Uncategorized

Happy Wife rolled her ankle a week or so ago while walking the dog at the ungodly hour of 5:30 am. So for Christmas I bought her a festive red robe, drove her to the Nest and plopped her on the couch with her tablet, and generally tried to pamper her non-stop throughout the weekend. Which makes me sound unselfishly benevolent, until you realize she also made dinner those nights and walked the dog with me on the beach.

Bad ankle not shown

You see The Dog did what he could to provide succor.

I’m off all this week! It feels glorious. Being able to do what I want when I want, can’t beat it. It has not, however, exempt me from doing chores. For example, every day this week I am responsible for walking The Dog. This has to wait until the light comes up, about 10:00 am this time of year, and even then it’s a dim light at first, so I’ve been waiting until closer to 11:30 or so to venture out. No snow again this year, at least hardly any in Anchorage (but some in the mountains). Yesterday it was 45 degrees here and then the wind howled like a Spurned Lover all night long. This tends to make the trails icy, so “grippers” attached to the soles of shoes are recommended. After that the bathtub needs attention – it creaks and squeaks whenever somebody moves or steps in it while taking a shower. I think the source of the problem is just cheap material the tub is made from, meaning to fix this I should replace the tub altogether, but there’s a possibility I can get by on the cheap by greasing here or oiling there, being the tub is a Jacuzzi-style model mounted on a wood frame with an access port to get at the piping and motor. It’s weird, ’cause I think it only squeaks in winter and goes quiet again summer. The tub ‘n shower are on an outside wall which may have something to do with it. Ya think?!

Here I find myself in complete agreement with Mr. Lileks (~ 5:25). Especially regarding: Come they told me, a rum pa pum pum (~ 8:00).

Uh, no, Little Drummer Boy, no one asked you to come a pum pum. Seriously, what new Mother barely out of the stirrups, coming down off the epidural, asks to have a precocious little boy stop by to bang on his skins?

Joseph: “Kid, seriously? Take your drum and beat it, can’t you see we’ve just had a baby here!”

Of course the baby wasn’t Joseph’s. Meaning I doubt he was handing out cigars to his buddies afterwards. Nevertheless, he’d committed himself to the long haul, incredulous though he must have been —  C’mon Mary, this is me you’re talking to. You’re really sticking by this claim you’re a Virgin? Srsly?

These days there’s not a rational person alive who wouldn’t demand a paternity test. Back then, had genetic testing been possible, can you imagine the surprise on the analyst’s face — “Lady, I don’t know who you’ve been sleeping with, it certainly wasn’t this Joseph of Nazareth fellow that’s for sure, because we’ve never seen anything like this. Mam, may I ask that you please sit down. You see, what I’m trying to tell you is, these DNA sequences, they’re…well, they’re not human.”

Poor Mary. Isn’t just like a man not to believe the woman, to blame the victim. Although given her son’s eventual role in the creation of a new religion it’s hard to view Mom as the victim. It’d be like feeling sorry for Lebron James’ mom.

…

Solstice tomorrow! Like I said a few posts back, expect to see me on the back porch in my house slippers Tuesday afternoon at about 3:40 PM (AKST) raising a toast to the additional 10 seconds of daylight. Actually, come to think of it, I’ll likely be at work then. No worries; wherever I happen to be I will pause for celebration.

Still largely snow-less around here, in town at least, and no snow in sight, if the forecast is to be believed. We are headed down to our Nest for Christmas and the weekend that follows. Just the two of us and Chester (The Dog). To read books, watch movies, lounge in the hot tub, walk the beach, eat well, quaff often, and sleep soundly. To give thanks for what we have. And — despite the dubious feeling of honor many of you must have knowing you are a recipient on my mailing list — to get started on the 2015 Nibblet!

Until then, Here’s To Longer Days…(raises glass to toast you all).

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!