Roll out of Bed

I slept in a bit this morning.  Kevin left for an event he is sponsoring in Kallispel last night so I had the place to myself.  I stayed up until 1 a.m. finishing my Vampyre book.  Probably not the smartest thing to do when home alone in a relatively new place, but I was able to sleep.  Kevin woke me around 9.  He is fond of finding reason to call, but I think he is really just making sure I'm out of bed.  Of course I tried to trick him with my fake super cheery no i'm not asleep hello, it might have worked this time.

I got up and decided I was going to make homemade cinnamon rolls, well semi-homemade, based on one of my favorite desserts: Sopapilla Cheesecake.  My friend Jodee Heimdal and her daughter Jessi introduced me to that dessert and I, in turn, have introduced to Missoulan society.  You can't really eat cake in the morning and feel good about it, so I decided to turn it into cinnamon rolls.  Everyone knows it's okay to eat those for breakfast at 10 in the morning. 

The ingredients:  1 package of Pillsbury recipe creations (you can use the cressant rolls but they are perforated and harder to work with), 1 pkg cream cheese, 1/3 cup sugar, melted butter, and cinnamon. ( I actually did this at 1/2 the recipe because I didn't want to make the entire roll and be tempted to eat it while at home alone.)

Preheat the oven to 375, put on the coffee, and then start the filling. Combine the sugar and cream cheese.  It's best if you let the cream cheese sit out for a while to soften.  Keep the dough in the fridge until last minute so it doesn't get too soft and sticky while you are trying to work with it.  Then roll it out onto a cookie sheet or piece of waxed paper.  Spread the filling mixture evenly from end to end and then roll back up.  Cut roll into 8-10 even sized pieces.  Next, brush with melted butter and sprinkle with cinnamon and sugar, to taste.  Repeat last step on the other side of roll.  Bake in oven for a period of minutes that falls between 12 and 15 or until they are the perfect shade of golden brownness for your particular palate.  Generally, if a recipe calls for 5-7 minutes I go for 6 it's in the middle, but if you have a two minute spread do you choose 13.5 minutes?  I don't know, so I cooked them for 16 the bottom was a bit more crispy than the top but not burned and not hard, just right.

The only thing these rolls were missing is that orange flavored gooey thing you put on top of the store-bought ones.  My mom use to make those for Michelle and me.  If only I knew how to make that goo. I would and then these would have been perfection.

All It Takes Is One

Jessica has a saying about 8 hugs a day and how they lift you up and keep you feeling good. Yesterday, was one of those days. I had been stressing over getting a job and decided I would interview with a family looking for a sitter a few days a week. It wasn’t my ideal job, but I like children and miss being around the ones my friends and family have so I went for it.

On the day of the interview, my hormones decided to come for a visit. I couldn’t find anything to wear, I was self-concious, emotional and feeling like a loser. I was about to walk out the door for a job I wasn’t sure I really wanted, but felt I needed so as not to be a burden on Kevin.

I met with the family, but I didn’t feel the connection. They were lovely people, the mother and daughter were gorgeous and the father was very nice and welcoming. I left there feeling low. Going through my head was the thought, “Hey college, get a real job.”

The next day, yesterday, I was being extremely hard on myself. Nothing seemed good enough, everywhere I looked was negativity, resistance and self-loathing. My friends were trying their best to bolster my self-esteem and lift my mood, but it just wasn’t happening.

The family called and I knew from “Hello” that they were calling to turn me down. The wife was so sweet about not hiring me. I almost felt bad for her because she was so nice in her rejection of me. After hanging up the phone my spirits were low. I thought, “Gee, I can’t even get a babysitting job.” What I should have been thinking was, “That’s for the best.” I threw myself on the bed and silently cried and then I felt like I should cry some more make it dramatic. That always makes me feel ridiculous, the loud sobbing with shuddering and some snot.

