Dog Bites Can

Yesterday morning I came home early from Copper with Piper the Dog. I had a riding lesson I did not want to miss. Laurence and the boys remained in the mountains to ski for a few more hours before returning for their piano lessons late in the afternoon.

I drove straight to the barn and parked. I did look around for horses before letting Piper out of the van but I did not look for the resident peacock. I turned to get her leash and heard the most god-awful racket. I turned and there was my dog barking and jumping in the air as the peacock, clucking away like you wouldn't believe, flew over her head to the roof of the barn. I couldn't believe how large a bird a peacock is with his wings extended. He came within inches of smacking Piper (deservedly) in the head with his claws. She didn't care. She was pretty impressed with herself. The bird continued complaining loudly for another fifteen minutes.

Needless to say, back in the van went the dog. After my lesson (which went well, thank you very much) I drove to lunch with a couple of other people. (If you must know we went to Subway, I had turkey on wheat.) I had driven my van and when I got back in there was a very odd smell. Piper was doing her best to look nonchalant which was a dead giveaway. I went to the back of the van and looked through the stuff I'd brought back from Copper. There it was, the half eaten can of dog food I'd packed under everything in the laundry basket (my favorite way to pack going back and forth from the mountains) so Piper wouldn't get it sitting right next to the basket. She did a pretty good job keeping everything in the basket tidy, if the smell and can hadn't been right there I wouldn't have realized her thievery.

Very little was left in the can and truly I was not too upset with her. I know her well enough to know what she is capable of and should have stowed the food better. What horrified me was the condition of the can. It had holes punctured in it everywhere. I grabbed Piper and immediately looked at her gums and in her mouth and her tongue. No cuts or blood anywhere. I could not believe it. She should have been shredded. She did not even attempt to eat the kibble in the zip-loc bag.

Someone seeing the can remarked, "Good thing it wasn't an arm." I was horrified all over again. It is unbelievable what damage a dog can do with their teeth.

I scolded Piper and told her how lucky she was not to be injured. She yawned and remained unrepentant.

Dance Recital

Sunday was the dance recital of my four-year-old goddaughter. This was her very first performance ever. Let me just say right away she was completely adorable. With her red-striped dress with a flared skirt and pill box hat (my husband said it reminded him of a cigarette-girl uniform) and her hair pulled back in a very curly pony tail she hardly needed her dimples to make you just look at her and say, "Isn't she just the cutest little thing ever!"

This was also my first exposure to dance recitals. (For all of you who cannot believe my friend dragged me to her daughter's dance recital, let me tell you, I volunteered. I volunteered despite the fact that I have been attending my own children's piano recitals for ten years. I had a good idea what I was in for.) The recital was staged at Denver University's Newman Center, a very nice place for a recital. Luckily, my friend got good seats for us a few rows back from the stage and in the center. If it weren't for the woman with the large head in front of me, it would have been perfect. (OK, I need to say this, the woman several seats over from me was a complete boor. The first dancers are on the stage, lovely pre-teen girls, smiling and balleting away and this woman stands halfway up and is wildly waving her arms at her husband who now has to squeeze past us and who knows how many other people, to get to his seat. Then, not one minute later, she does it again! I could not believe it, I don't even know who she was waving at the second time because I was so annoyed. And it is not like they didn't know where their seats were, it was printed on the tickets they needed to get into the performance. Jerks. I feel a little better now.)

The next performers were the two and three-year-old set. I'm not sure this age group should stage public performances. Not that they weren't cute and all, they were, but really, their arms barely reach over their heads and they were always a movement or two behind their teachers who helpfully stood to each side and also danced. This I found very useful and reminiscent of the sign-language interpreters used at public speeches. By watching the teachers and then the students you could see what it was they were trying to achieve. Watching these little ones, half of whom looked confused and one or two more about to cry, I couldn't help but think that perhaps waiting a year or two before putting them onstage might be the kind thing to do.

A few groups later the four-year-olds came on. My little goddaughter looked very happy and relaxed (as did most of this group, in stark contrast to the younger girls). She looked out at the audience and spotted her mother. Her face lit up and she stopped dancing and gave a big wave. Of course, all of us waved right back. She then returned her attention to her teacher/interpreter and danced. Quite well I'd say. Certainly better than most of the others. I'm pretty sure she has star potential.

Her group made a second appearance toward the end of the recital. They looked just as cute as before. In between were various types of dancing groups. Some of the children appeared in several dances, each requiring a different costume. I couldn't help but try to calculate how much money that added up to. Predictably all the dancers were girls except for two boys. The boys danced quite well. I realized that perhaps this was because they were the only boys. If you are going to stand out you really need to work hard to not embarrass yourself. Of particular note were the five teenage ballerinas. They were very graceful and serene. It was quite soothing to watch them. The show stopper came at the very end with the various age groups tapping away and enjoying themselves hugely. It made me want to take lessons immediately (which may have been the point.)

After the hour and a half (!) of dancing we met up with my goddaughter in the lobby. We took lots of pictures of her and gave her flowers and she seemed very happy. Only six months till her next recital.

