Hair of the Dog



Perhaps I should have mentioned this before Juan’s car caught fire in the underground garage and before he tried to kill me mountain climbing. Still, I’ve always wanted to write a flashback. An awesome thing about writing, time matters so little. Where else can you get that? Let me share with you how I met the golden boy:

After making the financially sound decision to spend two years investing in my education, I emerged from school with a Stenography Certificate. Step back. That and a smart suit got me a fine job making copies and power point presentations in the business world. So back to school I went, evenings and weekends. Many of my classes were taken with a friend from work, let’s call her Mercy. Mercy loves learning, fashion, astrology and her grandchildren. She also talks really loud, and can’t see up close at all. I adore her. Mercy reads her horoscope and stresses about it, “I get gas when Mars is in my house.”  Did I mention she talks really loud?  Yes. And I sat next to her in class. She’d bring her prescription bottles so I could read the fine print for her, and she’d scientifically compare possible side-effects against her horoscope for a clearer prognosis. I loved her too much to refuse to cooperate, and would whisper embarrassing details in her ear. She’d ask for clarification nice and loud. “What are feces? Is it okay to have dark feces while I’m doing a reading in church on Sunday?” 

Being a charitable soul, Mercy had taken to reading my horoscope too. Mornings she’d swing by my desk while I worked on presentations consisting mostly of mathematical equations and Greek symbols. Mercy would recite the stats on my chances for survival should I venture out for lunch or drive on the freeway that day. Being a contrary sort, and trapped in numerical purgatory anyway, I’d always do the opposite of what I was told. Today Mercy slapped a file on my desk, “Land sakes, he’s here!”  She was shaking with excitement. “Mercy?  Did you steal a personnel file again?” I asked. She liked to keep an eye out for incoming potential problems by knowing everyone’s horoscope. “Stephanie! According to the charts he is your perfect mate!  He was born on the right date, the right year AND in the right place!” Oh, no. I am not this nice. “I’d rather eat my own hands than date a mathematician.”  “It’s destiny,” she says all dreamy. I point out, “Besides, Frog Face has a strict policy against employees dating each other.”  Mercy got indignant, “Frog Face asks you out every Friday!” “Mercy?  Asking me to pick up his dry cleaning, wash his car and drop it back in the lot for him isn’t exactly a date.”  “Fine,” she gets snippy now and snatches the folder off my desk. A photograph slides out. He…doesn’t look at all mathematical. “Oh. My. Gah – is this him?”  Now she gets coy, nabbing it and stuffing it in the folder, then marching towards Personnel. It hit me then, that she’d orchestrated the entire conversation, right down to the precision photo drop. Manipulator. Bet she isn’t even far-sighted.

“Frog Face wants his mail,” Mercy said, scattering it across my desk. “He’s in a meeting upstairs,” I told her. “I know, he said he wants his mail.” She kept right on moving. That should have been the first clue. Mercy does not keep right on moving, I hadn’t even gotten today’s horoscope yet. Elbow deep in numbers, I was under too much strain to notice. Gathered the mail and got up, grabbing my sweater. Mercy darted back, “Can I borrow your sweater?  I’m freezing in here.” Magnanimously I handed it over. They do keep the air-conditioning on ice-age during the summer. That was clue number two. Mercy suffers hot flashes. She’s been known to hold her skirt over top the A/C vent.

Sliding quietly into the conference room, I placed Frog Face’s mail in a pile at his elbow. He was in the middle of one of his long lectures, the kind where he tents his fingers, and takes long painful pauses between obtuse random stories about Copernicus or Euclid. Frog Face doesn’t look anything like a frog, he’s actually good-looking, at least until you get to know him. His surname is Prince, and Mercy gave him his nickname. Said he was the classic Frog and Prince story in reverse.

My mail delivery derailed his riveting story because Frog Face put both long hands on the conference table and said, “Excuse me?  What is this?”  “Your mail,” I’m helpful by nature. “And you’re interrupting my new hire orientation because…?”  I’m also usually a couple beats behind. I almost told him Mercy had sent me; then I glanced up. There sat Juan, waaay better looking than his photograph. I will tell you, too, that I think we had one of those moments. I know I stared at him, and I thought he stared at me. Perhaps it was because I was staring at him. Perhaps it was because I’d interrupted the meeting to give the renowned Doctor Prince this month’s copy of Sports Illustrated. Perhaps because I’d now forgotten what Frog Face asked, and had birthed the mother of all pregnant pauses. For awhile I suppose he waited for me to catch up and answer. Those who know me realize that does not happen. Eventually this dawned on Frog Face too because he gave me a very threatening, “We will discuss this later, Miss….”  He trailed off there, having never mastered the silent i.c. in Pazicni to pronounce it. I caught up then, pulled my gaze off Juan’s and left to go find and murder Mercy.

And that is how I met golden skinned, golden eyed, golden haired Juan.

And today’s Glitter Globe question is have you ever publicly humiliated yourself over the opposite sex?  There is a cone of safety here, you can tell us.  We will commiserate with you. Or have you ever had one of those magical moments when you first met someone?  Or worse still, have you ever thought you did? 

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The Epic Slinky Dog Giveaway continues here at The Glitter Globe!  Please follow my blog, if you haven’t already. Right over there ---à where it says “Join this site” (or Networked Blogs). And be sure to leave a comment below, for a chance at your very own Slinky Dog! For every five new followers, a random name is picked from the comment section.

*What's with the golden boot in the middle of the story?  Because I can. 



