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Ceiling fans? Seriously? What’s next, our throw rugs?

Good grief.

I swore the seat belt in 6E had two male ends. I looked to Happy Wife, befuddled, “My seat belt is gay.” She shushed me and shot me a compound facial expression, “Get over it, you must’ve made a mistake, look again and figure it out, and don’t talk so loud.” All in one look!

There are people who study facial expression dynamics. I imagine an app for this would be useful for befuddled husbands everywhere. Simply snap a photo of wife’s expression and use it to search some vast database of all female facial expressions, to discover the True Meaning.

Eventually I did get over it, figured the seat belt out. The female end had a metal “tongue” protruding from it that made it look like another male end. The purpose of this additional appendage was unclear to me. It certainly did not look like the demo seat belt used by the flight attendant — who I’m pretty sure was gay — to provide pre-flight instructions to the passengers on how to fasten a seat belt. I whispered to Happy Wife that maybe I should mention this to the man, that my seat belt did not look like the demo and maybe I should ask him for personalized instruction on how to properly fasten mine? This produced a very different facial expression on Happy Wife, one which I had no difficulty interpreting!

One day Up north we kids rented kayaks and lazily paddled a portion of the Wisconsin River:

BIGGER.

Happy Wife in tandem with big sister, big brother with great nephew Caleb. I was voted into the single, and asked (told really) to take pictures.

The following day Happy Wife, Caleb, and myself accompanied our friend Dan on a ~23 mile bike ride that included 7 miles on a newly created trail. A trail that Dan himself had a large role in getting built. What a sweet ribbon of asphalt that was cutting through a sugar maple forest! Dan stopped us briefly to observe a tree that had been ravaged by a rapacious Pileated Woodpecker:

BIGGER.

We all agreed the tree appeared to have been dead prior to the assault.

Another day, overcast and rainy, we ventured into the cozy town of Boulder Junction. Much shopping ensued. Antique stores and boutiques of myriad craft work were thoroughly browsed by the women, while we men (us men?) went to the bait shop where I marveled at the artifice of fish lures:

Arrived home Sunday at 6:30 pm.

We’d flown from Minneapolis to Anchorage, got a cab home, greeted Lucy with great enthusiasm, unpacked, I inspected the yard and ran back into the house to alert Happy Wife that the blue spruce trees were once again being ravaged by red-headed caterpillars, drove to pick up Harry from friends who had cared for him during our absence, dropped him back home, celebrated reunion, drove to Lowes to buy 32 oz of Sevrin, returned home and sprayed trees, beheld with great satisfaction the red-headed ones curl, stiffen and fall to the ground, mowed the backyard lawn, drove to Fred Meyer to get a frozen pizza and Pinot Noir, baked and ate pizza while enjoying wine with Happy Wife, caught up on episodes of Dexter, felt jet-lagged, went to bed and drifted off to a glorious night’s sleep.

10:48 pm. 30 minutes before sunset.

Earlier that day we’d shared an egg & bacon panini at Surdyks at the Minneapolis airport — chased with Bellinis and Chenin Blanc:

The day prior Team Nibbe bid farewell to a fabulous week of fun in the north woods over a robust breakfast at Leif’s Cafe in Eagle River, WI:

A little shout out to Leif’s: Their pancakes are as big as Frisbees, the breakfast tacos unconquerable, waffles so big they create their own orbit, the coffee pours bottomless and the service prompt and courteous. Reasonable prices too. I am certain, however, that if I lived in Wisconsin I would need to redouble my commitment to portion control else my BMI would go logarithmic.

More vacation highlights later.

Oh, what fun we’re having Up here. Up, because for some reason North has been designated Up and South is not Up. South is down there, and references to it are often associated with a measure of snootiness, as if the people down there, South of us, are in some way beneath those of us Up here, in the north woods.

We left Minneapolis and drove to Wausau, WI where we dropped the rental and hooked up with my brother who’d driven up from Madison. We drove the remainder of the way with him to Up here. Up here being Lake Buckatabon, ~15 miles north of Eagle River, WI. First things first. We stopped at the Pick ‘n Save — which was half right — to purchase certain victuals and other sundries of consumption that a forward-thinking phone call to those already assembled at the resort indicated we were still in need of. Ice, drink mix, Lipton Ice tea (diet plz), swimming goggles for the nephew, and, I thought, why not:

Remove bladder of green juice from the bucket, open and decant back into bucket, add 750 mL of tequila (750 being a guideline not a hard ‘n fast rule) and chill. Whata country!

