On Traveling Alone

I have had to do a lot of traveling alone in my life. Hundreds (yes, actually hundreds) of hours spent on airplanes and in airports--by myself. Now this is something that I endure, but it hasn't ever been something I endure happily. However, my first Christmas journey home from Spokane, Washington (where I did my undergraduate work at Gonzaga University), I was wandering the Seattle airport trying to waste the three hours before my connecting flight to Denver when I moseyed into a bookstore and ran across an old friend.

J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Hobbit."



I was uncomfortable, so painfully uncomfortable, being on my own--but the remaining journey spent with my terrifically interesting companion was actually pleasant. I enjoyed settling down in that horrible airport bench/chair and catching up with Bilbo, Gandalf and the dwarves. I was home before we found the weakness in Smaug's armor. I finished the book my first night home, and sat it gratefully on the shelf.

Since that first long flight there have been countless others. Christmasses, Spring Breaks, Summers, across continents, and oceans--mostly alone. But now I find I'm never really alone. Not really. Because I know I have friends in every airport bookshop. There are eight copies of The Hobbit residing on my shelves, and six copies of Neil Gaiman's "Neverwhere." There is nothing that makes travel more pleasant than a wonderful, well-loved book.

My mom doesn't understand my collection. When she travels, she picks new books--a whole stack of them--and tries them all. I don't understand wanting to risk spending 10+ hours with a boring, relentlessly chatty stranger--a flight from Glasgow, Scotland to Denver, Colorado with a boring book?! God help me! I'd much rather fly with someone I know and love.

And, while I own an iPad, I don't think the number of Hobbits on the shelf is likely to stop increasing. When you put an iPad on your lap, people feel compelled to ask you about it. Is it really faster than the old one? Can you get your email on that thing? Do you have to pay for wifi in the airport? And on, and on, and on. When you open a book--a good, old fashioned, crisp-spined, ink-smelling book--it is, almost always, an indicator that you don't want to be bothered. You're already having a conversation--with a Hobbit!

Piece of Cake

First, a story.

Last Sunday I noticed Millie, our adorable 5 month old Goldendoodle, had an odd lump on the left side of her muzzle. It felt like a knot, and I assumed she'd developed an abscess after poking herself in the face with a stick (she's a puppy--it could definitely happen). I resolved to take her to the vet on Monday morning.

On to Monday morning when I realize the puppy's face is now severely swollen, cracked, and oozing slightly red. PANIC! And the vet won't be in until the afternoon?! Husband stayed home to take her to the vet (I had to venture down to Mom's office to help while her office manager was out), and we found out the lovely puppy had gotten cellulitis. Essentially, she got bitten during a rough session of playtime and it got infected. With the way she harasses the older dogs, I can't say as I'm surprised she pushed one of them far enough to properly bite her snout.

So, it was scary looking, but she'd be just fine with a round of antibiotics. Of course, Husband has never had a dog before, and I was going to be gone for three days. It was going to be completely up to him to administer the pills.
"How do I give her the antibiotic?" he asks the vet.
"Piece of cheese," responds the vet.
Husband finds that he's confused. "Do you mean pice of cake?" he asks.
The vet laughs.
The vet-tech laughs.
Husband realizes that no, in fact 'piece of cheese' is not some odd American variation on the saying 'piece of cake'--the vet is actually telling him to give the antibiotic to the dog in a piece of cheese!

From now on, anytime I have to explain that something is going to be easy, I'm going to say it's a piece of cheese!


*
I wanted to bake something today, but I couldn't decide what. There are so many amazing recipes out there--but where do I start? And it dawned on me--I should be trying them ALL. Not flipping through book after book wondering what recipes are good, and what aren't--I should just MAKE THEM. So, starting tomorrow, I'm making a cake a week for the next year. I sifted through all the books in the house and have come up with forty recipes that I will try. However, that still leaves me twelve weeks of no cake!

Please, dear reader, would you do me the honor of sending me YOUR favorite cake recipe(s)? I'm resolved to make nothing I've ever made before during this Year Of Cake... starting tomorrow! Stay tuned, and send in those recipes!

The Phantom Menace

She's never seen it, but it scares her.
It rumbles deeply--threateningly.
Its noises grow closer, louder, more terrifying with every passing minute.
It screams as if it has borrowed the throat of a banshee.
She believes it portends death.
Sandy, the revered Golden Retriever, stands in the back yard and shrieks a howl of defiance and warning.
Unable to defend her family, or herself--
unable even to muster the sheer lunatic bravery needed to catch a glimpse of the devil--
she flees to the only safe place she can go....


































Oh, Cassie. *sigh* The garbage truck is not going to steal your soul.








Why do you act like it's the last horseman of the apocalypse (after the UPS man, FedEx, and thunderstorms)?










You're turning a year old on May 14th, and I think it's time you start acting like a big girl.














I didn't realize we were having thunderstorms this afternoon, Cass. I guess I'll see you tomorrow.

The Windy City

Yesterday the Husband-fellow and I were driving to G-City (a "nearby" city so large it has a Wal-Mart AND a Home Depot... and an Applebee's!) to pick up some things for the yard. Well, I say they're for the yard but really they're to stop the archaeological excavations being performed by the esteemed landscaping duo, Doodles Inc. At some point Husband said, "They call Chicago the windy city, right? It can't possibly be windier than this, can it?" Ah, the keen observational sense of those Scots.

