Yellowstone

Lone Buffalo

Last weekend, an opportunity arose - Beau actually had Saturday AND Sunday off, a rarity in our lives, so we weren't going to waste it on beer and babes! We decided we'd drive to Yellowstone National Park, which is about 4 hours away from us, very do-able considering the AMPLE amount of driving that Beau has clocked during our numerous road trips. I really cherish these excursions, because we always have such a good time seeing the country (whichever one we're in), eating in interesting restaurants, talking about our lives and future, and of course, my reading aloud of the Outlander series, complete with American, French, and Scottish accents (well, my "Scottish" accent really comes off as more Irish, but it's close enough). We're passionate about those books and characters!

The trip was kind of a post-birthday celebration for me, since I'd never been to Yellowstone and we hadn't had much time to celebrate on Black Monday.

I love nature, I love gazing at beautiful trees, twinkling rivers, and looming mountains, but seriously, it's all about the animals for me. I can get those first three things right here in Missoula (well, the mountains aren't SO looming here, but they're still pretty). Yellowstone makes wildlife accessible, that is, when Yellowstone itself is accessible. Only one road is open during the winter, and luckily it is the one close to where we could enter. Unfortunately, we would not be able to see things like Old Faithful, which is at the southern part of the park, and closed off for many months yet.

We got to Livingston late the night before and stayed in a very western motel, the Livingston Inn, and when I say western, I mean really western, not western-themed like a Vegas casino. It came complete with cowgirl pictures on the walls, an outdoor-themed quilt on the bed (with a giant trout in the center!), and lasso rope lining anything that could be lined - mirrors, picture frames, where the walls met each other and the ceiling, etc. It worked for us, especially its inexpensive price. The only annoyance was the jet engine of a heater which clicked on and off constantly as it "adjusted" the temperature. One of my favorite things about the place was a sign in front: they even had stalls for horses too! Yeehaw!

The only other annoyance was the wind. I can say without a DOUBT that it was the WINDIEST day I have experienced in my life. The sound of the wind inside the motel room was so strong, it reminded me of when we lived across from the ocean in New Zealand. From our bedroom at night we could always hear the waves crashing on the shore.

Here in Livingston, the wind was so loud and powerful, a couple of times I thought it was the roar of thunder. It wasn't bitterly cold, but with the wind whipping through your clothes, you really felt chilled.

The next morning we had breakfast, and though it was just as windy, it was a bright, sunny day. Hooray! We drove the extra hour to get to the entrance, and shortly after entering the snow-covered park, we spotted a small herd of buffalo to our left. I was practically screaming at Beau to stop the car, me already armed with my camera.

He was unimpressed. "We're going to see thousands of buffalo in the park, let's keep going."

"What's your rush? There's like NO PEOPLE in this park, and really, you don't know for SURE we'll see more buffalo. What if we don't and we passed up this chance forever? Huh, huh?!"

Okay, so we did see 10,000 more buffalo before we left the park. So what!

Since it was winter, there really were very few people in the park, which was a huge plus. You could just imagine the pressure to keep moving moving moving on the skinny two-lane road. Beau went slow, but I wanted him to go even slower so I could take photos. The landscape was nice, but totally snow covered, and I admit, there wasn't a lot that made me gasp in awe. Nevertheless, it was a nice drive.

The highlight was when we rounded the bend and saw two cars coming from the other direction. Very. Slowly. We quickly spotted a small figure trotting in front of the first car. Squinting, we both exclaimed, "That's a wolf!" and Beau immediately stopped the car.

I was shocked. Though beautiful, the poor thing looked starved, with its raggedy tufts of a coat and emaciated body. It looked absolutely terrified, looking back at the two-car parade that steadily followed him. Beau thoughtfully turned off our engine and the poor beast nervously approached. As he was passing, I got a good look at his eyes - bright and green, as if a light was shining through them. All I could think of was that giant slab of uneaten ham that had sat on my plate at breakfast, untouched as we left the diner. How I wished that I had had it now to throw to wolf, though of course, that is a BIG no-no in Yellowstone. Beau took my camera and got this shot, all the while muttering, "Life is rough in this park, it's rough."

Every time I had seen video of wolves in Yellowstone, they always looked so fat and frolicky. We thought maybe it was because this seemed to be a lone wolf without a pack, but a very outdoorsy friend at work said they always look like that.