Fail is a Four-Letter Word (So is Date)

After Juan stood me up, and showed up later bloody and broken, I agreed to go out with him again purely out of pity. Then he tried to kill me mountain climbing, but failed, hah. I only gave him a second chance to kill me because I really wanted to try skiing anyway. To be fair, the whole ski trip fiasco wasn’t Juan’s fault. He was terrific, all golden eyed and great smile. We walked into the lodge and stopped by the fireplace to warm up. Then the ladies swarmed, “Swoon!  Juan, didn’t we go to school together?  I’d remember your smile anywhere!” So he ordered drinks and started chatting up his admirers. Whatever. I left him there, recommending he take them hiking sometime, and headed to the ski slopes myself. He called after me to start on the Bunny Hill, where they offered lessons for newbies, and he’d catch up. Good luck with that.

Standing outside I noted Bunny Hill appeared to be slang for four-year olds, and that lessons would take up half of my allotted time. Talk about a waste of time. Besides that an unseasonable warm-up had hit, and the snow machine barely kept enough snow on the main drag. Most of the lower slopes were a slushy mess. I trotted over to the ski shack to rent skis. The Mandatory Handsome Ski Guy (MHSG) offered to help me out. Cool. Day is looking up. “How much do you weigh?” he asked. “I weigh 110 pounds,” I replied. The trick here is not to break eye contact. You must believe it when you say it. It’s a whole Jedi Mind Trick thing. “You’re not skiing in jeans, are you?” he asked. What else would I be skiing in?  I looked around then, and noted that the other skiers were wearing ski pants. Ah well, at that time in my life there was little on earth that could have gotten me into a pair of big puffy Santa pants. “I’m wearing jeans,” I told him. “They won’t be comfortable,” he warned. Comfortable?  Pants?  Where’d they get this guy?  These were the best pants I ever owned, they looked good!  Just a little tight in the legs, but no problem there, I avoided bending my legs.

MHSG (Mandatory Handsome Ski Guy) then needed to know what size shoe I wore. This is beyond the pale. State secrets. Like I was going to admit I pretty much fit the box the boots came in?  “I wear a size…7 ½ shoe,” employing Jedi Mind Do not look at my size ten feet Trick. “Our ski boots only come in whole sizes, so 8 or 7?” he said. “Seven.”  Damn that Cinderella and her little feet. How many blistered, hobbled feet is Walt Disney personally responsible for?  Or should we dump that sin on The Brothers Grimm?  Whichever. Personal responsibility is so passé I know the guilt rests with one of them.  Suited up I slid right onto the main thoroughfare. Hey I’m a natural. I can slide, cool.

For someone without an engineering cell in her body, a ski-lift is as wonderfully magical as a remote control. Big metal gliders are jerked up the mountain attached by what appears to be a twisty tie. Only the twisty isn’t tied, it magically sticks to a skinny little cable. That cable miraculously supports the weight of a hundred metal gliders and the weight of hundreds of skiers fed on cheesy fries. Could not wait to hop on!  Figuring out how to walk on skis, I made it to the ski lift and got in line. Wait. They don’t stop so you can get on?  Everybody just skied into place and hopped on the lift. Uh-oh, I’m pretty sure if I attempt to turn in these skis, I will be taking down everyone in a six foot radius. Maybe I’ll go practice.

Found a small hill and practiced. How cool is this?  Sliding down, sliding down, wait, sliding down fast!  Leaning back. Big mistake. How’d I get buried in snow?  No worries, I popped up and tried again. (Tip:  Don’t lean back.)  Now I’m moving fast, but going with it, because apparently there is no speed control on skis. And here’s the bottom of the hill. Stop. Stop!  People ahead!  How do you stop?  (Tip:  If you don’t know how to stop, don’t worry, there are many options. All of them hurt.) Okay, the stopping thing is a problem, but if you give yourself plenty of space to slow down on a flat surface, gravity will do it for you. Like skating!  Got it. Let’s go uphill so we can slide down and have some serious fun. Now getting to the top of the hill must involve the magical ski lift, because the other option was an epic fail. (Tip:  Don’t wear jeans skiing. After you’ve fallen, and been dragged through slush by the tow rope, your legs are now half frozen and soaking wet. No worries, the water is starting to freeze.)

Good news!  If given enough incentive, they actually will stop the ski lift to let you get on!  It’s all a matter of collateral damage, but you’ll figure it out I am sure. (Tip:  When you fall getting off, duck your head. They don’t stop it then.)  So here we are at the top and there are choices!  Let’s chat international signs for a moment. I don’t know about you, but to me they pretty much even everything out, because now no one knows what is going on in any language. Ah well, all the paths appear to lead down, and that is where I’m headed. Yep, I’m headed down, fast. This rocks!  Don’t lean back, don’t lean back. (Tip:  You will lean back, you will pay.)  Hey, what’s that sign say?  What’s a mogul?

We now know what a mogul is. Mogul is Mongolian for ‘You will fall on the far side of a snow mound and be battered by skiers who know what they are doing, Moron.’  The problem here is visibility. By the time you figure out where your skis are, and clamber to your feet, an airborne four-year old will take you out. Crawling isn’t an option either; remember you can’t bend your legs in those jeans. That is actually irrelevant though, because they are frozen stiff anyhow. This is where Juan shows up. Yep, he appears with one of those magnificent skier stops that blows white powder all over you and your frozen jeans. “Do you like it?”  Oh heck yeah!  This man is destined to mysteriously disappear while hiking with his wife someday. Considerately, Juan doesn’t help me out from beneath the mogul until I ask straight out. I am so not ever going out with this guy again.

