Gorked Puppy

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No, she’s not dead…just had her morning walkies, breakfast, and now…notice the green ball in her mouth, which serves as her pacifier….she’s taking her midmorning nap as she digests her delicious dog food.  What a life!

Grateful

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Last evening as I was picking my way down a rutted forest road I had to stop to let three enormous javelinas cross the road.  This is the first time I’ve seen javelinas, although I’ve smelled them, and I’ve seen their lying-down places where they rest.

I had no idea that javelinas range so far north.  I thought they were a Texas and Mexican border kind of thing, but I guess not.

Javelinas are the northern cousins of the peccary, a wild and voracious pig that travels in packs and eats anything alive that it can overpower, even adult humans.  I was trekking with a native guide through the jungle in Costa Rica when we smelled the peculiar and disgusting aroma of peccary.  We tiptoed as close as the guide felt safe, staying downwind.  If the pigs got a whiff of us, the guide said, we would be dinner.

There must have been thirty of them, with a huge boar standing sentry.  That herd of pigs could run us over and make a meal of us in seconds, he said.  So we tiptoed back the way we had come, avoiding the horrible trees with long sharp spikes all over their trunks. 

Who can have read or seen the movie “Old Yeller” that does not vividly recall the terrifying fight between Yeller and the javelinas (I think they call them “wild boars”)?  Poor Old Yeller got himself tusked up pretty bad.

I thought of that last night at dusk, when I found a decent camping spot not very far from where the wild pigs crossed the road.  Atina fretted because I wouldn’t let her out after dark.  She would be no match for a hungry, angry, or frightened tusker.

I actually ate wild pig once.  My first ex-husband’s folks lived in South Florida.  They (the folks) ate anything they could catch.  Kind of like javelinas, come to think of it.

By the time he was a year old, my son had eaten (raw tuna, but that’s normal) fried squirrel (pretty good, actually), pheasant, wild duck, fried alligator tail (very much like chewing on an old tire, vaguely reminiscent of fish), javelina, crawdads, and who knows what else.  I tried not to look.  (He lived through it, and acquired a taste for weird and disgusting food.)

Some distant relatives threw a party out in the bush.  They owned a ranch, so they took a couple of days off and barbecued a whole cow and a couple of whole pigs.

One of the teenage sons trapped wild pigs in a pit trap, hauled them out of the pit, popped them into a pen, and fattened them up for eating for a month or so.

Normally javelinas are very tough, because they have to travel long distances, and they have to work for their food, subsisting on acorns, and anything they can root up or catch, such as household pets and small children.

Fattened up javelinas taste mighty good.  Tender and sweet, but not kosher.

At the ranch barbecue, the eating was all done outside in the blazing South Florida sun.  There was a large pole building right near the barbecue pit, but we weren’t allowed to congregate in there, for inside the barn was a gigantic U-shaped assemblage of banquet tables groaning with “salads,” the kind made of canned fruit ruined with gobs of pink or green colored Kool Whip, and punctuated with contrasting colored tiny marshmallows.  Some of the endless variations on this theme were sprinkled with toasted coconut.  I believe they call this “Ambrosia.”

Much more interesting were the tables laden with every kind of pie: blackberry, mulberry, cherry, lemon,  chocolate cream, banana cream, and my personal favorite, Shoo-fly pie.  Shoo-fly pie, if you haven’t had it, is all about the thick layer of molasses that blankets a rich, flaky crust on the bottom.  The crust and molasses are baked slowly till the molasses thickens.  Then a layer of vanilla custard is poured on top, the pie is cooled, and topped with whipped cream (or not).  The result is that the molasses kind of makes its way up through the custard, resulting in a delightful variety of tastes and textures.  Shoo-fly pie, yum.  Forbidden to diabetics.

Regrettably, we must return now to the present.

After two days of cardiology testing, Atina and I decided to do the old splitsky into the woods.  It’s Memorial Day Weekend, so I’m pretty sure that most of the good spots are taken by three day weekend revelers.  So I studied the Forest Service map and picked a likely looking road.

It took some searching, but voila, the photo above shows you the delightful camping spot I found, with a fine view of the San Francisco Peaks, which are the Westernmost boundary of the Navajo tribal lands, marked by four sacred mountains.

We’re sitting right about 8,000 feet, elevation wise.  Glad I filled the propane tank; it’s gonna be a cold night.

Not Camping Here

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I think it was once a skunk.  It doesn’t smell like skunk, but then it is a bit aged.  I’m inclined to think it was a skunk; otherwise it would have been totally eaten by now.

I am impressed at the length of its spine.  And its feet are not prehensile, like those of a possum.  I have never seen a possum corpse just lying around.  They’re good eatin’, I hear.  Maybe that’s why you never see them: the carrion eaters clean-up crew get to them first.

In my youth I had a friend who had a family to feed, but no money.

He was a practical man.  Whenever he found a fresh road kill that wasn’t too mangled, he’d take it home, clean it, and put it in his enormous deep freeze.  They’d make possum stew, raccoon stew, and if lucky and careful of the law, deer stew.

