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Happy Wife. Wrapped in the arm of another man. Not just any other man. Recognize him? No, it’s not Sam Elliot. A fair guess though, we noted the resemblance too. This man, he told us some things, while he tipped back a few fingers of bourbon at the bar where we met him last night. Once he got going there was no stopping him, one of those times when you just sit back and listen because there isn’t anything that’s happened to you lately ever that can trump this. And so we did, just sit back and listen. Fascinating. He believes something about his son — and by believe I mean you can cut my right hand off if you can prove otherwise believe. I think he actually said that. His son, he said, is thee most traveled person in the world. At least on a bike. A few years ago his son left Alaska for Portugal. There he started off on his bike, solo, unsupported by any adventure outfit, and pedaled east, through Spain and France, through Italy, Croatia, Serbia and eventually into Turkey. He continued east pedaling through all the -stan countries — his father rattled them off in order, counting them on his fingers as he went — eventually turning south and pedaling over the Himalayan highlands where his father said he suffered some punishing bouts of frostbite. Alas, since he’d summited Denali (aka McKinley) three times before his twentieth birthday (and his father 17 times — so far) he was no stranger to severe cold. He passed into Tibet illegally, was eventually arrested, but let go when the authorities asked him, “Where did you come from.” His son calmly said, “Portugal,” and pointed to the bike. Evidently amazed by a short synopsis of his journey they fed him and let him go. He continued pedaling, into China, south into Laos, Cambodia, Viet Nam, then back up through those same countries eventually turning west. In Africa somewhere he was pulled off his bike and thrown into the back seat of a car between two enormous black guys — here his father paused briefly, grabbed my arm and said, “I assure you I’m no racist” — where he was robbed at gunpoint. By then his father was tearing up and I lost track of the story. Evidently his son is now in Tanzania trying to get back home. He has Malaria and likely two other serious viral infections. He is sick, needs medical attention, and may die if he doesn’t get it soon.

Oh, the man, the father? That’s Marty Raney. One of three members of the all-Alaskan Mountaineers team who competed in seasons 1 and 2 of Ultimate Survival Alaska, a reality TV show put on by National Geographic. Season two, which finished in August, is scheduled to air on NatGeo beginning December 15th. Marty was in Anchorage giving a talk about his experience. The only thing Marty said which I found untrue was that his son was so low key about his adventure he didn’t have a blog or nothing, only late in his adventure had he turned to posting on Facebook. But I found a blog, and a good reading one too, I thought so anyway. It appears his last entry in the blog was August 2011. Fantastic photos.

After about forty-five uninterrupted mesmerizing minutes Marty tipped back the last of his second bourbon, set the glass down and asked us, “So what do you do?” Made me feel like thee most insignificant speck in the entire friggin’ universe.

I passed. Score: 39. Would have achieved distinction had I voted more often in the past 10 years.

Swapped Breyer and Kennedy and did not know “Our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor” is part of the Declaration of Independence.

Bad hair day here:

Phonecast this morning: -0.7^o. You could really feel the point seven part. Shortly after, I checked my phone again and we’d warmed to +0.7^o. A great day was in store after all!

Dark outside, too. And quiet. Hoar frost on the trees, everything brittle from the cold.

Lit a fire to improve the ambient look ‘n feel of my space. This involved flicking a wall switch. Sometimes we have to flick two or three times to start — Oh gawd. The world it turns out is awash in natural gas reserves so I don’t feel the least bit wasteful burning some to suit our purpose. Besides, I’m told natural gas (methane, CH₄) is the worst of all the greenhouse gases. If somebody doesn’t burn it, producing impotent less harmful combustion products, why there’s a chance that by accident (e.g., mishandling in storage, transportation, etc.) it might escape into the atmosphere and wreck havoc. Sure, the gas could be forced back deep into the ground, but with certain exceptions re-injection is a dumb idea given all the time and effort (and money) that went into getting it out of the deep ground in the first place. Plus, if you cared to click the link you’d see that re-injection is typically done to increase production of crude oil. How does the saying go: Chasing Bad energy with Good. That must really drive global warming alarmists crazy.

Not too much concern about warming here today. The dogs haven’t moved since Harry ventured outside early to take a pee. Little smears of yellow dotting the snow. They will still want demand their walk later today and as usual I will oblige, even though it’s only… let me check… +1.4^o! You can really feel the point four part.

Gooey schmooey pumpkin cheesecake. Prior to rendition.

Oh, you see the snow do you? And beyond it the baleful black spruce. Hardy Alaska trees those, but you wouldn’t know it to look at them, uneven and unkempt. One might think mongrels of the tree world yet black spruce — Picea mariana — is a successful species all its own, if its wide geographic range is any indication.

Above, a brooding sky. Not to worry, though. Once the light comes up, feeble though it is this time of year, and the sky clears, as it’s forecast to do, we will share the day with friends and family and express gratitude for our good fortune.

