Good morning Boys and Girls.

Across the street this morning, a couple of houses down, a woman is setting up for a garage sale. Most garage sales around here seem to run Friday and Saturday, not Saturday and Sunday, but this morning, Sunday, there she is, getting things ready.

Yesterday, both she and her next-door neighbor had one, but so far today, I haven't seen her neighbor setting up. Maybe she will, though.

Yesterday, SweetLady was out at the store while I waited for a guy and his wife to come back here to pick up the rest of SweetLady's old bedroom set which we'd just sold on Craig's list. The buyers hadn't been able to fit it all into their mini-van in a single trip - not surprising as the stuff was big, bulky and heavy - so they took about half of it, and had just called to say they were on their way back to pick up the rest. I decided I had a few minutes, so I went across to peruse the two sales. I felt sort of funny about visiting the one; the one at the house closest to us; since I knew the "why" behind that particular garage sale.

I was immediately struck by the sorts of books for sale there. Usually, at at such affairs, I see old paperbacks; maybe a few best sellers and - almost always - heaps of self-help books that either did or did not do what they promised to do for the reader, but regardless had now been relegated to the "please get this crap out of my presence" boxes people put out at such sales, and with prices that tend to hover at around a quarter a pop.

Not here though. The books for sale at this garage sale spoke loudly about the man who'd owned them. Most were scholarly tomes on a variety of subjects; books on history, philosophy, science, as well as novels written in a few different languages. A beautiful collection of the works of Homer caught my eye and and I set them aside.

The mother of the woman holding the sale, elderly but spry, there to help out, asked me if I wanted a sack to put my books in. I declined, knowing I didn't have to go more than a couple of hundred feet. I thanked her and continued browsing.

Quite a few people milled around, and another couple of cars pulled up during those few minutes. I suppose it was because those of us who love garage sales begin to suffer withdrawal symptoms this time of year as their numbers dwindle down to nothing as winter approaches.

Then the woman who owns the house came out through the garage carrying an armload of other things she wanted to add to her tables, and I spoke to her for the first time in my life. "Hi", I said, "Lots of work, huh?" She looked to be about my age, pretty, but her tired eyes showed what she's endured over the last few months. "There's lots more to come out", she said. "I think I'll be bringing more out all day long." I smiled and nodded, and continued looking through a dead man's leftovers, feeling very strange.

About three months ago, her husband of many years killed himself, and right in front of her. He put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger, spraying his brains across the room and onto the walls and windows of their enclosed back porch.

I didn't hear the shot, but SweetLady and I were there that evening, out sitting on the glider in the back yard, and this poor woman's screams as she ran out the front door of her house got the attention of the whole neighborhood.

Crime scene tape surrounded the house for the next several hours in the aftermath of the suicide as police did their investigation, the situation complicated by the fact that the lady who lives directly across the street from us; a nurse; is a friend of the woman. She rushed over to help at the sound of the screams, and evidently, took the gun from the dead man's hand. It was a sensible act, since she wasn't sure he was dead right away and she needed to feel safe enough to do what she could to stop the bleeding - a futile effort, she soon realized - but by then, she'd touched that gun.

The police certainly understood she'd not been involved in the shooting, but for a while, it did muck up the situation as they performed their due-diligence.

As it happened, SweetLady's daughter, just seven years old, had been out with her Dad for a few hours that evening, and we called to ask him to keep her a while longer than had been scheduled. The scene was so chaotic, what with the coroner, ambulances and myriad police cars coming and going for a couple of hours, that if possible, we wanted to keep her from being exposed to the commotion. Frankly, we thought it would scare the hell out of her. Thankfully, in one of the only kind gestures I've seen from her ex since I've known SL, he agreed to keep their daughter an extra hour before dropping her off; something we truly appreciated.

So it was that, now, a couple of months after the man's death, his widow tried to get rid of some of the things that she needed to have gone from the house. As such, this wasn't a normal garage sale; the stuff wasn't refuse. Everything for sale there was of high quality, and, as I mentioned earlier, spoke to the education and taste of her now-dead husband, if not to the man's obvious depression, or whatever reason or reasons he used to justify taking his own life. This sale was about closure, I think; no, I'm sure. This was about this poor woman trying to get reminders of something terribly painful out of her house and, thus, out of her sight.