Why did the chicken cross the road?

To show the possum that it could be done.

I was exhausted, so I did camp there for one night.  In the evening, when the air currents lie low, is the best time for scent tracking.  Atina’s eyes grow wolfish when she latches onto a scent–in this case, skunk perfume!  I followed along as she was tracking, and soon I caught whiffs of eau du striped kitty.  Uh-oh, I see their burrows!  Yikes, let’s get out of here!

Atina has her nose buried in one of the burrows-oh no! What will I do if she gets skunk sprayed?

I couldn’t let her in the van.  What could I do?  I don’t have a crate I could put outside.  And Little Miss has not spent a single night away from me since she bounced into my life last July.  Even if I had a crate, imagine her misery if I left her outside!

And then what?

How would I get her somewhere with water for washing?  I would have to take her to the vet, but that would mean stinking up the van…

Let me tell you, skunk spray is a complex stink bomb.  It’s made of a cocktail of volatile oils that penetrate absolutely everything. I wish my perfumes lasted that long!  I’m talking about the perfumes I make.  I could take a lesson from the skunks!

There’s no way to isolate it, and there is really no way to remove it, since the volatile oils penetrate skin and hair.  And wood, leather, fabrics….everything.

All the classic skunk stink remedies like bathing in tomato juice, lemon juice, etc, merely mask the eau de skunk with something else, making it more tolerable for a few hours.

I quickly decided that since skunk mitigation would be impossible, the better part of wisdom would be to scram.

We did.  First thing in the morning….and I am relieved to say, without skunk disasters.

Everyone Knows It’s Windy

Ahem.  Yes.  1967.  I was 13.  Remember 1967? 

It’s windy.  Today and yesterday, in NOAZ (that’s what they call Northern Arizona), upon wave of wind up to 50 miles an hour!

The sky is a perfect blue diamond.  I’m surrounded by forest, Ponderosa Pine, Douglas Fir, some kind of Spruce.

The waves of wind from the South-Southwest pile up on that majestic escarpment, the Mogollon Rim, and spill over into the Coconino Plateau, which rides above the Rim like a giant plate rising to 8,000 feet before cracking in half to form the Grand Canyon.

And I, in my tiny RV, with my not so tiny canine pal Atina, had a choice to either go crazy in the two days (so far) of relentless waves of wind, or…or not.

At times the wind rocks the RV so hard, I think it’s going to tip over.

Atina thinks so too.  I can tell by the way she clings to me and farts.  As I write she is wrapped around my leg with her ass in my face, farting great clouds of evil fumes.  At the risk of being covered in red volcanic dust, I have had to open the window.

Every three or four minutes, another wave of wind-here it comes now-roars through the tree tops and through my window.  Atina sleeps, heaves a big sigh, farts.

I’ve been nervously checking my NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) high-definition radar app for any approaching precipitation.  This volcanic soil, when rained upon, becomes a treacherous soup of slippery mud.  If the soil becomes saturated, it can turn into quicksand.  So I watch the sky and keep track of the aviation forecasts.

I’ve always loved weather.  When I was 10 or so, a gigantic tornado passed right over our house.  We were listening to a record on the old record player.  Suddenly there was a deafening roar.  The dog dove under the couch.  The lights flickered.  The phonograph slowed eerily to a halt.  The lights went out.  The roar passed overhead…we thought it was a low flying jet, but strange… Then the lights came back on, the record player started up again, the dog came out from under the couch, and everything went back to normal.

The next morning my mother and I went to the laundromat.  It wasn’t there.  Just nothing but the concrete pad it was built on.

The mile-wide tornado sheared the city of Toledo, Ohio, off at second-story level and dumped it into Lake Erie.
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My father and I were big buddies.  We used to pack a lunch, a frying pan, a little bag of corn meal, a couple slices of bacon, and our fishing tackle, and we’d go fishing.

Dad taught me to fly fish.  I was good at catching twigs from overhanging trees.  We never caught anything, but we did forbidden things like chewing tobacco (yecch) and smoking corncob pipes (blecch). 

We did better fishing in ponds, where we caught pan fish: crappie, sunfish, bluegill–cleaned and scaled them on the spot.  Dad taught me how to make a small cooking fire, and we’d fry the bacon, roll the fish in cornmeal, and fry them in the bacon fat.  A delectable feast.  We ate them, fins, tails, and all.  Crunchy.

We went surf casting in the ocean, using long heavy rods baited with 8-10 inch long Styrofoam lures called Atoms, bristling with hooks, in hope of catching a bluefish and not getting bitten.

Once I was in a rowboat in Narragansett Bay with my friend Becky.  The bluefish were running, a huge school of them, so many that it seemed the boat was riding on top of waves of bluefish instead of waves of water.

We happened to have fishing poles, so we threw a line in, without bait, just bare hooks.  Becky hooked one immediately, and it fought so hard it took both of us to get it into the boat.

(Breaking news: Atina just puked.  She’s such a good girl, she urgently asks to go outside when she has to puke.  It was the Malinois Empty Stomach kind of puke, so I just fed her.)

