Dean's Cute Cousins

Loldog says takin pitchers of me:  yer doin it rong.

The views of certain Beavers are not necessarily the views of this blog or its editorial staff.

A Walk in the Exurbs

I'm feeling nostalgic about the days when I could go for a walk without bringing my cell phone to call for help. I assume I will eventually end up in a prone position on a patch of ice with Scotty licking my face, mistakenly assuming that it's the medically approved form of treatment for a broken femur. Annie would be scanning the horizon for a new owner.

Today's pedestrian forecast is slush and snow, with frequent periods of wet ice and broken coccyxes. Cocci.  Coccyi.

Normally, our neighborhood walks have ice-free sidewalks and/or roads, although the neighborhoods display several distinct personalities, from rural to seventies-era ranch house developments to McMansionlands which branch out into their own gated UltraMcManse Estates (so the McMansionland home owners have someone to envy).

The following two scenes occur within a half-mile of each other.  There's the three-car-garage land here:

...go a quarter-mile, take a left turn, walk a few paces and you have a dairy farm with a helpful sign.  Watch out for slow farmers with cows on their heads.

Beyond the pasture is a big drop-off that ends in some wetlands and then the Columbia River. The hills in the background are in Oregon.

This week, I have been limited to the road to the park and back, with my eyes pasted to the road for safety.  But the Big Thaw is in process, so I don't have much longer to wait. 

Oh, and did I mention that the Most Expensive Heat Pump of All is broken again, on account of the snow and ice?  Yeah, it's belly-up again. Yeah, I'm wearing a sweater. Next time, I'm telling everybody the make and the contractor.

That'll put the fear of nothing into 'em.

A Christmas Miracle Starring Me

We hosted Christmas for my family this year because we live in the direct center of our little family diaspora and we have The Party House, a sort of Suburban Sprawl in house form, built with aircraft carrier-size kitchen counter surfaces and plenty of big rooms, loosely connected by poorly designed arterials.

The dinner was scheduled for four pm, with my folks coming upriver from Longview and my sister's family driving down from the Greater Seattle area.  That's ten people for dinner.  No sweat.  A good ham and some roasted yams, some fresh-baked rolls and some green stuff to make it all slide through.  We had agreed that none of us needed to gorge ourselves Thanksgiving-style.  January and its requisite resolutions are right around the corner.  No need to slip on a bigger coat of fat just to try to sweat it off in a couple of weeks.

After dinner we expected another five more to come up from Corvallis for dessert after stopping in Salem for Christmas dinner.  We were hoping to see them by seven.

We saw them at four.  Their Salem dinner had been canceled due to the weather (we're knee deep in the stuff), so they just came up here.  

No matter.  The ham was ample. The yams were cut in half.  The kids don't like salad. There was just enough veggies and dip.  And we had overbought soft drinks because the more you buy, the cheaper they get. And Mom had spent the last month baking approximately thirty dozen cookies (not an exaggeration).  So everyone ate, everyone was full, the name-drawing, gift-exchanging process went smoothly, all the hipster kids had fun playing board games, and the older generation had fun talking about how getting old sucks.

Loaves and fishes time, bitches.  Loaves and freaking fishes.

I'm hoping for the water-to-wine thing next year.

Best. Collie Photo. Ever.

or at least the best collie photo in the whole wide room.

PengWIN

OMG, dude, did you see that?

Speaking of Jenny...

I had a dream the other night in which I quit my job to go into business with Jenny.  We opened an art gallery-slash-dog sitting business.

Other aspects of the dream:

• A new national park outside Vancouver with (fittingly, I suppose) a large mall; and
• A food court restaurant with do-it-yourself sushi.

Sorry you're missing the Big Snow of 2008.  I guarantee you would get tired of it by day three or four.

Some More Pictures of the Icy Snow

This is what things look like with ten inches of snow and then an icing of, you know, ice.

Sisyphus and Me

It's snowing again.  That's more snow over a half-inch of ice over ten inches of snow.

I shoveled it yesterday, but this morning you couldn't tell, and it had that crust of ice that was making the dogs slip, slide and fall into. I, being, um, slightly heavier, did not have a problem stomping through the ice, but the dogs were struggling.  Luckily, we were able to use the ruts in the roads for our walk, as the sidewalks are hard to use - stomp, stomp, stomp - stomping through the ice and then up to the shins in snow.

so to make a trail through our sidewalk, I had to crunch through the ice crust with my boots and shovel first and then shovel the crust and the fluffy filling off the path.

I've never measured the sidewalk length, but being that our lot is oversized by today's standards, and that it is on the inside corner of a cul-de-sac, I'm going to estimate it at a mile, maybe mile and a quarter.

It took me five pictures to photograph it all, which I offer you here (except the part up to the door because it didn't come out very well).

By the looks of things, tomorrow I'll have plenty of new snow to shovel.

So that's what I did this morning.  What did you do?

My Boss: Gambled and Lost. Me: Stayed Home and Won.

My boss listened to the weather dudes completely freaking out and canceled work for today. Actually, the day from my window didn't look all that treacherous.

Nevertheless, here I was with an extra day to GET THINGS DONE.  There are so many THINGS that need to be DONE before we host Christmas next week.  Cookies to bake.  Presents to buy. Food to procure and prepare. Surfaces to clean.

So I marched into the kitchen to start on those cookies.  But I couldn't raise my arm to chop the walnuts.  All the chi just drained out of me. It could have been the sleepless night, trying to breathe through my wrecked nose, stuffed to the brain with snot.  No, I have not shaken that cold. Trying to blow it out into tissues and otherwise going about my business has not worked. And getting so frustrated at two in the morning for the twentieth night that I start to cry predictably makes it less than better.

So I took the hint from my dangling useless arms and sat down on the couch with a book.  One book and several web articles (and, um, some YouTube videos) later, I am feeling some chi return.  A little.  And tentatively, like a bunny sneaking back into the dogs' back yard.

I may be persuaded that God brought this snow day to give my immune system a chance to catch up with this evil, evil germ.

But probably not.

Snow Day!

Can't go to work, so I guess I'll watch Flight of the Conchords on YouTube. They're from New Zealand. There's Vikings there, right?

Good Words to Read

Thomas L. Friedman on Detroit.  So true.

All Attempts At Growing Up Have Failed

I still get a kick out of walking around in the snow. 

I can't help smiling.  It seems like after 46 years of seasons going by, it would all be old hat.  But I guess I just keep getting new hats.