I couldn't take my mind off that poor wolf though. It's fear and hunger were so powerful it was almost like my heart hurt for it. I guess that sounds melodramatic, but I have always loved wolves a great deal and seeing one seemingly so bad off was very unsettling. I hope it was just typical winter survival for him and that he'll be fine.

Anyway, we got pretty far along the road, saw a (frozen) waterfall, many many more buffalo, and some scattered elk and mule deer. When the snow kicked in, Beau decided we better turn around and go back before we got stuck in the park. It turned out to be a very prudent idea since a huge snowstorm later moved in, making travel difficult to impossible. Just as we neared the park exit, we hit a traffic jam.

The buffalo kind.

In New Zealand, we had to patiently wait for endless herds of bleating sheep to shuffle past. This time, it was the indifferent, yet dangerous buffalo that stalled us. Fortunately, we didn't have to sit there forever, but it was pretty exhilarating to be very....slowly....passing a grazing buffalo....so close that you could reach your fingers outside your car window and brush across its side.

A good day.

Buffalo Jam in Yellowstone National Park



Sheep Jam in New Zealand

Cow Jam in New Zealand

Knitwit

On my very long list of "Things I really wanna learn how to do before I die" is all the basic clothes-making activities: knitting, crocheting, sewing, and quilting. My beloved great-grandmother taught me a small amount of crochet, but all I can do today is make a very long braid...erm, jump rope!

Knitting and quilting are up there, though, because I already have an idea of EXACTLY what I want to make a quilt out of, and because I'd love the idea of making scarves and sweaters and some day a blanket from knitting. So, when Beau and I were perusing the craft not-so-superstore Michael's recently, (so I could buy lollipop molds), we saw they had many different classes, and they were cheap! The beginning knitting class was a mere $5 for two hours. When I mentioned I'd like to take that, Beau said, "I'll take that with you."

I nearly had a stroke right there in the aisle.

I've been trying to get him to take more MANLY courses with me - boot camp fitness, truffle making, ceramics, tango (okay, they're not THAT manly), and though he's expressed a mild interest, the reality is that I got the infamous Beau-Don't-Budge act. Beau reminds me a lot of the Thais. He won't exactly say "no" to your face, but if he doesn't want to do it, it takes an earthquake and tidal wave to move him. He considers that "controlling his own life." I consider it "impossible."

So, when he OFFERED to take a class with me, and it was KNITTING...well, it was a wonderful, if albeit, heart-stopping moment. We signed up, then promptly proceeded to the back wall where Michael's disappointingly-limited array of yarns and needles were displayed. Using my handy Knitting for Dummies mini-book (basically a long pamphlet), we chose size 8 needles (metal for me, bamboo for him) and one skein of yarn each, a nice wool blend. Grey for me, speckled blue for him. We thought we'd start off trying to make a scarf or something.

At home, a couple days before the lesson, we propped open the Knitting for Dummies mini-book and tried to do some stuff ourselves. It quickly became clear that Beau was the more adept knitter. It took him about 2 minutes to describe a slipknot to me (really). We theorized all that knot tying with fly fishing and raising horses had made it familiar to him, since in my opinion, all knitting is is making interlacing knots over and over again. Still, I wasn't catching on lightning fast or anything.

I don't know what it is, but there are certain kinds of things that my brain has a really difficult time grasping - certain kinds of instructions and tasks. I have to hear them over and over, and go almost in slow motion. For instance, though I would LOVE to play music, I have tried to learn music three different times and never gotten very far. I know HOW to read it, I mean, I GET it, but I just can't seem to READ it on the page easily and end up counting lines over and over again. This is why when I played Indonesian gamelan, I was TOTALLY in a state of joy, since we learned songs by numbers which corresponded to your instrument, and it's easy to bang metal bars with a large hammer when each one has a number. Look, even Dubya can do it!

AN-Y-WAY, on a cold Thursday night, I arrived at Michael's, needles and skeins in hand. Beau was coming from Wally World, and since I got there early, I texted him that I was there, and sat in my car reading the second Golden Compass novel. With just a couple minutes before 6pm, I entered the store and went to the classroom in back. Right before entering, I called Beau, who still hadn't left Wally World *mutter* and would be a bit late. But he soon arrived and we sat down at a long table in a small, cluttered, obnoxiously-lit room. Opposite us was a diminutive teenager with bright blue hair, knitting away at Mach 3. Our teacher.