This launched me into one of my (many, many) favorite bits of trivia. Namely, that the moniker "The Windy City" has nothing to do with Chicago's lake effect winds. (It's slightly windier than New York on average, but less windy than Boston--for example.) There are a few hypotheses about just how Chicago's braggadocio earned their city such a nickname. One suggestion is that it started during the late 1800s when Chicago and Cincinnati were rivals. From the 1870s there are several examples in Cincinnati newspapers calling Chicago "that Windy City" in reference to Chicago's claims to have surpassed Cincinnati's pork production (which Chicago did actually do before the turn of the century), and again when speaking of Chicago's boast that their "White Stockings" were a better baseball team than Cincinnati's "Red Stockings." I love this 5 March 1879 poem from the Cincinnati Enquirer: There was a young man from Chicago,/ it was strange how he did make his jaw go./ One nice day he did to his pa go,/ saying "Really father, does ma know/ If for crime and deceit / any city can beat / the windy old town of Chicago. Ouch. (Although, it is to be noted that the residents of Milwaukee apparently didn't care much for Chicagoans either. From the Milwaukee Daily Sentinel, 4 July 1860, "We are proud of Milwaukee because she is not overrun with a lazy police force as is Chicago -- because her morals are better, he [sic] criminals fewer, her credit better; and her taxes lighter in proportion to her valuation than Chicago, the windy city of the West." Yowza, Milwaukee. Harsh.)

I prefer, however, the idea that the nickname really took hold during the 1890 World's Fair bidding. New Yorkers could not believe that the Chicagoans could beat them, that some upstart little "frontier town" could take prominence over New York City. Silly New Yorkers. There's a famous quote from New York newspaperman Charles Dana (though whether it's a direct quote or not seems to be under some question), "Don't pay attention to the nonsensical claims of that windy city. It's people could not build a world's fair if they won it." Tsktsk. Don't overlook the underdog. That should be added to the plaque at the Statue of Liberty. At any rate, Chicago won the fair (after a prolonged period of back-and-forth sniping between Chicago and NYC journalists) and they did manage to put on a spectacular show, much to the chagrin of those New Yorkers! I recommend "Devil in the White City" for both historical facts and decent storytelling.

Windy City, indeed. Chicago's average annual wind speed is 10.3mph. J-City, Kansas has an average annual wind speed of 9 m/s, or 20.1mph. Sorry Chicago. I know you want people to think you're called The Windy City because of the lake effect, but I'm officially changing it to the City of Swagger, and I'm awarding the title "The Windy City" where it belongs--HERE! Or, at least, here before it blows awaaaaayyyyyyyy!

(Dog) T i m e (Really) F l i e s

It happens every day. Every. Single. Day.

I wake up, scratch Cassie's ears and kiss her on the nose (even though she knows she's not supposed to be on the bed, she always is), and I let Millie out of her playpen (yes, the dog has a playpen). And then it happens. Every day. I think, "That dog is bigger than she was when she went in last night."

My mom comes home every week, every single week, from her three-day stint at her office in another town and she says, "I think that dog grew while I was gone!"

It happens every day, and every day I feel both saddened and excited by it. It's simultaneously the best, and worst thing about having a puppy. Watching them grow is miraculous, but it's also a bit heartbreaking to see that cute little puppy fade, turn into a gangly teenager, and then a fully-fleshed dog. It happens so fast! SO FAST! And it's always different than the dog who came before-- they grow long backs or tall legs, they get so skinny or wide and dense (Millie, I'm looking at you), their snouts get longer or wider, their noses turn brown or pink or stay cold and black, or their ears perk up or droop low, their barks go from that puppy yap to a grown-dog woof... it's spectacular. Never the same.

And, I missed Cassie's biggest growth spurt, you see. When I got her, she looked like this:






Adorable, no?











I left for Scotland when she was nearly four months old. When I came back she was nearly six months old and she looked like this:




Where did my adorable little baby dog GO?!









I thought much the same thing about the Twodles (Mom's pair, Abby and Macy, who were born on the same day back in...late '07, I think). The day we carted them home they looked like this:




Sandy was annoyed by their presence. (Sandy is still largely annoyed by their presence, although she seems to like Cassie and Millie just fine. She even plays with them... she even tries to get THEM to play with HER!)











Today we have this:




Oh, Macy, how embarrassing! Getting caught picking your nose!









Such wonderful creatures, our Doodles. Millie is absolutely no exception. She's a great little girl, and I'm glad every day that John chose her (he does seem to have pretty good taste in women). The day she came home, January 2nd, she was 8 weeks old and she (we) looked like this:




TINY!













Today... she's just turned five months old, and I'm not wearing any makeup.







Cassie's turning one next month, and Millie will be getting spayed. Time goes so fast...SO fast. But I'm loving who they're becoming, learning their habits, quirks, and traits. And, honestly, I have no idea how big Millie is going to get, but it wouldn't surprise me at all if she was the biggest Doodle in the family. At FIVE MONTHS she weighs the same as Cassie, and just 8lbs. less than Abby! She's nearly as tall as Abby too!




PS: For those of you not interested in our Muttley Crew, I apologize for this incredibly dog-heavy post. I'll stop being so maudlin, I promise, and get back to normal posting starting tomorrow!