My New Office

A week or two ago I decided that the playroom in the basement, which the boys no longer use, would make a great office for myself. My desk sat in an open space at the bottom of the stairs from the first floor. Also sharing the space is our second fridge and a tread mill (which really does get used, if sporadically.) Shelves and an armoir (in which I keep office stuff) contributed to the claustrophobia. Taking over the playroom would almost double my space.

My idea to put nothing in my new office that I did not want permanently (like the barn red old wood shelves) was quickly dashed for two reasons. The first was everything would not fit in my old office space and the second was I actually needed the shelf space and it wouldn't be until after New Years before I could even think of shopping for new stuff. So now began the giant puzzle of moving furniture from the toy room (an air hockey table, a different set of barn red shelving, various toys and games) to my space and vice versa. And of course, shelves and desks and cabinets cannot be moved with stuff in or on them. My basement looked like everything had exploded, paper and notebooks and dismantled air hockey table parts and books and toys and various semi completed projects everywhere. Mostly on the floor. (Remember, moving everything, so no available surface areas except the floor and the occasional chair.) Only the guest room and bath were spared and only because my sister and her children arrive the day after Christmas (Yay!) and would need them.

I have finally arrived at the point where I have most of the stuff I need in my office actually in my office. Everything else is in the space it will live in. Except the stuff I just remembered that is sitting outside the guest room. Oh, and a bookshelf with the small tv and dvd player. And another small cabinet that I can't decide about. And there might be some other stuff I threw in the storage room. I guess I'll be moving all that later today.

Anyway, when that part is done I feel Phase One will have been completed. Phase Two then begins. Phase Two means going through all the boxes of paper and things that I have stacked in their respective spaces. All the items on the floor (and occasional chair) I just threw into boxes and laundry baskets to sort out later. The bad news is I have a double digit number of boxes and baskets in my office, the good news is I only have to go through it one container at a time. I'm also expecting to get rid of a lot of stuff in Phase Two. (Some stuff has already gone to Goodwill and been thrown out, but that was just the screamingly obvious. Toys for the 5-9 year old crowd (boys are now 13 and 15), books I read and hated, old zoo magazines I was going to read.) Now I have to really look at everything. (If anyone has a good way to tackle this part of the project I'm open to ideas. The main idea is to keep the office functional while sorting through chaos. Leave a comment. Please!!) This phase could take anywhere from a few weeks to several years.

Phase Three will be more fun. The room needs painting due to lots of scuff marks on the walls and a few holes where some pictures hung. Then I have some pictures to get framed and hung and a dog bed (for Piper, of course) to get and a comfy chair for the corner, shelves to replace the red monstrosity and who knows what all. I'll see when I get there.

For those of you who would like to see pictures of this mess, you will be disappointed. I do have some pride.

Later.

Thanksgiving 2010

We traveled to my parents’ house in Rhode Island for Thanksgiving this year. We flew Southwest and had an extremely uneventful journey.

We picked up the boys at school on Tuesday and headed for the airport. It would have been close, but our flight was conveniently delayed about forty minutes and we had plenty of time to eat and get through security. Security (and I know you all are hoping for a story here) took about five minutes. Very few people in the line in late afternoon and they had extra workers. Walked right through. None of us were selected for the super special security and simply had to go through the regular machines. I did get a slight pat down due to my bulky sweater, but the woman could not have been more polite. My hair got a quick check, too. No drama, nothing. A bit of a let down after watching the news.

We made up most of our delay time in the air and landed in Boston only a few minutes behind. And let me say something to Southwest here. Ditch your boarding process. I like having an assigned seat, I don’t mind sitting with my family, who cares if your system is more efficient than anyone else’s (or maybe you just think it is, it did not seem a whole lot faster to me.) Points though for having a bit of leg room. I did have a center seat, but since I could move my legs it wasn’t too bad. (Also had a good seat mate. It turns out she had lived in Washington, DC a year or two ago and it was good to compare notes. Happily, my favorite restaurant, El Tamarindo, is still there and the salsa is just as good as ever.)

Actual Thanksgiving dinner was awesome, turkey was good, lots of gravy and stuffing, green bean casserole (yes, the kind made with cream of mushroom soup and those canned onion ring thingees, yum, yum) and much more. My brothers were there with their wives and kids (two each) so it was a nice size gathering.

To those who love a good fight, no drama. I pat myself on the back for this because, really, I had to exercise great restraint when it turned out that my first-grade niece, Katie, not only loves the dark turkey meat (I'm used to having it mostly to myself), but also thinks that banana cream pie is the best dessert ever. The fact that I did not pull rank and snag the last piece for myself instead of allowing her and Harrison (my traitorous son) to eat it speaks volumes. (I am not a dessert person and only like banana cream pie and chocolate pie (which my mother did not make) which just highlights more of my self-sacrificing nature.)

Our return trip was a touch less grueling because we drove back to Newton, MA and stayed overnight with Laurence's brother, Ed, and his family. The next day we flew out of Logan in the early afternoon (again no lines in security) and made it home on time. Our trusty dog, Piper, was delighted to see us and proceeded to whine and yip and tell us all about her time with Karen (our friend who housesits while we're away) and the Goldens (Karen's two golden retrievers, Naia and Finn.) It's good to be welcomed home.

