More Than Just The Bacon

Husband can climb mountains and ski backwards.  He can play any song by ear.  He once hot wired our Jeep's battery to it's own cooling fan so we could continue on our camping  trip without having to stop for 'useless spare parts' like a radiator or engine block.


It is all of this which helps me overlook the fact that he is emotionally and physically incapable of driving past a pile of leftover yard-sale debris without backing the Volvo up and shoveling it all into the trunk.  He is no more capable of ignoring the lure of leftover clutter than Homer was of ignoring the sirens. With usually close to the same results if you think of  a broken lawn chair as the naked water nymph/ghastly harpy thing and the garage as the site of the horrible shipwreck. 


So it galls me a little to admit that there are few things which Husband cannot find a use for.  Reams of fabric left over from the 1970's pantsuit craze become camera suits and free fly pants.  Scrap metal becomes a new box frame for the sound board. A router stays a router but Husband, who has never done any cabinetry in his life, assures me that it is in great condition and 'probably even still works.' Even the lawn chair got a quick repair and is now the most coveted seat around the campfire.  


There have been some misses.  My heart just broke when Husband's dreams of building his own kayak out of salvaged door skins were crushed when he realized he had no idea how to build a kayak.  The work benches he brought home collapsed the first time he tried to use them.  Skis have split.  Sewing machines have catastrophically failed.  The tow-behind trailer for children he scored last summer in the hopes that JD would be able to ride along on longer bike rides still sits unused in the garage.  It remains proof that dogs can laugh AND swear at at the same time.


Occasionally I am lucky enough to spot these piles of detritus just ahead of Husband and I'll have the time to hide some of the less ideal items behind bushes.  This is why we are not the proud owners of a matching set of bowling balls (we don't bowl) or golf clubs (we don't golf).  We also don't now own a giant box of Dremel bits ('Dremel tool not included') or, in my most spectacular feat of spousal duplicity, a unicycle.


I sort of regret that last one.


But only a little.

A Little Heckling

Dear Crazy Person,


I was out of town for a while so it's been about a month since I've had a chance to check in and see how you were doing.  I saw your latest sign and was happy to note that you have stopped using all caps, since that's really like shouting and a bit rude.  


I replaced it with a big pile of sunflower seeds.


Cheers

Still A Rose

I am referred to by many names.  Some of them I even answer to.   Remote, Sweetheart, Honey, Tam, Tam-Tam, Tammy-Liz, Tammers, Tammerlane, Tambourine, Tamarack.  Are you getting the picture?   My favourite names are the ones our various pets have given me over the years.  For those of you who do not believe that pets name their owners, you are clearly not pet owners.


My rotti dog calls me Tam.  She always has, partly due to lack of imagination but mostly because I am reasonably confident she is the only one of our Beasts who has never actively plotted my demise (also likely due to lack of imagination).   My cat seems to refer to me alternately as Two-Legger and Can Opener, depending on the level of disdain in which I am currently being held.  


Our old yellow dog was Husband's pooch first and he has called me many things over the course of our time together.  At first I was Cheese, then Pony Tail.  I finally graduated to Tam when it became clear I was in for the long haul and he'd have to learn to tolerate me sooner or later.  


Top dog honour, however, goes to the name given to me by an exceedingly senior German Shepherd we adopted for her final year in this universe.  This dog worshiped the ground Husband walked on, followed his every word of command and slept at his feet.  But I?  I was  looked on with contempt and tolerated only for my opposable thumbs.  This dog hated everything about me and I am certain the reason she lived with us as long as she did was because she was determined to outlive me if she could.  Phoenix never listened, never came when I called her, never backed down or looked away.  She would only refer to me when she was hungry and only then as "Get Me A Cookie, Bitch."

The Words To Move Me

Husband is the frosting on my brownie, the lace on my curtains, the giant panda at my state fair.  His energy keeps me going and his hugs keep me warm.  However sometimes his advice is about as helpful as drilling holes in a sinking boat, filling those holes with dynamite then blowing up the boat before it actually sinks, which it would have done far more slowly without the holes or the dynamite.

The opposite of helpful, is what I am getting at.

Johnston Ridge Trail, Mount St Helens, August 7, 2011.

Elevation: About 1300 m about sea level (4,300 ft)
Slope pitch: 30 degrees
Trail Description: "Experienced hikers in excellent physical condition will find this trail moderately challenging.  Not recommended for hikers who are not goats."

The trail head was a parking lot filled with families, laughing children, bus loads of tourists from seniors travel groups and a Boy Scout troupe from Seattle.  They were all heading to the interpretive centre.  No one was wearing anything more sturdy than flip flops on their feet. I laughingly thought this would be a breeze.  I said as much to Husband who was stuffing a kit bag with extra coats, a compass, water bottles and granola.

'Mmm-hmm.  Sweetie, do you know if I packed my PLB?'  Husband always packs all sorts of acronyms with us on a hike. They act like talismans to keep away the bears, cougars and mosquitoes.  I hoped they worked on volcanoes too.

The trail started out as a broad footpath and we encountered groups of those same families and Boy Scouts along the way. It was desert-dry, our feet kicked up puffs of soft, white dust and soon, like Pigpen, we were covered up to our knees in a thin film of it.  But as the groups of families dwindled we found ourselves on a narrow track about as wide a dinner plate.  