I wondered whether the people who drove up because of the signs at the end of the street advertising this late-fall sale would have picked up on the same thing. Probably not, I decided.

At some point, as I debated buying a perfectly good Coleman stove - unused, by the looks of it - half-kidding, I think, she asked me if I'd be interested in a piano. I said that indeed, I might be, and she took me into the house and showed me a beautiful Young-Chang baby grand. She hadn't even decided how much to ask for it, she said. Then she told me she'd probably want to leave it in place while the house is for sale, but that at some point, she'd definitely want to sell the piano. "It was my husband's, and he's since he's not on the planet any longer..." Her voice trailed off.

I realized she wasn't aware I knew about what had happened. She probably didn't even realize I was a neighbor; why should she? We'd never met, and the only time I'd really taken notice of her was that awful night as she stood on her lawn with her arms wrapped around herself, crying loudly. I introduced myself and asked her how she was doing with all this, feeling guilty that I hadn't come over to express my condolences much sooner. "It's been hard, I''ll bet," I said, weakly stating the obvious.

"It sucks," she said. "Some days are better than others, but," and she shook her head, "it just sucks." Tears came to her eyes, but she still smiled and I wanted to hug her. We talked a few more minutes and she told me that, really, she's not even sure she wants to sell the place. Some days she's absolutely sure she needs to move, and other days, the thought of leaving the home they built together sends her into panic attacks.

What a lousy, lousy deal.

I ended up buying eight books yesterday, and I'll probably go over again today too. I hope she sells everything she wants gone. This morning, I noticed she'd hung out a man's trench coat; leather, from the looks of it. I love trench coats, but I don't think I could buy that one even if it's in excellent shape, fits me perfectly and is priced at a dollar. I'd feel too weird wearing it.

I hope whoever buys it remains completely unaware of why it's available.


Be good to everyone.

Good morning Boys and Girls.

Got word yesterday that the wife of an old friend recently died of cancer. I'd lost touch with him a while ago, and now I feel crappy about that. I didn't know her well, but her husband was important in my life for a good long while, and I wish I'd stayed in touch better. I'll call him.

Last night, Connie, Dot and Terry came to dinner. Just before everyone arrived, I was outside relaxing. The food was pretty much done and ready to pull out of the oven - or, as was the case with the rolls, pop back in briefly just before mealtime - so I had a few minutes. I called my friend Bob from Hell to invite him to Thanksgiving Dinner here. We hadn't talked in a couple of months, and we did the three minute catch-up. He just got back from a two week California vacation, which explained why I hadn't gotten a hold of him the first time I called to invite him a week or so ago. He told me about Wanda, our friend's wife. -Sucks.

I remember my Mom telling me how shocked she was when people her own age started dying with what felt to her like semi-regularity; when it stopped being a shock to hear about the death of a peer due to something other than an accident. Seems she was about the same age I am now. I suppose it gets worse the older we get, but man oh man, it's not something to which I'm looking forward with relish. In a perfect world, I think we should even things out.. No one gets to live to above, say... how about eighty-five? And no one dies before they're at least seventy-five or so. Pretty cool idea, huh?

God? You listening? I hereby officially place this request in the cosmic suggestion box. See, that way, when we hit the magic seventy-five number, we're obliged to really appreciate each day as a bonus!

No? Bad idea? (I hear a voice, or more properly said,  I feel a voice...)

What, God? We're supposed to appreciate each day from the get-go? Come on. Really? -From the time we're aware that life is tenuous and finite? But, God, that means we're supposed to appreciate each day from the time we're what? -six or seven years old?

Holy moly. Sometimes that's hard to do, ya know?  I mean, God, we've got a lot to deal with, and yet you're telling me we should stop and remember this gift of life we've been given every single day?

Alright. Fine.

I'll work at it.


Be good to everyone.

Good morning Boys and Girls.

