Shit Yeah, I Just Did That

It couldn't be helped.  When it's cold outside he obsesses.  He comes in, lays down (uh, on the SOFA!) and licks his joints. 
~lick~lick~lick~
I think he's arthritic.  I feel bad for him.  I'm also 40 and home alone and don't have to work tomorrow.  Whatchyougonnado? 
I crocheted leg warmers.  For a male dog.  Yes, I did.  I think he likes them.  I can tell because he started humming, "she's a maaaaaniac, MANIAC on. the. floooor." 
he's looking at me with those big brown eyes, saying, "please, mom, can you crochet me a sweater with a giant head-hole?" 
Only then will he be complete. 
I'm not sure who should be more embarrassed here, the crazy lady crocheting random shit for her critters on the first night of a long weekend, or the dog wearing leg-warmers. 

The Broken Parts in My Head

The only thing that can possibly explain my little "quirks" is that I have all the parts of a brain, but it's fragmented and the pieces float around independently of each other.  I blame the "Incident Wherein Teresa Tied Herself to a Horse and was Dragged a Quarter Mile" of 1974 for this because I'm pretty sure I hit my head once or twice. 
So, these fragments send out little signals to each other, but sometimes the signals get lost in grey matter, or they end up in the wrong place.  Sort of like when you are in the grocery store and you tell your husband to hand you a package of paper towels and you look up and it is not your husband but some frazzled mother of 10, a good foot shorter than your husband.  The signals are correct, the intent is correct, but the recipient ducked off to read some magazines a couple of aisles over. 
I can't remember numbers.  Weird, because I love math and have always been pretty good at it... ON PAPER.  Ask me to mentally calculate anything and all you'll get is two eyes shaped exactly like zeroes.  History has always been my downfall because I can't remember years at all.  Seriously.  I freakin' WENT to Cambodia, I STEPPED FOOT in the Killing Fields, I READ NUMEROUS ACCOUNTS and history books and spoke to survivors of Pol Pot's regime...  but I can't remember if that all started in 70 and ended in 75 or?  Wait, what?  Even while I was there, and I committed it to my memory, "this happened when I was x years old," I STILL can't remember.
And, if I look at a watch to see what time it is, I instantly forget. 
Sometimes I associate colors with numbers.  Not for any particular reason.  I just think "blue" instead of "6". 
Plus, I'm afraid of elephants. And I'm afraid of spontaneously exploding. Suicide-bombing has never been a career path option for me. I don't need an aptitude test to tell me that.

So, here's to a happy 20yellow-orange.

Latest Obession: Ancestry

could also be titled: "Get Used to Disappointment"
I found mom's login for her Ancestry.com account, which she paid up through May, 2011.  I logged in and started puzzling away at my family tree. 
8 hours later....
I come from a long line of alcoholic dirt-farmers.  Eventually I ran out of connections in Kentucky.  I have visions of a smaller version of me, perpetually barefoot in the kitchen and with child.  I think most of my family was born with a bottle in one hand.  Not a baby bottle, either.
Jeff's family, on the other hand, was easily traceable back to King Furgus, born 1087.  With a little more work I think I could connect him to Jesus.  That would explain his passion for all things that float on the surface of water.  It's probably instinctual for him to try to walk on water all the time. 
Speaking of instinctive behavior, I did find the other day that a wine bottle is a superior rolling pin.  I had slippers on and was not pregnant, but there I was in the kitchen with alcohol, rollin' out some biscuit dough with a bottle of wine. 
Some things never change. 

Fun and Terror!

We looked at a 6 month old colt yesterday as a potential companion for Wrigley and a fun project for me.  As you know, I don't have enough freakin' going on...
Seriously though, horses are herd animals and it just kills me to see my poor girl out there without another horse to hang out with.  6 more horses should fix that.  ;)
I'll pick up the new guy Thursday.  It's hard to evaluate a 6 month old.  They're just so malleable at that stage.  If he had nasty habits I'd be all "oh, we can fix that!"  Plus, it's a lot like looking at a puppy.  Have you ever looked at a puppy and NOT wanted it?  Have you ever seen a fuzzy little kitten or puppy (or foal) and thought, "meh, just not doing it for me."  My answer is no.
Okay, so I did do a little bit of an 'evaluation' of him.  One, I checked out his lateral flexion.  Nothing formal at all, I just pulled his head around to his shoulder.  He left it there, didn't fight, didn't pull away.  The other thing I did was try to lead him to one side, maintaining a little tension on the lead line until he shifted toward me.  Then I rewarded him tons.  First, he just shifted a little (reward!), then, he took a step toward me (Reward!), then I put a little more tension on the rope and he disengaged his hindquarters and came up to me (REWARD!).  Who knows if that is really a great evaluation of him but I did feel that he had a real willingness to try hard.  Apart from that, he hasn't had a lot of haltering experience, but that's fine.  I've always loved groundwork. 
I'll put up some pictures of him when I get him.  But brace yourself, this little guy is C-U-T-E!