Teenage Moment

Tonight at dinner I was a bit taken aback by Stephen's approach to reading "The Kite Runner." (Stephen is a high-school freshman.) Apparently to make the school assignment more fun he would substitute certain words in his head for those in the text. Amir (the main character) became Avatar, Kabul became Pandora, and money became unobtainium. I hope he doesn't mix them up on the test.

This and That

Today I am in Panera's in Cherry Creek working. Well, I have spent 90 minutes trying different things to make my blog look better. I have come to the conclusion that I need more computer skills than I have or want to make my blog look great. I may have to ask for help.

I do know more pictures would be a start, so I will have to either start taking photos or raid Laurence's computer for them. Any other ideas for my blog improvement project would be welcome.

So, I'm at Panera's, near the fake fire (because it is the warmest spot in the restaurant) and trying to work. I have no ideas for today, well, I do have ideas, I just don't feel like writing about any of them. (Truly, do you really want to read about my children's piano recital? Other than they played brilliantly, better than any other children have ever played before, there is not much to tell.) I have refilled my ice tea twice, just so I can walk around and waste time. For the record, it seems to be card playing day. Lots of meetings, too. People working on computers. It's very inspiring. I think I could get quite a bit of writing done, if I could only think of something.

I would have been at the barn this morning, riding my faithful steed, Raymond, except he twisted a shoe. The farrier I use is at some horse show for the week, so unless another farrier happens to be at the barn, Ray gets to hang out in his stall and chomp hay all week. (For those of you who know horses, I (and by I, I mean my trainer, Rebecca) have removed the offending shoe so he won't tear up his hoof.) Ray messed up his front shoe, but it seems if it had been a back shoe, both back shoes could be removed and I could ride him. I think. I have no idea why no back shoes are OK, but no front shoes are not.

I discovered his twisted shoe yesterday right before our jumping lesson. Luckily for me, but not for Tracy (who was driving a parent to a doctor's appointment), she couldn't ride and I borrowed her horse, Summer. This was very fun. She (Summer, not Tracy) is a small bay thoroughbred. Very ladylike. (Come to think of it Tracy is ladylike, too.) She (again, Summer) is very light and just sails over jumps. We jumped cross rails. (Which look exactly like they sound, two rails crossed in the middle. The only thing lower than a cross rail is a pole on the ground. We started with poles.) I know, not hugely challenging, unless you are a beginner, having irrational jumping fears, or are riding your friend's horse for the first time and are worried about breaking her. (If you must know, I have experienced all three situations.) Summer did great and I did not injure or frighten her a bit.

Tomorrow, in keeping with my blog improvements, I will take pictures of Ray and Summer and add them to this post.

Later.

Update: Finally added a picture of Summer to this post.

Mondrian vs van Doesburg

In October we took advantage of a school break and went to New York City. There Laurence and I tortured the boys with trips to various museums and cultural happenings. One of the places we visited was the Guggenheim, the museum designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.

For those of you who have never visited the museum, it is a giant spiral. From the atrium it looks pretty cool (it reminded me of the Baltimore Aquarium which spirals around a giant fish tank), and it's fun to walk up the ramp and into the various short halls that lead into the different galleries. Stephen and Harrison were very enthusiastic and came up with all sorts of "Call of Duty" (a video game where you hunt aliens in various settings) scenarios that could take place in it.

One of the small galleries contained an exhibit by some artist. (Honestly, I have no idea what the artist's name is. I am new to this blogging and failed to bring a notebook to write down this type of thing. I figured I could look it up on the internet, but it turns out you need more info than "some artist at the Guggenheim". I don't even know if it was a temporary or permanent exhibit. Or which level it was on, which is a problem with the ramp. Or even the artist's gender. Anyway, I'll try to do better in the future, because, of course, you are dying to know the name of this artist.) We entered and it was like a library, complete with bookshelves and books, which you could take down and read. (No, I don't remember what the books titles were or what they were about.) Part of the exhibit was roped off and it had a table and chairs, more shelves, and shattered glass (fake it turns out) all over the place.

I have no idea what it meant or what it referred to. I do know the explanatory sign made a reference to the split between Piet Mondrian and Theo van Doesburg over their views regarding diagonal versus horizontal and vertical lines. (Please just think about that for a moment. Even if you are a serious student of art, the absurdity of it has to get you.)

These two Dutch artists became friends after van Doesburg wrote an article about an exposition for a magazine. (Apparently he could not make a living simply painting.) The exposition contained some works by Mondrian and van Doesburg was transported, or at least interested enough to contact Mondrian. They corresponded for years, then van Doesburg moved to Paris where Mondrian lived. They hung out together a great deal until "van Doesburg insisted on the diagonal's dynamic aspects." (Wikipedia) This proved too much for Mondrian, who loved the grid format, and the friendship ended. (No worries, it was only temporary. You do have to wonder, though, if they remained close.)

