Saturday, November 29, 2008


My teen great nephew Bo called me the other night, all excited.

“I get to be in Grease!” he said about his school musical set for February.

“Cool. Grease is the word, you know. What role do you have?”

“I’m a student.”

“Well, that figures. Do you have a name?” I asked.

“I don’t know yet. I think I'm in the chorus.”

Bingo! This was my big opportunity to start singing all the Grease songs I know. “You’re the one that I want…oooo, oooo, oooo, Honey.” Then I gave him a few butchered lines from “Beauty School Drop Out” and “Summer Nights.”

“I won’t be singing those,” he said, as if I didn’t already know.

“Oh, you’ll be doing the “Greased Lightning” song…. Go Greased Lightning, You’re burning up the quarter mile….,” I started.

“Greased Lighting, Go Greased Lightning,” he chimed in. That was his try-out song.

“You’re gonna have a blast,” I said. I then started singing lines from more Grease-y songs…“Born to Hand Jive,” “Rock 'n Roll is Here to Stay.”

“Can I talk to Jeff?” (aka: Big Bore) he finally asked, obviously through listening to my enthusiastic, out-of-key, out-of-my-mind musical revue.

“Yeah, I’ll go get him.”

I needed to start digging up my Grease wardrobe for opening night, anyway. Bo is going to so regret he ever called me with his big news when I show up in the audience wearing my baggy, rolled-up blue jeans, bobby socks, white blouse, and silk scarf tied around my pony tail. He’ll find out that I’m “Hopelessly Devoted” to this sappy musical…oooo, oooo, oooo! Honey, I can’t wait!

Friday, November 28, 2008


Yesterday when I was out walking off my turkey and pumpkin pie (Big Bore, fortunately, spared me from pigging out on dressing by leaving it off the menu), I came across a wrestling tournament program while doing laps at the school track. I like looking at such rosters because there are usually some oddball names or spellings to be found, which either amuses or intrigues me.

This one had a Karter with a K instead of a C, a Nollan with an extra L, and a Tray with an A instead of an E. Then there were some names I’d never heard before: Seb, Drey, Abron, Brogan, and Rakan. But the hands-down winner of the strange names belonged to a coach from Emporia. His first name was good ol’ John, but it was followed by (get ready for this) that ever-popular last name: Keosybounheauang.

How much do you wanna bet that everyone at school just calls him Coach K?

Thursday, November 27, 2008


The History Channel has a fascinating little TV program on Monday nights called “Modern Marvels.” It typically takes the viewer through the manufacturing process of something, from bridges to bubble gum. Very interesting, if you have a modern kind of mind for such shows.
A few nights ago, Big Bore and I hunkered down to learn all about turkey processing, which was, indeed, marvelous!!

For an hour, we were shown how turkeys get to our tables on Thanksgiving Day…all the way from hatchery egg to serving platter. The eggs, of course, are much larger than a chicken egg, light brown and speckled, and always have two or more yolks. It takes cute little turkey chicks about 8-12 weeks in a crammed cage to become fat enough to reach Butterball status. Then it’s off to the processing plant (gulp!) where they are “humanely killed,” according to the narrator.

“Oxymoron!” announced Big Bore. Living with a retired English teacher has, scarily, started to rub off on him.

“Yeah, that’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one,” I said.

Now, the narrator guy never went into detail exactly how the turkeys are “humanely killed,” but the rest of the processing procedure was blow-by-blow. Eight hours a day of ripping out bird innards is certainly not my idea of fun. As the saying goes, though: “It’s a dirty job but someone’s gotta do it.” Besides, it pays better than teaching.

Still, I’ve decided that The History Channel taught me one important lesson, if nothing else: on this Thanksgiving Day of 2008 I am definitely very thankful for never being made to work the assembly line at a turkey processing plant.

Gobble, gobble. Enjoy your turkey dinner!

Wednesday, November 26, 2008


One beautiful day last week Big Bore wasn't scheduled to work, so we headed to Lake Fegan for a cookout and some hiking. Here are a few pictures from the outing:

I haven't yet figured out how to focus the zoom lens on my new camera. If the blue bird was as clear as the tree limbs, this would be a great shot. It was taken from quite a distance, so I was still fairly happy with my Blue Bird of Happiness.

