match. They get along well together, they're both crusty, crabby bachelors, and I'm sure they stay out of each others' way and all.

Well, Sherman's been trying to get Yosemite Sam to come over for tag for some time, and this past Friday he finally accepted. I said it was OK, but only on one condition. No guns. I didn't want him to get all ginned up during tag and shoot the hell out of my house. He came, sans guns, played tag, and joined in with post-tag pizza.

He had such a great time he stayed overnight, then went back home with Mr M after Mr M visited on Saturday. He ate six of Huckleberry Hound's fried eggs for breakfast. Mr M brought him his guns when he came, but with no bullets. He showed the gang a few pistol tricks.

He's a little rough around the edges, but you know, I kind of like the guy. What can I say.

Then it was around 7 on Saturday, and I was putting the finishing touches on dinner, when I heard a ring at the doorbell. I headed to the door to see who could possibly be visiting, and there behind my screen door, I saw this.

Oh, my God! It was Bugs Bunny! The King of Cartoon Characters (and one of Sherman's heroes) was paying us a visit at the humble Pod!

Honestly, I thought I would faint, but I gathered myself, opened the door, and tried to think of a greeting to my home worthy of Mr B Bunny himself.

Then.

Then, this flew into my house.

It was Daffy Duck. Daffy Duck in a convenient Bugs Bunny disguise, complete with fuzzy tail. Seems he'd heard about our little commune here, and thought we'd "benefit" from a visit by him.

That was Saturday. He's still here.

Since he's been here, he's tried to pass himself off as Bugs to Baby Lily and charge her $5 for his autograph. He's also bilked Bunsen Honeydew of $20 playing Three Card Monte. He calls Milo a "cur," Mr Peanut a "has-been," and has made a pass or two at Inga, the kids' nanny.

I'm at a bit of a crossroads. I want him out. I asked Mr Peabody to have a word with him, but it hasn't happened yet. Mr Peabody is still writing a "You Need to Go" speech. They're such different personalities, Peabody doesn't want to just wing it.

But if it doesn't happen soon, I'm going to grab him by the beak and fling him out the door.

Or let Milo eat him.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Speaking of Milo, gave the boy a bath tonight. Not a cakewalk, to be sure, but he's not a bad boy in the bath. Then tomorrow night is Haircut Night! Woooo - lots of good thoughts for The Nephew and me, please.

2010-05-23T22:06:00.002-04:00

Story Sunday

Hello, end of weekenders. I don't have any pictures this weekend, so no Picture Sunday.

However!

I do have a story about one of the pictures in last week's Picture Sunday, so lets proceed with a round of Story Sunday.

If you'll look below to last Sunday's blog, you'll see a few items I bought for my boy Milo. The gate, by the by, is coming along. I personally don't think it has the quality I was expecting when paying $90 for a gate, but he hasn't knocked it over yet. I'm easing him into gate life. Whichever portion of my workday is shorter, from beginning to lunch or lunch to the end, I'll put him in the kitchen with the gate up.

And he's done fine, no peeing or pooing in the kitchen, hasn't messed a single thing up, he's just so wild when I come home and open the gate door. It's like he's been shot out of a cannon. When he's been in his crate and I let him out, he just pops out casually looks at me, and waits for me to put the leash on so we can go out. I swear, I'm waiting for the day he looks up at me and points to his neck, like, "Leash, please."

Anyway, that's not the story. Here's the story.

One of the items I bought last weekend was a little doggie clipping set so The Nephew and I get together, hoist a couple of beers, and give Milo a haircut. Taylor wants to give him a horse's mane, and though I can't say I don't like the idea, I believe the creativity will have to end before we get to that point.

Now, here's the deal. I've been looking on and off for clippers, and have almost bought a set on two other occasions. Both times I was looking at people hair clippers. And I didn't spring for them because I kept telling myself I'd wait till payday, or that Milo wasn't shaggy enough to start worrying about it yet, though he certainly is now.

Then I was at PetSmart, and I saw these clippers for pets.

There are a couple of pictures on the box, which is one of those fucking plastic boxes you have to open with a kitchen knife, of people holding and hugging their perfectly trimmed doggies. The back of the box insert says, and I quote, I have it right here, "It's never been easier to groom your pet and get great results! This clipper kit has the main tools you need to groom your pet at home. Snap-on guide combs help maintain an even length coat for worry-free grooming."

And that's just fine. Well, it was until I risked my fingers getting the damned box open with the kitchen knife.

I was keen to read the instruction booklet to see if it had some hints on where to begin in grooming a pet, if it specified to stay away from the face with the machine, and all that. Boy, what a disappointment.

The instruction booklet, which is of course in three languages, is a tri-fold with information on the front and back. All of the front are warnings. Don't use in the bathtub, don't drop any objects into any opening of the machine, read all of our instructions, do not use outdoors. What the hell is up with products saying you shouldn't operate them outdoors? If you think about it, and especially grooming a doggie, wouldn't outdoors be the best place? You wouldn't have to vacuum your floor after, plus, if the device decides to blow up, the inside of your home won't be damaged!

But let's travel onward. To the back of the tri-fold, where I was hoping for some drawings of doggies and how they should be cut.

I'll tell you right now there are no diagrams. Not a single picture of a dog. Instead, here's what I got.

There are a couple of drawings of the on-off switch and how it works, and one of the machine when a blade is on it. That's it. Well, that's it for drawings.

