This face?
The cuteness just slays me.
This is the result of viewing available dogs on the local Humane Society facebook page.
Meet Dasher. 4.5 months old of we-don't-have-a-clue breed. She already thinks she owns the sofa, your lap, your food, and has completely stolen the hearts of the entire household. Even the old dog had no defenses against that level of cute.
It's her priviledge, thank you very much, to drape herself across your body to take a much needed snooze. If you're not comfortable enough, she'll move on to the next lap.
This may be a problem later when she outgrows the availabel lap space.
Those ears? Just completely win.
Beware: Gratuitous Puppy Photos ahead
The snowy weather this winter reawakened my husband’s love of skiing and he took all that fluffy cold stuff as an invitation to initiate our son to the joys of skiing.
Skiing is not a convenient sport where we live, at least not downhill skiing. The closest place in New Jersey is more than two hours away and the better skiing is in the Pocono’s or in New York. My guys decided on a night ski up at Shawnee because the cost would be reasonable for the lift tickets and equipment rental and some other reasons he mentioned, but by that time I had tuned him out because skiing is not on my list of fun things to do and whatever he wanted to do was fine with me beyond the desire that neither one of them break any bones and return in basically the same physical condition that they left in.
The one time I went skiing with him was up at Gore Mountain during one of our vacations and after an hour I hadn’t made it off the baby bunny trail. The bazillionth fall later, I decided I didn’t want to go swishing down a hill on sticks that seemed beyond my ability to control and he should go have lots of fun on the mountain and I will go inside, site by the fire and have some booze. I do not regret that decision. They served excellent booze.
So he headed off one late morning a couple of weeks ago to get back on ski’s and teach the boy how to get his groove on sticks. I’d like to note that it’s been over sixteen years since he’d been on skis and well over twenty since he raced on them. Apparently skiing is a skill much like bicycle riding, once learned is never forgotten, and my husband was thrilled to fly free down the slopes once again.
Ace apparently took to it like a duck does to water and really enjoyed himself. When they got home in the wee hours of the morning, he was exhausted, somewhat damp from his stumbles and face plants in the snow but giddy with this newfound ability. He grumbled plenty the next day from the muscle aches that came with learning a new sport and the pounding he took during his falls, but spent considerable time nagging his father about the next time they could get back on skis. Translation, I wanna go soon, Dad!
My husband likes to have fun and do all sorts of exciting things with the family. He also likes to do those things at the lowest cost possible and thinks nothing of spending hours online comparing prices, costs, packages and other bargain hunting. This is what makes him the perfect family travel agent. This bargain hunting is a hobby of his, a passion really. He is nothing if not dedicated to the cause of finding the right value for the cost. And skiing was no exception.
Every time I nudged him away from the computer to read email, or try and write a blog post, multiple internet windows were open displaying different ski equipment online shops. He had an excel spreadsheet listing the sellers, the prices, the type of skis and ski boots. This was serious shopping, a man with a purpose. When I asked him why he didn’t just rent the equipment again, he had a well thought out response based on use, time, money spent over time, rental vs. owning, blabbity blabbity blabbity. Really all he had to say was that he wanted new skis and I would have said fine. By the twentieth online store and hundredth or so different ski, my eyes would glaze over and my automated response was whatever-you- want-is-fine. One ski is very much like another in my mind and now I know how woefully wrong I was uttering that statement out loud while he was on the hunt because I now know more about ski types than I can forget.
At one point he asked me to look at this one online shop because the prices were so good, too reasonable, he was afraid it was a scam of sorts. He’s a little skittish that way and doesn’t trust the Interwebz as much as I do.
So he called the next day and spent almost an hour on the phone with some guy named Big Jon U and they discussed skis, ski boots, bindings, poles and who the hell knows what else but he was thrilled with the level of knowledge and customer service he received from this company levelninesports.com. Still somewhat skeptical he asked me to help with some research online about the company so as to not loose many hundreds of dollars after pressing the buy button. It didn’t take very long to ferret out the fact that this place had excellent deals on all sorts of ski and snowboarding equipment for all levels of skill. Their prices led many to believe that they could be a scam but every testimonial we found said they were a great place to deal with, that the equipment was top notch and their prices were not to be beat. Being based in Utah, a place as well known for skiing as Mormons, doesn’t hurt, I suppose. Our sense of security increased and my very frugal husband placed an order for two sets of new skis with mounted bindings, boots, and poles from Levelninesports.com. And he didn’t hyperventilate, overmuch, at the total charge as the same two sets were twice the price anywhere else. Imagine a new Harley for the price of a used Moped.