The best way to stop crying is to feel like a fool doing it, which I certainly did. I decided to rearrange some furniture. There’s nothing like moving beds, dressers and armoirs to work out your problems. When Kevin arrived, I was still in my heavy lifting mode, “I’m sorry you didn’t get that job.” He said. As I normally do I shrugged it off and didn’t say anything knowing if I did I would cry and he wouldn’t know what to do. He saw that I was upset and feeling low, and you know what he did? He said, “Can I do anything?” most of the time when men ask that women always say “No.” and the men walk away thinking at least "I tried." but not this time. Kevin asked, “Do you want a hug?” which made me feel so much better I didn’t cry. The tears that were threatening to flood went away, and I laughed and told Kevin how I had cried earlier but moved the furniture to make myself feel productive. He said, “I noticed; it looks nice.” That one hug and compliment were the best medication I’ve ever had for feeling low and sorry for myself.

Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend

Kevin bought me a set of diamonds that increase in size from small, medium to large. They have become a part of my daily life. They are durable, stain and stick resistant and dishwasher friendly. No, I'm not talking about jewelry. I'm talking about cookware, Swiss Diamonds to be exact. It seems the non stick technology comes from tiny diamond particles embedded in material. You don't have to worry about using metal utensils because there is no Teflon coating. They cook well, distribute heat evenly, and they are pretty hefty, so if I need to smack Kevin with a frying pan I still can.

I made chili in one the other night and of course I didn't get around to washing it until the next morning, when the residue was dried. Most of the time letting something sit too long and trying to clean the caked on substance can be a pain, but not with my new pots and pans. I didn't have to let anything soak, and no scouring was needed.

Yesterday, I wanted to make carnitas, but found the crock-pot had broken on the move from Texas. No problem. I took out the large deep skillet, added my pork loin, green chilis, salsa verde and cooked at medium simmer for a few hours and VIOLA dinner was served. The meat didn't stick to the bottom, the sauce didn't burn. Who needs a crock-pot, when you have Swiss Diamonds.

And They're Always Glad you Came

Built in 1974 in Lolo Montana by the Babcocks, The Lumberjack Saloon is my new favorite place.

Ely and several other Missoulans mentioned this rustic loggers bar to us, and Kevin and I had to see what it was all about. A short drive west on highway 12, past the Lolo peak, brings you to the dirt road, Graves Creek, and The Lumberjack is located about 3 miles north.

The view is spectacular, and not only do they have food and drink, but 4 small cabins to rent, and live music on Friday and Saturday night, but that's not the best thing. I've been to mountain bars, ocean bars, city bars, cantinas and pubs, but never have I ever been to a bar with a tree swing for a barstool.

When we first walked in, it took a minute for our eyes to adjust to the darkly lit interior. The photos turned out kind of dark so you get a sense of what it was like to walk in from the glaring sunshine. Immediately I liked it. We took a seat at the end of the bar. I had already spied the swing seat, but there was a large burly biker sitting in it and his body guard, I mean girlfriend, was sitting next to him. "I'll be sitting in that seat before the nights over." I told Kevin, but not too loud I didn't want the biker to hear. He had already made it known that only steers and queers come from Texas, and I thought 6:30 was a little early for a bar fight.

Waiting some what patiently and avoiding eye contact while coveting the swing, Kevin and I made conversation with a few of the bar's patrons and the day shift bartender, Jared.

We walked outside to check out the patio and view, and when we returned the biker and his babe were gone. For the remainder of our time in The Lumberjack, I took up the seat with small breaks to let Kevin try, and we became aquainted with our new favorite bartender Justin. The evening was so much fun that we left with t-shirts. I wore mine the next night on our return visit with Ely.

When we walked in Saturday night we were greeted by Justin with a big, "Hey Kevin, Hey Amber, Glad you guys came back."  The warm reception brought a tear to my eye, or maybe it was the tequila, but Kevin and I were certain that we had definitely found our new favorite place, because sometimes you just wanna go where everybody knows your name.

Bump in the Night

This week Kevin and I were in Missoula Montana. Our cabin is located in Lolo, outside of Missoula just up highway 12 past Fort Fizzle. It's a two story cabin that looks kinda shady from the outside, but sits on a beautiful piece of property 100 yards infront of Lolo creek.


Before coming up this week, I took the truck in to get the oil changed. While in the waiting room I decided to brush up on "Montana Outdoors" magazine reading. I read about black bear trapping, collecting bear hair and other things bear-related. One particle point of interest was the map showing the areas in which black bears are prominent. Missoula is a one of the places black bears call home.

