Snickers, Part 3

Life isn't always wonderful, and sometimes I just need to get things off my chest.  If this is too depressing...don't read it, I guess.  Here's your chance not to...

Real Men Love Goats

Tere and Jonathon hosted a neighborhood party Sunday night.  It was sort of a block party, except there aren't any blocks where we live; all the houses sit on an acre or more.  Tere invited everyone she could think of and this party really brought the whole neighborhood together.  It was tons of fun to see old neighbors and meet the new ones.

Tere does an awesome job with her parties -- she's very detail-oriented -- which gives every event a certain panache.  But I don't think six months ago it would have occurred to Tere that she'd ever have party guests like the two below.

Meet Betty and Boop.

They're two Nubian/Boer goats that the Beckers adopted and are bottle raising.

Goats really are good party guests.  Sure they like to hit the bottle pretty hard, yet they never get drunk and embarrass you or themselves.

A man and his goats -- it's a beautiful thing.

The Hurrieder I Go, the Behinder I Get.

I am late nearly everywhere I go.  Not hours late (usually), but often somewhat late.  My mind seems to come up with some sort of mathematical formula regarding how late I can be.  I can be three minutes late to work.  I can be an hour or two late to watch Jess ride at a horse show (shows last ALL day long for three days).   Dinner invitation, fifteen minutes; party, thirty minutes to an hour.

I'm not saying there is any justification to my tardiness, just  stating how my brain seems to work.  I think my inability to be timely stems from two things: (1) my complete lack of ability to entertain myself, so I HATE being anywhere too early and having to WAIT.  (2) My inability to accurately gauge the amount of time it takes to do things.

In order to get to work on time, I need to leave at nine-thirty-five.  Nine-thirty-three is too early; nine-thirty-eight is suddenly too close to nine-forty and that is too late.  In my mind, if I need to leave at nine-thirty-five, I start towards the car at nine-thirty-four.  It can't take more than a minute to get in the car and turn it on, can it?

So this morning at nine-thirty, I did a final check on the animals and started toward the car.   I hollered at the dogs, grabbed my purse and my keys, and went out front.

It's how we roll

We're dog people (we're also cat people, horse people, goat people, etc.)  And all of our dogs have always loved to go in the car with us.  Above is me, Toby, and  Weiner in the Dodge pickup.  I still have the Dodge and the Weiner; Toby's no longer with us.

***

Now, the picture below is Annie.  Annie was Jess's dog.  She loved her some Jess; she was Jess' #1 fan. Here's Annie's first car ride with Jess after Jess got her license.  Annie waited FOR YEARS to able to ride with Jess.  Look how happy the Nan is.

Nan would go anywhere with Jess.  In fact, they almost went to Tijuana when I accidentally told Jess to go SOUTH on the 5 instead of NORTH on the 5 to get to the airport (to pick up her brother).  Nan was totally okay with it as she figured there'd be street tacos involved.  Both Larry and Jess were pissed.

***

And, Grace -- well, Gracie would go anywhere so long as she could be with me.  Grace has gone to Phoenix and back (in one day); a six-hour drive to Tulare to a goat show, where I judged while she lay outside the fence and waited.  She's stayed in hotels with me, gone to horseshows with me; she is my constant companion

Grace is totally perfect.  Even though she's horrified I've stuck that hat on her, she's too polite to take it off.

***

So when Sam came along, it was very natural to take him along too.

And I have to say, he took to it rather well.  He likes to ride shotgun in the Subaru.

He also likes to ride shotgun in the Trailblazer --

He can't exactly ride shotgun in the Dodge..... but he tries...

and when he's tired, this is how he rolls -----

*****

when he rolls like this....

he really pisses the other two off.

****

but the other day, on the way home from work, he started a brand-new episode of how he rolls...I had loaded the back seat of the Dodge with a ton of recycles from the shop.  We'd filled an entire box with plastic bags for me to take to recycle.  And as for Sam?

Well, this is how he rolls.....

An interesting discovery about my armpit

I use a rollon, all-natural, anticarinogenic (or so I believe) deodorant.  I really don't even have to use one, because I really don't stink.  Okay, rarely stink.  I once tried to get Liz to smell my armpits at dinner, but she wouldn't.  Apparently her husband claims he doesn't stink either, and she won't smell his either.  Anyway, I might have been drunk; but still, my pits don't smell.

So the other day, I grabbed Allan's spray-on, manly deodorant.  Since I'm right-handed, I picked up the can and sprayed my left armpit first.  Then, when I sprayed under my right arm, I thought the can was broken.  I couldn't feel anything.  I sprayed again before I realized I was numb.

I know I can't feel anything on my right arm/pit/breast area, but I can feel pressure when I use roll on deodorant or lotion or whatever.  But I couldn't feel the spray.  It was then I realized I have no feeling from my breastbone around to about half-way across my shoulder blade and from about half-way between my elbow on my inside arm to about half-way down my ribs.

That sucks.

"How do You Judge a Boat?", or the prestige! the glory! the glamour! of being a goat judge.

I think I look pretty much like a normal person.  I have my own teeth, I speak in complete sentences, I'm usually not drunk.  So one day as I was flying to who-knows-where on my way to judge, my seatmate said to me:

"So are you heading to Whoknowswhere for work or vacation?"
"Work, actually."
"Oh, what do you do?"
"Mmm, I'm a goat judge."
"Pardon?"
"I said, I'm a goat judge.  I'm going to a goat show."
  --  moment of confused silence and then:
"How exactly do you judge a boat?"

I love judging goat shows.  I love the people I meet.  I love the friends that I've made.  I love the goats.  C'mon.  People ask me my opinion and then hand me a microphone.  What's not to like?

But glamourous, it's not.  It's usually a long plane ride, then a rental car, then a search for where it is I'm supposed to be.  I'm actually fine travelling alone and don't mind spending time on my own in a strange city.  In the last two years, I've had one club's members pick me up at the airport and entertain me (i.e. dinner) when I've flown in. (Hugs to Amy, Sheila, and the Idahoans.  And Terry, I know you would have, but you had WAY too much to do.)  So I'm usually on my own, trekking around, getting lost.

So here's snapshot in time of what  a judge's life looks like...

Here I am waiting for my connecting flight from Salt Lake City to Twin Falls...wait. let me get a better look... is that SNOW on those mountains?

HELLO!  That is SNOW.  Don't you all know I am a California girl?

***

So while I'm waiting for my flight, I take a picture of how crowded the airport is.  There are like 40 different gates in one room all leading to two-seater planes..oops, apparently I have the camera backwards...

***

Yeah!  I make it to Twin Falls.  The sun is setting outside my motel...

and first thing in the morning, I'm off to the fairgrounds to judge.

****

Okay, I finish up with the goaties.  After a quick change out of my bucky clothes in the bathroom at the fairgrounds, Amy takes me back to the airport the next day....

Bye, Twin Falls!  You're one of my favorites!

***

Taking off out of SLC -- a very common view....

***

I was in Twin Falls for 25 hours.  I arrived at the airport around 6 p.m. on Friday and left just before 7 p.m. on Saturday.

***

CAN I SAY IT AGAIN?  THE GLORY, THE POWER, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH...

Do I love it?  Is it wonderful?  You bet.

Beano is Your Friend

Pleasantville, New Jersey, is the hometown of Beano.  As my father-in-law, Robert O, says, "Why do you think they call it 'Pleasantville'?"