Above is a picture by Theo van Doesburg titled "Counter-Composition XIV." I do not have a Mondrian for comparison because he died in 1944 and his works are not yet in the public domain. (He must be dead for 70 years, so check back in 2014 and I'll have one posted.) This is not as big a problem as you might expect. Simply tilt your computer 45 degrees and you'll have an idea of what a Mondrian looks like.

Initiated Ordinance 300

I know I was going to write about our trip to New York City, but yesterday I was happily reading through my voters' blue book and filling out my cheat sheet for voting (we have lots of candidates and propositions this midterm) when I got to the last item. Initiated Ordinance 300. That was it. No text, no explanation, no summary, no pros and cons, nothing. I had to find my sample ballot to find the text.

Shall the voters for the City and County of Denver adopt an Initiated Ordinance to require the creation of an extraterrestrial affairs commission to help ensure the health, safety, and cultural awareness of Denver residents and visitors in relation to potential encounters or interactions with extraterrestrial intelligent beings or their vehicles, and fund such commission from grants, gifts and donations?

I realize that your first question on reading this is, "What's an Initiated Ordinance?" Lucky for you I looked this up. Apparently it is simply an ordinance that has been placed on the ballot by voters in the City and County of Denver.

And yes, this is really on the ballot.

The ordinance was written and the signatures collected by Jeff Peckman, a writer for the internet publication, Examiner.com. He, apparently, believes in UFOs and believes that we need to pester the government for full disclosure on the subject. A few years ago he managed to get an initiative on the ballot that would "require the city to help ensure public safety by increasing peacefulness." A lovely idea, but it failed at the polls.

On looking this up on the internet, because shockingly, with all the political ads and discussion on tv, radio and in the papers of everything ballot oriented, I somehow missed this ordinance, I found a few articles. Most, if not all, seem to be highly dismissive of the initiative and some appear to be a bit angry. They complain about the waste of taxpayers' money. They mock the idea of UFOs and basically write Mr. Peckman off as a crackpot. They seem to think Denver may not be taking things seriously enough. None of them seem to have read the ordinance very closely.

The commission, made up of seven members, would not use taxpayer money. It would be funded by grants and donations. If you don't approve of it, you don't have to contribute to it.

It also has a very Denver slant. Not only would health and safety be ensured, but so would cultural awareness. We are a very culturally aware city. When Denver International Airport was built a portion of its construction costs were earmarked for art. (And a good thing, because now we have a ginormous blue rearing mustang with scary red eyes guarding the road into and out of the airport complex.) We also have a large blue bear staring into the window of the Convention Center. And in front of the Denver Performing Arts Complex we have several very tall, very elongated dancers. Many people think they resemble aliens of the extraterrestrial sort. So you see, we have a history of art and aliens.

The cultural clause also protects our distinctive Denver culture in case of any overbearing extraterrestrial influx of alien culture. (I'm thinking the equivalent situation would be us and Canada. They do have certain laws regarding movie and tv production to ensure a distinctly Canadian viewpoint. A reaction to the rather overbearingness of our own culture.) I for one would not like to see the tradition of displaying the winning steer of the National Western Stock Show in the lobby of the historic Brown Palace come to an end. Nor the annual stampede through downtown. If the aliens turn out to be vegetarians, this could become an issue. Also, if they are pacifists expect some protests outside of Invesco Field during Broncos games and the Pepsi Center during Avalanche games.

A particularly farsighted portion of the initiative has been completely overlooked. It makes me wonder if those who commented on this live anywhere near a city or have even visited one. "...interactions with extraterrestrial intelligent beings or their vehicles" (emphasis mine) is the pertinent phrase in all this. For those of you who remember when John Hickenlooper was first elected mayor, this was one of his campaign issues. Not alien vehicles, but parking in the city, which is better, but still not great. Any added vehicles could only make things worse. We can hardly assume that our cars and trucks would work for whatever body type these extraterrestrials might have. What if the ETs have car equivalents wider than a hummer? Or longer than a pickup? Would all our parking and roads have to accommodate these larger dimensions? What if they are so tiny our SUVs (highly popular around here) just run right over them without seeing them? Or all our traffic signs need to be lowered so they can see them in their short vehicles? These are not small issues. Car logistics in a city are complicated enough without introducing a radical new style of vehicle and driver. With the arrival of extraterrestrials this will require a great deal of thought and care. Best to start now.

So you see, even with all these great ideas embodied in Initiated Ordinance 300 I'm still undecided if I should vote for this or not. My teenage boys think I should, they love this ordinance, but I am a citizen and I take my voting seriously. Really, what are the chances of extraterrestrials arriving here anytime soon? And even then, they'll probably head to New York City, or Shanghai, or London (hopefully not Pyongyang.) We'll have plenty of time to legislate something then. We have enough regulations and commissions now and while it probably won't pass, what if it does? If this were a constitutional amendment (of which we have many) this would be easy, we have enough amendments that should not be amendments, so no. But it's just an ordinance...so it's tempting.