This is Big Bore's "Eureka, I have found it!" pose. We took a deer trail to this spot and were not disappointed with what we found.

Here I am patiently waiting for a good ol' sizzling hotdog, courtesy of Chef Jeff. The sticky toasted marshmallows weren't too bad, either!

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. May your day be bountiful.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008


Since having her birthday last month, my great niece Maddie has already gone through the 5-year-old-coming of age experience of losing her two front bottom teeth. Being the dare devilish type, she pulled ‘em out herself. The Tooth Fairy exchanged them for a few bucks, which apparently ticked her off. Receiving the money was fine and dandy, but she wanted to keep the teeth. Knowing her strong will, I suspect they have magically reappeared by now.

I was not as courageous as Maddie when my first two front lowers were loose, an event I remember well because of my father’s insistence that he be the resident dentist. I would wiggle the teeth back and forth with my tongue, but that’s about as far as I would go in trying to remove them. My father had a better, sure-fire method. Open wide, insert fingers, and yank. I was having nothing of it.

Being big on melodrama, I ran from him, screaming and crying all through the house as he pursued me. Finally, he pinned me on the clothes hamper, pried open my mouth, crammed in his hand…and I bit the holy hell out of it. But instead of him being angry with me, he was laughing. There were the two little teeth lying in the palm of his hand.

I continued bawling…no longer out of fear but because he’d gotten the better of me. I’d lost the battle (and my teeth) and victory was his. Pissed me off royally. The Tooth Fairy’s donation softened the blow somewhat, but that was the first and last time my father ever dared to put his hand in my mouth. I think he eventually realized that when it came to raising me, he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

Saturday, November 22, 2008


Forty-five years ago today, I was sitting in Mr. Merriman’s 9th grade Algebra I class at Fredonia Jr. High School, when Mr. Wilson, our principal, came on the intercom around 1 PM to announce that President John F. Kennedy had been assassinated. Our gym party for that night was cancelled, and we were told to go home immediately. A banner headline on our local newspaper’s front page confirmed the news that night. I’d never seen a banner headline in the Herald before.

For the next few days, I was transfixed by our back and white television, watching the events surrounding the assassination and funeral…the carriage drawing the president’s flagged-draped coffin, the prancing riderless horse, a solemn drum cadence that repeated itself so often that I can still hear it in my mind. Thump, thump thump, thuuuuump; thump thump, thump, thuuuuump; thump, thump, thump, thuuuuump; thump, thump, thu-thump. I suspect my older readers know exactly what I’m talking about and can hear it, too.

Then there was the assassination of the alleged assassin, which television cameras caught and repeated over and over again on the news.

It was a crazy time, and I recall thinking that other nations, specifically the USSR, might try to take advantage of our country in this confusion. After all, we’d done nuclear bomb drills in 5th grade. Our president was dead. Anything could happen.

--When the newspaper arrived this morning, I thumbed through the pages to see if there was any mention of this historic day…but nothing. Then I got on the internet to check AOL, even though I knew better. No mention of JFK, but Britney Spears is making a comeback. A check of the TV Guide, though, shows that The History Channel has some JFK specials on tonight.

I guess history isn’t news. Most of the people who remember living through the assassination aren’t the ones in charge of the media anymore. They have little to no recollection of what it was like to lose the Commander in Chief and wonder what was going to happen next. Other worries have taken over. The nation’s economy is a mess, the war in the middle east rages on, and Britney is trying to lose weight.

Time has thumped on.

Friday, November 21, 2008


By now I should know better, but once again America On Line has sucked me in with one of its ridiculous headlines. “Alien Creatures Invade Utah Lake” it read. Wow! I always love a good alien creature invasion story to get my juices flowing, so I clicked on the link and eagerly awaited the big scoop.

Of course, what I got was the usual letdown. It was a lame story about zebra mussels. Good grief! We’ve had those ornery mollusks in lakes around here for ages. I would hardly label them “alien creatures.” A pain in the ass, maybe, but certainly not from outer space. Damn. Just a close encounter of the stupid kind for The Flaming Bore.