We got the angry bluefish into the boat.  It thrashed and snapped, jumping around in the bottom of the dory.  Bluefish have a mouthful of deadly sharp teeth.  They can take a finger off, and bluefish bites seem to always get infected.

Becky yelled, “Hold into him, there’s a club in this boat somewhere!”

It was her father’s dory.  He was an avid fisherman, so there had to be a club in the boat, for whacking fish over the head.  That’s how you kill a fish.

She had to find the club, because the only other choice was to throw the fish overboard and cut the line.

But this could not be done without getting bitten, because a dory is a deep sort of boat.

No luck with the club, so we pulled one of the oars and whacked the fish to death, but then a wave came along and snatched the oar; and we were forced to paddle back to shore with one oar, which was not an easy task.

In normal conditions, if deprived of an oar, a person would jump into the sea and push or pull the boat ashore; but the sea was filled with snapping bluefish, so we managed, after a long time, to get the boat to land, more worried about what Becky’s father would say about the lost oar than anything.  Becky’s father was a kind man; he didn’t say anything.  He was a man of few words.  Not so, her mother.

One bright blue morning, Dad and I packed up our surf casting gear and headed out for Horseneck Beach to try our luck.  Somebody had told somebody else, who had told Dad that the bluefish might be running.

By the time we got to the beach, it was starting to cloud up.  Nevertheless we hauled our tackle to the shore and threw a line in.

The tide seemed to be coming in strong, although by the tide tables it should have been turning, just at the end of going out and starting to come in (“neap tide,” in fisherman’s terms).  High tide wasn’t for a good few hours yet.

But we cast our lines and tried to smoke, he his cigar and I my Balkan Sobranies, daring black cigarettes with gold leaf where the filter would have been, if there had been a filter, which there wasn’t.  By this time it was impossible to smoke, as the wind kept putting our smokes out.  So we put them away and turned our attention to trying to get our lures in the water.

But the wind, which was now howling like a banshee, kept throwing our lures back in our faces along with sheets of rain and salt spray.  We decided to pack it in and go have lunch.

We threw our fishing gear into the back of Dad’s Ford pickup and wallowed through the driving rain to a nearby fishermen’s bar that served the best conch chowder ever.

The scratchy t.v.was on.

When we came through the door, soaking wet, stamping our dripping boots on the mat, the boys at the bar said,

“What in the world have you two been doin’ out THEYAH?  In the middle of this hurricane?  You-ah lucky you didn’t get taken by a storm wave!”

Hurricane?  HURRICANE!  Nobody said anything about a hurricane.

The lights went out, and the barkeep lit kerosene lanterns.  Dad ordered us beers (yes, I was only fourteen, but the law was that a minor could drink if accompanied by a parent), and we lit fresh smokes.  The fishermen looked on approvingly.  We ordered hot conch chowder, and crumbled Common Crackers, which the barkeep scooped from a barrel, into the rich stew.

It made us forget, temporarily, that we were soaking wet.

(For you who did not grow up in New England in the ’60’s or before, Common Crackers, also known as Ship’s Biscuits, are rounds of flour, water, and baking soda, slowly baked until completely dehydrated, and dangerous to teeth unless broken up into chowder.  They keep indefinitely when stored in an airtight container, and thus were taken on long sea voyages on whaling ships.  As long as they don’t get wet they are good practically forever.)

After the wind died down some, we hydroplaned for a couple of hours till we got home.  My mother was frantic.  No cell phones in those days.  For all she knew (she wailed, through tears), we could have been taken by a storm wave.

Mom seldom approved of our adventures.  That’s one reason we seldom took her along.

The wind-waves seem to be slowing down now.  The NOAA weather discussion said it was going to, but I don’t trust it, as that’s what it said last night and today was worse than yesterday.

So I’ll keep on recollecting pleasant memories of dangerous adventures that turned out good.  Atina and I are warm and dry, and we’ve got plenty of food and water, without bluefish…although they are very tasty.

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My father, with a giant pot that he made for a demonstration at some art school or other.  Note that the pot is wearing his apron and hat.  He was 5’8″, so that gives you an idea of the size of this pot.

Below on the far left are a salt glazed porcelain teapot and vase that he made.  The rest of the pots were made by his former graduate students.  From a show in 2001 more or less.  I hope he’s playing in mud in Potter’s Heaven now…and enjoying a good conch chowdah, with a good cigar for dessert.

Troublemaker

I’ve been thrown out of two places in my life: a leather dyke bar in Provincetown, Massachusetts, because I wasn’t butch enough; and just tonight, the campground I’ve been staying in on and off since February.  My crime: complaining to the manager because my camp furniture had been removed from my campsite; and when they claimed they hadn’t removed them, then I reported my possessions as stolen.

Tonight as I came in to pay for my reservation, they informed me that I was no longer welcome because I had “made a scene.”

Hmmm.

I don’t think asking to speak to the manager because one’s personal effects have disappeared really counts as “making a scene.”  Especially since this was the second time things of mine have “disappeared” at this campground.  The first time I also reported it, and got blank stares for an answer.  This time the blank stare treatment really got to me, because you’d think they would care if their paying customers were losing their camp furniture.  So I said I wanted to speak to the manager, who shrugged and said she didn’t know what had happened to my things.