Hubbie & Ace tracked the shipment on UPS.com as if they were counting days til Christmas Day. Just over a week later the lot of it arrived in a couple of BIG boxes. The Head skis were well packaged and labeled with the personal specifications of the order and the boots were shiny and new. Both husband and son lovingly caressed their new skis and pranced around the house wearing boots that looked like they should have been attached to spacesuits. It was kind of weird, watching this display of manly sports equipment lust. But I suppose I get that way over new jewelry supplies. Oooohhhh, Sparkly!!
This very weekend they toddled off, new skis stuff in hand and spent 7 hours zipping down a cold mountain, during this winter’s worst freezing rainstorm no less. Why does anyone want to do that? They loved every wet cold minute of it. Both husband and son were amazed with how fast the skis were over the rented equipment they had previously used. My husband, who was pretty familiar with the skis of the past, made more than one comment about how fast his skis were and how sharp they turned – oh they can carve! I don’t really know what this means but I’m led to believe these are important factors. They were very happy with their new fast sharp sticks purchased from levelninesports.com. Practically giddy even as they talked about the near misses, almost wipeouts, hills they were able traverse and turns they could make on their new ski stuff. My husband was so thrilled with his new toys he asked me to tell the internet about levelninesports.com. I told him yes I would if he will just stops talking to me about skis.
I’m retaining the privilege of blaming levelninesports.com if my husband and son become ski bums.
Just sayin’
Every year like clockwork, as the weather chills, the mice that are supposed to live OUTSIDE, start looking for warmer climes, most notably INSIDE MY HOUSE. A place mice should never ever be. Ever. There are some rules that should never be broken.
Theirs is a subtle campaign, those rodents. You don’t even know they’ve breached the perimeter. Then there’s the whisper of furtive sounds late in the night that make me question my sanity. Then food supplies are stolen. Dry kibble from the dog’s bowl disappears, one nugget at a time. Then comes the irrefutable proof that we’ve been invaded, a brazen intruder blows cover and someone in the house is witness and the WE HAVE MICE alarm goes all DEFCON 1.
Then the chase is on.
One would like to think the dog would be annoyed about some rodent stealing her food and DO SOMETHING about it, like eat them, but I guess once a dog has taken on the gopher population of the neighborhood mice are beneath her notice. Which leads me to question her place in the household if she can’t bestir herself to deal with mice.
So, since I have to strategize this little nuisance war myself, I hauled myself off to Home Depot to buy a mountain of mousetraps, because you know there is never just one mouse. It’s a whole mouse platoon that bivouacs for the winter in my walls.
Home Depot also happened to be selling Christmas stuff so I bought the cutest Cardinal print doormatt and some holiday window clings for the kid’s rooms because well it’s that time of year and I have no willpower to resist the Cardinal. Really, none whatsoever.
After careful reconassaince, I reinforced our defenses with six mousetraps, several grouped in key areas identified as perimeter breaches by the icky evidence of mouse poop. Which, just eewww, right?
I gathered up some peanut butter and a crushed dog cookie, because my daughter and husband found a dog cookie in the storage drawer of the stove that had clearly been nibbled on. Don’t ask me how the dog cookie got in the drawer, because I know I didn’t put it there and the stupid dog would dismantle a car to get to a treat if she knew it was close at hand. I think the mice stashed it there for emergency rations, those little bastards.
With that mix of peanut butter and dog cookie pieces, the traps were loaded and set. Gently (because having one of those suckers snap on your hand hurts, really really hurts, and leaves blood blisters and bruises) placing them in the appointed positions, we trooped off to see the recent Harry Potter movie, placing bets on how many would be captured when we got back to the house. I estimated at two, maybe three would fall into my traps and set up a warning that we were fighting to take back our territory. The rest of my company was not as optimistic as I was and figured one might be sent out to investigate the change in the local landscape, perhaps sensing a trap. I zipped into the house when we returned from the movie to revel in my mouse catching skills and found a BIG FAT ZERO.