We were the only two in the class, and naturally with a blue-haired teenager, things are a bit laid-back. She taught us the very basics, and then basically sat back continuing to knit. Again, Beau caught on fast, and I...didn't. After several embarrassing missteps, I got started, and the three of us were just knitting away with simple garter stitches. Every once in awhile I'd hold my piece up to the high schooler and like a small child, bleat out, "Help!" She'd grab the wool, eye it carefully while muttering, "What...did...you...do...here?" and then would proceed to unravel here and there, hand it back to me, and chirp, "There you go!" That was repeated several times over the night.

So, since basically all it was was the three of us sitting there knitting a basic scarf of 28 stitches wide, this gave the teeny bopper a chance to talk. And boy, was she chatty. Still, I liked her, and after a little more than an hour slowly discovered she was a major gamer/nerd/D&D, etc. kind of gal with a gaggle of geeky guy friends. Beau remained annoyingly silent throughout, so I did my social duty and plied the girl with questions to keep her mouth moving. Otherwise, it would have been just a little bit awkward. But she was only too happy to educate us on her ENTIRE life, so I listened and smiled and commented occasionally. After about an hour and a half, it was clear that we "got it" and not much more would be taught. So, we basically let her go, got one more skein of yarn each for our nubile scarves, along with our 10% discount, and went on our way.

Overall, the lesson was...fine. It did get us started, and I've been ravenously knitting the world's most ratty scarf since then, but I was also a bit disappointed. I was kind of hoping for a good foundation -- all those vocabulary words like "cast on" and "purling" and stuff. I was hoping to learn a few more things. But obviously, this is my fault as well. I should have opened my big pie hole and asked her to do exactly that. I guess I was just so thrilled to be actually KNITTING so quickly, that I didn't push it. Besides, it was just the first lesson.

So, my trashy, Eliza Doolittle scarf continues to grow. It's full of holes and misshapen. In fact, by some way that I cannot fathom, I mentioned to slowly....widen... the scarf. Dear Lazuli showed me how to quickly correct this mistake, but as you can see, the current scarf looks like a giant, striped penis. Or, a penis wearing a really warm sweater.

When I showed it to a friend at work today, he said it looked like some kind of neat old artifact that you could hang on the wall, like a Thai textile or something. *sigh*

Guess it's time for lesson #2. Maybe with a different instructor.

Black Monday

It's my 35th birthday.

Yeah, that's all I have to say about that.

I Meant To Do That!

Waking up this morning, I shuffled out of the bedroom and saw Beau walking toward me, already dressed to leave for Wally World. This was our conversation:

Me: Erm, you're wearing your shirt backwards.

Beau: *without breaking stride* I KNOW!

Me: Okay!

Beau: *stomps into bedroom, and without a word, proceeds to turn shirt around*

We're a bit tired around here.
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Small life update: I continue to work at my job, and have an interview coming up for a super cool job in Missouri. I've already warned my current boss that there's a possibility that we may have to leave Montana. Since her husband went through an almost identical professional crisis as Beau, she totally understood. *love*

Last night Beau had an interview at, of all places, the university. It's for a fantastic job with *gasp* GOOD pay - something he could really sink his teeth into and something that is directly related to his career - hallelujah! But as with all things in Missoula, there are always loads of people who apply for each position, so we'll see. In my job currently, I've been working on 3 separate search committees, and the amount of over-qualified people is really astounding. The competition is just like when I lived in New York City, erm, except without the good pay, good benefits, and plethora of jobs to apply for.

Anyway, it sounds like the interview went well, so here's hoping he can quit Wally World once and for all!!!! We'll wait and see and knock on wood and cross our fingers 'til they're all sore!

Drama! Blood, Sweat, No Tears

It's true Steve. No matter how careful I am, or how far I run from Drama, it always finds me. Bastard.
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I'd been trying to think of some ways to make some extra money without getting sucked into another miserable, low-paying second job, when I remembered the shiny plasma center not too far from home. Shortly after we arrived a year ago, we both went there to donate (for cash), and I alone was rejected, due to the tattoo I had gotten just a couple months before (remember - the one for Beau?). They told me I'd have to wait a year until I could donate. Beau was passed though, and continued to donate plasma for a little while, eventually giving it up when he began working a lot.

