Rod

Went to the mall today. Happy Wife wanted to have a pair of jeans I’d bought her for Christmas hemmed.

You must be aghast: You bought your wife jeans?

Yup, two pair in fact. I knew it was risky. Told the the saleswoman at Nordstrom as much. But she reassured me and away we went together, amid the countless racks of jeans. Good grief, The Selection. What now? Settle down I told myself, you can do this. First, I ruled out Mom Jeans. No frumpy comfort fit pleated pants for my girl. Uh-uh. And skinny jeans, which accounted for most of the selection, I also knew were out, as I once recall Happy Wife refer to them as “sausage casings.” After considerable browsing I settled for two pair of “slimming, boot cut” jeans designed to be worn low on the waist, one in denim blue and one in black. Cool, I thought, hip without being ho-hum.

Christmas arrived and I crossed my fingers.

She liked them! Except the black pair, she said, may be a bit too long.

Yet after she came out of the dressing today at Nordstrom I was pleased to hear the length, with heels on, was in fact just right.

Score two for the Happy Husband!

Now she needs a new robe (aka “fluffage’), as her old standard permanently resides at the beach house. Until her birthday in March this one will do in a pinch:

Suggest a caption!

NYE @ Jens restaurant:

When giraffes neck it isn’t necessarily because they’re feeling romantic.

Hat tip: Fred Lapides

A bald eagle spotted this morning during our beach walk.

I don’t know what that pole is there for. It towers over the houses on the beach and it’s been there as long as I can recall. We could barely see the mountains through the low hanging clouds and fog — it was over forty degrees on the beach this morning. By the time the dogs and I got back to Anchorage later today it was forty six here, twenty degrees above normal said the teller of weather on TV. I don’t think she’s a real meteorologist. Then again I don’t suppose you need to be, if all you do is read a national weather feed and repeat the prediction for the next five days on the evening news, something she’s been doing for at least twenty years, without any evidence of improvement. She still seems as awkward and uncomfortable on TV as ever.

Like Linda Blair in the Exorcist I swear that eagle turned its head 360 degrees tracking Buddy’s every movement as we passed by. At 15-20 pounds Buddy is probably a bit too large for an eagle’s talons, but it’s not unknown that eagles have swopped down and snatched smaller dogs.

I left Happy Wife at our beach house to prepare mole and tamales for a party she’s hosting for her girl friends, who drove down from Anchorage as I was driving back. By now I expect the six of them are in the hot tub, likely nude, well fed, imbibing, and carrying on.

Our friend Meldyne and Happy Wife chill at the bar after a trying day caring for patients.

I chilled with them, although hardly due to work related fatigue. In fact, this afternoon I sneaked in a nap, having observed the apparent contentment it produced in the dogs who were at the time also both dead to the world. That, and my eyes grew heavy reading Where the West Ends on the Kindle Fire (aka “Kitty”, because we name everything around our house), which should not be interpreted as a slur against the vivid storytelling therein. To the contrary.

The first tale begins with the author and his good friend, both Americans, who we learn love their impromptu road trips, meeting in Turkey. There, the author suggests to his friend they drive to northern Iraq (and back) in two days. Just for a visit mind you. The author had previously visited northern Iraq as a journalist and wanted to re-experience it with his friend. They drive for hundreds of miles along the western and southern borders of Turkey, both of them suffering the symptoms of a nasty intestinal virus of uncertain origin. Eventually, they arrive at the northern border of Iraq, abandon the car there (because evidently only trucks are permitted to cross the border, not civilian vehicles), and then walk and/or taxi over the border under the escort of a suspicious man who we later learn is a Kurd. In other words, one of the good guys. This is 2006, a time when Kurdistan was very pro-American. The author had prearranged for someone to meet them in Iraq to be their escort for the day, but evidently neglected to establish a place where they would meet. After fumbling around for awhile, failing to find an Internet cafe to send an email to coordinate with their would-be escort, they instead settle for the services of another taxi driver who, once he learns these two are Americans, enthusiastically agrees to drive them to the University in the city of Duhok. A place that at first glance could pass for the Simi Valley north of Los Angeles. (Photograph is linked to other photos of Duhok).

That’s about the time a nap sounded good to me.

It wasn’t all pleasure reading and nap time though! No sir. Prior to said reading and nap I worked — yes, worked — to complete a feature in the software our company has been working on for about two years now, which I must say is coming along nicely. Having compiled said feature I immediately put it to use on a project we’re doing for a client, who is interested in our approach for identifying molecular markers of a certain disease they are studying. Sorry to be obtuse, but I think that’s all I’m at liberty to say about it right now.

Ending a diverse day of activity (and non-) in the company of two pretty ladies at a festive bar — what could be better!

Looks like Mr. Gregory may become a victim of his own advocacy.