I’d forgotten how violent the thunderstorms Up here can be. These weatherly events are virtually unknown in Anchorage so it was kinda fun. On nights one and two the sky became a contorted fist of blue and purple, lightening and thunder could be seen/heard in the distance. We could almost literally feel the storm approach us, the air got heavy and if one could say you can smell rain, well, we smelled the rain a comin’. By the time we went to bed it was right over us, the first strike of lightening lit up our dark bedroom and like children we counted, one thousand one, one thousand two… and then that incomparable crack of thunder shook the land and everything grounded to it. It felt like it was a mere ten feet above our cabin.

By morning the storm has passed and the day is halcyon once again. We fish from the pontoon boat but so far nothing more than sunfish and a few small largemouth bass have been raised from the deep. (Which is bigger: a small largemouth or a large smallmouth?). In any case, insufficient fishage to merit a visit to the “Liar’s Shack”, that small shed on the property where fish of exaggerated proportion are quickly eviscerated before the truth can be independently established.

Happy Wife captured in what may have been an act of ambiguous direction giving to the helmsman:

And so it is we swim in the shallows, kayak to the far reaches of the lake, relax and reminisce, each of us enjoying the day in their preferred way. And when the mood strikes us there’s always BigBucket, chillin’ in the fridge.

For those of you who’ve read my latest short story, I’d be pleased to hear any thoughts and comments you have. Use the “Contact” link on the side bar. Same thing if you’d like to request a copy to read. Don’t be shy — I want reader’s comments, need them really. To those of you who have already read it and commented, thank you.

The comments I’ve gotten so far indicate I need to shorten the story and tighten up the middle portion because it meanders a bit, and thus I risk losing the reader’s attention. Other comments have been variably helpful and not. The story has been rejected at three literary magazines so far, but I would have been surprised, frankly, had any one of them accepted the story for publication in its current form. Which is not to say I sent them a first pass, unedited version; I didn’t. That would have been a mistake, and a waste of my time. What I was really hoping for was to receive some feedback with the rejections, but nothing so far. These were high brow literary magazines and I think my chances of getting this story published in any one of them, even a greatly improved version, is probably pretty low. So my current plan is to further revise the story, to incorporate changes that address the criticisms I’ve gotten so far, at least those I agree with, and re-submit to literary magazines who’ve indicated a special interest in publishing new writers. There is one in particular I came across in the Novel and Short Story Writer’s Market (2011) that prefers stories about the workplace, which, for those of you who’ve read my story, I’m sure you’ll agree mine is.

Synopsis: “Something Truly Egregious” is a kind of coming of professional age story with a tragicomic end.

C’mon, whatya have to lose!

A parting shot from June:

Our friend Mark and I stopped at the top of the Bee trails where we went mountain biking Sunday. A perfectly fine spot for his two Airedales to roll in the dirt. It’s an activity to look forward to if you’re a dog, a good roll in the dirt. The dog who embeds the finest particles of dirt into the deepest hollows of his fur wins! Still no rain as of yesterday, however, as I write finally it has started. July is ordinarily the month we enjoy our nicest summer weather, although June will be a tough lead to follow this year.

It’s back to work today for all the ladies who enjoyed the weekend at our beach house. According to Happy Wife she saw no less than three bikinis Sunday morning hanging on the shower curtain rod, left there to drip dry. Evidence of potentially irresponsible behavior having occurred in the hot tub in the wee hours of the morning, prompting me once again to make my case for electronic surveillance … “N0.”

Okay then.

Friday we’re traveling to the north-woods of Wisconsin — land o’ cheese — for a week of fun with the family. On the itinerary: crappie fishing, card cheating, pontoon boating, sun burning, exaggerating, deer fly swatting, over eating, and other activities of leisure consistent with moderate to excessive libation. Don’t worry, I promise to wear my PFD at all times while on the water. Hard to imagine falling off a pontoon boat, though. What an invention (supposedly by a Minnesotan): Take a slab of steel the size of an average backyard patio, strap it to rows of barrels welded end-to-end, slap an outboard motor on one end, top load it with Weber grills, boom boxes, coolers filled with cold drinks and tubular meats, an extended family of eight, and away you go!

Okay, yes, I am now beginning to see how falling into the water may in fact be possible, if not also desirable.

A perfectly good end to a perfectly good day on a perfectly good patio outside a perfectly good watering hole with a perfectly Happy Wife and a not so perfect boo boo knee.

This time my knee. That one right there:

Happy Wife diagnosed it as an effusion. Underlying cause could be any number of things, but the most likely in my case was over use. The more serious condition of prepatellar bursitis is also known as rug cutter’s knee. Installing (faux) wood floors one weekend followed by molding and bead board on subsequent weekends? — just sayin’. But, it’s nothing ice, Ibuprofen, wifely pampering, and a Sapphire martini or three can’t solve.