Everybody's Saving for Later

It seems to be the thing to do these days - cut down on consumption and stash a little more away for a rainy (or snowy) day.  Even the squirrels are into it these days.  

Our two backyard apple trees have always been more of a deer-and-bunny cafe than a source of pie for us; we just don't have the wherewithal in the midst of winter to trim and spray, spray, spray. 

But this year, we keep finding apples in the oddest places - places that the wind couldn't have sent them.  Then we saw a squirrel tiptoe into the wisteria that runs along the top of the fence, take a bite out of an apple tucked into the bare branches, and go about his business.  Since then, we have found more squirrel banks, such as this one tucked onto the grape vines,

which have been trimmed bare for the season.

The owner of this particular stash came out to complain about our messing about so close to his fridge, but Scotty put a stop to that sort of insolence. 

Arf, arf, arf.

Public Service Announcement: Calendar Edition

For your shopping convenience, here are some calendars available through Powells dot com this December:

• Mathematics calendar (makes math exciting and accessible!)
• Extraordinary Chickens calendar (the cover chicken is especially extraordinary)
• Alien Abduction 2009 calendar (mysteriously, this item has no description.  Conspiracy?)
• Sock Monkey calendar (how many sock monkey fans are there?)
• Bunny Suicides calendar (the notorious almost-banned-from-the-school-library book is now a calendar!)
• Mensa 10-Minute Crossword Puzzles-A-Day calendar (so you know on a daily basis whether you're Mensa material or not.  12 minutes?  doofus.)
• Seed Catalogues calendar (um, seed catalogues?)
• Trout of North America calendar (a Brown Trout, a Yellowstone Cutthroat, an Owyhee Redband, a North Umpqua Steelhead!)
• Fabulous Frogs calendar (frogs!)
• 375 Day of Shoes calendar (celebrate your socially acceptable fetish!)
• Collectible Teapots calendar (A sunny Hall China Lipton set!  A Wade lusterware Genie teapot!  A pink-and-cream Royal Worcester pot!)
• a glow-in-the-dark calendar for the Lunar Year
• Cow Abductions calendar (ooh, wish list item! Check out their website now if not sooner) and finally (but not exhaustively)
• the Scotch calendar (the Glenfiddich 18 Year Old! The Aberfeldy 21 Year Old! The Aberlour 16 Year Old! Comes with six punch-out coasters!)

I'm holding out for the Fire Captains with Arthritis and Ears Prone to Infection calendar. Check out Mr. September!

Memorandum Addendum

To:  God

Re:  Virus Mix-up Memorandum of Last Week

After further experience with this particular virus and some conversations around the office, it has come to my attention that this virus did not originate with you, but rather has come from Hell.

My deepest apologies for my confusion.  Luckily for me, you're not the type to hold such things against a person!  At least that's what I hear.

P.S.  Tell your son happy birthday!

Memorandum

To: God

Re: Virus Mix-Up

There seems to be a little misunderstanding regarding the cold virus currently enjoying its life cycle in my upper respiratory system. I believe it was meant for someone else, as it does not seem to fit me. I am currently unable to use my nose for breathing, and must use it solely for the disposal of snot and the subsequent destruction of several boxes of tissues.

I'm sure this was a simple oversight on your part and does not reflect your current policy towards me personally.

Any efforts on your part to remove this surely misdirected virus from my person would be much appreciated.

Yours truly,

piglet (Velma and Howard's daughter)

p.s.: Enjoyed the football game on Saturday. I knew you were on our side!

The View from My Window This Evening

That's Mt. St. Helens peaking out from behind the garage of the house across the street.  That house was built about ten years after this one was built.  The woman who built this house was understandably pissed off when they bought what she thought was an unbuildable lot and promptly built a big ol' honking house on the cliff and stole her view.  She never really got over it.  

Oh, well.  We never knew the house before, so it's all good to us.

Shopping Therapy, Dork Style

Ended up at Bridgeport Village again for another session with the Apple geniuses.  No, I have not joined the Church of Apple yet.  After a couple of weeks with this MacBook, I can understand the appeal of the simplicity of the software, but it's not that different from Windows.  Just different. Okay, and maybe a little more elegant, in the scientific sense.

I was there and all so I tried to do a little Christmas shopping.  And in pure piglet style, I bought stuff for myself.  

Hey, I'm much easier to shop for.  My boss has one of everything, the Captain buys what he wants, and I drew a crabby, video-game-playing ten-year-old in the family gift-a-palooza.

I checked out one of those stores for Ladies of a Certain Flabby Age, looked at all the shiny clothes (color! flowers! gold thread! look here!), and bought four long-sleeved t shirts (one in each of four colors) because they were soft.

I also visited an Origins shop and insisted that the shopgirl sell me products (so sorry to disturb her solitude) to replace all my expensive skin care products of A Certain Brand Often Sold By Friends (that seem to cure wrinkles with the same gentle touch as paint thinner) with less turpentiney, yet more expensive skin care products that I know will not peel off my skin.

Now, if I could just find a cure for this week-long sinus headache.  That would be a successful day shopping.

And the Lion Shall Lie Down with the Lamb

Oregonian photo.  Jeremiah Masoli: quarterback-slash-running-back-slash-slasher-and-burner.

Scene I:  Ducks and Beavers eating an after-thanksgiving lasagna dinner in peace and jolliness.

Scene II:  Ducks and Beavers sitting down together to watch the annual Civil War game, Oregon vs. Oregon State, in an atmosphere of detente and forgiveness (for the undercooked ribs), followed not long after by some Beaver weeping and gnashing of teeth, but no (visible) Duck dancing nor nanny-nannying.

And lo, the Beaver didst say, "Thou must waitest unto the next year, and at that time shall the Beaver of the Valley of the Corn rise up and defeatest the Waterfowl of the City of the Toasted Whole Grain Snack (with Honey and Almonds)."

And peace descendeth upon the land.  For now.

Is Your House On Fire? No? Thank God. Or Drew.

I never look forward to firehouse holidays.  At the fire station, there is a very slim chance that you and your hosts will complete a meal uninterrupted.  At least in Vancouver, where firefighters are becoming a smaller and smaller minority in relation to the growing population of the city. Here, our firefighters are so outnumbered that they are often out of their stations virtually all day and all night on fire and medical calls.  Still, there is that chance that they may stay undisturbed for a few hours while they have a Thanksgiving meal.

