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So far every toy we’ve given the Dog he’s eviscerated. Usually in thirty minutes or less. Must have gone through a dozen or more by now. Happy Wife (HW) fought back and bought one that was advertised to be thee toughest Dog Toy made. It sure looked tough. It was in the shape of a pony, with synthetic animal hide and double sewn seams. I’d probably have broken an Exacto blade trying to cut through it. Twenty minutes later: Puffy white guts lay strewn across the living room floor. And there he was, looking up at us, polishing his teeth with his tongue, “That all you got?”

With some fight still in her, tonight HW brings home a small tire with a hunk of knotted rope through it. Ten minutes and he had the rope out. Five more and he was shredding the tread!

I look to HW, “Next time, let’s try the entire car.”

http://twitter.com/nflnetwork/status/672645102406275072/photo/1

First I learned of the murders in San Bernadino, and then Happy Wife (HW) texts me that a friend died of a heart attack this morning. Perhaps more an acquaintance than a friend, though HW knew her better than I did. Still. It was a day where my own problems ongoing laments were trivial compared to tragedies local and distant.

It doesn’t matter what the world thinks. In fact, The World doesn’t think. Humans think. Or some of them do. The rest of us tag along. It’s true. Day to day most of us merely react to what goes on around us. We’re not trailblazers or pioneers or go-getters in any sense. We busy ourselves fretting over the banalities of basic life. Not like Zuckerberg and his wife. For God’s sake, they’re barely past 30 and already donating umpteen billions to charities of their own devising. I’m not a Facebook user or engineer, but from what I understand of Facebook it doesn’t seem that amazing. Not 43.6 Billion worth of amazing. Then again, as I said, Leader vs Follower.

A fine Thanksgiving with friends at our Nest. Owing to our position atop the food chain, certain sacrifices, I’m afraid, had to be made

An ignominious fate to be stuffed, baked, and eaten. Out of respect for the bird we performed these deeds in private.

The name of the bird does derive from the nation of the same name. For the longest time Europeans, the Portuguese in particular, had been importing small hens via the Ottaman empire (present day Turkey). These hens, native to the east coast of Africa, became known in Europe as turkey-hens. Many years later New World explorers returned to Europe with birds that were mistaken for turkey hens, and thus were named Turkeys.

Don’t ask me about Chicken. I got nothing.

Nothing outside to give thanks for either. Heavy rain and high wind battered the Nest day and night. Add a moderate storm surge to an exceptionally high tide, and the entire beach just disappeared. The waves were so high they were lapping at the base of the decks on the sea-side cottages.

On the nobility spectrum, far away from Turkeys, these birds were undaunted by hideous weather

 

As if the off-field distractions of Olivia Munn — lately rumored to be Aaron Roger’s Achilles Heel on the field — weren’t enough, imagine the added distraction the Packers suffered when they learned some crazy lady in Alaska has a fetish for Clay Matthews

Then again, maybe this was an omen, because the much-maligned Packer’s defense pretty much shut down the Viqueen offense this past Sunday. By the start of the fourth quarter Mr. Bridgewater, the Viqueen’s QB, appeared on the sideline like a thoroughly beaten man, someone who just wanted the damn game to be over with so he could jump into his pajamas, go to bed and dream the game had never been played.

While Happy Wife ski joured with the dog, I found my myself seated on a bar stool at the Peanut Farm next to a portly young blond woman who happened to be a rabid Viqueen fan. We talked on and off as we watched the game together, drinking beer and devouring chicken wings — she preferred them Honey BBQ style while I went for the 2nd Alarm recipe. But I never got the sense she warmed to my wry commentary on the game, even when it was clearly self-deprecating toward the Packers. I tell ya, some people.

I caught her eyeing the home screen on my phone where it lay on the bar

Sexy, am I right?

Given her apparent Android envy, and the fact her team was down ten points, I started to feel bad for her, and thought I’d throw her a bone. I offered to do a selfie with her, “Actually, less a selfie and more an ‘Usie’,” I said. “Imagine, a Packer and a Viking, like a Jew and an Arab, putting their differences aside if only for a moment. What ya say?” She was completely unmoved by this offer of detente, and would have none of it.

I know, right?

 …

A new look and feel here at the Alter Ego, hope you like it. Not much different than the last theme, certainly not content-wise. Comment link is at the bottom of each post, not at the top. I know, big Whoop. Yet to me it feels like a fresh canvas. With daylight still shortening to the tune of four minutes a day, something new, no matter how meager, feels good right now.

Four more weeks to solstice. Don’t think that on December 22nd I don’t put on my house slippers and go outside on the back deck and drink in that extra three seconds of daylight. I do. Less a drink, really; more like the evanescent drop of wine at the bottom of an otherwise empty glass. Everything that ends has to begin again, somewhere.

