Werewolves of Arizona

 
 

The warm nights are reason enough to live in Arizona.

Sleep might be a little longer in coming….but you can lay there and listen to the sounds of night.

 

One of those night sounds is the howling of coyotes.

 

The first time I heard it the hair stood up on the back of my neck.

For someone who’s a die hard Sci Fi fan….

I was sure the sound wasn’t nature or natural.

More likely supernatural.

Werewolves.

Much like every time I see an old produce truck rumbling its’ way down the road,

I’m sure it’s headed into town filled with giant pea pods.

 

The coyotes don’t confine their howling to night.

They howl anytime.

Like when they’ve killed something….

or

when a siren goes off.

That’s the weird time.

You don’t see them anywhere….

then a fire truck goes by,

they start howling up a storm….

and you realize how close they actually are.

 

The other morning, sipping my coffee….

yip yip yip woooooooooooooo….

close…. real close.

This close….

 
 

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They hadn’t killed anything.

No sirens going by.

So I don’t know what their deal was.

 

But look at this guy eye-balling me.

 
 

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Maybe they hadn’t killed anything….

yet.

 

I was outside.

They weren’t that put off by my presence.

 
 

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I know they are pug-killing machines.

And I blame their bold closeness on the fact that Minnie probably smells like bacon to them.

But damned if they aren’t pretty!

And they gave me ample time to appreciate

their beauty as they strolled through my backyard

and parked it for a while on my patio.

 
 

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Probably trying to figure out where the bacon smell was coming from.

 

‘Bacon’ was still in bed.

 
 

Pugs….yum

 
 

I was streaming a radio station from Seattle.

 
 

The story being told….

Two coyotes were seen in a Seattle neighborhood.

Evidently a small dog had been attacked so the City decided shooting the coyotes was the best way to deal with them.

There was concern on the City’s part that the animals had lost their fear of humans and that rendered them dangerous.

If that rationale was to hold here in Arizona….

it would turn every golf course into a killing field.

 
 

This is not an unusual scene….

 
 

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It seems that a “live and let play through’ agreement as been reached.

And there doesn’t seem to be much fear….

 
 

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on either parties part.

 
 

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We have been told….

never  NEVER  feed them.

And I NEVER would overtly leave food out for them.

My biggest fear is my inadvertent feeding of them….

in the form of….

Minnie.

 
 

I have heard stories of neighborhood dogs being attacked.

 
 

Then I had a close up and personal with a dog at Minnie’s vets office.

He (the dog) was friendly, albeit groggy, being post-op from having to have his intestines put back inside the way God intended them to be.

Rather than outside the way a pack of coyotes thought they should be.

 
 

Since then, when I take Minnie for a walk, I carry several things….

1.  a bio-degradable poo-bag (I’m a good citizen)

2.  a whistle (I heard coyotes hate the sound)

3.  a 4 Iron….which I’m thinking of switching out for a Big Bertha (more reach).

 

And if that walk is at  night….

4.  a flashlight

and

5.  an assistant (usually Rick)….since I only have two hands.

 
 

We had a close encounter on a walk the other day.

 

We (Rick, Minnie and I) were walking past a wash that separates two fairways.

There were golfers on the green of one fairway and at the tee box of the other fairway.

And right between the two and staring intently at Minnie

was a lone coyote.

 

Being a woman with a plan….

 

I instructed Rick to pick up Minnie and keep walking….

I brandished my 4 Iron and yelled at the top of my lungs….

“STOP WHERE YOU ARE!!!”

 
 

and this is where it gets better….

and by better….I mean embarrassing.

 
 

The coyote didn’t come closer, but didn’t move off either….

So I yelled….

“COME ANY CLOSER AND I’LL KNOCK YOUR ****ING HEAD OFF!!!”

All play on both fairways came to a standstill.

Seems people don’t see that sort of drama on the course much.

I heard an “ooookay then” from one fairway and a muffled

“oh dear god” from Rick.

He and Minnie had made their way down the street.

I walked backward, eyeballing the coyote the entire time, till I caught up.

 
 

“Over-reacting maybe?” Rick asked.

But vet’s office visit fresh in my mind I didn’t think so.

 
 

I’m told they are born on the golf course.

So they consider it home.

But I’m thinking the food source is so plentiful and easy

that’s why they stay.

 
 

And for all I know this….

 
 

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could be them flossing.

 
 

Looking at Minnie then watching the coyotes….

it’s difficult to see they are related….but they are.

Both are canines.