That was not to happen this day.  The Captain was there when we arrived (I seem to be writing in the royal we today), but before the turkey was pulled off the smoker, they were off to put out a house fire.  The Captain, in typical rosy-glassed style, was sure it was one of those cell-phone samaritans calling in a "smoking" dryer vent again.  But it turned out to be a house fire.

A note here about the turkey on the smoker:  they are IN LOVE with their Traeger wood pellet smoker/grill because they can set it to smoke or roast their meat outside the door for a couple hours, whereas the ovens are wired to turn off whenever the garage doors are lifted and the engines leave the station.  These days, that makes the ovens virtually unusable.

Meanwhile, the turkey is done.  Visiting firefighters take it off the grill, carve it and toss it back into the oven to keep warm.  Meanwhile, the green beans are beginning to become porridge.

Fast forward an hour:  the Captain calls to say the fire is about out, but (lucky) they get to stay, mop up, and show the fire inspectors around.  To kill time, I entertain a 18-month-old with my hilarious face and talent for holding a toy hippo just so.

Fast forward another hour:  Another call comes in for yet another fire for the Captain's crew. The other crew sharing the station decide to eat quickly before they get another call.  They get maybe ten minutes of face-stuffing before the next call comes in.  

Eventually, the visiting fire fighters leave for their own stations.  One other wife and I (and the baby who loooves me) decide to call it a night.  We throw aluminum foil over the food and take the stairs for the exit.

As we leave, I see the Heavy Rescue rig pull up.  I give The Captain the international palms-up signal for WTF, and he jumps out and gives me a sooty hug.  He has soot on his face and hands and boots and coat.  He has put out two house fires while you all have been having your Thanksgiving dinners.

Thank a fire fighter.  Thank a soldier.  And thank a cop.

Amen.

No Jury Would Convict Me

Is there a law against neighborcide if you can prove that he tortured you every day with his 120-decibel leaf blower, which he used by turning it on and off repeatedly in order to blow each individual leaf off his lawn and into a pile exactly two and one-half feet square?

There isn't if there is any justice in this world.

Follow the Rules

Kyrie O'Connor directed her blog readers to this fun list of Rules.  It made me think of a couple of expectant parents I know who might get a kick out of it.

She's Got Nae Powerrrr, Cap'n!

We're on emergency power, and dilithium crystals will not save us now.  

When I came home from an extended shopping excursion, the temperature in the house was 62 and falling, and no air was being pumped through the vents at all. (Cpt: I recommend that you stay away from the store during peak hours between now and Thanksgiving, because we don't have bail money for when you are arrested for shoving a frozen turkey into the large, suburban butt of the thirtieth clueless shopper who blocks the aisle with her cart while contemplating her salad dressing purchase.)

It turns out that our brand new heat pump has pooped out (which caused several fuses to blow in the heating system) and the suspiciously cheerful repair dude says we need a whole new compressor to fix it.  He says this almost never happens.  (yay?) Then he says that this being a short holiday week, we probably shouldn't expect a replacement to come in until next week.

So the auxiliary furnace is on "emergency power,"  which means we're no doubt using lots of extra emergency electricity.

No, really.  He was a repair dude, and he looked and acted like the Simpsons' Ned on Red Bull (Red Bull gives you angel wings).  A little difficult to compute while shivering from the cold.

Note to the captain:  told you.

Sidewalk Poems - Fall Edition

I kept seeing these pieces of spontaneous artwork on the sidewalks of our neighborhood while Scotty and I were walking, but I never walk with my camera. 

 Yesterday, I went back and got my camera and a spare firefighter and took these pictures.  I'm sure the Captain felt a little off balance holding the dog for me while I focus my camera on the sidewalk, but he does things like that for me.

 The photos don't seem to do the effect justice, but they will have to do for the rest of the year until next year when the leaves come down and then the rain comes down soon after.

$3 Movie Review: Dark Knight

The only things that pierced the veil of dark doom of this film were the many, many, many explosions.

The scariest moment was when a spider crawled onto my neck during hour - oh, say hour 17.

I'm exhausted from trying to get comfortable in the theater seat during the 20 - or was it 32 - hours of the Dark Knight while protecting my neck from the remainders of the spider family.

Drew liked it.  

So, reviewers: thumbs up.  Drew:  thumbs up.  Me:  whatever.  There were fewer groaningly corny lines in Incredible Hulk.  Give me Michael Keaton practicing how to say "I'm Batman" while planning to spring the news on Vicki Vale. More comics, less grisly deathics.

I'm going to go dream of ice cream and butterflies.

Dean Words to Watch

Words recently used by Dean:

• zazzy
• rad-tacular
• trinketry
  
• Pain-Scapade
• It’s like heckling fish in a barrel

Just so you know.

What Is That On Your Shoulder?

I just turned on the Oregon - Arizona game.

The are those things on the Ducks' shoulders?  You know, in place of the silver diamond-plate man-truck stainless steel pattern thingies?  

Feathers?  Trojanesque shoulder armor?

Here's another photo from the Oregonian.

I Have Seen Despair and It Is Bridgeport Village

Every media face seems to be worried that we are not buying stuff, which means we are all worried we are in a recession, which means we are all totally in a recession.

We aren't people buying?

I could answer that question if I could lead you around the wonder that is Bridgeport Village (current motto:  Change of Season, Change of You.  For real).  I doubt that it would be necessary to travel to Tualatin, Oregon to experience Bridgeport Village. I'm sure there are similar hell-holes all across the country.  

The hallmarks of these fancy new consumer-towns are that, as opposed to the old-school malls, you can drive your BMW around these.  And if you are in Southern California, there is a good chance that the potted plants play Sinatra music.  And there are no discount stores.  Just Abercrombies, Banana Republics, Crate & Barrel, and the like.  The odd thing is that although you can drive around them you may not park anywhere other than the parking lot/garage, so I'm a little confused as to the purpose of the roads.

Actually, I'm confused about the purpose of the stores.  There are indeed clothes in there.  But they are (a) ugly, or (b) scratchy, or (c) scratchy and ugly.  And I don't think any of the store personnel wished me to purchase any of their products. Maybe they have other plans for them, because they weren't in a hurry to offer them to me.  You would think that they would be worried about their jobs, seeing that I was occasionally the only one in the store on a Saturday afternoon, but maybe they hadn't thought about the connection.  You know, the one between me buying something and the company having enough money to pay them some.

I have to confess that those places put me in such a sour mood that an item of clothing would have to be pretty spectacular for me to wish to leave any money behind in one of those stores.