Well, it's been a year *sigh* so I returned to Vampire Central. This time I passed their physical and after a couple of hours of questions and measurements, was allowed to join the others strapped to the thick needle.

Obviously, I wasn't excited, but I wasn't too worried either. True, I had given blood in high school, fainted, and broken up my entire face, but I'm sure that wouldn't happen again! *cough* So, I made myself comfortable in the ergonomically-shaped lounge bed -- I had my book, my cellphone, my bottled water (I'd already eaten their offered granola bar), and an Oprah magazine. It's a 45-60 minute procedure, so I was set. I let them stick my left arm.

The basic gist is that you sit there while it extracts your blood, separates the red from the white blood cells, deposits your whites into a large bag, and then afterwards sends the reds right back into your arm. This procedure is repeated several times until they get the amount they need (based on body weight).

Everything was fine for awhile. I was a little more bored than I'd expected, but comfortable. I knew to expect certain possible "side effects" like tingling in the lips, or a metallic taste in the mouth, or feeling cold as your blood is sent back into your body. So far, I had experienced none of that.

On my second call to Beau, I started to feel a little nauseated. "Erm, I better go," I said.

The second I hung up the phone I got hit with a melange of yuck. The nausea catapulted itself into the "so super drunk I could puke out an organ" level, so I had to do some real-focused Jedi mind tricks not to throw up. My vision began to blur and get a little dark. I got dizzy, and I have only felt dizzy like this one or two times in my life - the first being that time I gave blood and fainted. Next, a strange and intense burning spread across the width of my chest and I broke out in a sweat. Hmm, not good.

Starting to panic, I looked around for one of the many technicians that buzz from person to person, checking vitals and adjusting machines. I saw no one for a moment, which stunned me since they were swarming like ants previously. Finally, I spotted one, caught his eye, and tried to nonchalantly wave him over. No fool, he made a quick beeline for me and was at my side in a flash. Apparently, I didn't have to tell him the problem, because my face and lips, ghostly pale at the healthiest of times, were now an alarming shade of dead.

The place immediately sprinted into action, and within moments, the blood-sucking machine had been paused, and I had the doting technician and the chummy nurse plying me with water, ice packs, and taking my blood pressure, which had plummeted from its usual high reading. I began to feel better almost immediately, and felt the symptoms slowly, but surely, subside.

My blood pressure was now "normal," it hadn't ascended to its usual lofty position (reminder: I have hypertension). I asked them to let me continue, but they were both skeptical. Sure, I'll admit I was concerned whether I'd be paid or not, especially after having spent half my Saturday there, but also, I just felt real bad. I mean, I knew I was nearly finished donating my set amount, and I had gone through all this rigmarole and didn't want it all this trouble to be for nothing. Plus, I was embarrassed to be such a problem. But I guess it's a common occurrence for first-timers.

Beau came and got me, and I DID get paid (phew), and after giving them several reassurances that I felt okay, and being forced to down copious amounts of H2O, I was allowed to leave.

At home, I felt fine for awhile, but then suddenly, while cooking up some tasty Thai ramen noodles, started to feel all nauseous and blech again. I finally ended up taking a four hour nap, and waking up feeling okay, but slightly weak. Damn! Such a frickin drama over giving a little bit of blood! This was something I really wanted to do on a regular basis, but obviously not if it was going to be this ridiculous each time.

For the next day or two, I remained tentative. But by Wednesday, I thought I was ready to give it one more try. I figured, maybe it was just a "first-timer" thing and all would be well. And if it wasn't, then, that'd just have to be it and I'd have to start delivering newspapers or turning tricks.

After work on Wednesday, I showed up, and along with a gaggle of construction workers, made my way to the same reclining bed as before. I didn't know, if psychologically, this was a smart move, but I figured, face it head on! Plus, I'm just loyal like that.

I was somewhat apprehensive, and the pre-donation blood pressure check had me at the very highest systolic/diastolic readings possible before being booted out the door. But I tried to calm myself, and after the needle went in, I just tried to relax. As much as you can with a giant needle in your arm hooked up to a churning machine.

And well, this is where Drama appears once again to ruin my life, right? WRONG! Hooray for normalcy! I spent the next 45 minutes being drained of plasma and even had a fun conversation with my grandma, who had just taken down the red lights her daughter had put up around her window, after realizing that she had turned her apartment (which faces a busy street) into a mini red-light district. Bow-chikka-wow-wow!