To get an initiative on the ballot it takes at least 3,973 valid signatures from registered Denver voters. The initiative's website claims it collected over 10,000. This means that at least 10,000 people in Denver, valid and registered, feel that we need to have a commission on extraterrestrial affairs. Or at least feel we need to vote on it. Or that with all the rancor in the election right now we need something to smile about. It is the last item on the ballot, the last thing you see after voting on a close senate race, a three way run for governor, some confusing and angry propositions and other assorted contests. You see it and the sheer unexpectedness of it, the silliness of it, the optimism of it reminds you that we live in a wondrous world and a country of limitless possibilities and that with a little foresight and planning we really can live together well and harmoniously. And maybe even find a parking space. And that, at least, is something to vote yes on.

New Post Coming Soon

Sorry for the lapse in posts. (Notice how I am assuming there exists a vast and demanding readership for my blog?) My life recently has been busy and not so exciting. The family has been settling into our school year routine. This always takes more time and energy than you would think. (Or maybe it's me. I'm not good with change.)

Anyway, we just went to New York City for a few days and I will be writing about that. I just wanted to write and post this to make sure my site still works and that I haven't forgotten how to type.

Writing to you soon,

Michele

Anime

Last weekend was the Nan Desu Kan (Japanese for "What is it?) I attended with my eighth grader, Harrison, his friend, Nick, and Nick's father, Louis. For those of you not in the know, this was an anime convention. Anime being Japanese animated films and television shows. Think Pokemon. (Which you can regard as a kind of gateway drug for American children to the addiction that is anime.) The movie, "Spirited Away" (about a ten-year old girl who must deal with spirits and monsters before her parents, who have been turned into pigs, are returned to normal) by director Hayao Miyazaki, is a good mainstream example of the genre. Much of anime comes from manga. (This would be the Japanese version of comic books.) Certain video games also see to come under the anime umbrella, at least for convention purposes.

Anime consists of a great deal of fantasy, apparently much of it connected to Japanese mythology. I would not really know about that because while I wanted to sit in on the discussion of Japanese mythology as it is used in anime, Nick and Harrison voted for the improvisation troupe in the ballroom. (While everyone in the improv audience seemed to be having a great time, laughing and volunteering and yelling out stuff, I found it pretty much incomprehensible.) I thought of pulling rank and forcing the issue, but, really, I was only there to keep an eye on the boys. Next year, however, I may not be so nice.

So, the convention took place at the Denver Tech Center Marriott. The place was packed with people, more males than females, most of whom (and I'm talking an 80% or more, most, not a measly 51% most) wore costumes. Nick and Harrison did not due to the fact that ours was a last minute decision and they did not have time to assemble one. They were, however, thrilled to see all the people dressed up and would nudge each other and point, "There's Haruhi!". "Oh look! See? There's Grimmjow!" (Not to mention Soi Fan and Chiyo Chan's father, who is apparently a cat.) Many had dyed hair and a few had outsized, odd-colored contact lenses. Robes and samurai swords were popular. There was a character with an outsized shovel strapped to her back, but I was informed that it was really a spatula. I also saw a character from ghost busters (Louis assures me it was a cartoon show for a while, so it had a tenuous connection) and Hit-Girl (from the movie "Kick A**" which started life as a comic book.) School girl costumes abounded.

Now before you get all weirded out, the demographics for the convention run to the highschool and college age crowd. There were a few younger kids, but they tended to be accompanied by a parent. You could spot the parents by the dazed, "I really should be paying more attention to what my child is into", look in their eyes. The school girl costumes also probably deserve some explanation. In much of anime, at least the stuff I've seen, the heroes and heroines seem to be school age. They wear uniforms in Japan, hence if your favorite character is Haruhi Suzumiya, you need to wear a uniform.

Nick and Harrison loved every minute of it. My only objection is that they continuously roamed about the convention, not really settling on anything. I felt like I was trailing a pair of sharks. We were there seven and a half hours. The boys complained it was too short, but Louis and I were exhausted. I did promise Harrison we could attend next year's and stay longer. I'm not sure why I said that. At least I did not completely lose my head and say we'd go all three days.

Some favorite moments from the Nan Desu Kan:

We went to eat lunch at Wendy's, just outside the hotel. Amid all the people dressed in anime attire was the familiar red and white striped shirt and red cap. A teenage girl approaches the young man and says, "Waldo! I've been looking for you my whole life!"

In the room for the merchandise vendors it is very noisy. Lots of talking and laughing and buying and selling and packed with people. The loudspeaker comes on and immediately all the attendees stop talking, as only those in school or recently out of school have been trained to do. The speaker announces several names and finishes with, "Please go to the front desk, your parents are waiting for you." A collective "Ahhh!" goes up, laughter and then an instant return to previous noise levels.

Also in the vendor room, we pass an Asian woman with a stroller that contains a small dog in it. The woman sneezes and a teenager (blonde and blue-eyed) walking past breezily calls out, "Odaiji ni!" Which means bless you.