We get to our place in Lolo early on Tuesday night, and Kevin takes us to dinner at Lolo Steak House. After dinner, we head back to the cabin to sit by the river in the moonlight. How romantic you think? No, the dog just needed to pee. We retire early but in the middle of the night I was awoken by loud crashings and thunderings. There was a bear that had came in from the unlocked back door. He was tossing things around the downstairs snorting and slobbering searching for food we must have not put away very well. I start trying to alert Kevin but my fear had locked my throat and poking him in the shoulder was inefficient. Finally he awakens me by saying, "Amber, your dreaming, it's okay." I relate my nightmare to Kevin. Then,relieved to have been dreaming I close my eyes and drift off again.

The next day my friend from home, Ely, comes for dinner. Kevin prepares grilled new potatoes and tasty chicken thighs, while I make a light blue cheese vinaigrette for the salad. Ely brings the beer and we sit outside enjoying the view and the great company that old friends always supply.

As we clear the away the dinner debris, I give Bubba a few bones, " You can't give dogs chicken bones." says Ely. Looking at him quizzically I respond, "yes, you can, we did it all the time growing up." He shrugs and Bubba inhales the vestiges of our dinner.

Neither of us have the energy to actually wash and put away the dinner dishes so we fall into bed leaving the mess behind, "I'll do them first thing in the morning." I tell Kev and we drift off to sleep; However, only a few short hours into our slumber, Kevin and I are startled from sleep by a noise. This time it's not a dream. There is a noise an actual noise, "Did you hear that?" Kevin whispers. "Yes." I reply eyes wide in shock as we both try to figure out if it is a burglar out here in the woods, or maybe a badger or raccoon. Neither of us say it, but I'm still thinking BEAR after my previous night's dream. Like the stealthy hunter he is, Kevin grabs his .357and heads for the stairs. Noiselessly, I slip from the bed and make my way towards the head of the stairs, when I see the dog. Bubba is laying on rug instead of his blanket, but he doesn't look alarmed or scared. I notice on his blanket there is a large wet frothy mess, and then it dawns on me, "It's okay, the dog threw up." I yell down to Kevin as I shake my head as Ely's words ring threw my head "You can't give a dog chicken bones".

Wind Swept

 

Growing up my parents had this painting of an old windmill spilling water into a trough, cattle milling around and a rancher climbing the structure to presumably fix something or perhaps to enjoy the view. My earliest memory of an actual windmill comes from the visits we use to make to my uncle James' house.

The Windmill seemed to tower above us at the time and it was rickety looking. I wanted to climb it like the man in my dad's picture, but I never did. I don't remember if it's because my mother put the fear of God in us or if I was too scared too. I don't remember being scared of much in those days, so it must have been forbidden. But wouldn't that have made it all the more tempting to a rambunctious tomboy? Uncle James' house was a small white wooden structure, and the water was drawn from a well on the property and stank of sulphur. Don't think we fetched it with buckets or anything. It came from the tap, I'm not that old. Visits were filled with good homemade food, I remember fried chicken and white gravy, banana pudding, cream corn and lots of lemon to make the smelly water palatable. We ate gathered around the warm sunny kitchen or on the occasion that more than one of my uncle's sisters were visiting we would disperse. Some wandering outside to eat on the kitchen steps facing the windmill. Others into the living room to eat perched on the western style couch with wagon wheel printed cushions that faced the old telephone cabinet (the kind where you talk into a trumpet shaped mouth piece and hold the cone to your ear) on the joining kitchen wall or maybe in one of the chairs next to the west wall that was littered with finds. I remember seeing, what to me, was a huge rattle from what must have been an enormous rattle snake that had been found on the ranch.

Uncle James has been employed for the same rancher in Prosper, Texas for my entire life, and I suspect at least 20 years prior to that. That job almost killed him once, and he still has a knot on the side of his eye that bears witness to the accident. My memory of those days is fuzzy and old. If my recollections were a photograph they would be the faded tin-type made more romantic by the passing of years. I can't tell about those days without telling of my uncles brush with death. This is how I remember the accident.