Not only did I not get one single mouse in a trap but the nasty vermin cleared the pressure plate of every lick of peanut butter/dog cookie paste WITHOUT setting off a single trap. Cleaned them off so completely that it looked as if they had never been set. They had taken sustenance from the tools of their demise and laughed, I’m sure, all the way back to their holes in the wall.
Mice 1 – Catootes 0
This war, it is SO ON.
The best part of nine 12-hour days spent doing hard physical labor? Losing 8 pounds. Okay, that’s really just a bonus. The best part is getting it done, mostly, and seeing the fabulous results of focused hard work.
The worst part of 12 hour days spent doing physical labor when one usually rides a desk 8 hours a day? Just about every muscle in my body aches like hell.
Including my fingers, which still hurt from manhandling the wires to hook up new recessed lights while SuperHubby, with help from the kids, spent the better part of two days on his knees putting in the new oak laminate flooring.
Friday the 9th we started yanking down sheet rock so we could reinsulated the outside walls of the house, which had been colder than usual this past winter. When we finally got the drywall off we found the old insulation was mostly falling down and when I reached in to grab a piece to stuff into a trash bag, the paper flashing literally disintegrated into dust. It smelled musty and dusty and while this was a huge pain in the ass to do, I feel so much better now about the new stuff we used to re-insulate, Roxul, an insulation made from rock.
After we got that miserable task dealt with, it was time to put up new sheet rock and spackle. This part sucks hugely and I went waaaaay over board with the joint compound. I was led astray by the Internet. There is misinformation out there, who would have known? Several credible reference sites said the first coat of joint compound should be put on somewhat thick and I BELIEVED THEM. Those Bastards.
That decision cost us a full day of sanding to smooth off the majority of compound that I had insisted on, despite my husband maintaining the less is more theory, and was totally unnecessary. I insisted the experts said so and it must be true. And then a neighbor, who does contracting, came over and told me I used too much compound and it had to go. My husband will be reminding me of my stupidity in this area for years and well, it was the internet’s fault, I SWEAR!
Do you have any idea how much dust is generated and spreads around the house, despite a double plastic curtain barrier? Mountains, I’m telling you. I’ll be cleaning it up for a year. I’m surprised my air conditioners are still functional. It was a dicey for a day with the main unit. It’s 2:15 am. I’m buck naked, just about to step into a desperately needed shower to wash off the dust coating from the day of sanding off the nasty compound. My husband yells from the living room that there’s water coming from the wall AC unit and come help him. Still buck naked, I climb onto a chair and find the filter is beyond clogged and the unit is overloaded and frozen and water is dripping on my new desk. Go figure. We didn’t think about cleaning out this one. 45 minutes later the dust is gone (from the AC unit), the excess water is being absorbed by a small towel and I’m still naked & dusty. I finally crashed after a shower @3:30 am. Only to get up at 8 the next morning to start painting.
It is possible to prime and paint three rooms in two days. I know this as truth, especially if two extremely tired people decide to paint until 2 am. Because we are insane.
We let the kids pick their colors and do most of the painting of their rooms themselves. This way they took more ownership of the outcome and when they’re hanging out enjoying the new digs, they’ll take pride in what they see, flaws & all. And there was no way SuperHubby and I were painting all three rooms by ourselves. We picked out bright happy colors that remind us of the Caribbean and they make the rooms glow. I think Behr paints need to revisit some of the names they give their paints. I chose Fresh Peaches, but I'm telling you it looks more like Papaya on the walls, which is just fine. Sweet Rhapsody would be better named Calypso Surf. Tropical Waters is just fine as it is.
I’m a messy painter and no matter the number of showers I’ve taken and scrubbing I’ve done since we painted the rooms, I keep finding spots of paint on my fingers, my toes, in my hair and on my glasses. At least the color palette matches. During the compounding and sanding and priming and painting stages, I must have climbed up and down the damn ladder a gazillion times and the screaming of my glutes just reinforces the abuse they have been subject to during this job.
Somewhere in this chaos, the television stopped working. That hour, between finishing work for the night, cleaning up and crashing into bed, was necessary downtime for just staring mindlessly at some show or catching up on how the Mets game went. Why does this kind of crap have to happen when the house is basically a construction zone and the only normal thing working is the TV? Really, why? I mean I’m perfectly capable of dealing with 1/3 of my house in various stages of renovation, with supplies and tools taking over every available space, with a little help from my friend xanax, but the little inconvenience of the TV flaking out just about sent me over the edge. In between finishing the painting and putting in floor and lights, several frustrating phone calls to Samsung and Cablevision determined that the problem was the HDMI port on my cable box. It's probably the dusts fault.