I’m so humiliated at falling for yet another misleading lead that I feel like creating my own headline. It will read: “Disappointed Bitch Creature Invades AOL Office.” Be sure to check it out. The story that goes with it should be sensational!

Thursday, November 20, 2008


Last night my liberal online acquaintance Hugh sent me a tongue-in-cheeky email, originated by an Andrew Borowitz, about president-elect Barack Obama’s impeccable use of the English language. According to his posting, some people are upset that the Harvard-educated Obama is able to string complete sentences together. Not only that, but he uses proper grammar. Subjects and verbs agree. Participles don’t dangle. Double negatives are nowhere to be heard. Oh, the horror!

A former Republican candidate for vice president, concerned about Obama’s speech, commented, “Talking with complete sentences there and also too talking in a way that ordinary Americans like Joe the Plumber and Tito the Builder can’t really do there, I think needing to do that isn’t tapping into what Americans are needing also.”

As a retired English teacher, I find it refreshing to listen to someone in authority who has command of English as a first language. For the past eight years I have cringed whenever the current president, what’s his name, butchers his words…in spite of having a Yale diploma. If I hear the word “nuclear” being pronounced “newk-you-ler” one more time, I think I’ll just blow up on the spot.

I’m ready for a new Voice of America from one who knows his word usage from word abusage. No more anguished English. As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Obama, when it comes to good grammar, you is da bomb!!!

Wednesday, November 19, 2008


(Warning: If you think that Dr. Phil McGraw is the savior of all mankind, do not read any further.)

Lately I’ve received several emails with a fun little Christmas holiday survey to pass along. It has questions like: Is your Christmas tree real or artificial? Do you have a nativity scene in your house? What was your worst Christmas present ever?

Well, it was easy to answer that last question. My absolute, without a doubt, worst Christmas gift ever was a book written by Dr. Phil, given to me by my younger sister about ten years ago. Aaaggghhh! I hate Dr. Phil. He is a pompous, self-aggrandizing boorish blow-hard. Just because I enjoy reading does not mean I would want a book by Oprah’s smarmy psychological guru.

My sister and I have very little common ground, so I figured the book was supposed to serve as an innuendo (or maybe a big, blatant, balding statement) that without her and Phil’s advice, I might not be able to survive in the world.

Have you ever re-gifted a Christmas gift? That was another question on the email survey. At first, I responded: Yes, the Dr. Phil book. But then I decided that giving it to a trash can didn't count. :)

Tuesday, November 18, 2008


I always like to say that good ol’ Mama Bore is the one to blame for my lack of anything resembling a homemaking skill. When I was a kid, my typical after-school routine consisted of sitting down at the kitchen table to down a cinnamon roll and milk and then roaming the neighborhood until suppertime.

“Go outside and play!” was mom’s mantra because having a walking tornado like me under foot just created extra messes and more problems for her. The best thing I could do was stay the heck out of her way. Thus, I became a recreational expert. Old habits die hard, and I still tend to put housekeeping on the back burner behind going outdoors.

Thankfully, Big Bore and the cats are not all that picky. As long as I clean out the litter boxes every day, they don’t complain too much. Cleanliness is not really next to godliness. It’s being outside, sucking in the fresh air, lifting my face to the warm sun, and saying, “What a beautiful day!”

May your Tuesday be touched by a little bit of the great outdoors.

Monday, November 17, 2008


As Big Bore was headed to work Saturday morning, I made the mistake of asking him if he needed anything at ALCO, since I was going to be doing my one-stop shopping there later in the day. Yes, indeed, he did need something…an extension plug. He explained to me what it looked like.

“It will be gray or orange, about two inches long, and it will have three prongs on the male side, two flat and one round. The female side has three holes, one round one at the top, two narrow ones below and one is slightly longer than the other…blah, blah, blah….”

Now when God was dishing out electrical smarts, I was given a dim bulb.

“You’d better write this all down for me. By the time I get to ALCO, I will have forgotten it,” I said.

“Better yet. I’ll draw one for you,” BB offered.