I was in elementary school when my mother got the call. In my family you didn't leave kids with the sitter. My cousins, Kelley and Deedee, were our sitters. So we all packed into the car. Most of the time it was my mom and dad and my aunt Emma and Uncle Stan along with my sister, me, Kelly, Deedee and their brother Gene, so there was never enough room in the car but we didn't notice it was togetherness. We drove to the hospital where my uncle lay, his sun leathered face slack with sleep. His tan hide wrinkled by the elements and age a dark contrast against the crisp white starched linens of his hospital bed. I had never seen my uncle in anyting but jeans and long sleeved pearl-snap shirt. The paper gown they placed him in turned him into a stranger, a man that was still and weakened, not the heroic cowboy that wrangles cattle and rides horse back through the blistering Texas sun day in and day out. What had happened to bring down such a figure?

In the nature of our family we were gathered there, my fallen uncle and his 11 remaining siblings, the adults talking in hushed tones. The children, knowing better than to make noise or otherwise be noticed, strained their ears to catch a whisper of what had befallen our Uncle James. To my child's imaginative mind and my adult's embellished misremembering, the incident was thus: durning the night a howling storm came up. Lightening cracked the blackened bruised sky as swollen clouds dumped their torrents of rain, and the wind blew the falling moisture driving it into night like a thousand sparkling needles. My uncle was there a pale figure outlined in the flashing light of the storm. Rain dripping from his cowboy hat, his muscles strained against the wet shirt sticking to his lean torso as he held onto the rope that was attached to the wild-eyed horse who had been spooked by thunder. The horse reared, it's cries muffled by the screaming wind and booming thunder. The animal began to thrash about creating chaos in the rain. Finally, lashing out and kicking the rain glittered pipe fence, James was taken by surprise as one of the rails which had become loose spun on it's axis hurling itself with a wet sickening thump like a hammer to watermelon into my uncle's temple.

The force of the blow knocked him unconscious and dropped him into the marshy mud of the corral. He was brought from the wet cold thundering darkness into the too bright and deafeningly quiet hospital room where we were all scared and worried. A blood clot in his head was the biggest concern, but men of that caliber don't let a little thing like a head injury stop them. Tough as boots he is.

I mentioned he still works for the ranch. I don't think he will ever quit. He isn't a man that works a job. He is a cattleman, it's a life style. As an adult, I don't get to visit with my ma's family like I did when we were younger. Infact, the last time I saw Uncle James the passing of time coupled with my growth and the lack of seeing one another confused our meeting. He didn't remember which one of Beatrice's kids I was until I said, "It's me, Amber Dawn". I'm sure to him, I'm still a scruffy, dirty tomboy. I miss those days, the simplicity of life. The goodness of being together. The screechy sound that windmill made when the breeze would slowly spin it on a lazy summer afternoon.

The photo at the top of the page, inspired this reminiscence and it's hard for me to chop the story up, because those days were years of my childhood but they stretch out in my mind like one long hazy summer afternoon. Growing up, we didn't have money. I grew up in a trailer. We took vacations to visit family spread out all over Texas. My uncle James' house was only one of many stops. Another frequent family adventure was to my uncles Stan or Boddie's dairy farms in Sulphur Springs Texas. The old windmill is a symbol for me of the simple happy life we led growing up in the country. It's a reminder of my family, who I am and where I'm from.

The picture at the top, was taken of an old windmill remarkably like the one in the picture that my dad still has and the one that still stands in my memory, but it was in a field littered with the new-age windmills. This prompted me to think: What quaint fond memories will those trigger? Is some kid going to look at the photo below in 20 years and say: "Once when I was little a most respected and beloved uncle had one, and it forces me to remember the laughter and innocence of being a child."

 

Dog Days of Summer

While watching Bubba taunt the neighbor's dogs this morning, I thought, "He is so funny." I'm not one of those people who replace children with dogs. Despite what Kevin says, Bubba does not wear a sweater. I may spoil him a little bit but that is because he is so sweet. He knows how to work me. He's got these amazingly sad eyes when he wants something from me, and when he needs your attention he puts his paw on your arm or leg, Like he saying, "Excuse me, Amber." I have this thing about putting on shoes. It's always done sitting on the floor (except sandals they just slip right on)and it never fails that the dog thinks, "hey she wants to play with me!" At which point there is much butt waging, he has a stump tail so his butt wags with his tail, and chewing on my hands and arms while I try to knock him away. He some times burrows his cold wet nose under my leg and it tickles.