Golf

This Labor Day weekend Laurence and I and the boys went golfing. First let me say right now, I do not like golf. I don't understand a sport that needs a dress code. Nor do I think it is fair that if you take a swing and miss, it counts as a stroke. Especially for me. It's not like my score is a threat to anyone. And what about all the practice swings everyone else takes? Why don't those count?

Anyway, we went golfing. Our tee time was for a little after four in the afternoon. No one was scheduled to follow us. Laurence showed great far-sightedness in this. We took almost two hours to do five holes. Seriously. I shudder to think what would have happened with any real golfers behind us. We had to quit when it became too dark to see.

We did have fun, though. We played by the family rules, as opposed to the official rules. Our rules are way better. You can swing at the ball as many times as you want. If you hit a bad shot off the tee you can have a mulligan. Or two. If you get completely frustrated you can simply throw the ball as far as you can. If your shots are so bad you are sinking into the sandtrap of despair you can pick the ball up and start over at the next tee. Or you can just plop it on the green and putt. We putt in reverse order, closest to the hole goes first. It is much more efficient. And no one ever has to pick up their ball. (Thus eliminating untold opportunities to hurl accusations of cheating.) You never have to write a number on the score card higher than ten. You don't even have to write down your score. We try to keep it relaxed.

Laurence did well. He will never admit it, though. I think golfers are not allowed to acknowledge a good game because if they do the golf gods will curse them and their swing will immediately implode. I, on the other hand, regularly denigrate the golf world and so have no fear of the golf gods. If I have a good game, I will shout it from the rooftops.

That said, I had an awesome four and a half holes! (I omit the second half of the fifth hole because I could not see a thing.) All five holes were under ten strokes. Three holes took only six strokes. (No, the half hole was not one of them.) So you know how significant this is, in nine holes I am extremely lucky if two come in under ten. And I do mean lucky. I have no skills that apply to golf. Except walking. I am very good at walking. Unfortunately, walking does not make the ball go straight or very far. In fact, the rules seem to frown on walking while hitting the ball. You can see how this might limit me. Nevertheless, I did extremely well. Whether I will do well again, remains to be seen.

Stephen and Harrison had a good time because we let them drive the carts. Stephen took it seriously and drove quite well. Harrison had to be banned for a hole or two and then I only let him drive at about three miles per hour. Within two years they will both be driving. My hair has already begun to turn white.

Weather permitting I am sure Laurence will be dragging me out onto the course again. I'll let you know how it goes.

Blogs

This week I researched the blogosphere for ideas and direction. I had hesitated to do this before because I did not want to be discouraged by finding blogs similar to what I had in mind, nor by the superior writing skills of those in the ether.

I have to admit, my research was not extensive. I devoted maybe two hours to it. However, I did find out a few interesting things. The most relevant one, as far as I'm concerned, was that in the personal blog category (where I fit) the quality of writing was good, but nothing to be afraid of. (Here I cannot overemphasize that I looked at very few blogs. I am sure there are amazing, overwhelmingly soaring personal blogs out there, I simply did not do enough hunting to uncover them. Why would I? I'm not comfortable enough with this blogging thing to tell more than five people, let alone compare myself to some closet Edith Wharton.)

I did find a blog that made me smack my head on the table. Mommy Needs Coffee. (mommyneedscoffee.com) I went to a blog she'd written about Stephanie Plum novels (Misbehaving, Plotting and Sneaking My Plums) because I am reading one now. Her blog was funny, personable and concise. I refused to read anymore lest I lose heart but I recommend it to anyone else.

I felt safer exploring the blogs that have a gimmick. I love gimmicks, but do not have one myself. Julie and Julia began as a gimmick blog (The Julie/Julia Project at salon.com). Julie would cook all the recipes in the Julia Child cookbook within one year.

One I discovered months ago and periodically visit is cakewrecks.blogspot.com. It consists mostly of pictures of disastrous baked goods. I think this one particularly resonates with me because I am not a dessert person. Sweet things do not appeal to me. Living in a society that practically worships perfectly prepared sumptuous confections I get a bit nauseated at the sheer number of food magazine covers and cooking shows devoted to baked goods. For heaven's sake, even my subscription to Cooking Light showcases desserts on its cover. How Cooking Light can even justify devoting any reporting space at all, let alone an entire section each month, to dessert is beyond me. But you get my drift. Pictures of horrible cakes cheer me up.

A new one I found while out exploring is called 365 Days of Decluttering (365daysofdecluttering.blogspot.com). The premise is that every day for a year you get rid of something. I loved the initial premise and I hoped to hear about some oddities and pitfalls that occurred, but it seems a very tame and sincere effort to rid the blogger's life of crap and to help you do the same. Another blog along similar lines is guynameddave (guynameddave.com). He has a 100 Thing Challenge. He is trying to reduce his life down to 100 personal possessions (underwear does not count).

If you would like a more thorough website for getting your life under control go to Flylady.net. Marla Cilley is Flylady and she is funny and warm. Her refrain of "BabySteps!", although I have not visited her site in over a year, still resounds in my mind. (It is also why I feel a blog with five maybe readers is better than no blog at all.)