I went to Bridgeport Village for some training on how to use this Macbook (as I am a recovering PC person and completely clueless).  As it was in the Pioneer Place mall in Portland where we bought it, everybody was in the Apple Store.  It apparently was the one store in the shopping center selling items that consumers wanted to buy.  In fact, the products are so popular, you actually have to make an appointment to purchase them.

Word to American product sellers:  make things that work OR are well-designed OR aren't ugly, and they will come.

Scottish Talk

If you are Scottish and want to keep me entertained for hours, just say, The girl squirrel with the curly locks mistook the pearl for a nut.  What a world."

Because with any luck it would sound like, "The guddle sqwuddle with the cuddly loccchhhs mistoook the puddle for a noot.  What a wuddled."

Ah.  Bliss. 

Go Army

Congratulations to USA's first four-star general with girl parts. I bet she's tough as nails.

Oh, Boy!

The sun comes out!  Yay!

On Saturday I will get to go out and rake the leaves that have fallen into the muddy grass and gravel over the past two weeks of steady rain, creating a hefty film of wet-toilet-paper goo that will make for a wonderful day out.

But I will be out.  So I've got that going for me.

In Case You Were Wondering

Yes, it's still raining.

I Object

Here's a handy list of things I feel I must object to:

• Naming a road "Crossroads Road."
• Using "ask" as a noun, as in "that's a tall ask" (although I'm not sure I've heard this particular misdemeanor outside of Tour de France broadcasts). (Still.  Don't.)
• Calling the Foo Fighters the Foos.  No matter how much of a first name basis you feel you are with the band.  I'm not even a fan of the Foo Fighters, so I'm not sure why I'm so adamant about this issue, but adamant I am.
• Pharmaceutical commercials.  If my doctor, after 12 years of doctor training, is counting on me to discover the proper drug for my condition by watching NBC between 9 and 10 on Tuesdays, then the system is broken beyond repair and I need a new doctor.
• High heels.
• The Bush Administration's last minute "ecological yard sale," in which they are looting ecological regulations to allow mining companies to dump the waste from mountaintop-removal mining into rivers and streams; allow factory farms to pollute waterways with tons of poo without a permit and completely independent of the Clean Water Act; allow federal land-use managers to approve development, mining, and logging without consulting federal habitat managers and biological health experts responsible for species protection; and (hilariously) transfer the responsibility for examining the environmental impacts of federal ocean management decisions from federal employees to advisory groups that represent regional fishing interests. Undoing these regulations by the Obama Administration will be difficult and time-consuming.  I guess they must think they haven't done enough damage.  See OMB Watch for more outrage.

Coming To You from the FUTURE

Hey everybody, look at me typing on my new Mac Book! Do the words look more awesome now?

That's what I thought.

Okay:

Prius: check.

Commuter bicycle (use as commuter vehicle optional): check

Recycle bins: check.

BPA-free Nalgene water bottle: check.

Fancy dog with biodegradable poop bags: check.

Square black eyeglasses: check.

Mac Book for coffee shops: check.

So can I join the club?

Update: so apparently there's some sort of secret handshake involving tattoos and bluetooth devices...

Further update:  so apparently they TOLD me that bluetooth devices were involved when they actually are not.  I get it.  Very funny.

Word.

Last night was Date Night. I bought tickets to Live Wire! - Wordstock Extravaganza Edition. The Captain said Add To Cart without ever having heard of Live Wire! (exclamation point required).

He was familiar with the concept of Wordstock because I dragged him to the expo portion of it last year to hear Peter Sagal. For the Captain, the expo - rows and rows of tables stacked with books - was something to be endured rather than reveled in, so I was thinking a variety show, even with a guest list stacked with authors, would be a more palatable way to celebrate Wordstock this year.

We started the evening at Tastebud, a not-too-frou-frou restaurant close to the theater. A few lessons learned:

• No matter how awesomely wood-fired the pizza is and no matter how locally and organically grown, squash is not a good pizza topping.
• Sharing a table with strangers makes the Captain feel uncomfortable.
  
• Sharing a table makes it hard not to listen in on your table-mates' first-date conversation.
• When said first-date conversation degenerates into a who-is-more-literate word fight, it can be at once uncomfortable and fodder for jokes for the rest of the evening.
  

At the Aladdin Theater, the Captain learned that Live Wire! is like A Prairie Home Companion, only for the under-50 crowd. Less country and gospel music, more Storm Large and Portland indie rock; less gentle humor, more edgy humor.

The Live Wire! Guests:

• The Long Winters, bringing their brand of transient cool down from Seattle;
  
• Lynda Barry and Alison Bechdel, discussing being cartoonists and lesbians;
• Jonathan Coulton singing a song about being a middle school nerd and said nerd's plans for future world domination;
  
• Slam Poet Anis Mojgani, slamming our faces with some poetry;
  
• Sandra Tsing Loh doing some over-the-top menopause-themed reading;
  
• PNW favorite McKinley, workshopping a piece from her upcoming play (because that seems to be the thing to do now when you get tired of being a rock star);
  
• Jay Allison, discussing his NPR series (and books) "This I Believe" (with accompanying comedy sketches by Faces for Radio Theater); and finally,
  
• John Hodgman in a jaunty mood and accompanied by Jonathan Coulton.
  

The evening was capped by a hastily rehearsed but charming version of "Tonight You Belong To Me" (a song made famous (to me) by Steve Martin and Bernadette Peters in The Jerk), this time sung by John Roderick of The Long Winters, Jonathan Coulton and John Hodgman on tenor and ukulele.

I think the Captain (with the exception of the table-sharing and squash pizza) enjoyed the evening.

I know I did.

p.s. Dean says next time we should eat at Le Pigeon on Burnside. As long as we can have a table to ourselves, we'll take his advice.

Saturdays Pretty Much Kick Ass

It's the kind of raucous rain that makes you turn up the radio.

After the kind of hot bath that makes you want to put on a big cotton t-shirt when a turtleneck sweater would be wiser.

It's the kind of fall day that makes you want to eat potato chips.

I don't have any potato chips, but I have this turtleneck sweater. And when I cool down from my bath, it will feel more comfortable.

I'm going to go troll for chocolate in the kitchen...

Stiff

Walking funny today after lifting weights for the first time since we started painting the house. And going on various vacations. And tomato harvesting and preserving. Okay, it's been a couple months.

I thought that I could start where I left off a couple months ago. Turns out to be a bad idea. Other bad idea: listening to Drew about the benefits of ultra-deep knee bends.