You know what’s fun?  You can take another nearby ski lift, and go much higher up the mountain!  Let’s. And we do, and Juan shows me how to get on the chair without harming anyone, including myself. And he also shows me how to make it swing back and forth really fast, so I can enjoy the full experience. I wonder if he’ll just accidentally fall off of a ski lift someday – you know, skiing with that hypothetical wife. Betcha. At the top he expertly jumps out and waits while I manage my best imitation and flop out behind him. One of my skis pops off and goes sliding down the hill by itself. Really fast. Yep. There it goes. I put the boot on the snow and sink down to my knee in powder. “What do you do when this happens?” I ask. “I don’t know,” he says. “I’ve never seen it happen before.”  He bends down and checks my skis. “They shouldn’t have given you those skis; they’re for someone…much smaller.”  (Tip:  Don’t lie about your weight when you rent skis.) No jury of her peers will ever convict Juan's wife, should he ever have one someday.

Juan wishes me luck and heads down the mountain, all golden and graceful and gorgeous. I debate my options. I could try one ski…we both know I’m going to end up sliding down on my back most of the way anyhow…I could take off the other ski and try walking, but since the ski-less leg is now thigh-deep in snow, I’m thinking that won’t work…Maybe I could just sit and sort of scoot all the way down – it’s not like I have any pride left. “Excuse me?  Do you need help?”  It’s the Demi-god of Ski Patrol Guys (DgSPG) in spandex skiwear. He’s pulling a toboggan. I don’t know what to say. Would “I love you?” be too forward?  Possibly assuming I’ve suffered a head injury and cannot speak, he helps me into the toboggan very gently. I don’t even have to bend my legs!  This is good, because remember I cannot – and my pants are actually ice encrusted at this point, so he lifts them into the toboggan for me because I can’t. How awesome is this?  DgSPG takes off skiing as I recline behind him, sliding down the mountain. The only sound is his skis over the snow. It takes an impressive amount of time to reach the bottom, and once there he helps me out of the toboggan and apologizes about the defective ski. No problem, I had a great time. I love skiing! 

Have you ever noticed that trip is a four-letter word? Ever been on a trip that turned into a series of unfortunate events? The kind that are funny only in hindsight? Dish. What was your absolutely best bad idea?

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The Epic Slinky Dog Giveaway continues here at The Glitter Globe!  Half a dozen are being tamed for mailing even as we speak.  Please be patient if you won one this past week.  (The ear mouse slows me down. Ear mouse saga at http://www.theglitterglobe.com/2012/08/mouse-trap.html .)  Please follow my blog, if you haven’t already. Right over there ---à where it says “Join this site”. And be sure to leave a comment below, for a chance at your very own Slinky Dog! For every five new followers I get, I randomly choose a winner from my comment sections.  This round starts with this blog post, so comment away for your chance to win!

For the story of my first date with Juan, check out http://www.theglitterglobe.com/2012/08/first-and-last-dates.html  .

Food Philosophy 101 - The Optimist

Have you ever eaten a perfect peach?  Maybe it came right off the tree or fresh from a farm stand. The memory of that golden sweet, sun-ripened, Garden of Eden fruit will beckon to your optimistic taste-buds for decades. Sadly there is no supermarket fruit that can ever compare, but you will continue to buy store bought peaches all of your life, in hopes of locating even a distant relative of that fruit you tasted once. The same goes for watermelon. You know dang well those superstore watermelons are going to end up testing the strength of your kitchen garbage bag, or will they?  Will this one taste like that watermelon you had on the 4^th of July that summer?  There’s only one way to find out.

How about fresh from the field corn-on-the cob with real butter and salt?  Consuming one single ear of corn from Upstate New York can be responsible for every corn purchase you make for the rest of your life. The big plastic bag of frozen corn-on-the-cob, the one with the picture on the outside and the freezer burned corn inside?  Canned corn?  These are not rational choices people, these are examples of wishful thinking.

Packaged cookies are a perfect example. They are sweet, and they are crunchy – but so are termites (or so says my BFF). Can that begin to compare with fresh-from-the-oven-I-use-real-butter oatmeal cookies?  I think not. But who has time to roll out sugar cookies?  For that matter who keeps real vanilla, fresh eggs and good chocolate chips in the house for every time the cookie monster emerges?  So we settle for the termite equivalent

Remember that time we met at Fridays after work?  We drank iced-tea and ate that killer spinach-artichoke dip?  Or how about the block party and that guy’s grilled chicken?  (The guy raised on a poultry farm, remember?)  Then there was the family reunion – Grandma’s potato salad. Stellar meals might offer a clue about grocery cart selections. What is in the cart?  Several boxes of frozen appetizers – do you think they taste as good as the picture on the box promises?  There are also ingredients for the six chicken recipes I googled, we’ll just combine them all into one…And since potato salad takes too much time, and I have a novel to edit, I got the stuff from the deli!  Just because I don’t have the time or inclination to make something, doesn’t mean the desire to eat it isn’t firmly in place. Are you with me?  Are you a Food Optimist? 

What foodie memory have you failed to replicate?  Garden tomatoes?  Bluesberries straight off the bush?  I know you’re out there. I looked in your cart at the supermarket.

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The Epic Slinky Dog Giveaway continues here at The Glitter Globe!  Please follow my blog, if you haven’t already. Right over there ---à where it says “Join this site” and be sure to leave a comment below, for a chance at your very own Slinky Dog!

First and Last Dates

Photo Credit: Clarita/Morgue Files

The first time Juan asked me out he stood me up. He was immediately written off. The Glitter Globe offered no second chances for this type of violation. So later that night when he knocked on the door, I took a moment to prepare myself mentally for the scathing reception he was about to receive. Opening the door, there he stood in the porch light covered in blood, his hand in a cast of some sort and his arm in a sling. Cheater. I totally caved. Completely fell for his excuse. You know, the old “My car caught on fire in an under-ground garage. I thought the gas tank was going to explode and it was parked next to dozens of other cars. I tried to pull the fire alarm, but that thing you break the glass with was missing. I had to use my hand. By the time the fire department came, my car was completely engulfed in flames – the tires even melted. I would have called you then, except they took me to the hospital. I had to have surgery on my right hand, and the left was burned so I couldn’t use the phone even afterwards. Can I borrow your car?”  Yeah, I know. I was so naïve. But, hey, the next time was a pity date!