With the time change last weekend came the usual shake-up to my body-clock. Pretty sure I'm not alone in noticing the effects, though so far, I haven't talked with anyone about it this year. Yesterday afternoon, the dashboard clock in my van read 3:30, and the sun, though still high in the sky, didn't shine with the same sort of brightness it had just a month ago at that time. Then I realized the clock was still set to Michigan time - (hadn't been in the van since Saturday at some point) - and since I'm in Iowa, and the time had changed Saturday night/Sunday morning, it was really only 1:30 p.m. - a two hour difference. Wow.

Now, the way the sun looked, and the softer light it cast, gave me the certainty I'd missed before; not only is Autumn in it's last throes, but that Winter light - less direct, more diffused - has taken hold here, meaning the sun won't be truly bright again 'til snow (gulp) reflects it every-which way, and the damn snow's crunch under-foot is the norm for a few months.

-As usual, the prospect frightens me.

Here at SweetLady's, we've been rearranging things in the basement the last few days. Yesterday, while I was at work and SL was at school, AuntConi took it upon herself to sweep the basement floor, something that needed doing. She's always looking to help out. Hell, the kitchen here has never been so spotless as when she's had at it.

The same is true at my place in Michigan.

Here's the routine: Once I've cooked dinner and we've eaten, I'll be ready to do nothing for an hour. She'll insist on getting right up and tackling the kitchen; doing the dishes, cleaning up my cooking mess and so on.

I used to object, but of late - having realized I am powerless to stop her anyway - I've come to enjoy it. This isn't because I'm especially lazy, or that I mind cleaning my kitchen after cooking a meal - I don't; it's an easy kitchen to cook in, as well as clean - but the truth is, she simply does a far better job every single time she does it, than I've ever done even once.

So, resigned to this fact, I sometimes simply sit and relax, and - God forgive me - watch her work.

Isn't that awful?

..........................

My friend Dot and her beau Terry are dealing with the death of Terry's Dad this week. Just a month ago, Dot, Terry, and Terry's Mom and Dad headed out to Omaha from Grand Rapids to see Terry's kids. Terry's Dad was absolutely fine when they left on the trip, but a day or two in, he started feeling bad. They came home early. The diagnosis was pancreatic cancer - an inoperable golf-ball sized tumor. He died Sunday. AuntConi and I will miss the viewing and funeral, but we'll sure be thinking about Terry and Dot, Terry's sister and Mom.

I only met him once, as did AuntConi and SweetLady, when we all were invited to dinner at Dot and Terry's new house a few months ago. It was a fun evening. Dot's Mom was there too along with Terry's seven-year-old daughter and one of Dot's nieces. Even during that brief meeting, it was easy to see Terry's Dad was a kind and loving guy; genuinely proud of his wife and family. To me, that's a pretty good measure of a man.

Well, not much to say this morning. Just felt like writing a post. Guess I'll go back outside, sit on the glider, have another mug-full of coffee and see if the sun's gonna show off its weak-ass Autumn shine today. Hope so. I kind of like it.

(What? I shouldn't call the way the early November sun shines "weak-ass"?)

Whatever...

Wusses. (heh...)


Be good to everyone.

Good morning Boys and Girls.

In what's been a strange confluence of computer purchases and sales over the past month, I added one Saturday simply because it was too great a bargain to ignore, and as a result, I learned - again -  how true it is that men and women just plain think differently.

Friday was SweetLady's birthday. My job, being the loving, caring, gentle suitor I am, has been to continue telling her how great she looks - for a fifty-year-old. (She's far, far younger than that, and in truth, looks even younger than she is.) Regardless, my teasing means, of course, that my upper right arm is now full of bruises - bruises I'm quite sure I could use as evidence against her should I decide to go to the police. I might, in fact, except I'm afraid I'd end up talking to a female officer, who, once hearing both sides, would probably render my left arm black and blue as well - just as a matter of principle.

So it was that Friday evening, SweetLady, the kids and I had a nice dinner at one of the ubiquitous Italian chain restaurants where, after the meal, she was serenaded by a huge baritone who sang Happy Birthday in Italian before the complimentary cake and ice cream. I'm not a big fan of all these chains, but I must say, it was nice.