Yesterday was our big day-o-fun. Kevin and I woke late, had breakfast and then took Bubba up to Zimmerman trail for some hiking. Before leaving we had to give Bubba his lesson on jumping into the bed of the truck. He doesn't do it automatically yet. He puts his paws up on the tailgate and looks at you like, "Help me up, I'm stranded here." His jumping tutorial goes like this: Kevin gets into the back of the truck and sits down, I take the dog about 10-15 yards away and run towards the tailgate so that the dog runs with me. Because I'm no longer the proud athlete of Ponder high school, I can't jump into the back of the truck. So when I stop the dog stops, and places his paws on the tailgate. Back again we go, "you jump then maybe he will jump." says Kevin. "Yeah right, I'd need a spring board and an Olympic medal to get any air." I reply.

After four attempts, the dog leaps into the back of the truck and in between pants the chubby dog trainer, me, helps congratulate him, "Good Boy, you did so good." There's a small voice chanting, "Dog sweater, dog sweater." In the back of my mind, but I'm not a crazy dog lady I swear. Bubba isn't even my dog really. He is Kevin's. I haven't had a pet since my black cat Fatty got eaten by Coyotes at my sister's house.

Back to Bubba, after the hike there is a reminder training session which doesn't go so well, and I think people might have seen our shenanigans. What a scene


Once we are back at the house,I decide to take the boat out for it's maiden voyage. The Skipper and Gilligan go too.


After our aquatic adventure, it's time for Bubba to push Kevin in the hammock. Notice the hammock height. I would like everyone to think it was intentional.
Yesterday was a great day for me, Kevin, and especially for Bubba, or at least I like to think he enjoyed it as much as we did.

Market Days

Saturdays in Billings finds the streets downtown,near 29th and 2nd, closed to auto traffic but swarmed with pedestrians for the Yellowstone Valley Famers Market. Where you find farm fresh everything, and live music.



Kevin and I woke around 8 yesterday and went to the store to sell some trucks and then we hit the market. Our first stop was at one of the Hutterite stands to buy onions, peas and some pickeled things: pickels, beets, jalapenos and carrots. Everything is organic and grown within the Hutterite community



(I'm thinking they are similar to Amish but with electricity and mechanical technology) they even produce fowl on their farms; however, we bought our meet from another small organic Billings farm whose name I can't remember now. The steak, NY Strip, was juicy and tender. I also picked up some marrow bones to try an Anthony Bourdain recipe.

Next was a stop at Das Kuchenhaus, owned by Debra and Tim Zimbelman, they had gorgeous looking pastries and pies, but I chose only the bread. By this time, Kev and I a both a bit peckish so we stop at the tamale stand for green corn and buffalo tamales and nice lemonade.



Finally, we stopped and bought some fresh sweet corn for the evenings dinner.



We stopped by a little wine shop on the way home and picked up a Franciscan cabernet, 2005, Napa Valley. It was a good pairing with the steak and veggies. We prepared the corn and cebollitas (small onions) by soaking them in water and placing on the grill, using the husk as the insulator for the kernels. Kevin did the steak in a chimichurri marinade and grilled it along side the veggies. I prepared the peas with a few of the cebollitas by sauteeing them in butter and garlic. It was simple, fresh, organic and delicious.



Even Bubba liked it.

Hey Rocky....