At our Nest in Seward this weekend. A glorious bluesky day, chilly, with a punitive wind out of the north. Good day to slip on the ol’ Dearfoams (mine are knockoffs) and toss an extra log or two into the wood stove.  Not a flake of snow on the ground in town, though plenty high above

The dog is asleep on the couch; Happy Wife is flipping through the pages of a magazine. The only sounds are the tink tink of the wood stove box, expanding and contracting, and the incessant wind outside fighting through the break of tall evergreens that give us shelter from the north. The sound of wind in the trees has elsewhere been described as melodious, salubrious — Psithurism. Not the one I’m hearing. This one has the temper of a Comanche Warrior come to avenge the death of his leader.

Fear not, however, there’s a nearly full bottle of Sapphire gin on the counter, plenty of olives in the fridge, a high stack of dry wood, over 2 Gigs left on our data plan this month, which resets tomorrow, and so… imagine, if you will, two blissfully schnockered Alaskans and their black dog nestled into the love couch streaming season 3 episodes of Longmire waiting for the Black Bean and Butternut casserole in the oven to finish baking.

Let the vengeful wind howl. We’ve nothing to fear.

Happy Wife is in Seattle. With Rosemary in her nose.

A few months ago with her boss, a surgeon, crossing Kachemak Bay, Alaska.

Destination: Homer, Alaska.

 

Me?

I got nothing.

Except her.

Which is Everything.

Flight #81. Due into Anchorage @ 8:44 am tomorrow morning. Fifteen minutes before the Packer’s game.

Best be on time!

I woke up a few days ago, early. Sat up in bed and listened. What’s that? A noise, coming from the hallway.

First thought, “Where’s Chester?” Just like that he walks into the bedroom, jumps on the bed and lays down.

I’m suspicious.

I go into the hallway. Sure enough, he’d chomped the drywall and the baseboard. Nothing serious, superficial really, an easy repair. I shuffle back into the dark bedroom. The glow of his yellow eyes. He’s looking right at me. Does he know? Will he associate a scold with the misbehavior? Doubtful. I crawl back under the sheets, try to push him aside, to make room. (Imagine trying to move a sixty pound sack of rocks). Happy Wife murmurs, “What’d he do?”

“Go back to sleep, dear.”

We got our first dust of snow the other day. An inch, possibly more on the east side of town, nearer the mountains. Followed by melting, and then freezing, and then ice, and then cars in the ditch. That was a gray and angular morning. The clouds were so low the mountains were invisible. To look outside you’d have thought we lived in Nebraska. Nothing against Nebraska. It’s just the first topographically featureless state that jumped to mind. I could have said Kansas or Iowa. Eastern Wyoming. Florida!

Lately, there are other sounds in the house. Thin metal bars crushing the backs of mice — Snap! I bait the traps with Almond Butter. The All-Natural, No-Stir, Crunchy kind. Mice can’t resist it. I’ve no idea how they’re getting in the house or why they’re particularly bad this year. Global warming? Killed two beneath the kitchen sink and two in the garage. I threw the four corpses in the snow. The Ravens and Crows will recycle them.

I can’t find my balance at work. That’s a topic of a post all its own, if I cared to talk about it, and I really don’t. I don’t want to hasten the passage of years, who does. But let me tell you, I am anxiously looking forward to the day when we can start spending the money we’ve saved — the past 30+ years — instead of continuing to add to it. Ah, you say, we should consider ourselves fortunate we can still add to it, no? Of course; I’m not saying we’re ungrateful for the past, just ready for the future.

I’m only half kidding when I tell people I’m turning into a democrat. Single payer health insurance – count me in. Preservation of ALL social security benefits, ka ching. To hell with markets for health care and privatizing social security. It’s not that I’ve lost my conviction to self-interest, to the contrary! I just want what’s legally mine (social security), and would like never again to hear, Thank You For Calling Premara, Your Call Is Very Important Us.

Read recently that the rate of death of middle-aged white Americans is on the rise. Specifically, ages 45-54. That puts us in the clear.

But just barely.

When the researchers took a closer look at the death rate among middle-aged whites, they found that those with only a high school education or less saw a much larger rise in death rate than those who went to college.

Well, there you go. If further study should find that years in school is proportional to longer life, I expect to be the one turning out the lights.

Gotta go. Just now heard another Snap! come from the garage. Sheesh. Effin’ mice.

We left Chester alone in the house all day for his first time, save two short visits by the house sitting service. One can never be sure how a young, bored, and lonely dog will pass the time.

“Well, would you look at that, a leather wrap around a chair leg. Hmm? Looks positively chew-able.”

“Or those shoes! They smell like Mom’s feet. Yum yum.”

“I really do think if I scratch hard enough through the carpet right here I may be able to get into the basement. Perhaps there are treats down there?!”

“Would you look at that — Drapes! One tug and off the rod they came. Duck Cover and Roll!”

“What’s this up here on the counter top? A chicken? No, can’t be. But wait, it is. A thawing chicken — Yahoo!”

And so on…

Instead, about 11:30 am I get a reassuring text from the house sitting service:

Everything was perfect, Rod. I did a walk thru and didn’t find anything of concern. Chester was snoozing on the big pillow under the window when I arrived.

But of course you silly upright, what did you expect

An amusing comment to an article that characterized Hillary Clinton as the apparent winner of a debate with her Democratic rivals for president,

It’s like the Globetrotters getting cocky because they took another game from the Generals.