Juan enjoyed hiking and wanted to take me. He asked if I liked nature. I absolutely love flowers, and that’s part of nature, right?  And I’d hiked around a castle in a nearby park at least twice!  We had so much in common!  “Sure,” I said, “I’m very outdoorsy.”

In order to reach the bottom of the mountain, we had to cross a railroad trestle. Halfway over I was told to hurry, just in case a train came. 

Then we had to crawl over the face of a little cliff under a bit of a waterfall. It totally wrecked my hair.

After that it got hard, climbing up a mountain. Grabbing onto a skinny sapling to haul myself upward, it came out of the ground and I slid downhill a ways. Lost a shoe too, well, it fell off when that happened. Then I lost it throwing it at my date. It started to rain then, and despite the exertion from the climb, it was cold. We took refuge beneath an overhang in the rock. I scooted deeper inside the nook to avoid the blowing rain, but was told not to, due to the rattlesnakes that tended to inhabit that spot. This was so our last date. At that very moment my BFF was enjoying Mackinac Island – or someplace equally as civilized that involved fudge – with her boyfriend. I thought about that a lot as I climbed.

We crested the top of the mountain, me flat on my stomach, scrabbling over the ledge. It occurred to me at that point that we had to now get down. I’d almost decided to push my date off the mountain, to test that exit strategy, when I heard rustling in the bushes. It was getting dark at this point, but I could see men hiding there. They were dressed in military fatigues. Juan nodded sagely. “That’s just the National Guard. They practice up here on weekends.”  Dang. Witnesses.

The National Guard hadn’t climbed up the way we had. They took the road. Yep. There was a road, and I started marching down it, arms crossed, in that cold silence that most men of dating age are quite familiar with. A truck pulled up alongside us within minutes, offering a ride back to town. There was heat in it. I huddled over that heater and Juan said, “Have you ever been skiing?”  Skiing?  I hadn’t, but I’d seen people do it in movies. “Because I was wondering if you’d like to go skiing with me sometime?  This winter?”  He smiled his terrific smile. “Sure, I’ll go skiing with you,” I promised. I had always wanted to try skiing. People were always smiling when they did it in the movies. I wondered if ski lodges had fudge. Pictures of roaring fires, ski lifts and fun filled my head. How hard could it be?

Mouse Trap



It feels like a mouse crawled into my ear. It didn’t die though, because sometimes I can hear it swallow. Wonder what type of doctor specializes in that?  Refusing to allow a stray rodent to keep me from my novel any longer, I got out of my sickbed and started moving some commas around. You don’t have to be able to hear from both ears to work on your novel.

Despite rumors to the contrary, apparently I do some housework, because the landscape sure changed around here in the last ten days. I didn’t have the energy to double check, but I’m pretty sure that every dish was dirty. My buddy, Zeus, stopped by for lunch. He was disappointed to find that my illness had kept me from keeping enough food in the house to satisfy a giant. Thanks to my loved ones though, there was enough canned soup for just that purpose. I told him about my ear mouse, and we tossed around the likelihood of medical intervention providing any relief. I’ve become a firm believer that, like in the case of a jury trial, you need to provide physical evidence of your complaint when you see a doctor. You know, like a missing or broken limb, oozing, or at least having the decency to faint a bit. I doubt I could provide the mouse. Zeus considered this theory, and said, “Look at you!  Trust me - they’ll believe you’re sick!”  Sometimes I worry that Zeus will never get married. For the record, I was planning to shower today – well – at least I decided to after he said that. Zeus then urged me to get some groceries, insisting that I’d blend just fine at Walmart. If he does get married, I’ll bet he disappears.

The Doctor did confirm the whole ear-mouse theory. Well, okay, she called it fluid in the eustachian tube, but she can't feel it! She told me it might take three months to get better. I am not satisfied with this prognosis - so I'm looking for home remedies while brushing up on my sign language. So far I've tried blasting him out with my iPod.  I couldn't hear it, and I suspect neither could the mouse because he didn't even move, let alone dance out. Tried running and yoga hoping to knock him loose. The only thing that happened with that is I needed a twelve hour nap after, and I think he ate while I napped because I'm pretty sure he's bigger. Please feel free to post your ideas!

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The Epic Slinky Dog Giveaway continues!  Leave a blog comment. Every time I get five new followers, I draw from those who left a comment. They're going so fast - well - fast as Slinky Dogs can go.  Okay, that's not very fast, but two went out just this week!  Woo-hoo! 

Cooties



Keeping in the spirit of not whining, I am looking on the bright side. There’s a summer cold going around that practically requires an exorcism to be rid of. It had been floating dangerously close to The Glitter Globe for many weeks, taking down loved ones. I tried to keep it at bay with orange juice and chicken soup and shouts of, “Cover your mouth when you sneeze!” Alas, it snuck up on me and knocked me right off my typing shoes.

You know how you can feel these things coming, even before the sneezing and oozing begins, but you lie to yourself? Pretending not to be sick, I’d gone for a run, and then agreed to help a friend mark a property line. Said friend didn’t warn me that we were marking a boundary along a mountain, starting at the bottom and going up. I didn’t mention I might be carrying The Plague. My job was easy, all I had to do was walk straight up hill for hours, and spot the red ribbons tied on trees deep in the forest. My buddy, let’s call him Zeus, needed my help in this for one reason only, he’s color blind. The odds of him spotting red ribbons in a forest were a tad slim. I was an enormous help.