Much better. I’m a visual learner. He proceeded to create the best damned extension plug I’d ever seen. Three dimensional, both sides. To scale, even. An idiot would be able to identify it. So, off I happily went to ALCO, picture in hand….only I couldn’t find one that looked like Big Bore’s drawing.

“Did you find everything you needed?” the assistant manager asked as I checked out.

“Well, not really,” and I showed him the picture.

“No, I’m afraid we don’t have that one,” he said. “I'd try Home Lumber and Supply. Sure is a good drawing.”

Off I went.

“Hi, girl, whatcha need?” the Home Lumber manager greeted me.

“Oh, I’m on a mission to find an extension plug like this one,” and I showed her the drawing.

“Nope,” she said. “Never even seen one like that before.”

A customer next to me took a look. “You’ll have to go out of town to find one like that,” he said. “Nice drawing, though.”

Well, I had one place left to hit up, Stanley Hardware. This joint is stuffed with merchandise, so surely I would succeed there.

“Here’s the closest thing we have to the drawing.” The manager lady showed me a plug that had one male side like Big Bore wanted, but three female sides.

“You know, I think I’d just better let him deal with this himself,” I said and left empty-handed.

When I picked up Big Bore from work, I told him of my three failed attempts to make his purchase.

“Oh, I bet you just didn’t look closely enough,” he said. “They have 'em.”

“I did, too, look closely. I even showed your picture to all the managers and they said they didn’t have it. Your drawing drew raves, though.”

He was still skeptical, so I suggested he go look for himself at Stanley’s, which is next door to Dollar General, where I was headed. I dropped him off, went on to the DG, and as I was at the check-out stand there, he walked in…extension plug in hand.

“They had it,” he said, showing it to me.

“Well, that’s not like the one in your drawing!” I protested, noting that the male side of his purchase did not have the rounded prong.

“Yeah, I was wrong," he readily admitted. "I put in an extra prong. My bad.”

We both had a good laugh and he went on back in the store to get a Pepsi.

“Boy, that’s a first,” the check-out gal said to me, as I turned my attention back to her.

“A first for what?” I asked.

“A man admitting he’s wrong.”

Now, we amateur lady electricians have another name for that; it's called: “Shocking!”

Saturday, November 15, 2008


The old rock 'n roller almost rolled off this interesting rock formation on Devil's Den Trail. Below is the zoom-in on my facial exprssion as I put on the brakes:

Big Bore was a fine sport about going into Devil's Den cave, although he says next time he'll bring along stronger lighting. The camera flash makes the pitch-back cave seem easy going. I waited until after we exited before telling him that last May a teenager was stuck in the cave for 16 hours before being pried out.

King of the Mountain. Big Bore fashioned this walking stick out of fallen hickory, but I bought him a fancy $8.00 model from the park store in return for him not tossing me in the waterfall when I lost my glasses (see yesterday's blog).

During a 3-mile hike up to Yellow Rock overlook, I tested out how well this ledge is holding up.

Today, it's back to November reality and wind chill temperatures in the 20s. We are already planning a return trip in the spring!

Friday, November 14, 2008


We're back from our quick trip to Devil's Den State Park in northwest Arkansas. The hiking weather was perfect! I'm posting some pictures tonight and this weekend.

We left home as the sun was rising Thursday. I thought this was a pretty neat picture, considering it was shot through a gunky car windshield as we were motoring on US 400 at 70 mph.

Here's our Cabin At Devil's Den. It was built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in 1936. The CCC boys would probably be amazed to know that inside their "rustic" cabin is a TV, DVD player, microwave oven, and spa tub.

This is as close as Big Bore would get to the edge of what is called "Yellow Rock" ledge.

Right after BB took this picture of me, I shot one of him. Since I'm near-sighted, I removed my glasses to take his picture, then I ran over to show him the results, which was a big mistake because I couldn't find where I'd set down my glasses and we spent the next 10 minutes looking for them among the rocks. Oops! :)

I'm ending tonight with an eerie sort of picture I took outside the cabin at dusk yesterday. The trees seem to have taken on some spooky life of their own.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008


Early tomorrow morning Big Bore and I are taking off to Devil’s Den State Park, south of Fayetteville, Arkansas, for an overnighter. We’re staying in a cabin there that was built by the Civilian Conservation Corps back in the 1930s. I “discovered” Devil’s Den for myself about 20 years ago.