If you need me, I'll be rummaging through the medicine cabinet.

What a Moment

As Barack Obama spoke last night for the first time as President Elect, there were a group of twenty-somethings running through the streets of Colorado Springs.

They had been walking and talking with me on the phone, moseying down to the neighborhood pub where they could toast this new country we made today, until I let them know that Obama had begun his acceptance speech. They didn't want to miss it, because this is a moment they will remember all their lives. So they hung up and ran.

Yes, it is a different country today than it was yesterday. It has a new face - one that more closely reflects the people who make it up - and a new leader who inspires his constituents to help. Not just shop.

In the words of the immortal Flounder, this is gonna be great.

Show and Tell Update

And now for something completely nonpolitical: remember this sketch of the baby bear and fire fighter that I showed you earlier this summer?

Here is how that sketch came out, and what I am currently working on.

The bear and firefighter picture took on a mural-like quality, with simple lines and suggested shading, instead of either a more realistic effect (which I don't usually go for), or a more impressionistic effect (which is what usually happens, like it or not).

I could put it back on the easel and work on it some more, but I don't think a different look would improve it. So there you go. Bear and Fire Fighter, 2008.


After every piece that includes a person or animal depiction, it's nice to relax with some landscape. With a landscape I can put a rock or hill wherever I damn well please, and it doesn't make it look like the victim of a warty disease.

I've started on a simple picture of the road leading up to the summit of Steens Mountain. It had a picturesque "z" quality to it, but the surrounding countryside was dry and rocky. So I've added a little color for fun.


When I first saw the photo I took, it didn't really look like what I had expected. But now I'm warming up to it. It's odd that the camera shows a different painting than the one I just had my nose up against. And it's odd that paintings take on a life of their own. And it's odd that I don't have much control over that. It seems, being the author of the thing, that I should...

Yes We Can.

I'm not very good at words, but Andrew Sullivan is. Take his word(s) for it.

Vote Obama.

Gondoliers for Obama

Oh, it's in the bag.

Once you've got the Venetian gondoliers behind you, it's all over but the voting.

A Daydream While Painting the House

It has taken the two of us (but mostly the one of us - the other, taller one) weeks to paint the exterior of this house. It's a one-story house, but designed with 24-foot ceilings, so it has lots of stupid-ass empty space that looks awesome - awesome enough to make you buy it - but is stupid in all other respects.

Today, the umpteenth-straight day of painting on account of the unseasonably dry weather, which is due to vanish right on schedule for all the Halloween Cinderellas and zombies to be obscured under decidedly non-princesslike and/or non-undeadlike raincoats, I dreamed of having help. Of literally having help. A second child we could have had, which we could use mainly for house work and spare parts.

Of course, we would have had to train him to expect nothing more than food, lodging, and a pat on the head in return for lawn mowing, roofing, house painting, and the odd cornea or bone marrow.

"Mom, how come Dean gets his own room, and I have to stay in the laundry room?"

"Because, Dear, he is our Dean, and you are our Spare."

"But did you really have to name me Spare? I've always been partial to the name Shaquille."

Now that Dean has moved to Colorado Springs, I often think about how handy he could be to have around - when we leave for the weekend and he keeps an eye on the dogs, or when we need help tearing a roof off or moving something heavy. And it would only cost us all the food in the house. A small price to pay for some help you can count on.

Too bad I didn't have one more of those in reserve for when Dean left in Pursuit of Happiness and Red, White and Blue Glory.


The cat uses the laundry room now as her bathroom, so we might have had to move our Spare to the garage, but it would have been worth it if we had had a built-in handyman to paint the house for us this week.

Another Reason to Feel Sorry For Me

I have one of those invisible slivers in the little finger of my right hand. It hurts when I write or use my mouse, but I can't see it to remove it.

Just thought you would want to know.

The Vet Who Did Not Vet

A bedtime story. It rhymes, so it's good.

Wearing Clean Undies Is A Good Start

It's Wednesday night and you all know what that means: Ghost Hunters!



Here's a Halloween-themed thought: you know how ghost spotters are always seeing men in Civil War uniforms, or women in white, flowing dresses? Once, I saw a ghost with a rebel-style cap on Ghost Hunters. For sure. So, if ghosts are dressed in period costume, does that mean that you will have to wear what you have on in your final earthly moments for the rest of your ghostly existence?

That might make you think twice about wearing those pants that are too tight in the crotch. Who knows what ghosts feel throughout eternity?

I need to go shopping.

We're the Grasshoppers

So it's October 20, it's pissing down PNW October rain, and we are one third of the way through our summer house painting project.

I know, the ant and the grasshopper, we were busy playing in the sun and we put it off until it was too late, while somewhere, the ant people were dutifully painting their little houses, getting paint all over their thoraxes and what-not. You're only half right, because I believe we have some solid-ish excuses.

You can't really expect to get any more painting done in June than in October in Washington. True, school lets out in June, but that does not mean summer begins. So even if painting the house had been a priority in June, which it wasn't, it would have been an iffy proposition. Besides, Drew was busy freaking out at work and going to the chiropractor for his hunchback.

In July, the focus was on the AVC in the middle of the month, which takes prior planning and post-race recovery time. The rest of the month was spent finding a contractor to put in a new heat pump (with any luck, for not much more than it cost to build the house in the eighties).

In August, the new heat pump system went in, which made us not-so-ready for more housing-related expenses. And in turn made us consider painting the house ourselves, the old fashioned way, with rollers and brushes. It's cheaper, and the Captain won't forever wish he had done it himself anyway, because the Captain is, um, particular. And the Captain's tummy hurt. He said.

I had been hoping that we could devote ourselves to some heavy-duty house painting in September. But first we had to go to the Steens Mountains for our anniversary, then the Captain had to ride around Oregon on his dual-sport bike, then we had to fly to LA for track nationals.

So we are painting the house now. With rollers and brushes. In between rainy days. If we don't paint it now, I firmly believe that the cedar siding will peel away like an exploded barrel this winter and leave us wet and cold.

So, that's the answer to, "What, you're STILL painting the house?"

Hello, we're the grasshoppers.

Smell It!

Okay, okay, recently when I was forced to listen to Duran Duran's "Hungry Like the Wolf," probably by a big box store, but possibly by my husband, I amused myself by hearing a lyric I could have sworn went

I smell like I sound

Ha! Ha!

Today I thought it's Friday, I don't have to post anything good. I'll just re-amuse myself by posting my funny lyrics.

