Don’t worry, I’m OK now, but it was a close call. After some bed rest and a little TLC from my friends and family, I’m expected to make a full recovery from the trauma I endured as a result of overexposure.
On Thursday night I attended a basketball game out of town. I know, I know, what was I thinking? The invitation was innocent enough, but the situation got out of hand and I ended up having to sit through more than five hours of college basketball. Overexposure to Sports.
My travel companions insisted on going early to get a good seat, so we were there to take in the women’s game, too. I haven’t been to a basketball game in years, so I was unprepared for the big old sloppy floppy long shorts. The home team in their white jerseys, especially, looked like they were running up and down the court in their jammies. And the girls acted so tired from the very beginning of the game, like they were exhausted and ready for bed. I’m sure they would have been more energetic if they weren’t wearing pajamas.
After the women’s game, I was ready to spend the rest of the evening bellied up to the snack bar. I’d had all the basketball I needed for the rest of my life. But I gave it a chance and the men’s game was great. I was mesmerized by the players’ skill, stamina and speed.
We were there to watch a particular Carroll College player, Christopher Kaschmitter. He’s from Grangeville and I’ve known him most of his life. He’s quite good, so it was a pleasure to watch him, big old sloppy shorts and all.

The game took me back to my own college days, specifically the 79-80 school year, when I was a cheerleader for Lewis-Clark State College’s men’s basketball team.
Don’t blow a fuse trying to picture it. I didn’t look like I do now. Ironically, I thought I was fat in those days. I hope I don’t look back at THESE days and wish I was still that “skinny.”
Games weren’t played in the snazzy new LCSC Activity Center back then, however. We played in a rickety little old gym that was old even when my mother attended school there in the late ‘50s. (She was a cheerleader, too, by the way!)
This new facility is wonderful. Plenty of light, space, great sound system, benches with backs, snack bar featuring sausage dogs – the works. Surprisingly enough, though, they have not yet started on the shrine to the 79-80 cheerleading squad. There is an empty glass case, and I’m sure that is where the shrine will be located. Watch for the grand opening.

Gem found on Twitter.com

“If I’m ever really going to get serious about running, I need to find some sense of urgency.
Who wants to chase me with a knife?”
-- fistsoffolly

Napping in a patch of sun

If this doesn't make you want to have a dog like Zoe or BE a dog like Zoe, you need your head examined.

Chat Pack to the rescue!

Have you seen Chat Pack? It is a little box of conversation starters. I found them on the counter of a darling tourist-buster boutique in McCall, Idaho, called Razzle Dazzle and they hopped right over next to the book and candle I was buying and came home with me.
Each little green card has a question and the idea is for everyone to answer it, thus sparking some conversation, hence the term “conversation starters” Duh. Where have you been?
Examples:
If everyone were required to wear hats at all times, what sort of hat would you wear?
If you had to describe your personality in terms of a farm animal, which animal would you choose?
If you could have been there to witness any specific moment in sports history, what moment would you choose?
The Chat Pack could be fun at family gatherings, around the dinner table, in the classroom or on car trips.
I was thinking Blind Dates.
So, I’m in Applebee’s, sitting across the table from a man who is growing less attractive by the minute. I have my Interested face on, but I’m trying to read the lettering on the poster across the room and wondering where the lady in the next booth got her cute purse.
My date is droning on about how he could show his boss how to turn the company around. Oops, he’s done with that. Now he’s saving up to put lifts on his pickup and get new bad ass wheels that will make his rig look sweet. Heart, be still.
Chat Pack to the rescue. I deftly whip open the box and extract a card.
“Butch, which month of the year do you feel best describes your personality, and why?”
Blessed silence.
“Check, please!”

Migrating overactive hair folicles

I used to have to shave my legs every day. Now I forget to shave for days and days. Okay, shut up. I realize that COULD have to do with the fact that no one's seeing and caressing my legs nowadays, but that's another story. Anyway, I wonder when the overactive hair folicles migrated from my legs to my chin?

If you hear me whine, just walk on by

Sing to tune of Dionne Warwick's "Walk on By:"
If you see me walking down the street
And you hear me whine each time we meet,
“My bra’s too tight! My bra’s too tight!”
Make believe you don't see the tears, just let me breathe.....