Got an early morning report from the beach house that all is going well down there. Happy Wife and her boss made it to bed just after midnight, after dinner, drinking, billiards, and finally a dip in the hot tub. The rest of the girls stayed in Seward, closed the bars, and wandered back after 2 am, commenced giggling and hot tubbing, and were evidently still asleep come 7:30 am, one half hour before they were due at the pier to depart on the kayak trip. Oh boy.

Our heads were in the clouds on summer solstice:

BIGGER.

That’s the saddle on the Artic Valley hike, just before you begin the final climb to Rendezvous summit, which we declined to do this time. Not clouds really, more like a morning haze trapped in the valley that had yet to burn off. For weeks now we’ve had very little cloud cover and no rain to speak of, and if you believe the forecast there’s no end in sight. And blessedly, no mosquitoes up this high. This will be a summer to remember that’s for sure.

We hiked up with our friend Willem and the dogs.

BIGGER.

If you click the BIGGER link you’ll be able to make out the abandon radar installation on Mt. Gordon Lyon, and just below it (out of sight) an old Nike missile base. It was active during the cold war, intended to shoot down Soviet bombers if they dared attack US. You used to be able hike right up to it and look around, but since 9/11 I think there’s a fence around it. I joked with Willem and Happy wife, wondering how long it would take us to get noticed up there, sitting around with sketch pads dressed in Turbans and Happy Wife in the Hijab. Not even a muted chuckle did this raise.

Okay then…

Happy Wife is hosting an office party of sorts at our beach house this weekend. Women only. Kayaking, hiking, and bar hopping are among the activities planned. Every one of the women in her office is very professional, for sure, yet several are young twenty-somethings, and so I thought as a responsible homeowner with concerns around safety and liability, especially in the hot tub area, I might install a little webcam monitor, you know, only to make sure that after having maybe a little too much to drink, with inhibitions (and tops) lowered, nobody engages in any unsafe behaviors.

When I suggested this to Happy Wife, however, I’m afraid it went over like a fart in church.

Googled “Beyond Biblical”, looking for a word to capture the scope of the mosquito plague in Anchorage this year, and now you should see the pop-up ads that appear in my browser. It can be fun messing with the head of an algorithm. Feed it a string like: “Virgin Mary in Christian Louboutin Red Soled Heels”. The possibilities are endless!

Speaking of heels and mosquitos — Happy Wife dressed for work this morning and left the house early to hurry over to the Fred Meyer store where they were just unloading boxes full of stuff to kill and repel mosquitos, the shelves having been denuded of these products weeks ago. She scored. Came home with a bagful of coils and at least one large can of some stuff with a picture of a mosquito on it and the word KILL plastered about in no less than three places.

Directions: Shake well before using. Hmm, that’s curious. But if you know me, you know I’m a stickler for following instructions (snigger), so I held the can in one hand and did my best to tremble. Why this is required I don’t understand.

Outside I went, coffee in one hand and murder in the other, into the gauntlet of mosquitos, clouds of them grating against the glass on the door like zombies in Dawn of Dead trying in vain to get inside. Under the deck, around the fence, and over the shrubberies I sprayed, a white foamy dust twinkled in the still morning air: “I love the smell of Pyrethroids in the morning.”

Minutes later, all was quiet.

Better living through chemistry they say. Microwave radiation, I’ll remind you, is less effective in this fight.

The call eventually came at about 4:45 pm yesterday. Give him the day to squirm.

Over the phone came the neutral voice of my physician’s nurse: “Hello, is this Rod?”

Instantly you fix on the tone of voice, analyze its pitch: happy or dour, pleased or disappointed, light ‘n breezy or coldly factual.

Eventually I reply, “Yes, this is Rod.”

She started in with a considerable preamble that I’m certain was relevant though I can’t recall a word of it. It’s like what they say about what an expectant dog hears, keywords, the rest is noise: “blah blah blah RUFUS blah blah blah TREAT blah blah blah…”

Likewise, I heard: “blah blah blah ROD blah blah blah GOOD NEWS blah blah…”

My tail begins to wag.

I ask her to repeat it, I didn’t hear the detail. Of course, she says, I understand. There is cheer in her tone. The mist in my mesentery had evidently cleared, nothing but an early morning haze that had burned off once the sun rose. You do not have an occult metastasis; in fact, she continued, improvement in your nodes was observed compared to the previous scan, so no need for any additional follow-up, we’re treating the original finding as an incidental discovery.

Tail wagging faster. Time passes.

“Rod, are you there, do you have any more questions for me?”

Finally, I manage, “Uh, no, that’s… excellent, thank you.

She invites me to enjoy the rest of my day, we hang up.