We were under the gun a bit at the end of the meal because the kids' father was to pick them up at eight-thirty at her house for his weekend with them. We made it back just a minute or so before he pulled up, and he wasn't at all pleased that he had to wait an extra two minutes for the kids to grab their things. Nothing new there; the man is mad at all of humanity.

I'd been driving all day to get there in time for dinner, and was pretty pooped out afterward - so I wasn't the greatest company in the world after the kids left and was in bed by about ten-thirty where I slept soundly through the night - a rarity.

Saturday morning, SweetLady slept in, having stayed up later than me by a couple of hours. I was up early, since, not only had I gone to bed so early, but, this was my first morning here and it always takes a day or two for my body to adjust to Central Time. I had coffee on the glider, then a walk. Eventually I decided to go to a garage sale I'd seen a sign for where a fellow was selling a nice little iMac G4 with plenty of memory, some very nice - and expensive - graphics software, and good speakers - all for 50 bucks. Because I've been watching the used mac market so closely the last few weeks, I knew this puter would easily bring $150 - 300 with a quick ad on Craig's List, so I powered it up, checked it out, and bought it.

The rather elderly man who sold it to me, explained it had been his nephew's computer, who bought it for another young relative to use for a while. The nephew had moved west, bought a newer and more powerful mac, and didn't want this one back when the other relative was done with it.

I got it back home and decided to wipe as much stuff off the hard drive as I thought prudent before making a decisions about (a.) how much to ask for it, (b.) whether there were any programs I might want, or (c.) maybe keeping it for myself.

Alas, the Administrator password, was not, "administrator" or "12345" or 'imac" or any of the obvious passwords people usually set when they're selling a computer, plus, since there were far more documents left on the computer than is sensible, I realized that no one had done anything to erase any of what had been on the thing since it had been used as someone's everyday machine. After trying a half-dozen passwords, the hint "nails" appeared, but "hammer", "screws", "staples" and any number of other words suggested by the hint failed to gain me access. Not, "tacks", nor "spikes", or "fasteners", or "pound". Nothing.

-Another half-hour of messing with it did no good.

SweetLady and I had to go downtown just before noon, and I stopped by the garage sale again to ask the man who'd sold me the computer if he'd call his nephew to try to get the password when he had time. He said he'd try, and I gave him my number.

Then, on the way downtown, I told SweetLady about the predicament, and then told her about the hint-word, "nails".

She thought for about a half-second, and said "manicure".

Duh.

She was right, of course.

Men and women do think differently.


Be good to everyone.

Good morning Boys and Girls.

I find myself smack dab in the middle of one of the stages I go through at least once a year; sometimes a little more often. It's a stage of "clarity", I suppose, when some of the unrelated topics and events I've thought about - and sometimes even researched over the course of months - crystallize a bit. It seems once they've stirred around in my head and popped into my conscious thoughts thousands of times, often presenting questions I've taken the time to answer to my own satisfaction - or realized that there simply ARE no answers to them - eventually the answers - and even the questions themselves - coalesce into a cogent stream of knowledge I can point to, understand, and finally include in my mind's library, where they are stored, along with their predecessors, on a very long but sparsely filled shelf I long ago labeled "things I know for sure".

You might think I happily anticipate these episodes since I tend to come out of them - they tend to last two or three weeks - feeling as though I've gained a little wisdom. I don't, though. -Not at all.

In the past, over the course of a few of these annual "spells", I've flushed out my own understanding of what I believe Jesus was all about, and the myriad reasons so many people feel the need to make him something he wasn't. I've come to understand why faith is important, but how blind faith is nothing less than an insult to our creator.

A few years ago, I came to understand my own limitations; both those placed on me by my own makeup, and those I've placed on myself by my lack of education; and how by doing so, I freed myself to explore those things within my mental grasp with more fervor, delight and satisfaction.

The last one I went through was personal and I won't bore you with it, but it was meaningful to me, and once again helped me understand more about the sort of person I am. It was a tough one though; I can tell you that much. It took place last January and really made me dislike myself for a few weeks. Oh well.