Watch me pull a rabbit outta my toaster. At least that is what I was thinking yesterday as I tried to make toast with the brand new toaster. I plugged it in put the dial to 5 and turned around a few minutes later and the bread was up untoasted not even warm. Funny, the little window where the number is located is no longer illuminated. So I move the toaster to another plug and the red numeral 5 flickers on and off in the window like Satan winking at me. I finally get it to stay on faulting the wall outlet, and I push the lever to make the toast go down and there is a loud POP and a small puff of white smoke, but the only thing I pulled out of it was the bread still untoasted. I smelled it, thinking: Gee I hope It's not polluted, and it seemed fine. I went on with my culinary magic turning the untoasted bread into a cold cut masterpiece showcasing turkey, white sharp cheddar, pickles, pickled jalapeno, mayonnaise (can't say that word without saying it like the drill Sargent in "Officer and a Gentlemen" Mayo-nnaise)tomatoes and avocado. Rocky has to have a Bullwinkle just like sandwiches have to have soup. So the accompaniment to Kevin's lunch was a pasta soup I made by using the previous nights chicken tortellini, tomato, artichoke supper and combining it with onions, garlic, herbs, chicken stock and stewed tomatoes and a dash of red pepper flakes. It was good. I took my handiwork down to Montana Peterbilt, but didn't tell the boss his sammie may have toaster fallout on it. He survived.

On the way home I stopped by Albertson's, I go there everyday, for the accoutrement to the evenings dinner. Once I was settled back in the pink tile kitchen, I marinated chicken in a citrus jalapeno mix that I whipped up in the handifoodprocessor (cup fresh squeezed orange, 2 jalapenos, 1 serano, 1/2 bunch cilantro, salt, course ground pepper,and garlic) I let it sit in the fridge for 4 hours or so then baked it at 350 for roughly an hour. After the chicken came out of the oven, I let it rest while I made the avocado lime salad. I chopped romaine, diced tomatoes and avocados and warmed up a can of black beans. For the dressing, I squeezed two limes, texted my friends Rachel and Aaron because this dressing reminds me of them, added 1/3 cup olive oil, sugar,salt and pepper and I whisked to combine. All the ingredients, including chicken went into the salad bowl and were topped with the dressing. Que Bueno!

Tonight we are having the same marinated chicken taco style with carrot-jalapeno salad. It's culinary magic folks, turning last night's good eats into a new tantalizing taste for tonight.

The Grand Adventure

Kevin and I began our trip back to Billings on Sunday pulling my car behind his truck on a car dolly we rented from UHaul. With this particular car hauling device you can't back up. You have to pull through.
Kevin and I stopped at Deter Brother's in Lindsay for BBQ with my parents, and before we headed back out we had to stop at the Mayor's house (not kidding, the real Mayor of Lindsay). Lindsay is a small town and they get people to stay there by tricking them. It's like the Hotel California, a lovely place and once inside you can never leave, or so it seemed. Kev and I tried to find a roundy-round to pull through but all we got were dead-end streets. So with my Altima attached, we went four wheeling through a hay field. It was funny, and while bumping along we laughed and said, "What a beginning to our grand adventure."

Before getting into Amarillo, where we were going to go to a 'Dilla's game, it began to rain. We put the dog into the cab of the truck, and Katie texted the game was canceled. Later, We pulled into the Ambassador hotel off I-40 around 7:30 pm. After closing the curtains to the window, which looked out onto our Truck/car, I got in the shower at 7:35 ( I remember looking at the clock trying to time my shower so Kevin wouldn't grump about taking too long.) At 7:55, I told Kevin: "Hey, I've got to go lock my car before we meet Katie and Tim in the restaurant." I walk out and open the driver side door of my car and then I hear, "Excuse me is this your truck?" I look up and see two hotel staff members standing on the passenger side of Kevin's truck. I think, "Oh, we probably can't park here and take up all this space." so I say, "Yes, do we need to move?" To which the male replies, "No, you've been robbed."
I walk over and see the passenger side rear window smashed and I go over to my car, which was unlocked the entire time, open, press the lock, and shut the door. I look up and there is Kevin, "Hey, Come here." I motion with my hand. Kevin looks at me not quite understanding what I want. "Come here, We've been robbed." Maybe the shock didn't allow me to put the proper emotion into it so Kevin is still unsure what I'm talking about. I should mention that while this is happening the lady who works at the hotel says about 40 million times, "You should neva leave them valuables in yo car, sho nuff gonna get robbed if you do." To which I respond, "We never do." Never except this time. Them Valuables, as she so quaintly put it, were Kevin's laptop, passport, checkbook, and my Garmin. I found out once we got to Billings that the perps (yeah like the lingo) also ganked my bag that had my mail, a cool family photo (of my mom in a blond wig and my dad with some major pork chop side burns) and one of my all time favorite books.