But one is predator….the other prey.

They may share the same….

Kingdom

Phylum

Sub-phylum

Class

Order

and Genus.

But that is where it ends.

 
 

Genus: Canine - Species: Coyote

 

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And I fear….

 
 

Genus: Canine - Species: Delicious

 

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The Apocalypse

 
 

It’s over now.

But the conversation went like this.

me (on the phone with MJ in San Diego):  “Hi punkin’ , what’s it like over there”?

MJ: “It’s bad”.

me:  “How bad”?

MJ: “So bad I’m thinking of eating lunch in the hospital cafeteria rather than go out”.

me:  “Good Lord!  It must be bad”.

MJ:  “I’m pretty sure it’s the Apocalypse”.

me:  “Okay….talk to ya later”.

MJ:  “m’kay….later”.

 

Click

 

Next conversation….

 

Rick:  “What ‘M’ say”?

me:  “It’s the Apocalypse….how much time we got”?

Rick:  “About four hours….give or take”.

 

Rick is a pilot.

And his ETA’s are usually right on the money.

The give or take providing wiggle room.

But four hours later The Apocalypse arrived.

With such force it knocked out our cable.

And knocked me off-line.

It was bad.

Very bad.

 
 

But with the dawn

 
 

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came the revelation….

(couldn’t resist that one)

 
 

we now had lake front property….

in the desert.

 
 

Actually a system of lakes.

Not as awesome as the Lake Superior, Lake Erie and the rest of the Great Lakes.

But lakes all the same.

 
 

This is Lake 10th Fairway.

 
 

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This is Lake 4th Fairway

 
 

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And this is Lake Driving Range.

 
 

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People will be happy when green pastures replace the still waters.

Amen.

 
 
 
 

 
 

like somethin’ from the oven.

Unfortunately, nothin’ says tubn’ like something from the oven as well.

I’m still trying to figure out a regimen to lose the Freshman Fifteen.

Something I can stick to.

Something healthy.

Something that will culminate in my miraculously becoming slimmer having never felt hungry or deprived.

But until I work all that out….

 
 

I made brownies.

 
 

No….not from scratch….have we met?

I used a mix….thank you Betty.

And I over cooked them.

 
 

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Ya know the best part of the brownie

 
 

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are the edges.

 
 

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They are my favorite part.

So I ate all of them.

Hey….they where kinda burned anyway.

Who else would want them.

Rick thought the entire batch was dry.

He blamed the fact that I’d excised all the edges, thus exposing the inner brownies to air.

I blamed the mix.

Yeah….I’m talkin’ about you Crocker.

But in truth, I might have screwed up the recipe.

But you only add three ingredients to the mix.

eggs

water

oil

I don’t know where I screwed up….

but the brownies were kinda flat.

They had the thickness of a toaster strudel.

And Rick was right.

They were dry….very dry.

 
 

Basically, I made a 13″ x 9″ x 2″ pan of chocolate croutons.

 
 

Oh dear.

 
 

Sherry and I were born on the same day.

We grew up in the same town.

We attended the same elementary, junior high and high school.

Sherry was a cheerleader.

She was also Homecoming Queen.

I….

got nabbed smoking in the girls bathroom….

and the parking lot….

and my extra curricular activities got me kicked off the gymnastics team.

 
 

Sherry was the good example….

I was the horrible warning.

 
 

Sherry was one of those girls other girls might love to hate.

Only you couldn’t.

Because she was natural, unaffected and very sweet.

dammit.

 
 

If high school reunions do anything….

they can jump start old friendships.

Which is exactly what happened here.

Over the holidays Sherry sent out those fabulous Jacquie Lawson e-cards.

jacquielawson.com

I loved them and sent her a thank you email.

And its’ been back and forth ever since.

 
 

Sherry’s recuperating from surgery on her broken ankle.

Immobility probably caused her reading the entirety of Snowbird Chronicles.

If I ever needed proof that she read it…..I got it.

What a package I received from her today!

 
 

It included a Pug Calendar.

 
 

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The DVD of Brigadoon.

 
 

A truly bitchin’ camo baseball hat!

Aiding and abetting my camouflage addiction ….I love enablers.

 
 

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Today I woke with a different opinion as regards my butt/face theory of a few days ago.

My different opinion…..

what’s a few wrinkles if you are no longer in danger of people asking….

‘So…..how’s Tweedle Dee?’

Yup….thought I’d start whittling away at the freshman fifteen.

And I was doing pretty well….until these….