The park got its name because to get there one has to drive down, down, down a spiral road in the Boston Mountains. At the base is a creek, store, campground, cabins, and a bunch of hiking trails. My favorite one leads up to a dark bat cave than can be explored with a flashlight. It’s a fissure cave, narrow and long and damp, and eventually one must crawl or turn back. Cavers must watch where they put their hands on the walls or risk having a close encounter with a clinging brown bat. They sort of look like rats with wings.

Now, Big Bore is a gung-ho hiker, but I’m not sure how far I’m going to get him into this cave. I think he’d much prefer tromping along in the wide open spaces, but I’m going to try to get him to squeeze on through--even if it takes a little prodding from behind. I’ll just smile sweetly and say, “The Devil made me do it.”

Tuesday, November 11, 2008


Has anyone put up Christmas lights outside yet? Last Saturday, Big Bore and I took advantage of the nice weather and put up a few strands of lights on the front porch eaves, but we agreed not to turn them on until Thanksgiving weekend, when we’ll add some garland and bows to the porch posts and call it a wrap. We are not the goofus Clark Grisswolds of the neighborhood, but we aren’t Ebenezer Scrooges, either.

Now, you may not have heard of it, but there is something in legal circles called the “Bore Rules of Christmas Decorating.” Mama Bore and I came up with these technical regulations last year when driving around her town one December night checking out the decorated homes and yards.

In a nutshell, here’s the first rule: DO NOT MIX THEMES! If you want a religious scene, fine--but don’t throw in a bunch of snowmen, reindeer, and elves while you’re at it. Baby Jesus only wants to be surrounded by his parents, three wisemen, shepherds, and angels. He doesn’t want a fat red guy waving a jolly ho-ho-ho at him next to the manger scene. I did some research, checking it twice, and nowhere in the New Testament is Santa Claus included on the guest list.

Rule number two: LIMIT THE NUMBER OF OVERSIZED BLOW-UP DECORATIONS! I don’t know what they are actually called, but you’ve seen them. They are operated from an air pump of some sort, and they don’t come cheap. The first year I saw one, a snowman, I thought it was kind of cute. Since then, though, I’ve decided that three per yard is quite enough. Beyond that is overkill. Last year’s record-holding yard in our little town had eight, and, like the old TV show starring Dick Van Patten, “Eight is Enough.” Way more than enough.

Last of all: If I happen to spot any yards with blow-up manger scenes this Christmas season, I’m pleading the 5th Amendment when it comes to being blamed for air leaks.

Monday, November 10, 2008


Back on July 7th, I blogged about the sick obsession Literary Diva and I had with a nutsy little show called “The Bachelorette,” where a single gal selects her Prince Charming out of 25 men who subject themselves to the demeaning process of being given the heave-ho in front of millions of viewers out there in TV land. We were hoping that the picking chick, DeAnna, would not select a cute little professional snow boarding goofball named Jesse, who had made her final two, because we thought he was just too sweet and innocent for the self-centered, demanding Dee. She chose him, of course (she called him her “soul mate”), and a wedding date was set for next May. I mused on my blog that I feared the next time I’d see them would be on “Divorce Court.”

Well, last week I raced off an email to Diva, telling her to hold on to her wedding gift because the engagement has been called off. AOL, my favorite source for all news that it is totally not newsworthy, reported that Dee had dumped her mountain man, through an online video, saying that she wasn’t in love with him anymore because they are “two different people.” Duh. No kidding. She’s reportedly headed to Hollywood to try to make it big. In what, I don’t know. Megalomania, for starters, I suspect.

The rejected Jesse recently took his broken heart onto the couple’s website to sadly report the split to the world, looking like he’d just wiped out in a snow bank. But I predict he’ll make a speedy recovery and rebound--once he realizes how lucky he is to have dodged one bitchy
“Bachelorette” bullet. There have to be plenty of other dingbats out there on the slopes who are just dying to have “an amazing journey,” as they constantly say on the reality show, and ski off into an avalanche with him.