Weekend Writer's Retreat

I hereby proclaim this weekend to be my own, personal "Weekend Writer's Retreat."  Wha?  18" of new snow and more coming?
Dilemma.
Write?  Ski?  Write/ski?  Write on the chair lift, ski back down?  Write about skiing?  Write my name in the snow while peeing?
Probably going to ski a bit, then sit by the fire and write a bit.
I have a few assignments I've been stewing on, not the least of which is The Effing Christmas Letter. 
I don't want to give too much away, but there will be a minimum of three.  3.  TRES Letters de Navidad!  A TRIO!!  I'll title them thusly (and swear to never use the word "thusly" again): Gaspar, Balthasar, and Melchior.  First person to figure out why I'm naming them that will receive an iTunes giftcard for $20.00.  Leave your answer in the comments.  All hail the blog giveaway...
Now, no more information about the Christmas Letter(s) and STOP trying to pry it outta me!

THIS is a Reality Dance Show: Elaine vs. Me

Sweet Fancy Moses!



I got Nothin'!

You Wet the Bed Once, and Nobody Forgets it!

Granted, I was 34 years old.  It was on a raft trip, a very remote raft trip.  No access to washing machines, fresh bedding, or even clean underwear.  It was a borrowed sleeping bag.  Still, What the Almighty Heck, People???
It must've been nerves.  We were rafting the Selway River in April.  The Selway in April is notoriously unpredictable.  One day it's a docile Class II/III, and in a span of less than 12 hours it is a Class V, your boats are swept away in the middle of the night, and your only option is to hunker down in bear country until the river subsides (which could be June), or run it with whatever watercraft you have left.
Our crew opted to run it.  They were experienced, competent boaters.  I was not. 
I went to bed the second night, sober and dry. 
I dreamt of my office job, specifically of my office restroom, the restroom which had a toilet seat you could actually sit on as opposed to a splintery piece of plywood with a hole cut in it, which you positioned your hoo-hah over and tried not to think of outhouse-dwelling-spiders. 
The restroom seat was smooth, comfortable, and welcoming.  Not unlike the lining of my friend's sleeping bag.
I walked in, closed the door, sat down, and...
OH MY GOD!!!!
I woke up midstream. 
Ever tried to, you know, dam 'er up?  Close the gates?  Screw the clamps down?  Restrict the flow?  Abort the mission?  (Side note: have you ever done an internet search for euphemisms for urination?)
The only feeling worse than waking up in the bed you peed, is waking up in the bed you are still peeing.  Had I not already been emptying my bladder, the shock of the entire situation could have caused me to wet myself.  But, I sort of had that covered. 
We had two more nights left on the trip.  I had zero changes of clothes left.  I also ended the trip with zero friends willing to loan me sleeping bags (or clothing). 
I have a hard time stopping myself once I've committed to peeing.  Oddly enough, I have the same lack of self-control when it comes to spewing incriminating and embarrassing stories about myself.  Thus, the bed-wetting story was leaked. 
And I got an email today from a friend so enamored with the story that he's shared it numerous times, and introduces me to people as "the Sleeping Bag Incident Teresa".  He must be concerned that people may confuse me with other Teresas, like "the Gourmet Cook Teresa" or "The Proposed-To-On-A-Hayride Teresa" or "The Chainsaw Juggling Teresa".  A common mistake, I'm sure.
So, there it is, my big, dark, non-secret.  My yellow letter U that I have to wear on my chest. 
I might as well just go with it.  You know, once a story like that is leaked, it's pretty hard to stop it.

Either They Missed Me, or They Are Hungry.