The slope on our left was formed of granite and covered in loose pebbles of pumice, blown there during the violent eruption in 1980 when Mount St Helens woke up.  The further we hiked, the narrower the track became until we reached a point that had clearly been the site of a small slide.  Husband danced across this funky little spot with the sure-footed grace of a dancer.  I looked down at the puffy clouds below me, at the tiny ant-like elks on the valley floor and, naturally, froze solid.

Quietly, so I wouldn't startle the volcano, and hoping he had an acronym in his pack which would transport me back to the hotel jacuzzi, I called out to Husband.

'Sweetheart. I am having a problem.'

Without hesitation, Husband was back at the slide.  His darling face radiated confidence in my ability to deal with this situation. I gazed into his eyes and knew the next words out of my sweetheart's mouth would unlock my frozen legs and un-curdle my blood.


'Don't worry.  When you fall, you'll probably only go as far as that outcropping before you slide to a stop.'


Pure shock and outrage propelled my body across the slide, hands outstretched to throttle.  To his credit, Husband 'misinterpreted' my reaching grasp, returned my 'hug' proudly, then turned and carried on up the path.

The Reasons This Specific Monday Chews Fetid Dingo Kidneys

Emails in my inbox: 102
Emails marked 'URGENT!!': 97
Voice mail: 15
Cups of coffee: 6
Tylenol: 2
Vacation: Over

Road Trip! cont'd ...again

Chapter Three:  What's your sign?

 The ones which were too blurry to publish include a giant billboard which read "Mammograms!  Starting at only $90!" and "Ill-Eagle [sic] Fireworks Sold Here" 

  

Our only Canadian contribution to the collection. This makes me so happy.  Gay pride is intergalactic.

'Caution: Do not ride you bike over giant Leggo or you may become weightless' 

This Navy bomber doesn't need bombs  It has fists.

It's a Bat Signal. Duh.

Location, location, location.

This one is my personal favourite.  I approve of this guy's determination.

Road Trip! ...cont'd

Chapter Two: Creepy Hotel Art, A Retrospective

 'Some Street In Verona'

      Medium: Crayon on newsprint

Notice how, through the use of vivid colours, the artist 

has distracted you from the smell of fried chicken that permeates the room.

"Urine-Stained Iris with Fern Frond"

Medium: If you have to ask, we suggest you read the title again

The third in the series 'Urinal Reflections',  and practically dripping with charm, this is by far the most sought after piece in the collection.

"Auntie's Frozen Garden"

Medium: Oil on canvas

If you look closely you can see all the little flower folk

 frozen to the grass in this delightful 'snap shot' of a late summer frost.

"Knupf Lamp - Ikea"

Medium: Plastic, a light bulb and Swiss neutrality

This modern piece accentuates the whiteness of the walls, sheets, towels, furniture, drapes & counters and further illuminates the artists inability to detect colour after the accident.

"Herr Thickbrow Von Creepy Smile"

Medium: Fear

The artist has captured the very moment Herr Von Creepy Smile devised a plan to outsmart those meddling kids and their Great Dane once and for all.

Road Trip!

Chapter One:  Surfin' Safari


Husband and I just returned from a road trip/surfing vacation down the western coast of the USA. There are so many things I cannot wait to tell you, gentle readers.  Where do I start?  


We didn't manage to get on the intended ferry in Victoria so we crossed to Vancouver instead.  Then we waited an hour to cross into the US at the wrong border, drove another hour, waited in another line, crossed the correct border and launched ourselves into our surfing vacation, now over 150 km inland from the coast we hoped to surf.  


'Hey, is that Mount St. Helens over there?'


In true road trip tradition, we took our original plan, folded it into an elegant origami armadillo, placed it carefully on the road, backed over it and let crazy homemade signs and promises of roadside pie lead us where they would.


Mount St. Helens is amazing.  We stopped at every view point (all 14) on the way up to the trail head.  We listened to every talk and presentation.  We pushed every knob and button in all four interpretive centers.  We took the three hour hike out to view the devastation.  We didn't get one photo of the mountain herself.  She wore clouds all day like a veil and didn't willingly give up her secrets but, still, amazing.


We drove to the coast of Oregon the next day and spent the rest of our vacation falling in love with every beach, every cove.  We hiked giant dunes at Rockaway Beach.  We surfed in Newport at Otter Rock.  We descended 200 feet into a coastal lava tube called Seal Cave to hear the bull seals roar.  We stopped at fruit stands to buy cherries and let the juice drip down our chins.  In Tillamook we stood in a dirigible hanger the size of a mountain.  Husband went skydiving in Kapowsin.  We spotted elk next to the Suislaw River.  More on all of this later. 


We also discovered that Americans have absolutely no (zero) sense of humour, wouldn't know irony if it sat down and ate their breakfast, have a strange relationship to biscuits and gravy I will never understand, and are some of the most earnest people in the world.  One lady was actually in tears agreeing with me about how beautiful her town was.  We hugged.  It was nice.


I am glad to be home.  We are dusty and tired and the car smells like feet.  But we are already planning our next trip to what could be the Grand Canyon.


Which likely means we'll end up in North Dakota.