I tried to think of other reasons they might want to get rid of me.  Maybe it’s because I always pick up after my dog.  Maybe it’s because I’m very quiet, am rarely seen aside from taking long walks with same dog, never play music except with headphones, and don’t make trouble except for when my zero gravity lounge chair and a whole load of laundry disappear.

It would have been nice if they hadn’t waited till I came in, after dark, to tell me I’ve been banned.  I had to scramble to find a place to park my van for the night.  It’s too late to go up to the forest, so I have to make do with the truck stop.  It’s usually OK to park overnight at Wal-Mart, but not here.  Fortunately there’s a truck stop an easy drive away.  Very, very noisy, but any port in a storm.  Time to break out the earplugs…

This is very inconvenient, at this particular moment in time, because I have to make my special oat matzahs for the Passover Seder tomorrow night.  I was planning to make them on my portable grill tomorrow morning.  Cooking in the truck stop parking lot is considered poor truck stop etiquette (!), so I will have to figure out something else.  Maybe one of the marijuana dispensaries will let me get my matzahs baked in their parking lot!  Just kidding.  Sort of.

I Got Carded!

And the good news is, I got carded for the first time in 32 years.

The State of Arizona, otherwise notable for refusing Daylight Savings Time, and for the Grand Canyon, and Tombstone, and Prescott, all splendid ideas–has seen fit to award me my Medical Marijuana card even though I’m not **yet** an official resident.

I think they took pity upon my sorry ass.

And they knew I needed it, because I am in a world of hurt.

My appointment with the Hand Surgeon arrived today.  I got to wait two hours, then saw his PA, who had filthy fingernails.

I find that utterly repulsive.  A health care practitioner MUST have clean fingernails.  Hell, I’m sure Doc Holliday had clean fingernails, even though he was a drunk, a gambler, and a sometime outlaw.

I even clean my own fingernails before I go to a doctor appointment.  When I was in practice, I not only cleaned them every morning before heading to the office, but also used a white nail pencil (which I have not seen in stores for years) under the tips, to clean them further and make them shine.

The PA was not in my life for long, however, as she took immediate note of the way I flinched and yelled “Ouch!” when she pressed on the place where it hurts.  I made it easy for her by showing her the place.

She left the room and returned with the actual hand surgeon, a very nice young man.  He extended his hand, I rose from my chair and shook it, we introduced ourselves by our first names, and he complimented my last hand surgeon on his fine handiwork and inquired how it was done.

“Pins,” I told him.  “He pinned the hell out of those little bones and told me never to move my wrist again.”

He laughed.  But that is true. 

Of course the surgeon had to manipulate my wrist some, just to get his own idea of what is fucked up wrong, so hours later the bitch is still throbbing.

Predictably, he ordered an MRI.  As a bonus, we’re going to have an arthrogram with our MRI.  Half an hour prior to the scan, he will inject some contrast material into my wrist joint, and the MRI will show where the stuff goes.  This will clarify what is ruptured.  I think I know.  I’d make a bet with my doc, but I think we’re both on the same team.

So, after getting all the paperwork done I walked out to the parking lot, stuffing down a scream, and let the Biggess Doggess out to pee.

Aha, there is my phone!  I knew I left it somewhere.

Three messages from the spine institute in Denver (thank you, friend who suggested this!).  Two of their spine surgeons have reviewed the imaging studies I sent them, and both are of the opinion that I need “decompression and fusion at two levels (of my neck)”, just the same as the spine surgeon here in Flagstaff. 

I guess I will be having a busy spring.

It’s hard to do this kind of shit all by myself.  I wish I had the money for hotel rooms and private duty nurses.  I don’t, so there will be some sort of arrangement with hospital security so I can stay in my van in the hospital parking lot for the hand surgery.  The spine surgery recovery will have to be in some rehab facility, ick.  And poor Atina will have her first boarding experience.  Ever since I’ve had her, she’s been with me every single night, even after her own major surgeries.  It will seem really strange not to have her with me, but since I won’t be able to care for her, I guess that’s how it has to be.

It was getting late by this time, so I drove back to the campground, still suppressing screams.  It upsets Atina terribly when I scream.  So I rubbed her head and ears all the way back, driving with my solidly braced up bad hand.  One thing about having a lot of orthopedic injuries, you get pretty good at bracing and splinting, and at driving with one hand.

Back at the old campground, I rummaged in my stash bag and found a strain of legal (I have my card, remember) cannabis called Blueberry Trinity, which I imagine might be named for the “Trinity” nuclear fission experiments.  Whatever.  I inhaled its vapors, then set to work on a few shots of whiskey.  No, not the best coping mechanisms.  Fuck a bunch of coping mechanisms.  I needed oblivion.

The phone rang.

It was my old boyfriend and now for 18 years telephone friend Dick!  That’s not his actual name, but I know he won’t mind.  I spilled my guts to him, which was just what I needed.  He must have got “the vibe” that I needed help!  We talked all the way through his dinner.  His wife put up with it gracefully.  She is a graceful person, and I’m very glad they have each other.