I stayed up at the cabin and went skiing.  When I came home, this is the greeting I received.  "Uh, mom?  We have some serious cuddling to catch up on..." 
or
"oh, look, it's the feed lady."

Confession Time

As the wife of a Professional Ski Patroller, I get a free annual pass. 
That is cool.
But today -- opening day -- feels more appropriate for sitting in the cabin, smelling the chilli that is bubbling in the crockpot, and I feel guilty about that.
That is one wacked out sense of obligation I'm feeling, for sure.
The car is packed, the chores are (mostly) done. 
It's opening day.
I have bad-weather friendships to maintain (You know, those people you only see in the winter?)
And a husband to stalk.  (that is, MY husband...not just any husband)
New boots to try.
Thanksgiving Dinner calories to burn.
.... ~yawn~ ....

Ski Season Has Arrived!

I have an astonishing number of ski gloves.  Not an astonishing number of PAIRS of ski gloves.  While other people are searching the far recesses of their dryers for missing socks, I rummage through closets for left-hand, pink gloves, or the blue circa 1980 right-handed glove. 
Believe me, I have no issues whatsoever in wearing mismatched anything, least of all gloves.  Still, it would be nice to have an honest-to-goodness pair.
I found a pair. 
boots, check.  Skis, check, check, check, check, check.  Poles, check.  kneepads and goggles, check and check.  face mask, check.  Hat.  Hat?  HAT...!  ~more closet rummaging~  okay, we'll call that wad of yarn a hat. 
Long underwear, ski jacket, down jacket, ski pants, packed.

Self, say hello to your new winter wardrobe. 

In other news, this also begins the long dark winter of solitude, of widowhood.  The Mountain Man is a patroller and they're feeling a little short-handed this year.  He'll be working.  A lot.  My only hope at seeing him is to re-enact a little fantasy of mine where I get injured on the slopes (nothing major), and he comes to my rescue.  ~sound of dramatic music~ 
Except, I already know him, so the romantic gaze into each other's eyes is more likely to be followed by me screaming, "don't touch me!!!  no no nonononononono, don'ttouchme don'ttouchme don'ttouchme don'ttouchme don'ttouchme !" ... and he sees a woman who looks like a Michelin Man who robbed a dumpster for his attire, and well... that's the end of romance as we know it. 

Instead I will go up to the hill and ski around and hope to catch glimpses of my man in black, in his patrol gear, and try to suppress the butterflies and the oncoming swoon I feel every time...  unless it'd get me a little mouth-to-mouth?

Introduction to this Blog

I've always loved to write, but have wandered in and out of a creative fog for years. Basically, being a "writer" was a dream so distant, hazy, and unattainable that I finally shelved it.
At the same time, "falling in love with the perfect man" was also a far-away dream, so far removed from my life that I even resented those who did fall in love. I thought they were making it up, secretly settling for a good-enough partner but touting their love as "the real thing".
I met and fell in love with my perfect man. Things changed. Dreams became reality, and I remembered some shelved fantasies that might also be attainable just like that amazing love. I trained for and ran a marathon -- a dream that had been conceived and shelved 10 years before. I married my perfect man -- an inconceivable notion just a few years ago. My dream of writing was next up on the list of fantasies to be dusted off and (re)tried.
The book "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron entered my life. Two false-starts later and I'm writing. Please check out her book.
So, how can I call myself a writer? It's not like J.K. Rowling and I dine in London every couple of weeks. I haven't had a single word published (other than blogging) since 1996. But, I write every single day. Hundreds of words. The words don't have to do with work, or home, or anything day to day. They are totally the product of creativity. They come to light as a result of a lot of work, dedication, and practice. Whether or not they are enjoyed by anyone else is not the measure of my success.
Running the marathon was a very small part of my dream to run a marathon. The training was the big commitment. You have to run a lot. You have to run 5 days a week. Sometimes those runs can take hours. You do this for months. Then one day, you just run a long run, just like you practiced, and you check "run a marathon" off your checklist of things to accomplish in life.
Getting published is also a small part of my dream to be a writer. Writing, a lot, is the big commitment.
My next blog entry will be, "How much does a fiction writer make?" If you're like me, you're thinking, "Is she gonna get rich off this?" I'm wondering that, too... I'll share my plan with you in the next entry.