Pet blogs seem to be a trend. I looked at a few. They contain many pictures and not much writing. I don't find these very appealing, although some people do have very cute pets. I love my two pets, Piper the Dog, and Raymond the Horse, but I am not sure they do enough interesting things to be able to write about them every week.

A final category I noticed had to do with the blogger's personal demographic. Gay man, black woman, disabled veteran, to name a few. I glanced at one or two of these and the blogs did not seem to be inherently different than the other blogs. I think the label is simply to make them stand out from the crowd. As a white middle-aged female I will not be going that route anytime soon.

So, my research did reveal some paths I could take with this and some different approaches to blogging. I will be including some posts about my pets, which I would have done anyway, but now I know that pictures are critical to the animal blogs. (This will entail my learning to download pictures from Laurence's camera to my blog. Do not expect anything anytime soon.) I will also try to carve out a unique demographic from my bland background (I am an eighth Native American, though you'd never know it, so there may be a hook there.) And a gimmick, I really, really, really want a gimmick.

Mostly, I will just write and try to entertain.

Note: If you click on "View My Complete Profile" you will find links to some of the blogs I mentioned.

"Lost" Wallet

Today did not start out too badly. Katia came to clean. I love Katia. Without her my house would not function. However, the boys have not started school yet, unlike the rest of the state. (I know, everyone else starts after Labor Day, but here in Colorado August seems like a good idea.) I dragged everyone, dog included, to Panera's for breakfast so we would be out from underfoot and Katia would have a sporting chance against our house's mess.

Later in the morning Laurence, my husband, took Stephen to the orthodontist. I left for my horseback riding lesson and Harrison promised to stay out of Katia's way. I had some stuff I should have done before leaving (laundry, see previous post), but I figured I had plenty of time later that afternoon.

I headed out to the barn and on the way realized that I had only eaten half a bagel with cream cheese and the skinny half at that. And I had forgotten the banana sitting on the counter that I meant to eat at the barn. And lunch would be very late, because my lesson started at noon. Luckily, there is a McDonald's between the house and the barn.

Now I faced a dilemma. Do I stop at McDonald's and get some fries (very bad for my cholesterol, but great from the calories to burn perspective) or just bag it and continue on my way and hope we finish the lesson before I hit rock bottom blood sugar wise? Since I can't stand feeling weak and hungry (and I love McDonald's fries, and, really, this is actually a valid excuse, really) I went for the McDonald's. I parked the car and went into the restaurant.

Fueled up I headed for the barn. Right before I get there, Tracy, (who would also be riding) called and wanted to know if I had passed McDonald's yet because she needed a diet Coke. (Her issue today was not calories, she had a sandwich, but caffeine.) Since I was listening to the "Stuff You Missed in History" podcast and they were discussing famous battle horses (Traveller, Robert E Lee's horse, was originally named Jeff Davis) I told her I'd just go to the one a few blocks up and bring a soda back. No problem, I'm thought, because I was actually a little early.

I got to the barn and had to listen to the end of the podcast because they had just gotten to Caligula's horse, Incittatus, and, really, who could have left before hearing all about that?

I went in the barn and the first thing I'm told was that Raymond, my chestnut (red to you non-horsey people, sorrel to you Western riders), had thrown a front shoe. I could ride Patrick, Norman or Max, all school horses. Now Patrick has short leds and a bumpy ride so he was out. Norman has the biggest jump I've ever seen and requires spurs, a crop and legs of steel to move out of a trot. I don't mind the hard work, but his jump scares me, so I passed on him. This left Max. Lovable, bay colored, warhorse-looking Max. Easy choice.

I saddled Max and then it occurred to me that a perfectly good farrier was shoeing a horse right there on the premises! I went and found Rebecca, my trainer, to check out farrier etiquette (can I ask another farrier to fix my horse's shoe or do I have to call my own?) I got the go ahead, asked the farrier how much to fix a shoe, got my checkbook from the car and then had to stand holding my horse while he had nails pounded into his foot. By then the lesson had started, I had one saddled horse and one being fixed. I debated putting Max back and saddling Ray but figured it would take too long. Ray got fixed and put back in his stall (to his relief) and Max got led to the arena where Desiree and Tracy were already working.

I got on and immediately realized I perhaps should have opted for sluggish, dependable Raymond. The lightest touch and away we went. I thought I sat quietly while I rode, but apparently not. Suffice it to say that for the first half of the lesson we looked drunk while we careened back and forth as I kept overcorrecting with my legs, and lurching forward and back as I kept overcorrecting with my hands and seat. The second half of the lesson consisted of my digging my fingers into his mane every time we approached a jump and saying to myself, "Do not move, do not move, do not move." By the end I was drenched in sweat and thoroughly nerve wracked. Max seemed to have just warmed up.

By the time Max was back in his stall happily munching hay it was after two o'clock. Great, it was late, but I still had plenty of time to go to the grocery store, get home and work on my ToDo List. Except, when I got to the store, which, by the way is almost all the way home, I could not find my wallet. By then it was after three. At least I couldn't find the wallet before I went shopping.