Now the intoxicants have pretty much worn off.  It’s time for Atina and I to take our pills and go to sleep.  She’s lying up against me, upside down.  I’m intermittently rubbing her tummy.  Guess I’d better take her out for the last pee of the day, and call it a night.

Oh My Aching….

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Yes, that is a portion of my ample posterior.

Yes, that is my Sexy Sparkly Michael Jackson Stretchy Glove-type thingy.  I wear it under my wrist braces to keep my skin from wearing out.

Let’s see, now.  It’s all getting blurred together.  Thank God for credit card records.  That’s how I know where I was and what I was doing whenever I get injured.

I think the first thing was the wrist (again).  Since the last of the LEFT wrist surgeries was all the way back in 2000, I didn’t even think about the possibility of another one when I tripped over a log in the pitch dark and went ass over teakettle, making a one point landing on my left palm.

I felt the all too familiar sick crunching sensation, followed by excruciating pain.  Thank goodness I was with a friend, who helped me up, which I doubt I could have accomplished by myself, since I was upside down.

“Oh no!” He exclaimed.  “Can I do anything?”  He is a really nice man.

“Yes, help me up!”  At least I think that’s what I said.  He would be better able to tell you, or maybe not, as he was nearly as distressed as I.  He is a really nice man.

After a few volleys of,

“It’s broken.”
“No it’s not, it can’t be broken.”
“Yes it is, it’s broken.”
“No, it can’t possibly be broken.”

Etc, etc.  Look, we’re both Jewish, and we’ve known each other a really long time.  Thousands of years.

After a few of those volleys, he helped me back to my rig–that’s what you call any kind of a camping vehicle type thing–where I trussed my throbbing wrist up, smoked some pot, took a tramadol, which I soon regretted because, you know, the itch thing, did the dishes and went to bed.

In the morning I un-trussed my aching wrist and did a careful exam, gingerly palpating all the little bones and checking range of motion–clunk–there it was.  Not good.  I trussed it back up.

My phone rang.  It was my Hebrew Brother.

“How’s your wrist?”

“Broken.”

“Broken?”

“Broken.”

“Oh, well, how long are you staying?”

Before we hung up I heard him yelling “Goodbye!” from his Jeep outside my window.  Dear soul!

I moved farther North to get out of the blazing desert heat.  Three or four hundred miles and two thousand feet of altitude didn’t seem to make it get any cooler.

But since my destination had electricity and therefore air conditioning in my rig, I decided to make it my base camp for scouting hand surgeons.  I did find one, but he wasn’t going to be in the office for a week.  In the meantime, they told me, I could go another half a day’s drive North, where they had a walk-in orthopedics  clinic.  I opted for that.

In the meantime, I was not just sitting on my ass.

The campground is situated on a completely barren stretch of dessert, devoid of any vegetation save the thorny kinds.  I recall, in my college botany classes, learning that desert plants have to have thorns in order to protect themselves from being eaten.  In that case, why doesn’t everything that grows have thorns?

It’s easy to walk your dog there.  All you have to do is go to the “Designated Green Space”

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And there you go.  Actually, there the dog goes.

My dog is VERY friendly, and everyone wants to hear all about her.  You might say she’s a conversation piece.  You might not.  She doesn’t care.

A friendly couple with an aged obese spaniel were admiring her.  While chatting with them, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that she had another admirer: the biggest, sassiest raven I have ever seen.  It strutted up and down, perhaps ten feet from us, uttering little raven-speak cackles and gurgles.

(Did I already write about this, or am I having a deja vu all over again?  Oh well.  A good story bears retelling.)

One moment, I am standing chatting with these nice strangers, and the next, I was hanging, suspended by invisible wires, my body parallel to the ground.  Then somebody cut the wires, just like in the cartoons, and my body obeyed the laws of physics and hit the hard packed sun baked desert with a thud.

That naughty raven got on Atina’s last nerve and it broke, and she bolted out of the gate like a two year old racehorse, forgetting about the me who had a good grip on the other end of the leash.  Before my lightning fast reflexes had a chance to unflex my leash hand, it was too late: the deed was done.  I was horizontal.

When she heard the resounding report of my corpus hitting the desert floor she came running and threw herself down beside me, plastered right up against me, panting desperately.

The shocked couple wanted to know if they could help me up.

“No, thank you, she will brace for me, it’s one of her jobs,” said I, placing my hands on her withers and pushing myself to my feet.  Atina rose to hers and flanked me closely as I hobbled to my rig.  Nothing broken.  Baruch ha’Shem.

You know how when you’ve got a headache, and then you drop a hammer on your foot, you forget about your headache for a while?

Well, first my wrist felt better, and after that my ass felt better.

Then they both started up hurting at once, and I didn’t want to drive anywhere, so I turned the AC on “deep freeze,” smoked the rest of the pot, and read escapist novels for a couple of days.