“Seriously?  Are you on Facebook again?”  Zeus caught up with me. It was about the third time he caught me sitting on a log, playing with my phone.

            “Yeah,” I confessed, fiddling with the location device. I was really glad Facebook knew where we were, because I have never been so hopelessly lost in my life.

            Zeus glared, and he has an impressive glare. I knew he would never have taken me into the woods if he could have found even a seeing-eye primate for the job of ribbon finder. I tried to hurry up and check my email. He fished a water bottle out of his backpack, continuing to glare, and said, “You actually have a connection here?”  He didn’t really sound impressed.

            “I know, right?  I couldn’t believe it either. I have three bars!”  Luckily I spotted the next ribbon at that point. Those suckers are hard to see even with the ability to spot color. It’s like Where’s Waldo in the forest, only Waldo’s in camouflage with a bit of pink lipstick on.

            As we neared the top ridge of the mountain, Zeus said, “You’re sweating like a man.” 

            “Gee, thanks.”  I mean really?  Guys, even if you think it ya don’t say that!

            “No really. You should see the back of your shirt.”  By now I had a staff fashioned from a tree branch and it was doing most of the work as I dragged myself uphill. I’d drunk most of my water and the cell was firmly in my pocket. I was still lying to myself though, it was in the 90’s after all and the shivering was surely on account of all that man sweating. Apparently Zeus suspected I was considering crawling. He said, “I can mark off the rest of it another time. Why don’t we head back to the truck?”  He got on the two-way radio, to chat with my Dear Hubby – who was somewhere in this vast forest. I continued up the hill and Zeus yelled, “Hey?  Why don’t we just take the path back?” What? There is a path? If I’d had the ability to balance on two legs at that point, Zeus might have accidentally been knocked back down the mountain. Accidentally.

Eventually we found Dear Hubby and I climbed into the back of the truck and closed my eyes. Then they started trying to drive out of the forest. Did I mention that we drove into the forest?  Not on a path, I mean we drove into the forest. I commented that this was the first time I’d ever been lost in the woods in a vehicle. The guys pointed out that we weren’t lost, they knew exactly where we were, just not how to get out.

So, yes, that was the most fun I’ve had in a week. The rest wasn’t nearly as good, but I have compiled a list of the highlights of having a wicked virus in the middle of summer. Remember The Interactive Joy List?  Well, this is a Silver Lining List:

·         Those new Kleenex with the lotion in them. You can be sick twice as long before you rub the skin off your face. Yay. They also come in a Vick’s Vapor Rub scent which is the only thing you can smell when you’re sick.

·         Urgent Care. I’d never been to Urgent Care. I try to avoid going to doctors at all. They ask too many questions, starting with, “What’s your name?”  But my regular Doctor wasn’t open when my hearing clogged shut, so I dragged myself to Urgent Care. They didn’t even ask for my name, just an ID and that was it. In fifteen minutes I was at the Pharmacy with a script for antibiotics. That rocks.

·         Less Air-Conditioning despite the 90+ degree weather. I spent the entire week shutting it off and crawling under the electric blanket. It’s a wonder my family didn’t kill me, but I was saving money on electricity!

·         Reading time. I will admit the first couple of days were almost a treat, curled up with a book all day long. I read two months worth of books this week. Bet Amazon stock is up too.

·         Cold comfort things:  Luden’s cough drops (Do they do anything?  Anything at all?), saltine crackers, orange juice, canned soup crossing that off – sorry that stuff is just gross. But I did request it and was given a bunch of different kinds, all of which went into the “gross” pile. Now if you can get someone to bring you homemade soup (especially in August) that is a perk. Tea. The best. I give my cold comfort award to hot tea when you’re coughing and oozing. It’s almost as much fun as getting lost in the woods in a car.

Do you have anything to add to the Silver Lining List?  Come on, anything at all works. I know of one friend who fills out those forms at the Doctor’s office with interesting tidbits. She insists they never read them, told me once she put “Figure Skater” under occupation. Dish.

Epic Slinky Dog Giveaway

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Shopping is not my thing, yet a couple months ago I found myself at Toys R Us searching for an emergency unicorn. It happens. Fortunately the mission was a success and there were two to choose from. One had a defective horn and the salesperson suggested I pick the other one. Shaking my head, I explained, “I don’t like the look in his eye.”  These little details are important, who wants a unicorn giving you the stink eye?  I was leaving the store, cripple-horn unicorn in tow, when I spotted an entire aisle full of that type of candy that really isn’t edible. You know the kind I mean:  lollipops as big as your head in colors not seen in nature, gummy rats, candy buttons, rubber candy shaped like hamburgers and ponies. I pondered the sanity of consumerism run amuck. Then I saw him. Slinky Dog. Now that's just cool. I bought them all.



They were quickly adopted out. There are now Glitter Globe Slinky Dogs all over the country and abroad. Luckily a new shipment arrived this week, so I can share even more! The guy who delivered the Slinky Dogs was shaking the box. They rattle and a whole herd of them sound impressive. He was curious about the contents so I opened it and showed him, and he just shook his head. This guy has been a little bit afraid of me ever since I used him to reenact a particularly gruesome scene from one of my novels. The thing is if you interrupt my writing – even to deliver a package – you’re taking a chance.   

Now onto The Epic Slinky Dog giveaway…we can play this until I run out of Slinky Dogs!  If you haven’t already, please follow my blog (by clicking on “Join this site” or through networked blogs) and leave a comment on today’s blog – or any future blog. I’ll keep track of your comments. Then for every five new blog followers I get, I’ll share a Slinky Dog with one commenter, starting today and going until I run out of Slinky Dogs. There’s an entire nest of them next to me, so this could take awhile. Uh-oh. You know what I just noticed?  Every one of them is giving me the stink eye!