I should buy a new one, I know, but they have to be special ordered from a tarp and tent outfit.

I keep thinking I’m on this big diet, so pretty soon I should be noticing a difference in the fit. I mean, the boobs are the first to go, right? So far, though, the four pounds I’ve lost have come from someplace else – probably my neck, the only body part that actually looks good because the wrinkles are filled out.

Working from home, my dress code barely includes panties, so of course I skip the bra completely. My dogs have come to recognize me even without my boobs entering the room a couple seconds before I do. Now they compete for lap space, though.

Don’t go assuming I’ve thrown propriety out altogether. I haven’t become one of those emancipated middle-aged women who refuse to wear a bra, even in public. (Sometimes you wonder why they bother with a belt buckle if no one’s going to see it, don’t you?) No, I keep a bra slung over the front door knob so I can jump into it if the door bells rings or I have to run to the store. No sense in shocking people with nipples on my hips.

Until I lose at least 10 pounds, don’t be surprised if you catch me with an unguarded grimace of pain. Just avert your eyes and walk away slowly. The girls are struggling to get out of the elastic-and-lace torture device and it’s all I can do to keep from flinging it off right in the middle of the produce section.

Sunny day on the Camas Prairie

A couple of weeks ago I was driving around the prairie on a gorgeous blue-sky day taking photos. Whenever I saw something expecially pretty, I jumped out of the pickup and went into Ansel Adams mode.

Coming back to the pickup from a particularly pleasing photographic excursion I noticed that my lips were actually numb and I couldn't remember my hands ever being so danged COLD. They felt cold to the bone. When I got in the pickup I checked the thermometer my son gave me for Christmas: 19 degrees. That's not horribly cold. Why was I so chilled?

After the next romp out through a pasture in my tennis shoes I jumped into the pickup and turned up the heater. How could I be so cold? It had warmed up to 29. Practically shorts weather.

Then I looked more carefully. (fat AND blind) Oh. It was 2 POINT 9 degrees. Before, it had been 1 POINT 9. OK, now, that IS cold. I'd better put on my gloves and button my coat.

Should I be let out alone???

Don't admit to affinity for NASCAR

Here’s a shout-out to all the men on match.com:

Do Not… I repeat, Do Not include “watching NASCAR” in your list of hobbies.

Honestly, fellas, that’s like bragging about picking your nose at stoplights or letting your niece braid the hair in your ears. Do you have a toenail clippings collection? Do you spit tobacco into empty beer cans and leave them sitting around?

The image of you zoned out in front of the telly for hours watching cars make left turns….NO. Total deal breaker. Trust me.

And, that said, don't wear your favorite NASCAR pit jacket on your first date. There are women who enjoy NASCAR, I hear (but don't believe), but by and large, women see NASCAR as something to be overlooked in a man, like involuntary farting while asleep or ignorantly eating mounds of garlic and onions on a date, thereby curbing any desire I might have had for a kiss or three.

Of course, wearing the NASCAR jacket is like a full disclosure thing. If I'm meeting you at a restaurant and spy the jacket, I could turn on my heels and scoot right back to my car before we say hello. That would thereby avoid all sorts of heated discussions about toilet seats and underwear on the floor in the future.

Cupcake marathon

I did something yesterday that I bet you’ve never done. I spent the morning in a monastery kitchen baking 500 cupcakes for a wedding reception.

My best friend’s son got married in Vegas last month, so Sue is having a reception for them next weekend in their hometown. Kevin was opposed to having a big reception, but Sue knew all the relatives (a.k.a. the entire population of their small town) would expect a traditional Greencreek “do” to christen the new marriage and initiate Jeana to the family.

So, Sue talked her son into a Party instead of a Reception. What Kevin has forgotten about his mother is that she always gets what she wants, and no one ever called her Simple Sue. The Party will have big band music, alcohol flowing freely and a catered dinner for about 250 people. Hmmm. Sounds a lot like a wedding reception, doesn’t it?

Kevin didn’t want a big fussy wedding cake, so Sue offered the idea of cupcakes. Cupcakes definitely whisk the event out of the Wedding Reception category and place it in the Casual Party section.