Eventually I had to (had to) take a shower, and in the course of human events I passed by the mirror and–holy mother of goddess, what in the hell is THAT???

You see that black, green, alien looking lump of dough?  That ain’t half the story.  You should have seen it a few days ago.  I should have snapped a shot then, but I was dizzy and had to go lie down for a while.

And now, just to ice the cake, I’ve been gifted with (drum roll Sheldon) a brand new thrombosed hemorrhoid!  Ain’t that nice!

Today I finally made it to Flagstaff, and called around about a hand surgeon.  I was dreading the inevitable question (which I did get):

“If you hurt your wrist days ago, why did it take you so long to call us?”

How good of you to ass-k….

So Long, Pluto

By one of those curious twists of the state of time, space, and matter, it seemed good in my eyes on Thursday night to seek the reliable shelter of a State Park, in which to interrupt my trajectory while hurtling across the awe-inspiring hugeness of the State of Texas.
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A Texan went to visit Ireland.

He saw an Irish farmer out working in his potato field, got out of his rented Cadillac and approached the fellow, and hollered:

(Texas accent): Say, pal, is this your land?

The Irishman cuts the engine on his ancient tractor, removes his battered hat, scratches his balding red head, mops his pate with his tatty handkerchief, jams his hat back on.

(Irish accent, with pride):  Sure and it is, Mester.  Been in my family for a hunnerd years. (Beams, gap-toothed, at the Texan, who is now standing in the dirt road in his cowboy boots, dove-grey Western suit, string tie, rocking with his thumbs hooked over his tooled leather belt with its garish silver buckle.  Door of Cadillac stands open.)

Texan:  Why, that’s mighty fine, mighty fine.  How much land have you got, if you don’t mind my askin’ ? (Chews a toothpick)

Irishman, with pride:  No, I don’t mind a wee bit, sence you’re askin’.  You see that tree stump off there in the distance?  Why, our land goes all the way from that stump, back aways past the house and farmyard, barns, horse pasture, to that stoon fence, ye can just barely see it from here.  (Scratches head again.)

Texan:  I declare.  That’s a right purty leetle piece.  You know, Farmer, back in Texas where’n Ah come from, Ah kin git in mah truck an drahve from sunrise to sunset, and Ah will still be drahvin’ on mah own land.  (Air of superior self-satisfaction)

Irishman: (Shaking head sadly)  Ach!  I had a truck like that meself, once.
__________________________________

The twist of fate is made curious by a happenstance: the first Texas State Park I spied on my map happened to be full, but the sweet and adorable Mescalero Apache ranger at the park office told me that there was plenty of room at the next park down the road, which happened to be right down the road again from the famed McDonald Observatory, home of the second biggest and most scientifically unique telescope in the world.  Yowie zowie, I love space stuff!  And my knowledge base is terrible, so I got all hot and sweaty at the thought of increasing it in such a majestic way.

I scuttled down the ranchy road, reaching the park just about closing time.  Picked myself out a choice spot and settled in, nervous about the javelinas (pecaries, a nasty species of wild pig that stinks and had it in for dogs) and wild boars, that can tusk up a dog or small human faster than you can say “Old Yeller.”  We have seen a lot of their poop, fresh, in our campsite, and if they only come sniffing around of a night, that’s fine, as long as they respect the rules.

The next day I mounted Old Jenny and climbed up the twisty road to the Observatory.  They were having a program on Sun Spots, but since I regularly check the Solar Weather I wasn’t so interested in that.  I wanted Deep Space.  Wormholes, Dark Energy, you know, cool space stuff.  I wanted to see the giant telescopes, but the next available date is a couple of weeks from now and I don’t plan to be here then.  Plus it costs $115, which would be money well spent, but that’s a week’s worth of camping money, so.

But they have “Star Parties,” interpretive viewings of the heavens both aided by normal size telescopes, and with the naked eye, so that one comes away with greatly augmented knowledge of celestial bodies and visible galaxies and nebulae (one, beside the Milky Way: the Orion Nebula.  I was hoping to get a glimpse of the Horsehead Nebula, but you need a higher power telescope for that).

The McDonald Observatory is located on top of a mountain situated above the Sonoran Desert, and is one of the darkest places in the world (at night, and not a cave).  Thus, I was tremendously exited at the prospect of guided stargazing in that spectacular location.  I bought a ticket for $15 and returned to my campsite to do a bit of dog hair mitigation and await the appointed hour.

We got there early (“we,” unless otherwise noted, means my dog and I) and cooled our heels till show time.

Big tour buses pulled up.  I noted them, then blocked them out of my consciousness.

With the approach of show time, I took Atina out for a potty break and put her in the van, ignoring her rueful expression.  It’s tough being a dog.

When I entered the lobby my heart went splat on the floor, then went into a run of sinus tachycardia.  Panic attack. 

Hundreds of lovely young people wearing Texas Tech and University of Texas and Texas A&M sweatshirts milled and shouted in the lobby.

I bailed into the gift shop, which was geared toward children, with book after book after book on the constellations…fer krissake, how many books on the constellations do they need?