As always thanks for stopping by. I appreciate your inexplicable interest in the unraveling tale of our lives. Gobble gobble.

The (advanced) nurse (practitioner) will see you now. I snuck up on her. Yes I know snuck is not a proper usage but it should be. The language keeps changing they say. Besides, sneaked sounds like something you’d do to somebody with an athletic shoe.

On the other hand …

Usage Note: Snuck is an Americanism first introduced in the 19th century as a nonstandard regional variant of sneaked. Widespread use of snuck has become more common with every generation. It is now used by educated speakers in all regions. Formal written English is more conservative than other varieties, of course, and here snuck still meets with much resistance. Many writers and editors have a lingering unease about the form, particularly if they recall its nonstandard origins. And 67 percent of the Usage Panel disapproved of snuck in our 1988 survey. Nevertheless, an examination of recent sources shows that snuck is sneaking up on sneaked. Snuck was almost 20 percent more common in newspaper articles published in 1995 than it was in 1985. Snuck also appears in the work of many respected columnists and authors: “He ran up huge hotel bills and then snuck out without paying” (George Stade). “He had snuck away from camp with a cabinmate” (Anne Tyler). “I ducked down behind the paperbacks and snuck out” (Garrison Keillor).

There you have it; if Keillor could snuck then so can I.

So I arrived early to pick her up and instead of waiting curbside in the car I thought I’d park, walk up and surprise her. I wanted to get on that exam table so bad. I asked her to “do something” to me — blood pressure, temperature, stick a Popsicle stick in my mouth and make me say “ahh,” anything. Nope, she was having none of it. All that being well beneath her pay grade. Probably my insurance doesn’t cover spousal exams anyway.

Reminded me of one of my favorite Graham Parker songs:

Woke to a disquieted bowel. (For the record I wasn’t the only one!).

Pardoned myself, rolled out of bed and held the corner of the bedsheets higher and longer than usual to permit evacuation of unwanted vapor. (Not all my own!).

I slipped on my comfys and tip-toed cautiously downstairs. Feeling like a delicate puffball. You know what I mean — all it takes is one heavy footfall too many to jostle a vulnerable bowel and…

Minutes later, downstairs, feeling more settled but not out of the woods, I carefully stepped with coffee in hand (Gepetto is back online!) toward a familiar chair in the kitchen, sat down and opened the laptop thinking I’d search for a solution to offensive anal vapor. With Christmas coming maybe a novel his ‘n her stocking stuffer? (I am not the only offender in this house!).

Good grief, is nothing unfindable anymore:

New line of underwear filters out farts

Incredulous, I clicked…

… and was agassed (sic) to see two product testers.

Srsly?

Here’s something…

Several years ago Happy Wife and I along with friends hiked to the summit of Knoya (cuh-noy-ah) peak in the Chugach mountains near Anchorage. At the summit (~4600′) we ironed. That’s right, iron, like press a garment, in our case a pullover, and a badly wrinkled one if I recall correctly. To be honest we didn’t really iron the garment because we’d brought an electric iron, along with a full-size ironing board. But we went through the motions, enough I believe to qualify it as a legitimate extreme ironing experience, and us as true “ironeers.” As far as I know we were the first people to extreme iron in the Chugach mountains.

Proof:

There are two infinities
they say
countable and non
and now
with you and I
there are three

Happy Wife had a troubling day at work. Prescribed her a Sapphire martini with a splash of vermouth and two plump pimento-filled olives. Shaken. Served up. I delivered.

I could relate. Many years ago when I worked at a traditional job in the corporate world… oh some of the days I had. Occasionally I’d arrive home so pissed off I was visibly trembling, like a Quaking Aspen in a stiff Fall breeze. Mental commotion is one thing, but when it affects you physiologically like that you know you’ve let it go too far. Over time I learned to tame my reaction to these situations. Which is not to say that pissant managers who couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were printed on the sole didn’t continue to annoy me — and I them, to be fair. We did (continue to annoy each other). Only that over time I gained self-control over how I chose to react to the enmity. Reaching professional maturity is often coincident with the adoption of a Dilbertesque attitude. Day-to-day therapy comes in the form of amusing catch phrases meant to demean pissant managers, little quips you share with fellow employees of like mind. For example, say the pissant’s name is Dave, then one of my favorites was: ” Having Dave at work today is like having two good guys on vacation.” Haha.

Alas, it’s only a distant memory now; been over eight years since I last worked in a corporate setting, and years before that since I last experienced or cared about said discord.

What I remember for sure about those days coming home livid is that I never once felt like I had anything left to “throw” together an impromptu dinner like this:

BIGGER.

Baked squash with a dollop of cottage cheese, spinach salad with honey vinaigrette dressing and crispy prosciutto, and pork in Calvados gravy.

No, I’m quite sure I would’ve never been capable of that.