*Thanks to Girard for the awesome picture!

Caffeine-Free Dessert-Freak Party

What’s a party without snacks, we’ve got to have snacks. If you were hoping for dips and finger food, sorry, dessert is my favorite food. If I didn’t know for a fact how much better it feels to put veggies and whole grains into this body, it is all I would eat. Sadly what goes into the body does make a difference. I just love the way it feels to hop a fence, or try to do one of my lame pathetic cartwheels with my niece. Too much dessert wrecks those already questionable skills. So I mostly just dream about them, and wait. This is what I fantasize about – Black Tie Mousse Cake from Olive Garden. I’m not a big Olive Garden fan, but sometimes I go just for dessert. As a matter of fact that is something I like to do with my girls and their friends. We call it “Pubbing” and it doesn’t involve alcohol. We get all dolled up and hit several of our favorite restaurants in one night. At each stop we order a dessert and share it. By the end of the night we are sugared up and happy, and the girls are spitting water at each other through straws.

Since a good deal of the time I’m all about whole foods, I tend to find excuses to celebrate things that involve really spectacular cakes filled with raspberry mousse. That way I can justifiably cheat on my vegan meal plan. You find me a month and I will find you a dang good reason to celebrate, and I’ll bring the cake. I’ve gone so far as to have “Happy Cake” written on the cake. You have got to cram those celebrations in there when you can.

A group of friends used to hit a coffee house late at night to chat. One of those places with a guitar player in the corner that only sells coffee, not even tea. I’d never had coffee in my life when I started going, and it was there that I discovered cappuccino. It rocked!  We stayed until they closed, then stood in the parking lot until it emptied, then started dropping each other off and stood outside each house chatting. When I got home at about 3:00 a.m., I’d clean. It was probably the only time in my life that my house was orderly. The effect from a cup of caffeinated coffee lasted about 48 hours for me. I had to stop drinking the stuff. That neat freak stuff just wasn’t me. Then I discovered Starbuck’s frappuccinos. ß I just sang that last sentence, did you sense that? They are frozen concoctions of deliciousness and you can get them without caffeine. Are you a fan?  Have you tried one?  Tada, this is what they look like.

Now I hopefully have you in the mood for something topped in whipped cream. Since we’re right in the middle of The Glitter Globe’s 100^th blog celebration, I have another giveaway. And since I suck at math so badly, and figured out that this blog is actually the 100^th one and not yesterday’s – it has to be something extra good. How about a $10 gift card to Starbucks?  Yay!  I’ll be giving away three of them in the next forty-eight hours. Again, I’m asking you to join this site AND this is where it gets tricky – if you have a friend join (or two of three) – I’ll put your name and theirs into the hat (actually it is a 5" stiletto heel pump) that many times for the random drawing. Just make sure your friend/friends mention you in the post. And just to be fair, if you're like me and mostly only have the imaginary friends you write about, I've got you covered. I'll put you in twice if you leave me a comment and give me the scoop about your favorite dessert. 

You're Invited to a Party!

This is blog post #100 and that deserves a celebration. You know what that means?  Party in The Glitter Globe. I’ve been known to throw some decent parties. There will be snacks, sparkly stuff and music. In fact, let’s make today Music Monday and I’ll give away some iTunes gift cards, so you can listen to whatever you like. There is a small caveat, I’m going to ask you to sign up and follow my blog if you haven’t already, post a comment below and I’ll randomly pick three posts in the next twenty-four hours.

A one day party isn’t nearly enough either. This is going to be like a Glittery Woodstock. At least three days, and if enough people come, we’ll just hang around Spooky Hill and keep right on partying. Now let’s talk party. What was your favorite party?  I think my all time favorite was The Pony Party. It was my first taste of country life. I was living in Texas at the time, in the country with cattle and coyotes. Every now and then cattle would stray and I’d find them outside eating my grass. Being originally more of a city chick, I really didn’t know what to do about that. I mean, do they bite?  The kids enjoyed watching them though, and then I asked my daughter what she wanted to do for her 5^th birthday. She said, “Ride a pony.” I thought, “Hey!  We can probably do that right here, if there are cows there are certainly ponies around somewhere.”  So instead of having a party with her friends over I spent the entire $75 party budget just to rent ponies.

Now I was pretty jazzed about this, two guys brought ponies to the house and walked them around by the lead. I mean, really?  Is that not a Princess party?  Apparently not, because my Princess would not willingly come out of the sandbox to look at those ponies during the hour and half they were there. We ended up applying just enough parental guilt to get the kids onto the beast’s backs for a picture, and then knocking on doors and getting neighbors to come over for a ride. What made it my favorite party?  When my Sweet Princess explained to me later, with her plastic My Little Pony toy clutched in her fist. “Mom, I wanted the pink or blue ones with the sparkly eyes.”  My bad. Turns out the big hairy, refuse dropping beasts weren’t Princess Party material.

After moving to Spooky Hill we hosted a Halloween party for kids. The adults dressed as Scooby-Doo characters, I got a purple dress and dyed my hair red and voila – Daphne!  My niece was Scooby, and Dear Hubby spent the night explaining that the orange ascot around his neck meant he was Fred. The kids played a game that involved eating whatever gross thing you pulled out of a paper bag. A neighbor guy showed up dressed like a genie, and it was rather spectacular. Hubby put hay in a wagon and used the lawnmower to haul kids around the backyard in the dark. There were dozens of kids running from back doors through front doors. At one point everyone started fussing about Moses. I went in search of someone dressed as Moses; it turned out to be some sort of giant dog that had arrived on the scene. It ran around the house, chased the hay wagon, and eventually was dragged back to wherever it came from. In short, the party rocked, and we had hay in the house for months afterward to remind us how much fun it was.