Kevin wanted things simple. And what’s not simple about a tower of 500 decorated cupcakes? His father and grandfather built the tower out of Plexi-glass, and Sue organized a cupcake-baking marathon in the biggest kitchen she could find. Another lady is going to frost and decorate each little cake.

Yes, indeedy, cupcakes are MUCH easier and less fussy than a big wedding cake. Yes, sir.

And that’s how I happened to find myself making cupcakes in the monastery kitchen yesterday.

I arrived at the Monastery of St. Gertrude on the hill behind Cottonwood, Idaho, at 9:00 Saturday morning and let myself in at the laundry door. Two or three sisters were doing their weekly washing and ironing, and one of them led me to where Sue was getting the kitchen ready.
Throughout the morning sisters popped in to say hello and see what we were up to, drawn by hen party laughter and the sweet aroma coming from the bakery. Sister Carlotta offered to help, and we took her on board immediately.

It was a fun and busy morning! Sue was the official cook, putting together the ingredients for her secret cake recipe. Her daughter Maureen and Sister Carlotta carefully filled muffin tins lined with pink and white polka-dotted cupcake papers, 9 dozen at a time.

Since I proved early on to be hopelessly sloppy with the cake batter, I was put in charge of the baking. During the 25-minute segments of baking time, I leaned expertly against the huge ovens and oversaw the flurry of activity. Oh, and I repeatedly checked the baking progress, causing at least 250 of the cupcakes to be concave. Sue couldn’t kick me off that job, too, so she just kindly pointed out that a lot of heat escapes every time I fan the damned oven door. She suggested that I trust timer.

When the timer went off, we all scrambled to get the cupcakes out as quickly as possible, with me operating the reach-to-the-back stick. (The baking chairman gets to use the gadgets, of course.)

Throughout the morning we planned a cupcake business franchise, reviewed the Super Bowl commercials, dissected and examined Maureen's new boyfriend from Argentina and laughed and laughed. By noon, we had finished baking 500 cupcakes, and joined the sisters for a delicious lunch in the cafeteria.

What a lovely morning! I hope Sue’s other son and daughter choose to have Parties instead of Wedding Receptions, and that I’m included in the ensuing cupcake marathons!

(Photo by Sue. L-R: Me wielding the reach-to-the-back stick, Sr. Carlotta and Maureen)

New site!

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Celebrating the people, places and lifestyle

of North Central Idaho

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****************************

The captivating smile

I got an e-mail from a match.com guy this week. And girlfriends, that is big news. Guys on match don’t initiate anything. They don’t wink, they don’t e-mail…they just wait for the women to make all the first moves. I’ve had maybe four initial e-mails from match.com guys all year long.

Excuse me, what’s that? You and all your friends get e-mails from match.com guys all the time? Your Aunt Mavis in the nursing home can’t keep up with responding to all the winks she gets?

Oh.

This is how it works. You scroll through all the profiles and someone catches your eye. You have the option of e-mailing that person or sending them a wink. When you choose the wink, they get an e-mail from match.com that says, “ScrumptiousKitty just winked at you!” Then they have the option of winking back, responding with an e-mail or, the most popular option of all, Delete and Forget.

So, I got this e-mail from montanateddybear:
I’m on my way out the door to take the kids to the movie, but I just wanted to tell you that you have the most captivating smile. I imagine you get a lot of attention with that wonderful smile.

Naturally I had to recheck my profile photo to see what was so captivating. I also ran to the bathroom mirror and checked my grin under the lights. Captivating? Hmmm. That might be a stretch.

I pulled up the guy’s photo. The best mullet you can manage with bald. And long hair. And an earring. And he’s from Montana. Bet he wears Birkenstocks with socks and has Save the Wolves stickers all over his Subaru Outback. But he had very nice eyes and a sweet smile and I liked that he had a master’s degree in education. His profile was well-written and he sounded like someone I might like. I was already planning to bring my barber kit to our first coffee date.

So I e-mailed back:
Thank you for the very generous compliment! It made my day. What movie did you see?
Tone meant to be friendly and encouraging, but not desperate, possibly sounding like I still have oodles of complimentary e-mails to get through before my date tonight.

His response the next morning:
We saw Hotel for Dogs. It was OK. Pretty good for kids, though. Good luck finding someone to share that wonderful smile of yours.

Well, then.

I guess I can put my barber kit away.