Donchya hate it when that happens? And to think he thought there were not enough laws banning the possession of such things.

Hat tip: Tam

Christmas day and snow is imminent. A 32-bit world is reduced to 8, shades of gray, sans the Happy Wife.

A warm morning as we set out on the Brown bear/Black bear trail with the dogs and our friend Meldyne, who’s staying with us until she returns to New Mexico early in January. We love these trails in winter, fear them in summer, as they are aptly named. It was nice to see Campbell Creek open and flowing this time of year, evidence winter doesn’t always get its way, and fun to watch the dogs approach the thin tongues of ice jutting into the river, curious but cautious.

At home and cozy now. We have friends coming for Christmas dinner — surf ‘n turf including Alaska King crab and beef tenderloin on the grill. A perfect evening to be at the top of the food chain.

Merry Christmas all.

A curious creature isn’t he?

His name is Buddy. Buddy is in our care for a week or so while his owner companion is out of state for the holidays. He’s a mature dog and pretty smart, even gets along with Lucy, which is important because although Lucy has a very, very long fuse when it comes to aggression, she can bring out her whoop-ass when necessary, and Buddy is no match for her in that respect. Buddy discovered that this past summer when we watched him for a few days. He was in the backyard with Lucy and thought it would be good fun to nip at her ankles, and then run away when she turned to stop it. Of all the things Lucy playfully tolerates (nearly everything) ankle nipping is not among them. The Happy Wife said to me when I got home, “One minute they were playing, and the next I look out the window and Buddy is on his back, with Lucy’s mouth around him pressing him to the ground.” She didn’t mean to harm him, only to stop him, to let him understand in no uncertain terms: Don’t do that anymore. And just like that it was over and they continued playing.

It’s a model of the kind of swift justice quickly followed by detente that we (qua humans) envision for ourselves after a transgression. It’s what people mean, I think, when they say, “You can learn a lot from a dog.”

…

I finished our annual holiday newsletter today. It goes out via snail mail later this week to every victim recipient on my mailing list. If you wish to be added to the mailing list email me your snail mail address, or just wait a few weeks, I usually post a link to the pdf version here.

Here’s Lucy at Kincaid Park after a fresh ten inches or so:

Bigger.

She freaks me out whenever I see her “on point” like this. Peering into the woods possibly transfixed on a belligerent winter moose ready to commit a precious quantity of its meager caloric resource to a thorough stomping of me. Because there’s no way a moose could catch Lucy. You know what they say, when fleeing from angry wildlife it’s not critical you be the fastest in the group, just don’t be the slowest.

For the life of me I don’t understand how a 1,500-2,000 pound herbivore sustains itself through winter up here on dessicated twigs, branches and the occasional pastiche of wilted underbrush.

Anyhoo, turns out Lucy wasn’t pointing at anything in particular. Nothing I could detect anyway, when I turned and glanced into the woods fearful I’d see said moose rising like an apparition from the snow, hackles up ‘n ready to charge.

…

The men who wear the blue shoe covers are in the house today. The Happy Wife says the carpet really does appear cleaner after they’re through, but I wonder. If you expect a cleaner carpet you’ll see a cleaner carpet, no? An example of confirmation bias I think. Yet after years of marriage, and desirous of many more, I know better than to press my point of view on this. Plus the men with blue shoe covers left two new pairs of blue shoe covers for us to wear as we pad about on wet carpet. No extra charge, such a deal.

Just now the men are leaving. I overheard one man’s reassurance to the Happy Wife that the rug which he’d cleaned in the living room may not look like it’s been cleaned, but see here, if you turn on the light you’ll see it really has brightened up.

But of course!

Bless her, before they left the Happy Wife offered the men samples of her Christmas cookies, little white powdery balls of goodness.

Note to self: Careful what you ask for.

Presently snowing here to beat the band. Really, we have plenty now to insulate and reflect. Enough already!

A sad loss to our community was announced Saturday. Jens Hansen will be missed. I’ve mentioned how much the Happy Wife and I have enjoyed during our many years in Alaska sitting at the bar at Jens restaurant, drinking, eating, and carrying on with the staff and patrons, many of whom are regulars. Jens was an entrepreneur’s entrepreneur. A native of Denmark who moved to Alaska at age 24, he worked and saved as a chef at a popular downtown hotel for twenty years, until finally opening Jens in midtown where he and a quietly dedicated staff (many have worked there since the restaurant opened in 1988, a year before I moved to Alaska) have steadily provided fine food, wine, and good times.

Whenever Jens was present and learned one of his guests was having a birthday, his signature thrill was to put on the the Beatles’ song, Birthday, and turn it up real loud, much to the chagrin of his wife, who’d quickly dash over to turn it down, only to have Jens turn it back up when she left!

We will miss his gravelly voice and joyful spirit.

Godspeed, Jens, Godspeed.