How about leaving a comment and telling me about your favorite party?  Have you ever hosted a party and when it came time to clean up after, debated moving instead?  (Remember to leave a comment below. I’m giving away three $10 iTunes gift cards in the next 24 hours. You can use them for any kind of music you like. Just, please, if you waste use them for country music, don’t even tell me.)

Man Versus Woodchuck

Woodchuck/Groundhog/Land beaver/Whistlepig/Marmot

One of the first signs of spring is groundhogs.  They dig their holes flush up against blacktop roads.  Needless to say they don’t all live long.  Once someone tucked a beer bottle into the crook of one poor fellow’s arm and propped him along the road near my house, a taxidermist wannabe perhaps?  I wonder how many potholes are from groundhogs digging.  It is a sad fact of life that those who cost taxpayer’s money don’t garner much sympathy.  Despite the fact that February 2^nd is a day devoted entirely to groundhogs, the rest of the year they fall under the varmint label.  Life is so not fair.  City dwellers everywhere should rise up in outrage and adopt them all as pets and keep them safe in their apartments, maybe put sweaters on them in winter.  I picture that being like trying to stuff a limp hairy octopus into a little baggie, but I’m sure it can be done. 

It is mid-summer here in Iceland and the groundhogs have extended their territory to include Dear Hubby’s garden (they like zucchini, but just one bite out of each squash, so you really can’t complain) and Hubby’s barn. They dug the foundation out, built little tunnels beneath the sidewalk and occasionally build pits inside tall grass in the yard.  They’re trying to take down the tractor, like in that movie Tremors.  They haven’t launched anyone completely off the mower when it hits a hidden hole, yet.  Sometimes they watch from their holes and laugh though.  It’s only a matter of time before we look out there one day and the dudes will be riding the tractor around, drinking and listening to loud music.  I doubt my neighbors will mind, they’ll be so pleased to see someone mowing the grass.  It will really tick off Dear Hubby though, because it would mean they won.



Hubby put a waterproofed radio in the garden.  I objected when I heard country music coming from there.  He knows I’m allergic and it would just get the dudes line dancing anyway.  I helped and changed the channel.  Now it is pretty much static.  That seems to have worked, either that or like the rest of us the groundhogs are just sick of zucchini by now.  The tunnels moved from the entire backside of the barn to the front, so out came the traps.  Having learned nothing from the Canadian blue-tailed squirrel story (http://www.theglitterglobe.com/2012/07/campfires-canada-day-eh.html) my benevolent Hubby was going to capture them and take them for a ride.  They won’t go inside no matter what tempting groundhog bait he puts in there.  I think it is because the groundhogs are way fatter than the traps.

Earlier in the year, when the fellas first made their appearance my guys pondered shooting them.  Don’t tell hubby, but whenever I saw a woodchuck I’d knock on the window and he’d run off before the guys with the license to kill got up in the morning.  I didn’t know groundhogs had more relatives than my Bohemian family.  One of our neighbors AND the internet told us that gum can get rid of groundhogs.  Apparently it gets stuck in their intestines and it is not a nice way to go folks, the bullet would be far kinder.  Though there are now about six packs of Juicy Fruit sticks littering my backyard.  Dear Hubby swears he sees the gum chewed up and sitting on the edges of the groundhog’s holes.  He said they chew it until the flavor is gone and spit it out. 



One evening the biggest groundhog, obviously the Patriarch of the clan, sat in the middle of the backyard making obscene gestures.  A licensed hunter was here and he got a gun out of the safe, then the ammo out of that locked ammo box which was also in the safe, then he crept slowly outside to tackle the groundhog who by now was checking his watch and rolling his eyes.  The groundhog laughed and stood up against the barn, throwing his arms and legs out in an obvious “You’ve got me” gesture.  Problem was he was now flush up against the barn and his demise would have meant a nice big hole in the side of the barn too.  Then he slid down into a hole beneath it.  He popped his head out a few times to gloat and mock. 

Today I glanced out the back window and saw hubby’s camouflage hunting-blind in the woods.  These little tents are where hunters go to read their wife’s book during hunting season.  Hubby said he is airing it out.  I think you just can’t tease a hunter when you’re in season, words to live by, those.  Good thing I’m out of season. 

If you're aware of any merciful way to get woodchucks to move from my yard, to yours, or even your in-laws, please leave me a comment!  Or if you want to come catch one to live in your apartment, feel free. Also, I'd love to hear your groundhog stories!

Once I Found my Lost Keys in my Hand

Someone I love dearly is starting to have serious memory issues. Sometimes she uses one of my nieces as an external hard-drive of sorts. “Sweetie, remind me that I put my car keys in the side pocket of my purse,” This after first telling me to remind her, looking at my expression, then rolling her eyes and wisely resorting to the First Grader.

My own short term memory issues are nothing new. I have always been like this. Maybe it is a blonde thing, I don’t know. I think I use short term memory space for other purposes, perhaps long term memories, perhaps Pac-Man patterns. My BFF has excellent short term memory and oddly enough I have excellent long term. Between the two of us, we almost make up an entirely functional human being.

Someone was telling a story recently, about a time when we were little and had found a nest of baby rabbits. “Remember there was an old guy who used to yell out his window, ‘Leave those bunnies be!’?”  “Yes,” I said, “Mr. Imars.”  “Oh for pity’s sake, how can you remember that?  That was the only time that man ever spoke to us!  It’s been at least twenty years.”  Because I remember everything, the cost of banana popsicles, which librarian let me check out books that were too old for me, who stole my wicked cool bike (yeah, dude, thanks for the awesome name for the evil column).