So I Google the song to find out the real lyrics, because I have no idea. Turns out that according to the two most popular sources, that's really the lyric.

Now it's not that funny anymore. Now it's just a really, really much more stupid song.

By the way, these are also official lyrics: Do do do do do do do dodo dododo dodo.

However, further Googling uncovered this gem by Bruce Campbell, and now I feel better. Almost as good as I smell.

Dogs: Why I Keep Feeding Them, Volume 1

I spend more of my time brushing hair off dogs, vacuuming hair off floors and furniture (furniture that dogs are not, technically, allowed on), picking up dog toys, and scooping poop off lawns then is reasonable.

But.

Annie won't eat if you are angry when you feed her.

Scotty hates it when I cuss, even if it is in the course of conversation.

So I guess having them around makes me a (very) slightly better person.

So I guess it's worth it.

No. No, it's probably not.

If You Were Curious

This is my interpretation in pastels of what Twinkie looked like ( she was usually looking up). I did this several years ago. Looking at it so closely makes me want to take another crack at her (cue cpt a's snarky remark about wanting so often to take a crack at her more literally).

More Than You Ever Wanted to Know

It seems I have been tagged, which is proof of love, which is good. Thanks for the sweet words, Seattle Tammy. And here's my entry.

Here are the rules of the game:
Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs. Let them know they are tagged by leaving comments on their blogs.

Now I must give you some trivia re: myself. Although I usually like trivia, I am not my favorite subject, so this will take some mental digging. However, I love using bullet points and numbered lists, so that's enough to get me started. So bear with me. Or skip over to Fanatical Apathy; I'll understand.

Seven Things You Might Not Know About Me.

1. The first dog I owned (apart from family pets growing up) was a long-haired chihuahua named Twinkle Toes. Although I can't claim that chihuahuas were ever cool, this was long before Paris Hilton made them into living accessories for morons. Twinkle Toes (or Twinkie, as she came to be called) showed up at my house by way of a friend who worked at a veterinarian's office. Twinkie was dumped there - tiny, moody, missing some crucial teeth, a little iffy on the concept of "housebroken," and suspicious of everybody except me. As soon as she saw me, she just fell in behind me, and I had a dog. Such as she was. I kept her through no-pet apartments, my marriage to her least favorite human, moves to Austin, Texas, and babies. Drew has been distracting me from getting another chihuahua all these years by keeping me busy with large collies. But I'm sure he knows that it's just a matter of time before I show up with another big dog in a small package.
2. My degree is in psychology. When I was in high school, I wanted to be Bob Newhart (the first one, the stuttering psychologist, not the stuttering Vermont innkeeper). What I learned in college was that, as a psychologist, if you wanted to help your patients more than they would be helped by the mere passage of time, you really need to get yourself a prescription pad, which meant going to med school. Med school was beyond my ambition level.
   
3. I have never smoked pot. I know! I had one chance to try it when I was in high school, but I was afraid I might look like a dork, so I made an excuse. In college, I hung out with brainiacs and athletes. After college, Drew was in the Air Force, which doesn't take kindly to that sort of activity, even if they had paid us enough to afford anything other than food, clothing and sub-standard housing. And no, I don't care to try now.
4. I once went to nursing school but quit the day I realized that I would be expected to slide rubber hoses into old men's penises.
5. I have raised a child and trained a firefighter to be wordsmiths and grammar police. They will never allow me to forget that I once got so carried away trying to make a completely valid point, that I called a perfectly legitimate item of cycling wear "asinine." But, I mean, come on. If your knees are cold, why wouldn't your ankles be cold? Either wear tights or shorts - don't wear "knickers" that come halfway up your calves. That's just...wrong. And unsightly.
6. My stripper name would be Fritzi Laurel (or more literally, Fritzi Laurel Park Drive).
7. I was a cheerleader in high school. I know! Hard to imagine today. But at the time, although I was just as shy, I had that hammy thing that shy people have when they get in front of an audience, and I used the cheerleading squad to perform skits, dance, and generally get attention.

Seven Blogs I Like that were not already tagged by Seattle Tammy.
I don't spend a lot of time reading blogs, but when I do, here is where I go:

1. Dean's blog, because he's a better writer than I am, and leads a more exciting life.
2. The Blogess, because she's funnier than I am, and leads a more exciting life.
3. Two Can Anne (Anne Altman), because she is young and funny and makes me wonder how cool it would be to be young and talented and living in New York.
4. MeMo (Kyrie O'Connor's blog) from the Houston Chronicle. She blogs like she's in your living room with her feet up on your coffee table.
5. Deteriorata (dee), a Fanatical Apathy family member, which means she can think and she can write. My North Carolina news. I think one of my favorite bands of the week, Band of Horses, comes from North Carolina, don't they?
6. Another Monkey we know as Harold. Fan Ap again. Sorry. We like the way we think. And Harold knows stuff. And he has a very cute picture of a dog on his sidebar. What more do you want? A virtual Obama sticker? He's got one of those too.
   
7. Hedera's Corner by Karen Ivy. Okay, one more Fan Ap. But Hedera is from the Bay Area, and it is the only place on earth I would move away from the Pacific Northwest for (but only if somebody left their house to me in their will because I can't afford one). And she is in a choir, and I love being in a choir. And her blog background and writing voice are so soothing.
   

Grammar Piglet's Favorite Column This Week (Or Was It Last?)

Still trying to catch up, I'm afraid. But if you missed Maureen Dowd last week, catch it now.

2008 Track Nationals Show & Tell

Here is an abbreviated story of our week in Carson, California, the Land of the Home Depot Center, Gateway to Compton, and home of the most expensive hotel breakfast in the worst part of town ever.

When Dean walks around like this, we know we are in for a disappointing day. His posture tells us everything we need to know. This was Dean on Wednesday: jet-lagged, tired, over-sangria'ed, and juiceless.


Since Dean was out of the competition for Friday, we took the day to drive north up the Pacific Coast Highway to watch this bird work the surf for his dinner.


At the Malibu pier, we encountered a group of ruffians guarding this armoire, who someone had taken great pains to carry out to the end of the pier and conceal the front with a table cloth of some kind. What was in it? Drugs? A dead body? Snacks? I wasn't going to ask.