This one centers around other people. -Lots and lots of other people. I think I've come to realize that some people will NEVER listen to reason, no matter what. It's a lousy thing to realize. I've always believed that a proper argument, supported by simple checkable facts, would sway any reasonable person to adopt a logical position.

Alas, it's not so.

The chilling part I'm dealing with, is coming to understand this: it never will be so, either.

I find it depressing. But, in order to get on with my life, I have to accept that many many otherwise reasonable people are able to embrace crazy thoughts, cling to them like life preservers, and not a damn thing will ever get them to let go; to let go of those thoughts or thought processes; to change their minds. Especially if it's part of their "underlying philosophy" about life - usually something they've been taught by their parents, or some other person in authority early in their life - there is not a damn thing anyone will ever be able to do to get them to give an alternative point of view more than a cursory, suspicious, and ultimately dismissive glance.

Oh well.

Off to Des Moines, Friday or Saturday.

Be good to everyone.

Good morning Boys and Girls.

Sitting in SweetLady's sunroom this morning. I should be getting ready for work, but the clouds are thick and it looks like they'll let go any minute, so I'm not going to rush. I just poured myself myself a third cup of coffee and figured I'd sit here a few minutes and empty my thoughts into this laptop.

I missed President Obama's speech last night, but I read the text before I went to bed using the link provided on the front page of Yahoo, then I turned on the television and saw a little of the commentary from some of the talking heads for awhile before going to sleep, and saw the clip of congressman Wilson yelling out during the speech. Pretty funny. I love that fools always end up looking like fools.

Tell me, am I the only person who knows damn well that the Republicans have NO interest in providing any real kind of reform in health care? I think it's pretty obvious that if they did, they'd have done it long before now, say, for instance, when they had the majority in both houses. It's laughable to anyone but those stupid enough to think that somehow providing what ought to be a basic right in any modern civilized society, is somehow an evil harbinger of a coming totalitarian state.

A few months ago, some of you might remember me writing about the granddaughter of a work acquaintance of mine who was born with the main artery in her brain swelling and ready to rupture. They gave her a two percent chance of surviving a week. Well, the surgery went phenomenally well, and before that first week of her life was over, they gave her a 98 percent chance of living a full and normal life, and as of last week, she's doing just fine. Her parents, on the other hand, are saddled with a half-million dollar bill, because even though the surgery was successful, the insurance company - AFTER the fact - decided the surgery itself had been experimental, and therefore, NOT covered by their, what they thought to be, comprehensive policy. Oh, the insurance company paid for the delivery, but not the baby's further needs. Now? Bankruptcy looms, and they know it.
Oh, and by the way, the family's premiums? 1300.00 per month. When they NEEDED their insurance company, how were they treated?

I am SOOOooooo sick of hearing people say that the federal government is unfit to do something as reasonable as regulate health care by forcing insurance companies to compete with each other fairly, or by offering an alternative public plan people can opt for, if they can't find a better deal in the private sector. It laughable to me that the very same people who claim that the government can't do anything efficiently are often just thrilled to support any military missions embarked on by the government, (and insinuate that anyone who opposes such endeavors are not far short of traitorous). For goodness sake, the government is US.

Surely, if we can, and are willing to, collectively kill efficiently, certainly we can collectively figure out a way to help sustain the lives of our citizens with the same sort of efficiency - and without it being tantamount to replacing the stars and stripes with a hammer and cycle.

Surely.


Be good to everyone.

 

Good morning Boys and Girls.

Well. It happened.

My old Jeep Cherokee finally died yesterday.

On my way home from Des Moines Sunday, I found myself in a traffic jam about a hundred miles into the trip. After about a half hour, my temperature gage suddenly shot up and I saw steam escaping from under the hood.

Luckily, I was about a quarter-mile from an exit and, since I was in the right lane - (the Jeep rarely saw the left lane, much to the annoyance of any passengers I might be carrying who'd whine and whine about my steady 63 or 64 miles per hour driving) - I was able to hop onto the shoulder and make my way up the exit ramp without much fanfare. There was a gas station right there, so I parked and popped the hood. Ah - thank goodness - just a ruptured heater hose.