I perused the wall charts, the glow in the dark universes that I stuck on my erstwhile son’s ceiling, to give him something to do while he wasn’t sleeping….and noticed something odd.

There were only eight planets.

That is wrong.  There are nine.  Everyone knows there are nine planets!

Then I remembered: Pluto has been decommissioned as a planet, because it is made of frozen water and no rocks.  You have to be made of rocks to be a planet.

It’s not fair.  Other planets are made of weird shit, so why, after all this time, could they not make Pluto at least an HONORARY planet?

I bought a placemat of the Periodic Table, which has picked up a number of new elements since the last time I studied it, and bolted for my van.

The rest of the evening was devoted to doctoring my crushing panic attack.

It wasn’t merely the prospect of standing in loud lines with droves of college students.

It was the sudden realization that I, too, have been decommissioned, like Pluto, and for the same reason: lack of a solid core. 

In our last bitter conversation, my son made it clear that I am not the mother he wanted…or, in his opinion, needed.  He needed stability.  He needed a rock core, not just some object made of frozen gasses.

Pluto and I are no longer welcome in his universe.

Well.

Since I have cried all the way across the enormous state of Texas, I have very clean eyes.  It seems that tears do not simply run out.  The body just keeps making more.

And since my decommission I have had plenty of time to reflect on the universe of mistakes I have made in my life.  Mistake after mistake after mistake.

And all boiling down to what?

Well, at least I have money, for a couple more years, to pay my expenses.  That’s a plus.

See, me and Pluto just keep going around and around and around, but the end is interincluded in the beginning, so there is no getting off this particular merry-go-round.

So me and Pluto and Atina will go ’round until it all winds down and it’s time to bail out.  That’s what happens to stars before we blow up and become Something Else.

So Long, Pluto

By one of those curious twists of the state of time, space, and matter, it seemed good in my eyes on Thursday night to seek the reliable shelter of a State Park, in which to interrupt my trajectory while hurtling across the awe-inspiring hugeness of the State of Texas.
__________________________________

A Texan went to visit Ireland.

He saw an Irish farmer out working in his potato field, got out of his rented Cadillac and approached the fellow, and hollered:

(Texas accent): Say, pal, is this your land?

The Irishman cuts the engine on his ancient tractor, removes his battered hat, scratches his balding red head, mops his pate with his tatty handkerchief, jams his hat back on.

(Irish accent, with pride):  Sure and it is, Mester.  Been in my family for a hunnerd years. (Beams, gap-toothed, at the Texan, who is now standing in the dirt road in his cowboy boots, dove-grey Western suit, string tie, rocking with his thumbs hooked over his tooled leather belt with its garish silver buckle.  Door of Cadillac stands open.)

Texan:  Why, that’s mighty fine, mighty fine.  How much land have you got, if you don’t mind my askin’ ? (Chews a toothpick)

Irishman, with pride:  No, I don’t mind a wee bit, sence you’re askin’.  You see that tree stump off there in the distance?  Why, our land goes all the way from that stump, back aways past the house and farmyard, barns, horse pasture, to that stoon fence, ye can just barely see it from here.  (Scratches head again.)

Texan:  I declare.  That’s a right purty leetle piece.  You know, Farmer, back in Texas where’n Ah come from, Ah kin git in mah truck an drahve from sunrise to sunset, and Ah will still be drahvin’ on mah own land.  (Air of superior self-satisfaction)

Irishman: (Shaking head sadly)  Ach!  I had a truck like that meself, once.
__________________________________

The twist of fate is made curious by a happenstance: the first Texas State Park I spied on my map happened to be full, but the sweet and adorable Mescalero Apache ranger at the park office told me that there was plenty of room at the next park down the road, which happened to be right down the road again from the famed McDonald Observatory, home of the second biggest and most scientifically unique telescope in the world.  Yowie zowie, I love space stuff!  And my knowledge base is terrible, so I got all hot and sweaty at the thought of increasing it in such a majestic way.

I scuttled down the ranchy road, reaching the park just about closing time.  Picked myself out a choice spot and settled in, nervous about the javelinas (pecaries, a nasty species of wild pig that stinks and had it in for dogs) and wild boars, that can tusk up a dog or small human faster than you can say “Old Yeller.”  We have seen a lot of their poop, fresh, in our campsite, and if they only come sniffing around of a night, that’s fine, as long as they respect the rules.

The next day I mounted Old Jenny and climbed up the twisty road to the Observatory.  They were having a program on Sun Spots, but since I regularly check the Solar Weather I wasn’t so interested in that.  I wanted Deep Space.  Wormholes, Dark Energy, you know, cool space stuff.  I wanted to see the giant telescopes, but the next available date is a couple of weeks from now and I don’t plan to be here then.  Plus it costs $115, which would be money well spent, but that’s a week’s worth of camping money, so.

But they have “Star Parties,” interpretive viewings of the heavens both aided by normal size telescopes, and with the naked eye, so that one comes away with greatly augmented knowledge of celestial bodies and visible galaxies and nebulae (one, beside the Milky Way: the Orion Nebula.  I was hoping to get a glimpse of the Horsehead Nebula, but you need a higher power telescope for that).