Yes, I am quite serious when I tell you that this was the view from our eighth-floor luxury room at the Doubletree Hotel in Carson, California, home to the $14.95 weekday breakfast buffet, the Thursday night jazz stylings of Saddam Hussein's Phillipino cousin, and $8 glasses of cheap wine:


By Sunday, Dean's posture had improved, and his legs had that snap that we are used to seeing. He almost did not get to compete in the team sprint because of poor performance early in the week, but because Michael Blatchford was forced to bow out due to back spasms, Dean was given a chance to redeem himself and join the team. He did that, with the fastest anchor leg of the competition, helping his team to win gold.

We had so much fun hanging out with Dean for a week, even with the jet lag and mood swings (his jet lag, my mood swings). And we learned things, like how to enter a bank in a high crime area, and where to eat breakfast in Manhattan Beach (Eat at Joe's). But mostly, we learned not to stay at the Doubletree Hotel in Carson, California.

More later, as I think of stuff.

Crappy Day, Crappy Day, Crappy Day, Crappy Day, Gold Medal

After four days of jet lag, bad attitude, bad luck, and general ugliness, Dean got his massive legs back under control and ended the week of National Championships in Carson, CA with a gold medal in team sprint with his teammates, Kelyn Akuna and (this year's Cinderella Story) Jimmy Watkins.
More later as Blackberry and Blogspot don't seem to be playing well together.

Leaving for LA

Home Depot Center Velodrome/ADT Event Center/Snickers Bar Cycling Track/Maidenform Oval Thingy

We're off to Track National Championships, Version 2008. No road trip in the team van this time. Just a regular, old, boring airplane flight of which I am not afraid of in the least. Not afraid. Not afraid. Not afraid.

Unfortunately, we may have to miss seeing our old buddy, Craig Ferguson, as his show tapes in the afternoon, and we may not have any of those free. Same holds true for our real friend, Adam Felber's show, Real Time, with the stranger Bill Maher (you can't expect me to be on a first name basis with everyone).

I'll be in touch via raspberry if something crazy happens.

I'm going to go pack my Valium now.

Dean Is In Barcelona

...kicking ass worldwide.

10th in sprints
6th in keirin (he won the 6th through 10th round)
3rd in team sprint!

Read about it and live vicariously.

Dean Is In Barcelona

Wish I were there.

Vincent Van Gogh was my David Foster Wallace. Sort of.

I guess I can sympathize, not so much with the feeling of loss, but with the struggle to understand that I am encountering amongst some of my most admired bloggers this past week, although I wasn't a big DFW reader.



Tortured genius is a true species amongst the genus artists.

"The diseases that we civilized people labor under most are melancholy and pessimism."
Vincent Van Gogh

Onward Christian Soldiers

I'm an agnostic who likes to go to church.

Churches often have nice people in them (although not always), and there's coffee and refreshments afterward. And sometimes, if I'm lucky, I can get a break from feeling agnostic, because, believe me, it's not a comfortable condition.

Churches, however, (with the exception of the Unitarian-Universalists, who I can't figure out) are made for true believers. They sing about how much they believe, the pray about how much they believe, and they talk about what awesome things they're going to do with all that belief.

I don't want to sing about something I'm really iffy about. I don't mind praying; I talk to my dogs, even though I know they don't understand English. But I don't want to listen to a sermon exhorting me to go out there and throw my belief around.

I want a sermon that tells me I'm not crazy to be in a church. I want a sermon that makes me take out my Bible, which is all marked up from the years spent studying why I should believe, and mark up some new sentence with some light. Some good news.

Since I experienced such a sermon last, 12 years ago or so in Bend, I've been to four or five churches looking for another. I know, that's not that many in 12 years, but have you ever been to a new church? It's exhausting, and for me, terrifying to meet all those nice smiling people.

I tried a new one this morning. I have nothing to report, sermon-wise, because they had a visiting pastor who was awful, but the lovely church lady who led me to the after-service coffee hour assured me that their regular pastor is way better. They sure could use some help in the hand bell choir, though.

I've been more diligent this year in trying to find a new church. The thing that is puzzling me about my recent church visits is that I spend most of the hour staring at the hymnal, inwardly criticizing the preposterousness of the words, trying not to glare at fussy babies, and critiquing lay peoples' reading abilities and styling choices, and then I go to take communion and get a big cry-lump in my throat.

What's that about? I've never really even considered communion a necessity to Christian worship. I always thought it a little over-wrought and not exactly what Jesus had in mind. I could go all theological on your ass right here, but I'll refrain. So why the emotion flood?

If you say it's God's will, I will hit you.

I'm Serious, There Are a Lot of Tomatoes Here.

Anyone for some marinara? So far this past week, I've made one pot of marinara and four ovens-full of baked tomatoes to freeze. I've also eaten pasta with baked tomatoes, bread with baked tomato spread, pasta over split cherry tomatoes, basil and Swiss chard, and salad with an extra helping of tomatoes.

But they are all home grown tasting, which means delicious, and I'm going to keep at it until the freezer is bulging and my skin is shiny and red. Redder than usual.

Gone, Baby, Gone

Drew's gone on his adorable little "Long Way Round Oregon" trip with his cross-country motorcycling buddies this week.


I don't miss him. That's not to say that I won't be happy to have him back. I just enjoy me some "me time." More than most people, I'm afraid (I already get 24 hours of "me time" every time Drew goes to work.) And I must say I may be not missing him more than usual this time, as we had just spent a week together. Like, constantly together.

However, I am missing Dean. The quiet reminds me how much I miss him. I laugh more with Dean around.

The dogs are funny, but they're not Dean funny.

That is all.

Back to my tomato cooking.

Blogging During Football Season and Other Adventures

This post was written on my raspberry while watching the Duck/Purdue game this afternoon. Sorry for the interruptions.

At a Steens overlook, checking the glacier-scoured gorge for wildlife. Score: one golden eagle.

I could begin my post by continuing the outdoor-toilet-substitute-exploits theme begun last time, but I'm afraid that story may lead to my son finding it necessary to dig the visualization lobe out of his brain with a spare bicycle spoke, so I will just report here that there are very few outhouses in the Steen Mountains.

(Aah, crap - interception. This game is not going as planned.)

The Steens Mountains wilderness area has two official

(Fumble on the kick! Purdue's ball again! Aaah!)

The Steens Mountains wilderness area has two official

(A Purdue run to the two yard line!)

The Steens Mountains wilderness area has two official campgrounds up on top: one with maybe a dozen spaces around a tiny lake, and one with just four spaces around a dry wash.

We chose the latter on account

(now 20 to 3! What the hell!)