I let the thing cool down while I inquired inside about whether they happened to have 3/4" hose in stock, but alas, this wasn't a full service station so they didn't have anything of the sort. They suggested a local hardware store about a mile away. I waited about twenty more minutes, and headed to the store, which, of course was closed. Damn. I was contemplating using my emergency road service at that point, but I pulled into another gas station - a Casey's in Williamsburg, Iowa - and asked the cashier, a woman named Valerie, if she had any suggestions. "Oh, sure. My husband owns the NAPA store here in town. Let's give him a call."

Wow. How cool was that?

As it turned out, her husband was in Iowa city with their daughter shopping for stuff for her dorm room, but he suggested I call B.J.'s tow service. "They own the other auto parts store in town, They'll probably be able to run you over a hose in a few minutes, but if for some reason they can't help you, I'll be back in about an hour, and I'll be happy to do it."

Cool. I called B.J.'s. The fellow who answered the phone, the owner, was extremely friendly, but said he couldn't come himself right then. I explained I didn't think I needed a tow, just a length of hose. He said he was in the middle of something right then - a plumbing problem at his house -  but if I could wait about fifteen minutes, he'd send someone over. His store was closed, he said - the call had been forwarded to his home where he took tow calls on the weekend - but he thought one of his guys was working at the store dong inventory. Could I wait? Of course!

So I stood next to my car with the hood up, sipping an iced tea and yapping on my cell. While I waited, just about everyone who stopped in at the little gas station asked if they could help me. It was like I found myself in a town full of Good Samaritans.

The fellow didn't show up for about a half-hour and apologized, explaining he'd gone to the wrong Casey's. "It was pretty dumb of me", he said. "I assumed it was the one next to the highway a few miles west - that's where most of our Casey's calls come from."

"No biggie", I said, "I'm sorry you had to go out of your way."

"You don't get it", he said, "our shop is only two blocks from here, over that way", he pointed, "and I was already at the shop. I could have been here in forty-five seconds." We both got a good laugh out of it.

I'd removed the hose already and he took it with him back to the shop. He returned in about three minutes with the new hose cut exactly to length. He insisted on installing the new one, and stood by while we waited to make sure the coolant was filled and flowing correctly.

The charge for the hose AND his service?

"Aw, how about five bucks?" I stood there amazed and then gave him twenty-five, which he tried to refuse. His name was Mark, but I didn't think to get his last name.

I made it home with no more problems after that, but I noticed that the old girl was running hotter, and as I turned north onto 31/196 off of I-94 the next morning - (I'd spent the night in a Super 8 in Benton Harbor just ninety miles from home - I just couldn't make it another mile) - I noticed that the transmission was slipping a little. Grrr.

Tuesday, the tranny got worse, and by yesterday morning? -I'd lost third gear.

I'd called a friend who runs one of the little lots I work for who knew I'd been worried about the jeep for a couple of months, since he, as a matter of fact, had pulled off four-wheel drive axle when it croaked, allowing me to keep driving the thing this summer as a two-wheel-drive-only vehicle. (Perhaps regular readers remember me writing about my thinking that I'd have to replace the Jeep a few months ago.)

"I need something NOW", I told Clay.

"Oh wow. I've got a really nice Ford Conversion Van we just bought from Bill. You know Bill, don't you?" I do. "He just bought his wife a new van. She's been driving this for for a couple of years. I think it would be perfect for you. You'd have room for all your crap and it would be nice for your trips."

He showed me how much they'd paid for it, and added $500.00 bucks. I bought it.

While Clay's mechanic Kyle safety-checked the van - deciding to put new front brakes and wheel-bearings in it while he was at it - I spent the afternoon, moving all "my crap" - as Clay so eloquently put it - from the forlorn Jeep to the shiny green van. I decided Clay was right, by the way. I do carry a lot of crap. Alas, I need it.

Anyway, so long good Jeep. 346,417 miles on the odometer at the time of her death. I drove her ten days short of three years, averaging well over forty thousand miles a year.

Best eight hundred bucks I ever spent.


Be good to everyone.