The McDonald Observatory is located on top of a mountain situated above the Sonoran Desert, and is one of the darkest places in the world (at night, and not a cave).  Thus, I was tremendously exited at the prospect of guided stargazing in that spectacular location.  I bought a ticket for $15 and returned to my campsite to do a bit of dog hair mitigation and await the appointed hour.

We got there early (“we,” unless otherwise noted, means my dog and I) and cooled our heels till show time.

Big tour buses pulled up.  I noted them, then blocked them out of my consciousness.

With the approach of show time, I took Atina out for a potty break and put her in the van, ignoring her rueful expression.  It’s tough being a dog.

When I entered the lobby my heart went splat on the floor, then went into a run of sinus tachycardia.  Panic attack. 

Hundreds of lovely young people wearing Texas Tech and University of Texas and Texas A&M sweatshirts milled and shouted in the lobby.

I bailed into the gift shop, which was geared toward children, with book after book after book on the constellations…fer krissake, how many books on the constellations do they need?

I perused the wall charts, the glow in the dark universes that I stuck on my erstwhile son’s ceiling, to give him something to do while he wasn’t sleeping….and noticed something odd.

There were only eight planets.

That is wrong.  There are nine.  Everyone knows there are nine planets!

Then I remembered: Pluto has been decommissioned as a planet, because it is made of frozen water and no rocks.  You have to be made of rocks to be a planet.

It’s not fair.  Other planets are made of weird shit, so why, after all this time, could they not make Pluto at least an HONORARY planet?

I bought a placemat of the Periodic Table, which has picked up a number of new elements since the last time I studied it, and bolted for my van.

The rest of the evening was devoted to doctoring my crushing panic attack.

It wasn’t merely the prospect of standing in loud lines with droves of college students.

It was the sudden realization that I, too, have been decommissioned, like Pluto, and for the same reason: lack of a solid core. 

In our last bitter conversation, my son made it clear that I am not the mother he wanted…or, in his opinion, needed.  He needed stability.  He needed a rock core, not just some object made of frozen gasses.

Pluto and I are no longer welcome in his universe.

Well.

Since I have cried all the way across the enormous state of Texas, I have very clean eyes.  It seems that tears do not simply run out.  The body just keeps making more.

And since my decommission I have had plenty of time to reflect on the universe of mistakes I have made in my life.  Mistake after mistake after mistake.

And all boiling down to what?

Well, at least I have money, for a couple more years, to pay my expenses.  That’s a plus.

See, me and Pluto just keep going around and around and around, but the end is interincluded in the beginning, so there is no getting off this particular merry-go-round.

So me and Pluto and Atina will go ’round until it all winds down and it’s time to bail out.  That’s what happens to stars before we blow up and become Something Else.

Welcome to Texas!

image

Do not feed the wildlife, and watch for snakes?

This is the view when you pull into the Texas Welcome Center.

As if the previous night in Louisiana wasn’t enough.

That campground was a simple piece of swamp.  When I got out of my rig to plug into the electric, I sank into mud up to the ankle.  There were signs warning not to leave garbage out, because it attracts alligators.  Bears, I’m used to.  Alligators, no.

So the next morning I balled the jack all the way to Livingston, Texas, which is a couple of hundred miles on barely-paved 75 mph two-lane roads north of Houston.  Got into my campground at 5:32 p.m.

500 miles in 8 hours.  How did I do that?

Drugs.  All legal.

1)  Starbucks Double Shot in a can;
2) I took my Adderal, which I normally hate taking, but it really does help me pay attention)
3) Nicotine tablets
4) There was a fourth one, but I forget now.  I’m having a major crash day.

So I’m watching for snakes.  I never feed the wildlife anymore, so that’s not an issue.  But snakes are important to watch for.

I don’t have a huge desire to hang around in Texas for longer than I have to.  The only reasons I have to are to pick up some mail that is waiting for me here, and to see if I can get my abscessed tooth taken care of.  There’s a place here that advertises crowns made in one day, so I’m going to look into that.

Good thing I’m a traveling pharmacy, otherwise this tooth would have hung me up before now.  As soon as it dawned on me that this pain, swelling, and fever was localized to a tooth that broke in half recently, and was half-heartedly repaired by a dentist who really wanted to do the, “Oh, what you need is a four-tooth bridge, maybe a couple of implants and a time-share on Key Largo” thing, so was put out when I explained that I was short on both time and money…so the shite filling she did ($270) started leaking almost immediately, with the result that the tooth became infected, during the blizzard, of course.

Where was I?

Oh, yes.  As soon as I realized that it was my tooth, I rummaged through my box of random medicines and found exactly the right antibiotic.  After three days the tooth quieted down, but I’ve continued to take the antibiotics, because the tooth is now essentially a foreign body, and until it’s fixed the bacteria will be hiding out in there, waiting for a window of opportunity.  Which I hope not to give them.

Now, there is a dentist in this town who advertises not only same-day crowns, but also sedation!  And takes emergencies!  Does it get any better? 

Yes, not needing a dentist in the first place.