Thanks to an Australian visitor to Amarillo, there is an eye-witness report of 3Caucasians, 1 skinny meth head girl, and 2 dudes. The stupid girl left DNA, Blood, on the car when she was rifling through our center console.

Kevin acts fast and closes all his accounts puts his identity theft protector in motion. The next morning we were lucky enough to find a shop who replaced the broken window in an hour and we were on our way. I couldn't wait to get out of Amarillo. Did I mention it smells like shit there? Yeah, you can smell the feed lots when the wind is right.

Outside of Dalhart, Kevin gets a call from Wellsfargo informing him some guy is trying to cash a check for $525. "He's a criminal, call the cops, arrest his ass." Kevin says to the bank manager. He does and they do. The man was stupid enough to make the check payable to himself, and present his ID to the bank, all while his sweet honey crack head was in the car. Amarillo PD shows up with Kevin's favorite T.V. show, COPS, in tow. I don't know what's better, that these two miscreants were caught or that it was on tape.

I was proud of Kevin and how he handled himself. He didn't lose it. I would have. I was plenty pissed and sick at heart when I discovered my belongings were gone as well, but I'm sure my mom has a copy of that photo some where, and thank God Ernest Hemingway was well circulated I can get another copy of my book. AS for our bank acounts no harm done.

We made it to Denver that night and decided to celebrate the kharmic capture of those theiving bastards. We had a nice dinner at Del Frisco's and our toast for the eveing was: "Here's to COPS, and Our Grand Adventure."

Feelin' Good Again

Is it possible to get jet lag from riding in a car? My summer has been a whirlwind of travel and excitement interspersed with periods of rest and some relaxation. No need to rehash the entire summer, you can read about it yourself, but I must catch up on more recent activity.

Kevin and I drove Cody back to Texas last Wednesday. All was well. The boys turned me on to "The Death Lands" audio cd's that are action packed adventures in your mind.

We arrived in Texas a few short hours before my friends Kevin Vandrunen and Vanessa Chapmen tied the knot.
Kevin was introduced to Brendee's beau David

And members of the Dutch Mafia


The night was filled with many hugs, a few tears and lots of laughter




The next day I ventured over to my brother's, Ralph, house and had hamburgers and hotdogs with my two sisters, Janet and Michelle, my mom and dad, Bea and Mack, my niece and nephew, Tucker and Tayah, and Brendee. I guess in all the excitment that being a part of my family brings I forgot to take photos. I wish my other brothers could have been there, but it was a wonderful afternoon.

That evening, Kevin and I along with my good friends and a chunk of Aubrey went to see his buddy, Sean Morgan, play at Sunset (You know that little bar I mentioned in "No Shower Sunday") where there were lots more huggin' and Kissin'. I made a video of the slide show set to Robert Earl Keen's "Feelin' Good Again", but I couldn't figure out how to get it embeded to the stupid blog.
Sunday we started our trip back to Billings, and we called the trip: Our Grand Adventure. That is a new post all it's own.

Whistle While You Work

In college I had a boyfriend who had to eat with the television or radio on really loud to cover the sound of his own mastication. Weiwd, huh? That relationship didn't last long. Now if I could only divorce my nose from my face.

It seems my nose is having the most trouble adjusting to life in Montana. The air is dryer, but I'll save you from all the bloody details. Last night, while making baked fish with a lemon caper sauce, I kept hearing a faint whssst sound and oddly enough it was my nose. How weird? I thought it had gone away, maybe I was just to concerned with my soupy potatoes to notice it's regularity, but sitting at the table with Cody and Kevin it was back. I thought: "Oh man, can any one else hear that?" Apparently not.

I'm no stranger to the noises my nose makes. I've even woken myself up snoring, but during the day - whilst I'm awake! Seriously, this is a problem. I was contentedly chopping poultry and making sauce for chicken salad this afternoon when the symphony of the sinuses started again. We are having guest for dinner tonight and I'm hoping the sound of their chewing will block the tiny dwarfs singing in my nasal cavity.