Good morning Boys and Girls,

Here's a post SweetLady (Emerging) and I wrote last night sitting outside on my front porch. She begins...

So, Mystery Man & I just returned from a vacation in Colorado. It was a wonderfully relaxing trip (for the most part). During the lengthy drive, we listened to Slaughterhouse 5, by Kurt Vonnegut. There’s a part of the book where a fictitious author is describing a story he’s never actually written to a woman at a party. She asks him if it’s true and he assures her that it is - he says it’s just like advertising - they can’t stake a claim on a product if it isn’t true. The best part is that she’s convinced. I tend to be a bit more skeptical - especially when MM tells me he’s just a regular guy. I have some basis for my skepticism. We’re up at his place right now and earlier, he was describing how he’d like to dig into a hill on his property and build a little hut. He tells me it’ll be “stronger than shit”. Being the goof that I am, I ask him whether or not shit is really that strong. He gives me a lengthy explanation of how people in other parts of the world, until a few years ago, have actually used human excrement as a basic component of their building materials - but it’s OK because it only smells for about a week after construction is completed. I’m pretty sure the altitude up at the summit of Pike’s Peak has had an adverse affect on his brain.

Look. Or better, to continue on the Kurt Vonnegut theme, “Listen.” The part about using human excrement as a basis for building materials is fact, or, better said, it is based on what I’ve heard. Further, I don’t claim I’m “regular guy” EXCEPT in comparison to SweetLady being a “regular woman”. (Have I ever mentioned she’s bat-shit crazy? No? Oh, well; that’s because I’m so polite.)

Our trip was a rollicking good time. We did, in fact, drive up Pikes Peak and, as is the case in that part of Colorado, I don’t think we were ever out of the sight-line of the peak, no matter where we traveled. We also visited a wolf preserve, the cave dwellings of some ancient Indians - oops, Native Americans - (which I contend were built in the late eighteen hundreds as a tourist trap for we the gullible, and we even played a little golf together. We ate most of our meals at our campsite (read: cabin) and we more than tolerated each other almost half the time.

We’d planned on tenting....

Just to clarify it was me (the supposed princess) who checked out the difference in cost between tent camping and renting a cabin - only because it was pouring down rain when we pulled into the campground. Let me just say - it was well worth the extra cash. We met lots of interesting people. We even shared a hot tub with a couple who, coincidentally, are from the same area as MM. He even does work for the guy’s brother. The world has become a much smaller place, but still not small enough for me to accept the notion of living in a dung hut for the rest of my life. I’d rather tent-camp in the rain. And continuing on the subject of “truth in advertising”, if anyone tries to tell you that the drive up to Pike’s Peak is a lovely meandering 19-mile drive, be wary! I would be more inclined to describe it as a terrifying experience - a more thrilling ride than any amusement park could ever hope to capture. I tried to tell MM that I was afraid of heights. Apparently the tears squeezing out from my tightly-shut eyes and my death-grip on the dashboard as I leaned in towards the mountain convinced him that he shouldn’t try breaking the recently set record for 10 min, 1 sec from the base to the summit in a car. Did I mention it was a 19-mile drive?? Thank you MM!

Did I mention how hot SweetLady looked in said hot tub? Or how soft her skin is? No? Oh well. That’s because I’m so polite.

I’d write more but Miss “can’t we put the air mattress on TOP of the bed so it’s softer?” (God forbid she feel the pea...) seems to have already made this a post so long only our friends will trudge through it. So I’ll close with this: next year?

Yellowstone...

Be good to everyone.

It is my inalienable right as a woman to have the last word (yes, my world IS a happy place). In all seriousness, the only sad part (aside from leaving Colorado) was that my munchkins weren’t able to be there. My son would’ve loved the aforementioned wolf preserve. I’m not much for public service announcements, but if you get the chance, check out their web site. They take in wolves and wolf-dogs who are unable to survive in the wild - usually because ignorant people try unsuccessfully to keep them as pets. The animals are well fed, well cared for, and well loved. Their gift shop consists of little more than professional photographs of the animals and the proceeds are spent on the upkeep of the facilities.

(You people didn't really think I'd get the last word, did you?)