The only time we left the house it seemed was for food and another trip to Home Depot. I swear every time I opened my wallet I could hear my credit card whimper and bleed a little orange. I have to admit, there were moments, just a few, when the day was long and the task seemed overwhelming, that I just wanted to put my head down and cry, to give up, but then I'd remember that I am no pansy-ass, and I'd suck back those feelings of doom and finish what I was working on.
A savvy blogger would have taken pictures of the before and after for posting and showing off said doityourselfittude but this particular blogger was so obsessed with the do, Do, DO! of it all that taking a few minutes for photo’s NEVER crossed my mind. So you’ll have to take my word for it that the bedrooms look much better now. Except for that damn dust. And the fact that 90% of the tools we own are strewn across the living room and kitchen. And down the hall. And in the bedrooms. And on the deck.
You get the idea.
There are still a few details to close up, like the trim around floor & windows, a last electician visit, hanging a door and retrofitting Ace's bed into a loft bed for space issues. But the majority of house disrupting work is complete, satisfactorily so, and that's a powerful feeling.
This whole thing was a full on family project. Except for shuttling the kids to my in-laws while SuperHubby and I handled the drywall removal and insulation overhaul, the kids were part of every step, learning necessary life skills and taking responsibility for their space. It was also pretty cool to work in one room with my son, and over hear snippets of SuperHubby and Giggles tackling a project in one of the other bedrooms. It felt good.
My guy and I spent 24/7 together for nine days, working side by side on this common goal. It had its moments of friction and frustration and there were a couple of blow-ups but for the most part, we did it the way we do everything else, sharing the task and working together. We’ll be married 17 years this Friday and navigating this renovation together certainly proves we’ve got a solid foundation and structural integrity.
Despite my insistence on extra joint compound.
It’s no big secret that I’ll read just about anything printed that passes in front of my eyes or that catches my interest. Oh Hey, Words! On Paper! Gimme.
The other morning I started reading the newest Cornelia Funke book, Reckless. The first chapter caught me pretty quick with a missing father, a mirror to a secret room and a spidery fanged man that fell from the ceiling. Yeah, tell me you could walk away from that opening?
I do have a predilection for romance novels, though. I bet you’re thinking, Really? Romance? Please.
Yes. Romances. Those character driven tales of the struggle to find love & happily ever after. Real life is often full of stress, frustration, chaos and other types of mind numbing bullshit like dusting and laundry, why shouldn’t people steal some happiness by indulging themselves in books filled with fun dialogue, hot sex and the ultimate ending of everlasting love? Do you know how many romance novels sell every year? A MOUNTAIN. I’m not going to bore you with details just know that people need their mind candy.
Now I have a confession. I stole my very first romance novel.
Right out of my sister’s bedroom. The room I was never, ever, under penalty of severe sibling torture, supposed to step foot into without an explicit invitation. Which of course, I did. *waving at my sister, who will call me shortly to discuss my routine transgression of personal boundaries.*
She had a subscription to the monthly Silhouette line and I was fascinated by those skinny little books, a full box of them, delivered to our doorstep, addressed directly to her. That box was like a treasure chest as far as I was concerned and I was not allowed to touch it. That right there? BIG RED FLAG.
So one day while she was out, I snuck in, riffled through a pile of them and quickly dashed back into my room and closed the door.
Oh, do I remember the thrill of those moments! Forbidden books, successful thievery, secret pages full of romance and seduction. It was so freaking awesome.
Imprinted in my brain, for all eternity, is the very first one I devoured behind the closed door of my bedroom, gulping down the words and story, because my sister was bound to notice my trespassing and come reclaim her books after doling out a little sibling justice. I have no idea who wrote it, or what the title is, but I would love to get my hands on a copy to reread it.