First stop, McDonald's. They didn't have it, which I already knew because I distinctly remembered carrying it back into the car after buying my fries, but how pissed would I have been if I had gone all the way to the barn and then had found it at McDonald's? I got back in the car and after leaving the parking lot I realized I really should have scraped some change together and gotten a soda because I was really thirsty and running on fumes. I didn't have the energy for frustrated rage and had to settle for starving martyr to my stupidity.

I finally made it to the barn and went into the tack room. After moving aside some saddle pads and other debris I found my wallet which I distinctly remember not taking into the barn. Figuring I was already there I went looking for Emily, my favorite horsey teenager, to see if she would ride Raymond since he missed his lesson. Immediately she wanted to know if I was the one who had messed up Max's bridle and left a note signed, Thanks, Max. Of course it was me, I had to switch out the bits earlier because the one the good riders use is large and heavy and gives me the heebie jeebies. My hands are just not good enough to use it without banging his mouth. Then I could not figure out how to put it back onto the bridle correctly. Tracy, at the time, had helpfully pointed out I should have taken a picture of it before dismantling it. Thanks. Anyway, Emily promised to ride Raymond later.

Headed back, now in heavier, going home traffic. Cursed the grocery store as I drove past and eventually reached home, more than two hours after I finished my lesson and too aggravated to deal with anything.

We'll be going out to eat tonight and then I'll watch TV and then I'll go to bed and tomorrow will be better.

Laundry

Today I went downstairs to do a load of whites because Stephen, our fourteen year old, needs white t-shirts for soccer practice. Imagine my surprise to see mounds of laundry to do. It's not like I didn't do laundry last week, I did. I just didn't finish the laundry. And that leads to the question, how could I forget to finish doing laundry? I have no idea. It happens sometimes, usually without warning.

Not to be too psychoanalytical about it, but I believe it occurs because not so deep-down I hate doing laundry. The only thing I like about laundry is when it is finished and my laundry room is nice and tidy. Of course, this feeling is usually marred by the missed pair of underwear or socks that remain at the bottom of the laundry chute.

I know people who don't mind or even enjoy doing the washing. (My mother springs to mind here. Hard to believe because she is so normal otherwise.) I don't get it. I can't figure out which part they might actually like or why.

It can't possibly be the sorting part. Talk about stressful. I know to have a dark pile and a white pile. Easy enough with one pile full of anything white and one pile of anything black or really dark. The reds are obvious and easy. (And for you novices, yes, reds really do run and turn things pink. I have the underwear to prove it.) But wait, what about orange?

Then I get to the lights. What qualifies? Is the olive green shirt that has faded a bit a dark or a light? What about the really bright blue shorts? They are made from that nylony material so I could wash them with the lights or the darks with no harm. And the white bra, I want to put it in with the whites so it stays nice and bright, but I suspect the hot water and the bleach do a number on its elasticity. Then there are the jeans. Denim is hard on anything, do they deserve their own load? Is it okay to put the old tan towels in with the white ones occasionally so they can have a good bleaching? And God forbid anything reversible finds its way down the chute. Which side am I supposed to base my sorting decision on? The dark blue side, or the plaid side which contains no less than four colors (including red) on a white background?

Drying should be easier, but has its own issues. Towels and jeans can't be dried with anything other than themselves because they stay damp while everything else is dry. Then that white bra again, because maybe it's the heat of the dryer causing the problem. Should I put it on the drying rack? If I decide to do that how do I remember to pull it out when moving the laundry from washer to dryer? Sheets, due to their twisting and trapping of small items in their corners, must be done alone, although they can be washed with other things. And, of course, there is the perennial missing sock problem. Not to mention the fact that jeans get smaller in the waist the more often you dry them (ask anyone.)

Which all leads to sorting, which I do not actually dislike. I can sort clothes while watching TV or talking to someone. I can even assign it to the kids. This, however, assumes I have enough laundry baskets. It's not like I don't have laundry baskets, I believe I possess at least eight. They just seem to float away and fill themselves up with stuff.

The drawback of having enough baskets is that I like to divide the laundry up in them. The more categories, the better. On a good day Harrison's socks can have their very own basket. This leads to a log jam of partially full to full baskets at the bottom of the stairs waiting to go to the second floor to be put away. And there they sit. And sit. And sit.

You would think that having to move or step over baskets containing their clothing in order to go up the stairs would signal to certain people living in the house that perhaps they might pick one up and take it with them. Alas, you would think wrong. At least they have learned to come when they hear me winding up for a good scream.

The final step of laundry requires putting the stupid things away. The boys have reached that critical stage of development which allows them to do this. My husband, Laurence, however, lags in this skill. I once decided to not put his clothes away. They could, I thought to myself, sit in the laundry basket until they rotted. He did not appear to notice. This went on for weeks. I would fill his basket and he would root through it to find clothes to wear. Slowly his side of the closet emptied. Finally, I caved. I know, for women everywhere I should have been stronger, but I just could not stand it a moment longer. We have reached a compromise, though. I put away anything that needs hanging up and he leaves everything else in the laundry basket.

My only hope for the future is disposable clothing. Wear it once and then recycle it. I can't wait.