Saturday, November 8, 2008


No, my friends. This is not a dog blog. This is about my all-time favorite grade school recess activity, the sometimes bloody and always gutsy Red Rover! Long ago, I had the energy of a power plant. I’d bail out of swings, mastered double-Dutch with the jump rope, and was the reckless softball catcher who once connected with a swinging bat that dislodged a molar. But, nothing, and I mean nothing, compared to playing Red Rover.

For those of you whose memories have forgotten the logistics, or for the unfortunate uninitiated, Red Rover consists of two horizontal lines of rabid children facing each other, maybe 100 feet apart or so, each team locking hands into what they hope will be an invincible chain. It looks similar to the face-off we saw in the movie Braveheart, except without the war paint, lethal weapons, and kilt lifting.

“Red Rover, Red Rover, send (name of kid) right over!” one line shouts at the other after discussing who to pick.

The challenge is on. The “chosen one” runs at the other team’s line, trying to bust through the hand-holding chain. It is, of course, always best to choose what is expected to be the weakest link in order to bust on through, full force. If unsuccessful, the runner boomerangs backwards and remains on the challengers’ team. Break the chain and a “prisoner” is selected to go back over to the winner’s side. The challenging goes back and forth, until there is just one side left. No “clothes lining” is allowed, but it can still get pretty vicious, which I suppose is part of the appeal of the game.

At Mound School, we usually didn’t finish the game at the end of a single recess…it could go on and on all week. When we were in tournament mode, the entire three upper grades would join together. Only a few not-so-daring stragglers would sit on the sandstone wall and watch, along with horrified teachers, intent on keeping their distance. The rest of us were adrenaline-charged and determined to hold tightly to our chain or to blast through the barrier of arms.

I was always eager to be one of those called “over” to the other team. I’d run at full speed, cross my arms in front of my chest right before impact, and, more often than not, break through the chain. Bam!! My body propels into the air for a victory leap! Teammates clap and cheer my stunning performance! The tomboy reputation remains alive--at least until the next recess! What a rousing Red Rover rush!!

Hmmmm. I wonder if I could round up about 59 other hyped up over-the-hillers for a not-so-instant replay.

Friday, November 7, 2008


Not too long ago, Bloggerista Jaime inspired me to go around my house and review my artsy possessions. Regretfully, there aren’t any Van Goghs hanging on the walls, but I’ve decided that one of my favorites is this chalky drawing done by my niece Brooke. She gave it to me for Christmas, maybe five years ago, and I absolutely love it.

First of all, the subject is a gray cat. That’s an automatic A+ in my sketch book. Secondly, it’s quirky and unlike anything I’ve ever seen…sort of half cat and half human. I like the way she did the shadowing. The goofy, asymmetric green eyes pop right out, and the tight cropping she did with the matte board make the whole picture look “cool,” which is what I said when I unwrapped the gift and took my first look at it. I hung it in my bedroom. No matter where I am, lying in bed or standing in the doorway, the cat seems to me staring right at me…in a friendly, feline sort of way.

I told Brooke she should get back to the chalkboard and make more drawings, but I don’t think she ever has. So, I consider mine her one-of-a-kind masterpiece. It may never sell for millions of bucks, like a Van Gogh, but I still think it's the cat's meow.

Thursday, November 6, 2008


Yesterday I was out raking leaves once again and came across some big honkin’ ones that measured 11 inches squared. I don’t know what kind of tree they fell from but it sure wasn’t from anything in our yard. These were Grade A monsters, as you can tell by this comparison shot. I challenge my oh-so-omniscient readers to tell me what type of tree begat such a dandy.

I’m going to do some private investigating around the neighborhood to find out who is growing this super specimen. Someone around here is using illegal steroids on a tree, and I’m going to get to the bottom of this!

Wednesday, November 5, 2008


It’s over!!! And regardless of the outcome, let’s all breathe a huge, collective sigh of relief. No more political commercials, signboard trash, and evening phone calls from my personal stalker, Senator Pat Roberts. Hooray!!