Short-term memory is a whole other deal. I have none, but I have excellent coping skills. It has made me very empathetic to the elderly with similar issues and to my loved one who is losing her short-term memory. On top of that I have a list of useful tips to share.

·         Park in the same place, put your keys in the same place and write things down or put it into your telephone immediately.

·         If you need to get something done, do it right now. This is always a gold star in the working world where I receive kudos for my prompt response. They don’t realize there are only two choices in my repertoire. Now or never.

·         Eat the same breakfast, that way you never get tripped up by this question. I never have trouble with the other meals. The brain has just slept very soundly through breakfast my entire life.

·         Own it, don’t try to fake your way out when you forget. You just look ridiculous if you do. Doesn’t this sound so much better?  “I know you told me your name six times today, I do remember it was something complex. Beth Wilson?  Got it.”

·         Dig deep and keep a good attitude. There is always an adventure waiting every time you forget. If it doesn’t lead to the ER or the impound lot, it’s not a bad thing.

This morning I traipsed into the Dentist’s office and gave my name. The receptionist got very quiet as she looked through the day’s appointments. I go there all the time, they give free chapsticks and my dentist is super sweet and this isn’t the first time they got very quiet at check-in. I sighed and waited, knowing what the problem was and promising myself that for now on I will not be texting, checking Facebook and inputting appointments into my schedule all at the same time. I’m just not a good multi-tasker, I think it involves short-term memory. The receptionist said, “Your next appointment is in August.”  I double checked my phone and sure enough it was in there for August too. I wondered briefly where I was supposed to be today at 1:00. Well at least I’d kept up with the latest Zombie Apocalypse comments on Facebook, right?  Besides while I was in town I dropped by the post office and mailed my BFF her hair flattener. She forgot it at my house this weekend, despite her excellent short term memory. Perhaps this means we might need an external hard drive for our next road trip. Know any First Graders for hire?

Campfires & Canada Day, Eh

Once Upon a Time I drove into Canada on the Friday before Canada Day.  If you, like me, are unaware of the significance of the holiday, it is like the 4^th of July; except with a fanaticism that most Americans haven’t had for the 4^th since about 1776.  At the time all I knew for certain was that every vehicle in Canada was on the highway, Walmart was closed and it looked like Toronto was being evacuated.  Police cars were parked along highways and searching cars randomly, and they threatened to confiscate Dear Hubby’ s radar detector for the Queen.  This was fine by me. I have detested the thing for years and often fantasized about cutting its cord during long car trips.  At the time though, my first thought was, Canada has a Queen?  I didn’t know Canada had a Queen.  So let me help you out here, if you didn’t already know these things.

·         They use UK’s Queen and she wants your radar detector if you take it to Canada.

·         Canada Day is July 1^st, travel at your own risk, and don’t say I didn’t warn you. 

There is much to be gleaned from slogging your way deep into the Canadian Wilderness.  Some people go to fish and boat and commune with the great outdoors.  Some people go to hide beneath their mosquito netting and write 5,000 words a day.  The latter people come out at night to feed the mosquitoes, and hang out at campfires with Canadians who spend about half the year living in the middle of nowhere.  These people are excellent fodder for The Glitter Globe. 

For almost a decade I have been skulking around these folks for inspiration and they have yet to fail me.  At first I observed from a distance.  Once I saw them chipmunk fishing, don’t worry, they didn’t use hooks.  It was very humane, a bag of peanuts and a fishing pole.  How did they get the chipmunks to stick?  Apparently those critters really want peanuts, they didn’t care if they were being reeled in, and if they lost their grip on said peanut they raced after it again. 

One of my personal favorite stories is the squirrels with the painted tails story, as told to me by Trey*.  Seems squirrels were invading a cabin and the owner couldn’t bear the thought of harming the creatures, so live traps were used and the squirrels were then taken off the island.  Now Trey had a sneaking suspicion about the effectiveness of this plan, and fetched a can of spray paint and painted one of the little fellow’s tails blue.  Then he took the guy “for a ride” as we like to say in the States.  After returning to camp, another squirrel had been captured, so he painted that guy’s tail too, and headed deeper into the wilderness to locate a new home for him.  Passing over a footbridge off the island, Trey passed a squirrel racing towards him.  You know it; the dude had a blue tail. 

These are the kind of stories shared during a Canada Day campfire and I’m not even going to get into the floor show.  Okay, I will say this much, when human beings spend inordinate amounts of time entertaining themselves, creativity takes a turn.  I came prepared with an American campfire tradition and they gave a passing nod to the brilliance of making ‘Smores with peanut butter cups instead of chocolate bars, eh.  Right on, American, not bad.  Then they tossed some old pine branches on the fire.  Whoosh, the flames shot up into the 50’ pine trees towards the starry-starry night sky, and I made a mental note to never have a live Christmas tree again as long as I may live.  Then they broke out the bacon.

That’s right.  These people who spend half the year living deep in the bush don’t have the lowly hotdog for their campfires.  They passed around large containers of bacon marinated in maple syrup.  It had been cooked ahead of time and they ate it cold.  *Insert macho grunt here* Then out came the homemade cookies.  Cut out sugar cookies shaped like a maple leaf – iced and with sparkly sprinkles.  I don’t even do cut-out cookies for Christmas.  The only similarity I saw in the Canadian campfires and the ones I’ve attended back in the USA is sweatshirts.  The day after a campfire you find a variety of sweatshirts that nobody will claim.  These unclaimed sweatshirts make up half my wardrobe, the other half being free T-Shirts I gather at engineering conferences.  Bet you didn’t know that, bet you thought I went to MIT, eh?

*Name changed to protect Clay from being identified by Blog reading blue-tailed squirrels.

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