As for the text, well, here are some of the helpful hints I've been given.

* Raise blade for fine setting to cut hair very short for neck areas, etc.
* Lower blade for coarse setting to leave hair longer for side burns, etc.

In other words, this clipper set I bought is a people clipper with different packaging.

Which, I guess in the end doesn't mean anything, but for some reason I'm both bemused and a little pissed off.

I'm going to tell The Nephew, though, that we have some instructions for side burns. I think Milo would look keen with sideburns.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Why do I like gymnastics? I shouldn't like gymnastics, but I do.
* My shoulder hurts.

2010-05-16T22:52:00.007-04:00

Picture Sunday

Hello, friends and blogees! And welcome to another round of Picture Sunday.

I was having an "off the radar" weekend. I spent all my weekend last week doing parent duty, traveling, shopping, lifting, tugging, etc. This weekend I wanted to do "me" stuff.

Friday was great, had a nice Friday chill and recorded another Hucklebug podcast with my buddy Stennie. I so look forward to Friday nights because of the podcast.

Saturday, I had two things on the agenda. One was to pick up the DeepFatFriar at the airport in R'noke, and the other was to do some shopping at PetSmart.

Well, PetSmart was on the way. So I hit B'burg, dropped Milo off at Mr M's (he was on the road as well, love you, Mr M), and headed straight to PetSmart. I had one thing on the agenda.

And of course, as often happens, a person has one thing on the shopping agenda and ends up buying loads and loads of stuff. But hey, I was so happy with some of the things I found.

In addition to some Dentastix for my Milo (he has such lovely teeth, gotta keep them strong), a new Kong fuzzy toy, and a new bigger walking harness (he's outgrown his), I got of course the thing I went there for, a new "big boy" gate.

See, I still want to give Milo the entire kitchen when I'm off at work or on errands. Now, I know it's probably a dangerous thing to start trying to think for a dog, and Milo seems perfectly happy to go into the crate, but I'd like him to have more space to walk, play, etc. The problem is that the gates I have for him now, he always jumps or climbs (I think climbs) the gate into the den, then once he's in the den he makes all kinds of mischief. So I figured if I could find a taller gate he couldn't get over, he might be happier in the kitchen. Then again, you know what? He might be happier in his crate!

Anyway, the new gate I got, well, I have some problems with it right off the bat. First of all, it works on a "pressure" system in the door, and I personally don't think that pressure makes it fit tight enough, and if Milo decides to really lean on it, it will fall over, giving him access to the den where he can make all kinds of mischief. This might be me, though.

The other problem I have is definitely me, but not my hinky brain. See, the opening door on this gate, well, it's made for the skinniest human imaginable. Which of course, I am not. I have to walk through it sideways. So I don't know how long it will last, but it was quite expensive, so I'm going to make myself try and like it, whether I want to or not.

Wanna see my boy in jail? This is the exact picture of what will be facing me tomorrow morning when I leave for work.

Aww, look at that face. "I don't want to be in jail, Mommy!"

Then, I decided to give a small look to fur clippers. See, I can't remember if I told you this, but I've tapped The Dear Nephew to be my new dog groomer. OK, so that sounds really bizarre, but here's my reasoning. I'm not taking him back to my regular groomer, she never listens to what I want. So I found out that The Nephew not only cuts his own hair, but cuts all of his buddies' hair at college, so I figured, "Hey, why not? He couldn't do worse. After all, Milo's a mutt. He doesn't have a 'prescribed' haircut." Right? Taylor has made me promise to give him one "free pass" to practice on Milo, and that's fair enough, so I said sure.

Anyway, I found these, quite reasonably priced.

Oooh! Ten pieces! Who knows, together, we might start a chic doggie haircut trend.

And finally, and let me tell you, I can't quite explain the glee this filled me with. I must have mentioned here before that I have found the perfect poo pick-up system for Milo. It's called Dispoz-A-Scoop, and is a little baggie on a wire that picks up the poo, a piece of cardboard closes the wire and the poo is contained in the bag. They're expensive, but for me, well worth it.

Well, I hadn't intended on buying Dispoz-A-Scoops this weekend, I was doing OK on them, but as I rounded a curve on my way to look at fur clippers, I saw - a gigantic box of Scoops. And when I say gigantic, I mean, 250 in a big ol' box. I checked the price, and it was $30. It was regularly a $70 price. Well, I almost peed myself right there in the PetSmart, which is OK, I guess, since dogs do it, but I scooped (sorry) that box up and put it right in my cart, which was getting pretty crowded.

All I can glean from this value is that maybe PetSmart is phasing out carrying my friend the Dispoz-A-Scoop, but at least now I have a nice large surplus while I look for them online.

A trip through the checkout and a large sum of money expended, and I loaded everything in the car and headed for R'noke. Got to the airport right on time, found a parking spot facing the main terminal, and all the DeepFatFrair had to do was walk right out of the building and he was at my car.

We had a nice drive home, and the Frair nicely offered to take me out to dinner, but Saturday was also Graduation Day at Virginia Tech. We figured there wouldn't be an empty dinner table for miles, so we rainchecked it, stopped at Mr M's to pick up Milo, and headed back to his house.

I'm still holding my raincheck, Friar. Sal's, the next time we meet.

Happy week.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Trash duty's already done. I love it when trash duty's already done.