I was thinking this morning about how I like to spend my day. Outdoors, sure, if the weather is good. Indoors, sure, and I like to tinker and sometimes clean or organize, sometimes I like to read. About once a month, Jake and I will burrow into the couch and watch one really bad movie after another. Most recently, we found the Lost Tapes mockumentary series and watched 6 episodes back to back, yelling at the screen or each other the entire time, yet still rapt with wonder that while we could see it coming from a mile away and it's SOOOO faked and OMG, what bad acting and here comes another shaky blur that may have been something scary and hehehehe, this is abysmal, start the next one up.
I have crocheted hats for all 5 of us and several stuffed toys, made an entire notebook of notes that I really need another notebook to cross reference said notes-all on backpacking and how to go about it properly, which has been neatly decimated while listening to A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson, my very favorite author because it's like he is telling a story that I have always loved and I wait anxiously for the next bit any time he opens his mouth. I love fiction, but nonfiction has a kind of solid smack to it, like a fist in a baseball glove, that makes it so satisfying.
I have crocheted hats for all 5 of us and several stuffed toys, made an entire notebook of notes that I really need another notebook to cross reference said notes-all on backpacking and how to go about it properly, which has been neatly decimated while listening to A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson, my very favorite author because it's like he is telling a story that I have always loved and I wait anxiously for the next bit any time he opens his mouth. I love fiction, but nonfiction has a kind of solid smack to it, like a fist in a baseball glove, that makes it so satisfying.
Yeah, anyone can make up peril and funny things, but when they actually happened and are being retold with a bit of memory polish, it's delightful for me to get to go along on the journey. In his story, he sets out with all-new gear he has little idea how to use, zero physical training, a case of the most stupid optimism and a healthy fear of bears. And, apparently thousands of dollars in his bank account because he hemorrhages money all along the route on dining out and motel rooms and taxis and a car rental at one point. I have left him at the half-way point in PA right now, a little irritated at the way he has described blizzards and pouring rain with the same detachment that he does the view or a type of tree. It was there, it happened. I may be a bit of a weather weenie, but walking in blinding snow or driving rain just sounds like something I would do only if one of my children needed me at the other end of that walk and nothing else in the world would get me out of the tent if I was already in the woods-or to leave the house if I only thought about the woods that day. I think I may give up too easily. My feet are pink and plump, as is nearly all of the rest of me. And I don't want any of it cold, wet or muddy.
But while I type or I scribble at the numbers that make up our monthly income and outcome or read or make another hat or watch singularly bad TV or do school stuff with the kids, swing in the hammock, stand in the shower, trim herbs and water plants, fold the laundry, talk on the phone-anything at all outside of the kitchen where she is not allowed-Zephyr has but one desire, she wants to lay near my feet and dismantle something.
This afternoon, I am in my room, a largish affair with hideous paneling, I have moved the computer from an old 4-seater table in the corner to a large plastic folding table that would seat 8, 10 if they were good friends. It's along one wall and under it is her kennel and several boxes with our hiking shoes packed neatly with silica gel packs in the shoe beds. The top is covered with stacks of books, not just 2-3 books high, but 6-8 books in 6-8 stacks. Some have paper sticking out. They are in rough categories: how to hike, backwoods prep, wilderness emergencies (which would have you believe the best way to avoid nearly all accidents is not to take any males between 12 and 28 into the woods. I can't say I find fault in this logic, so far as valid points go) general nature studies, road atlases, a stack of board games, a stack of moleskin, 2 hats, a pillow, my camera, an empty plate, 2 packs of hot sauce from Taco Bell (that stuff is EVERYWHERE) and a tube of chapstick. Around my feet is a cloud, a thunderstorm-proportioned cloud, of what used to be inside Sharky. A 5-inch long stuffed dog toy contains enough fluff to fill the trunk of an Oldsmobile.
This afternoon, I am in my room, a largish affair with hideous paneling, I have moved the computer from an old 4-seater table in the corner to a large plastic folding table that would seat 8, 10 if they were good friends. It's along one wall and under it is her kennel and several boxes with our hiking shoes packed neatly with silica gel packs in the shoe beds. The top is covered with stacks of books, not just 2-3 books high, but 6-8 books in 6-8 stacks. Some have paper sticking out. They are in rough categories: how to hike, backwoods prep, wilderness emergencies (which would have you believe the best way to avoid nearly all accidents is not to take any males between 12 and 28 into the woods. I can't say I find fault in this logic, so far as valid points go) general nature studies, road atlases, a stack of board games, a stack of moleskin, 2 hats, a pillow, my camera, an empty plate, 2 packs of hot sauce from Taco Bell (that stuff is EVERYWHERE) and a tube of chapstick. Around my feet is a cloud, a thunderstorm-proportioned cloud, of what used to be inside Sharky. A 5-inch long stuffed dog toy contains enough fluff to fill the trunk of an Oldsmobile.
Walking into a room where one has been dismantled is like that one scene from A Nightmare on Elm Street where Johnny Depp is killed and the blood flows upward and smacks the ceiling, hundreds of gallons strong. Now, I am a Johnny fan, despite him being in the way of certain life goals of mine, but I am really sure he does not have THAT much blood in him. However, I am sure that Sharky, a 5 inch long previously-squeaking shark, has 11 gallons of fluff inside him. I am sure THIS fluff is what they were talking about in the Bible story where Jesus feeds a crowd with 2 loaves of bread and some fish. The fish was Sharky fish.
In a box a couple feet away are the tattered remains of Pink Monkey, Yellow Guy, Blue Guy, Frog, Brown Monkey and a very sad-looking tug rope made of fleece. She will dig through these on occasion like a hobo looking for a few remaining beans in a discarded can. Just some remnant of fluff that she can disembowel. It makes her SO happy.
I recently bought her a small rawhide bone, thinking it would give her a few minutes of fun the way they do for Jessie, who can eat an entire 1-pound bag in a single hour-long sitting if you are dumb enough to leave it on the porch. Then, the vet will let you pay him $75 to tell you not to do that again, but that she's only bloated and will eventually stop floating around bouncing gently off walls and the ceiling. Indeed, she does deflate and you don't want to be within 50 feet of that.
In a box a couple feet away are the tattered remains of Pink Monkey, Yellow Guy, Blue Guy, Frog, Brown Monkey and a very sad-looking tug rope made of fleece. She will dig through these on occasion like a hobo looking for a few remaining beans in a discarded can. Just some remnant of fluff that she can disembowel. It makes her SO happy.
I recently bought her a small rawhide bone, thinking it would give her a few minutes of fun the way they do for Jessie, who can eat an entire 1-pound bag in a single hour-long sitting if you are dumb enough to leave it on the porch. Then, the vet will let you pay him $75 to tell you not to do that again, but that she's only bloated and will eventually stop floating around bouncing gently off walls and the ceiling. Indeed, she does deflate and you don't want to be within 50 feet of that.
I think it's a form of doggie OCD, she simply can't NOT squeak the squeaking thing. If she is asleep and the squeaking thing is stepped on and emits the sound, she LEAPS up and barrels to where it is, giving it a thorough workout before she's even really awake and aware of what she's doing. If the squeaky thing is squeaked and then thrown, she will leap from wherever she is standing as if shot from a cannon to go get it.
I often wonder what I did before I had kids...I just don't remember. I am starting to feel the same way about walking through the house and not stepping on a dog toy. It's like a toddler all over again. But, what to do? I love my pup! She certainly has added a new dimension to our lives.