We chose the latter on account of the camo-clad bowhunters at the lake campground, who, instead of bowhunting, seemed to be content to use random campground items for beer-fueled target practice.

The Steens is dry and high, with several glacier-scooped gorges, juniper, sage, and aspen just turning yellow now.

I think this is the one that is not the Little Blitzen River Gorge (the one we hiked along), but the other one.

It's high and thus cold at night, which makes a good sleeping bag a must, and some quick-on sweats a must for those late-night outhouse trips.

(Argh! Missed pass! Yipes! Bad snap! This game is a nightmare.)

We heard something prowling around our campground the first night, but Drew had his big old camping knife with him, so even though I kept thinking about Brick Tamblin's concern about women and bears,

(What! That was an incomplete pass, not a fumble!)

I wasn't worried. In the morning, Drew says he saw some tracks that may have belonged to a bobcat. Bobcats aren't scary - they're cute with their fluffy ears.

(This game sucks.)

Monday night, all four spaces were full in our little campground, with more hopeful campers continuing to drive through, scanning for spaces late into the evening.

Tuesday night, inexplicably, we had the whole place to ourselves. We scoured the other three camp spaces for firewood (feeling a little like survivors from Cormac McCarthy's The Road),

OMG, our adorable little tent nestled against the golden aspens.

(Aargh! Another interception!)

We started a fire, hooked the Ipod up to the truck and listened to a Tim Dorsey book (Serge Storms: my favorite serial murderer with a photographic memory for Florida history and a certain code of gentlemanly behavior, however twisted).

Wednesday morning there was frost on the tent, and the coffee water took such a long time to boil.

(Dropped ball! Dropped ball! Dropped ball!)

After three days and two nights of dry and dusty camping, we were ready for some hot water and a milkshake, so we packed up the camp and headed east.

(Finally! A Duck interception! With 39 seconds left in the half.)

East? Yes, east - first to a natural hot springs spot on the edge of the Alvord Desert (sort-of lovingly sort-of kept up by loyal users), where we lolled in a wind-screened pool of slightly slimy, sulfury and minerally spa-hot water in the middle of nowhere on the edge of an ancient dry lake bed with no one in sight. Brilliant and absurd.

(20 - 6 Purdue at half time. Ugh.)

Once the hot water had turned my face a satisfying shade of fuchsia, it was time to move on to Fields, the teeny-tiny town that is home to the legendary Fields General Store.

The Fields General Store's claim to fame seems to be burgers and shakes. And the kind of quirky homeliness found only in American deserts.

If you eat at Fields, I suggest that you take a seat away from the grill, as it is best not to watch this process too closely. It would also be best to be one of those desert individualists who don't have much use for either aesthetics or hygiene. Or those food safety "theories."

(An Oregon pick! I hope the offense takes advantage this time! Nope. Fumble.)

We ended the day with hot showers in a Bend motel up on Century Drive.

Thursday was our ann

(Duck special teams touchdown! Purdue is now only up by 7. But where's the offense?)

Thursday was our anniversary and Drew wanted to do something nice for me, so we had a milli-calorie breakfast at the Westside, and headed up past Todd Lake to one of the Broken Top trail heads. Drew's aim was to hike over to the Green Lakes, which lay between Broken Top and the South Sister.

Drew is not a natural hiker. The hiking he does, he does either for me or for meat. (You know, for hunting.)

It didn't look that far on the map, but it ended up being a 6 to 7 -mile hike one way to the lakes, which are actually nestled at the base of the South Sister. Drew and his flat feet and sore shins, still smarting from Steens hiking the day before, were tired and achy when we got to the lakes, and although the scenery was unmatchable, with very few other humans within whistling distance, he rested in the shade while knowing he had to do it all over again to get back to the truck.

Green Lakes. Just at the timber line. Inaccessible for nine-ten months out of the year, they are so high up in the Cascades.

(Duck touchdown! The score is tied! Tied! Quack, dammit, effing quack!)

On our way up, Drew marveled at trail maintenance crews, who must pack chain saws up here to clear the trails of downed trees. I could easily imagine doing that, but can't imagine doing 100-mile bicycle rides just for a workout like Drew-type people do.

Although the hike up to the lakes had been quiet as we were busy admiring the scenery, I thought Drew could use some

(Fumble! Oregon's got it!)

I thought Drew could use some distraction on the way down, so I kept him talking. I rewound our last 26 years, and stopped it every five years to see what we could remember.

(Another fumble back to Purdue. Crap.)

From 1982, we stopped at 1987 (at Travis AFB with a show-stopping-cute two-year-old), 1992 (living in Bend before the BFD experience goes sour, Dean learning how to ignore his teachers), 1997 (post BFD "divorce" and past a quick spacer job at the PDX FD and new at the VFD job, living in Tualatin close to my Hollywood Video legal dept job), 2002 (deep into Hollywood Video supervisory headaches and starting to learn what it means to have a kid who is good at an expensive and unpopular sport), and finally 2007, our 25th anniversary, which we celebrated by gaining a daughter-in-law in August.

(Purdue is on the 15 and threatening. Here comes the field goal guy...yep. Purdue up by 3.)

That and a few other random topics kept us talking all the way back to the truck. It was touch and go at times when Drew stopped to rest his aching back - I wasn't sure whether he was going to straighten back up again, but he powered through it like a soldier.

Some happy-anniversary dinner at the Pine Tavern and a soaking in the Turkish bath at McMenamins, and Drew's back on top.

Drew at Green Lakes. He's smiling with his mouth, but not with his eyes.

(Aach! Another missed catch in the end zone! Oh well, we got a field goal out of it. Back to a tie at 23.)

I wouldn't kick him in the shins today if I were you. Well, any time, really. But those shins are more than a little sore today.

(28 seconds left. Purdue has the ball. Down to a 44 yard field goal. Its wide! Its going to overtime!)

(Crap. QB Roper's down with a knee injury. Field goal for 3. Purdue's turn.)

(Thurmond gets a pass interference. Purdue gets close. Closer. Another field goal. To OT#2.)

(Purdue goes backward in their possession, and can't hit the field goal.)

(Freshman Duck QB Harper gets sacked as well. Johnson gets some yards back and Ducks get a 1st down. Blount in the end zone! TD and its over!)

(Holy crap. I've got to go lie down.)

Camping is made better by the shower afterward. Hiking is made better by the payoff at the end of the trail. If you get a chance to hike to Green Lakes (it turns out there is a shorter trail - check your favorite Central Oregon hiking guidebook), I would definitely do it.