Please, if you will, our Heroine: Julia, the selfless young woman off to confront the wicked casino owner who is holding her reckless sister’s debts over her head. Our Hero: Rome, the wicked sexy casino owner, takes one look at the delicately beautiful young woman, nose turned up at his debauchery, and decides he will forgive all her sister’s debts if he can have her for one night. Young martyr that she is, she hands herself over. Soon, after weeks of remembering those hours in the hated, but oh so sexy, hero’s arms, our young heroine discovers she is pregnant from her one night of sacrifice and after confronting our hero with this news, he marries her, purely for the heir she carries, which upon delivery he will keep and they will go their separate ways. Yet, secretly, love builds between them as they navigate this time together. When she goes into labor, almost losing the baby, he proclaims his depthless love for her. She too announces she would give her life so this man can have the child he so desperately wants and if she cannot have him then, really, life is totally not worth living. And they all survive and live happily ever after.
See???? This stuff is so much better than sparkly vampire lust when you’re an eleven year old girl, whose room is filled with Unicorns and Rainbows and Flying Horses. Because it can so totally happen!
This began my proclivity for stealing romances from my sister, which ended when she got married and moved out and I began spending all my allowance money to buy my own.
Last week I listened to an older Nora Roberts romance, one from the early 90’s, Captivated. It’s the first in a four book series, The Donovan Legacy. I really enjoyed the story when it first came out; finding these older category romances in audio book form is really fun. It’s like meeting old friends for a drink.
The basics: Morgana Donovan, proud confident shopkeeper witch meets Nash Kirkland, cynical carefree horror screenwriter. Sparks fly, views clash, friendship and love evolve. The past rears its ugly head, reminding Nash why he’s cynical and carefree, Morgana wants to be wanted for who she is and there is conflict. When the dust settles, Nash realizes he’s been a jerk and chases the love of his life to her Ireland refuge, Castle Donovan. They kiss, make up, after he’s apologized properly for being an ass. Happily Ever After ensues.
When I read a book, it’s like theater in my head. I see it and hear it; the voices, the colors, the scenery. I reread the books in this series too many times to count years ago. Yes, I am that much a book geek. This makes approaching books that I’ve already read as audio an interesting event. I didn’t know the narrator of this book, how her interpretation of the characters would carry, would the telling, as it were, match my vision.
At first, not so much, but it didn’t take me long to make the adjustment. The voice wasn’t as strong as I thought it should be. The female character, per my memory, needed a huskier voice and the change in pitch for the male seemed a little off. It was fun, as it was the first time I read it, to have the story read aloud and revisit the characters I enjoyed so much once before.
I just want it on record that I’ve made up for the romance thievery. I share all of my romance novels with my sister now. And just about everything else I read. Or listen to. Because I am awesome like that.
June is Audio Book Month! Yippee!
The Audio Publishers Association has deemed it so and I whole-heartedly agree.
Last week I signed up to the Audiobook Community and it's a cool place to play.
Maybe I've mentioned my audiobook obsession once or twice, or every chance I get, but let me lead you gently toward a new discovery - Audiobook's are our friends. Someone reads me a story on my commute, every day. Given that I spend just shy of 2 hours on the the road each day for the paying job, I get to "read" for those two hours.
These are precious hours, people! Where in the crazy schedule of life does two hours open themselves up to reading, every day? Maybe if I spend it locked in the bathroom, which sometimes is the only escape, but even the dog shoves open the door and demands my attention. It is very unsettling when the dog watches me wipe my butt. We've agreed she'll leave when its time to tidy the privates, because that is when I give her a solid nudge with my toe toward the door. Some things just can't be shared. Ever.
My MP3 player has more audiobooks on it than music. This just reinforces my nerdhood, but I'm okay with this. I was the kid that hid her latest paperback in the textbook I was supposed to be reading in history class. Oh how I wish MP3 players had been around then. Sony Walkman's were so not subtle!
Audiobooks are everywhere, you can get them at your library, from any retailer like Audiobookstand, Audible, and Barnes & Noble to name a few, plus others. A quick Google search will produce a treasure trove of resources.
Tell me what you like to listen to and we can compare notes on narrators and authors and recommendations. I'm always on the lookout for a new author to try.
And maybe get to the bottom of whether it's cheating or not if you listen to the audiobook for a book club. Because I hear that is a hotly debated topic.
Currently streaming through my car stereo is A Local Habitation by Seanan McGuire, an urban fantasy. I'd give more details, but I just start listening and prefer to hear a book through before sharing what I feel about it.
I've been in a fantasy mood for a while, so my listening queue is fantasy heavy right now. Who knows, next month it might be non-fiction.
*None of the sites listed, or books mentioned, are sponsored. I just like to share my obsessions.