As much as I’ve gritched about the elections, I stayed up late last night to watch the returns and listen to the speeches. Even though I didn’t vote for him, I like John McCain and admire his military record. Had his presidential predecessor (no name mentioned or my computer may crash) not been such a lame lameduck, he probably would have won. These are such difficult times for so many people that I think they have put their hopes on Obama, and I wish him well in trying to deliver the goods.

If I were a politician running for any office, I would be sooooo glad the campaigning is finally over. A few years ago, I took up the cause of raising the local sales tax 1 percent in order to finance a new library and swimming pool. I was assigned to go door-to-door with information about the issue. My partner gal and I assaulted a portion of the west part of town, which we discovered has a disproportionate number of people who don’t read or swim. I began to feel guilty about knocking on doors when resident after resident struggled to respond because he or she was using a walker or wheelchair. I hated being a pest and will never again volunteer to be an amateur door knocker. Nor would I ever make phone calls in behalf of a candidate or cause. Aiiii!! That, too, would be the pits.

Signboard trash? Yeah, I’d probably take on that duty if I was deeply committed…provided someone else acquired the permission to "stick it" in the ground. I think I’d be much better at removing those signs, though. Yes, that’s definitely my calling. Cleaning up all the campaign crap left behind after the elections. Maybe I’d better go get started. Something just blew across my front yard.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008


Yesterday Big Bore and I went hiking at Elk City Lake. We took a trail neither of us had tried before, and it was a lot of fun….up and down and over rocks, mucking through some mud, and (horrors!) dodging one innocent snake. The sound coming out of BB’s mouth, as he was about to step on it, was like nothing I’d ever heard before. He even alarmed himself …while the poor snake made a slithery escape underneath the nearest rock.

After we got home, I walked a few miles around the neighborhood, which wasn't nearly as enjoyable as tromping along in the woods and stumbling over rocks.

Monday, November 3, 2008


T-minus one day and counting! I am so ready to get this election over with! Answering the telephone has put me in an automatic foul mood because half the time it’s some canned campaign speech interrupting my valuable train of thought. (No, we don’t have caller ID telling us, “An annoying politician wants to babble at you.”)

Last night during that highly intellectual Game Show Network program “High Stakes Poker,” Senator Pat Roberts called. Well, I’m happy to report that I got him disconnected faster than you can say, “I’m all in.” (For you gambling neophytes, that’s a poker term that means, according to the Webster’s Dictionary-Flaming Bore edition: “I’m putting in all my chips on this single hand and, Dealer, if you don’t give me some smokin’ cards, my ass is busted.”) So, Senator Roberts, please do not call me when I’m in the middle of betting away my life, unless you intend to bankroll me.

In spite of my current irritation at anything political, over the weekend I did try to engage Big Bore in a deep discussion about the upcoming election.

“Who have you decided to vote for president?” I asked.

“I’m not saying,” he said, uninterested, preferring to watch whatever snore fest was on TV. “They’ve asked me at work, and I told ‘em it’s no one’s business.”

Now, I can see not talking politics on the job, but you’d think he could trust revealing his choice to his favorite bunkmate and the mother of his cat children. I didn’t press the issue, though, other than to ask him if I could write in his name on my ballot for a certain county office that is being contested.

“Hell no! Don’t you dare.”

Geesh. Someone around here has lost his normally liberal sense of humor and gone conservative on me!

Saturday, November 1, 2008


Muffin had a great time passing out trick-or-treat candy last night. She gave Kit Kat bars (natch) to our costumed visitors, many of whom wanted to pet her. Several little girls, in fact, didn’t want to stop loving her. (“Emily, come on! We’ve got more places to trick-or-treat!”) One even said she’d be back today to visit Muffin.

Well, our fuzzy door guard loved all the attention, and she kept watch for more porch people, while her three siblings went into hiding. Actually, Critter wasn’t hiding. She was busy on the back porch polishing off the leftovers (as in: chicken carcass) from her sort-of birthday party the other night. Big Bore is polishing off the leftover Kit Kats this morning. (Sorry, no "cute and adorable" picture available of that one!)