 
 

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She sent the recipe and a visual aid….in the form of real cookies.

They are incredible!

And when I say incredible….I mean there might be crack in them incredible.

So incredible that the first words I uttered after swallowing where….

‘oh dear’.

Sherry’s accompaning letter said they were easy like my Norwegian Kringle.

But they’re not.

They easier….and taste better.

I don’t think she’d mind if I shared the recipe.

 
 

WHITE TRASH COOKIES

In a saucepan melt 2 sticks of butter (oooooohhhh)

add 2/3 cup brown sugar

When it starts to bubble, cook for 2 minutes, stirring about 200 times.

Line a cookie sheet with foil and lay a solid layer of graham crackers on it.

Pour the syrup on top spreading it evenly.

Top with chopped walnuts.

Bake for 15 minutes at 300°.

 
 

That’s it.

 
 

Do you ever say ‘oooohhhh’ when you look through a cookbook?

The photographs making the food look so delectable it’s literally Food Porn?

That being the case….

The White Trash Cookies are a Foodgasm.

 
 
 
 

And they’re off!

 
 

My cell phone rang…..

it was Ricki….

me: Hey! Whaddup?

Ricki:  Where are you?….you sound like your somewhere not home.

me:  I’m at the track.

Ricki:  Okay, Nathan Detroit, call me later.

 
 

We went to Turf Paradise again.

Barring pugs….if there is an animal more magnificent than a Thoroughbred Race Horse….

I have yet to see it.

 
 

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Pretty and handsome.

Powerful yet seeming sort of delicate.

 
 

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They are stunning.

 
 

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My betting strategy doesn’t require studying the racing form.

Upon hearing this, Rick said then my strategy also doesn’t require money.

It’s not enough to have a cute name.

Or to look frisky on the parade to post.

The racing form gives you the horse’s name, the horse’s age, the owner’s name, the jockey’s name, the jockey’s weight (the published weight alone would eliminate Jockey from my list of career choices), when and where the horse last ran, the length of the race, how long it took,  and other info that should make you confident the bet you just placed is more a logical deduction and less a shot in the dark.

 
 

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This is “Lost in the Boonies”.

 
 

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Isn’t she pretty!

Lost in the Boonies, while not the favorite, was predicted to at least show.

Win (first)

Place (second)

Show (third)

I loved her look.

I loved her name.

All that plus my absolute refusal to be ignored….convinced Rick to place a bet on Lost in the Boonies.

 
 

Take another look at her picture.

 
 

Such a pretty girl.

 
 

But the picture is actually Lost in the Boonies not winning.

Not placing.

Not showing.

It is a picture of Lost in the Boonies coming in last.

And not just last.

So last that when she crossed the finish line her opponents were back in the stable relaxing with their hooves up.

 
 

I was told it takes at least, at least, $2500 a month to keep a race horse.

And that’s just for the food, medical care, hoof and teeth maintenance etc….just keeping it healthy.

Then you need to put it somewhere.

Then you need professionals to teach it what to do, and how to do it.

I decided there would be no race horse in my future.

Especially since I witnessed how one behaves when it’s less than pleased.

 
 

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Not happy.

 
 

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And not having any of it.

But the minion in the stripes doesn’t get it.

 
 

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He does now.

 
 
 
 

A Minnie Movie

Get the Flash Player to see this player.

My mac

 
 

came with some fun programs! Like….

 
 

Garage Band

Which should come in  handy when I start my own band.

Rock is my life.

Seriously.

Just ask Ricki.

I was the one who told her that ‘Sting’ used to be a policeman.

A little known fact.

But more little known than fact.

I loved the conflicted look she got on her face.

A combination….

‘Is she kidding?Is she losing it?Do I humor her?Should I call Dad?’

I wasn’t kidding.

I could have sworn I heard ‘Sting’ used to be a policeman.

But then again, I thought there were only two guys in Arrowsmith.

 
 

My mac also has Photo Booth.

 
 

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Photo Booth does interesting stuff.

 
 

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I have to get close.

Otherwise my nose would be enormous.

 
 

See….

 
 

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New Year musings

 
 

Someone (Dave) asked me the other evening….

“Hey, isn’t your Christmas tree the one with the women on it?”

Yup.

It ain’t all teddy bears and water skiing santas.

 
 

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There’s alotta woman.

Which brings me to my obvious New Years musing….

Do I really want to lose weight and get in shape?

 
 

That’s been my New Years resolution for a couple of New Years now.