The needle was removed, I got up slowly, and like an old man with arthritic knees, shuffled out of the place and drove home. All's well that ends well! Hooray!

Stock Up!

Remember that Seinfeld episode where Elaine discovers that her favorite form of contraception - The Today Sponge - was about to go off the market, so she makes a mad dash to every pharmacy in Manhattan to try and stock up on them? Then, after acquiring a closet-full, she had to determine if each guy she was interested in having sex with was "spongeworthy?"

Well, I had one of those days. Sorta.

A couple years ago Victoria's Secret came out with a line called "Victoria's Secret Spa." It was a line of "luxurious" skincare products, and at some point I got my hands on their body butter, and was hooked. Great scent and it was one of the few lotions that actually worked on my skin (and your skin gets DRY in Montana). Because of its pricey-ness, it was a splurge and I didn't buy it or use what I had that often. But I loved the stuff.

Then about six months ago while at VS' notorious Semi-Annual sale, where you find yourself among a frenzied mob of women scavenging through endless bins of discounted bras and panties in the retail-priced unsellable colors of bright tangerine and fluorescent green, my beloved VS Spa was displayed prominently on a table for 50% off. Woo woo! I picked up a couple body butter containers and added another product in the line and went home happy.

A short time after that, VS sent me a $10 gift certificate in the mail. I have had their credit card for years and have used it like you're SUPPOSED to use a credit card - charge a little at a time, pay it all off quickly. Because of this, I'm always getting sweet little deals from them to tantalize me to spend more, and since I love the clothes in their catalogues, I often, erm, comply. So, after going online, little gift certificate clutched in my hand, I was dismayed when I couldn't find my product. So, I called their customer service line.

Her: It's been discontinued.
Me: *aghast* What? Discontinued? But I just saw it at the sale!
Her: *Long, useless explanation, vague promises that it might possibly reappear months from now "repackaged" so it would sell better this time around*
Me: Shoot, if I had known that, I would have bought a lot more than two at that sale! Le sigh.

She then suggested that I go to the NEXT Semi-Annual sale in six months, and maybe some would appear there on clearance. Hrm, alright.

So, that's what I did yesterday, just after work, and pushed my way through a bevy of Paris Hilton-wannabes, fists full of half-priced thongs and discounted perfume. It was another one of those moments, which I have begun to feel more often lately, that I'm getting old. That almost subconscious realization that you're no longer the same age as everyone else, that even in this crowd, you are different. As Chris Rock says, "You don't wanna be the oldest guy in the club. He's not really old, but just a LITTLE too old to be in the club." That's how I felt there among the lipglossed teenyboppers. I wasn't OLD old, but definitely older than most people in there.

Anyway, I scanned the store for the familiar turquoise packaging on my product. And at last at a small table in the center of the room, there it was! Hooray! I hurried over to find their entire stock of VS Spa fit in one small bin, holding a group of body butters and several "foot warming scrubs." I immediately grabbed 2, then 3, then 4, then 5... and then I got a little self-conscious since I was surrounded by girls in the checkout and changing room lines, so I decided to peruse the other merchandise. I walked around...slowly....dug through the underwear bins, bypassing thongs for bikini underwear, today's "granny panties," and found a couple I liked. Browsed through some sleepwear, and shuffled through the bras. Finally, I thought to myself, "This is ridiculous!" and strode over to the beauty table once more, grabbed 3 more body butters and went to the end of the line for a long wait.

At the checkout, after giving the cashier my two gift certificates, I said, "You know what, why don't you ring up just one more and I'll go grab it," I said. "No, I'll get it!" she exclaimed and dashed off before I could protest. She came back seconds later, waving a container in each hand. "There's only 2 left, do you want to just get the last two?"

"Erm,...*brief pause* Okay, sure."

That makes TEN.

Well! They're going to be DIS-CON-TIN-UED! This may be it! Forever!

With that, I left the store with my mammoth shopping bag, feeling both sheepish and triumphant.

Now, I just gotta figure out which days are "body butter-worthy."

Shits and Giggles

I got this from Lyssa's site, and did it just for fun, and also cause I know I'm a kick-ass typist and that I'd feel pretty nifty for a few minutes. It just takes 60 seconds.

A more sophisticated one can be found at typingtest.com. But I'm not feeling too sophisticated on this Monday. *yawn*

And only TWO mistakes! WooT!

103 words

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