 
 

When I say a couple, I mean I used it as a cosmic bartering chip

should I survive Y2K.

Which I did.

But I never made good on it.

 
 

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It boils down to this….

I can’t make up my mind.

I’m of the age when you have to choose between your butt and your face.

Too much weight and you have a big butt

but a smooth, non-wrinkled face.

 
 

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And I’m using my little women to illustrate this point.

What’s an extra pound….or 15?

They are lovely little examples of exuberant zaftig-ness.

Of self loving embonpoint.

Or being just plain joyfully rubenesque.

 
 

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They are living large.

With a certain sense of  joie de vivre.

And they sure beat the flip side of the butt/face argument.

Which is this….

 
 

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The obviously too-thin visage of Norman Bates’ mother.

She has practically no butt at all.

And just look at what having no butt did to her face.

 
 

Maybe another resolution could be working on my powers of rationalization.

Working on reining them in.

They’ve grown powerful through practice.

 
 

Christmas musings

 
 

Well Christmas 2009 is in the can.

Both recycling and metaphorical.

I’ve said this before…..

here

But I hate Christmas.

But not as much today as I did about 2+ months ago.

MJ & Ricki are now 31 and 29, respectively.

But in my head they are still 8 and 10.

Not respectively.

The coveted 10 goes to the kid who makes me feel the least guilty.

 
 

Christmas 2009 started ominously.

 
 

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(a quick aside)

Do you remember when you wouldn’t have entertained the notion of an artificial Christmas tree?

Let alone an artificial 9′ noble fir pre-lit with 1250 lights that you bought at the hardware store.

(aside over)

 
 

OH CRAP!

Thus began the frantic search for the one burned out bulb responsible for the third tier blackout.

 

And the string of profanities that Rick says

have become as traditional as Christmas carols themselves.

 
 

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Success!

Stand down!

Crisis Averted!

 
 

The secret of a decently decorated Christmas tree is excess.

Nothing succeeds like excess.

 

Over the years I’ve collected a wide ranging assortment of Christmas ornaments.

They didn’t even have to be real ornaments.

Just something that would work.

Either with sentimental value or

something that would fill a bare spot and still look plausible.

For instance….

 
 

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remember when Troll Dolls were popular?

 
 

And this….

 
 

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she came out of a McDonalds Happy Meal.

Add a little fishing line….

and now she’s an ornament.

 
 

I realized as I decorated, my girls don’t attach as much sentimentality to Christmas as I do.

 
 

When they were very small we would take them to

“Breakfast with Santa”

at a department store that looms large in Seattle’s legend

but, sadly, no longer exists….

Frederick & Nelson’s.

 

At the breakfast all the kids would get a small bear ornament.

 
 

Like this one, one year….

 
 

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and another year this one….

 
 

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We have about four Santa Breakfast Teddy Bears.

One lost it’s identifying F&N ribbon.

And one is just….ugly….that’s why you’re not seeing them here
or on the tree.

 
 

Sometimes I would pick up ornaments to commemorate vacations places we enjoyed

Like Disneyland.

Interestingly enough….Disneyland sells Christmas ornaments all year long.

They knew a sap like me would wander through.

 
 

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I also collected ornaments that the girls could relate to at an early age.

 
 

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I thought it would be very cool to start ornament collections for the girls as well.

 
 

So I bought these….

 
 

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and these….

 
 

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The ornaments changed in character as the girls got older.

 

Like the Christmas otter.

 
 

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and

 

the water skiing Claus’s….

 
 

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Odd.

I started the collections for the girls.

But I still have them.

How’d that happen?

 
 

This Christmas played out like most of our other Christmas’s.

Rick and the girls relaxed and good humored.

Me wound up and worried I’d missed something or someone.

 
 

A small crisis erupted Christmas morning.

My cinnamon rolls didn’t turn out.

A failure to rise made them less like cinnamon rolls

and more like moonrocks with a sugar glaze.

 
 

“OH NO!!!”

MJ wailed in a voice strained with emotion

and no small amount of sarcasm.

“CHRISTMAS IS RUINED!!!!”

Then she proceeded to stare at them with sad eyes

and

(I kid you not)

start to sing

“Where are you Christmas, why can’t I find you….”

 
 

Ladies and Gentlemen….I think we’ve found our 8 year old.

 
 

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Copyright 2009

All the stuff you see in this blog (pictures, graphics, etc.) are the property of Jo Harbert.

contact:jo@snowbirdchronicles.com