Ghost Milk

We went to Hogle Zoo on Saturday. There was a definite Halloween theme going on: Monkeys dressed as zebras, elephants sporting rhino horns, you know, Halloween stuff.

Ok, that was all a bunch of lies. But there were lots of kids in costumes, and lots of booths for trick-or-treaters to bag oodles of tooth-rotting goodness.

One booth was giving away entire half-gallons of eggnog.

Egg. Nog.

So we took advantage of that, and purchased a jug at $0.00. What a bargain!

Take a close look at the picture. That’s a witch on the label. Witch or not, it’s a spooky picture, and Cordelia, seeing the jug in the fridge yesterday pointed to it and said: “Dost!”

“Ghost?” said I.

“Yes!” exclaimed she.

“That’s eggnog. Do you want some?”

“No egg! Dost Milk! Pease!”

Ok, so her English isn’t the best. But she makes herself understood, and she’s doing better. And honestly, I think “Ghost Milk” is a way better name than “eggnog.”

Pumpkin Pie, 11 Months Overdue

Last Thanksgiving I promised my pumpkin pie recipe but never got around to providing it. There were a number of reasons for that. One is that the pies I was making that day turned out… well… not overly edible; and I was a little embarrassed and didn’t think it would be prudent to provide a recipe that wasn’t any good.

In all honesty, the recipe is good, it was the cooking that wasn’t so great. So I’ve had to tweak the cooking temperature and time trying to find the best combination. As of last night, I am now confident enough to share.

You can download the recipe here, but watch the pie as it gets close to the end of the cooking time. Different ovens provide very different results. My in-law’s electric oven cooks the pie nearly perfectly at 375º in 55-60 minutes. My gas oven bakes the pies about as well at 350º for just over an hour.

I am working on an ideal pie crust to go with this pie, but so far I’ve only been able to make adequate crusts, nothing fantastic. Certainly nothing worthy of posting online. So if you don’t have your own pie crust recipe, you can find a bunch online, or buy a pre-made shell at the supermarket. Homemade is usually going to be better, however.

Surprising Sound

So today I was on the roof winterizing the house. While I was draining the water from the swamp-cooler I heard a familiar, yet confusing sound coming from behind me. Familiar because it was something I hear pretty constantly any time I’m home… or out shopping… or anywhere except at work.Confusing because it was a sound I very specifically do not expect to hear when I’m on the roof.

“Daddy?” was the sound.

I had left Cordelia in the house with specific instructions to finish her sandwich and then come outside. She’s generally a very obedient child, and I had no concerns. In the mean-time Tammy had her lunch break and had come upstairs to feed herself, and they had both come out giving Tammy a chance to explain to Cor what exactly it was that daddy was doing on the roof.

At this point, however, they had both gone back inside. Or so I thought.

When I turned around to see why it was that Cordelia’s voice had carried so clearly from the ground I saw just exactly what you are all thinking: Cordelia was up the ladder. She was, fortunately, not on the roof, but her head was well above it.

At this point I panicked, briefly, in my head. Sharply I said, “Cordelia!” And then, not wanting to frighten her and possibly cause her to fall, I took a breath and said far more calmly than I felt, “You aren’t supposed to be up here.”

I walked toward the ladder, hoping to be able to see some way to help her get back down safely, but found myself at a loss. Hoping that Tammy was still on her lunch break and within earshot, I started calling for her. Loud, but – again – calmly.

The rest of the story is pretty boring. Tammy came out, scolded the child much the same way I had, climbed up the ladder a few steps and helped Cordy make her way back down. Children, these days.

Might be my own fault. Here’s a picture I took last summer (actually April '08). This was done with my encouragement.

If you look carefully you can see the shadow of a

not-to-excited-about-this-stunt mommy ready

to jump to the rescue, if daddy's daredevil

decides to fall.

The Nobel Prize, Credibility Squandered

I normally save my political opinions for my other blog… but since I don’t ever update my other blogs, I think I’ll just do it here and be done with it.

I try to not be a hater, and I try to like President Obama. He seems like a really nice guy, and when I hear him talk, I like the things he says... as he says them. Unfortunately, after he gets finished talking, I find myself struggling to swallow any of it.

Now, don't think I'm some crazy-right-wing-nut, I've been accused of being too conservative by some of my more liberal friends... but then I've been accused of being too liberal by some of my conservative friends, so I gave up trying to appease everybody and have contented myself with being myself and having my own views, regardless of others.

Here's the meat: Extreme liberal values are harmful to the masses. The idea to "spread the wealth" is damaging to the entire group. It helps the poor, sure, for a while. But it harms the wealthy. This can have a couple of long-term side-effects. I was going to go into a deep-ish philosophical diatribe about why this is bad, but chances are if you don't already know why, you'll just disagree with me and miss the point of this post.

Here's a really brief summary: extreme liberalism = socialism = something for nothing at the expense of others... whether they like it or not.

And here's the point of this post:

President Obama was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize the other day. When a friend at work told me that, my first thought was: "Shut up." So I told him to shut up.

He insisted it was true. He turned to his computer and pulled up MSNBC.com and showed me. I scowled in thought... What's today? I thought. October something, so not April Fool's Day...

Still doubting I decided to check out the most official sources I could find. Ended up on nobelprize.org It was true. I was (and am) baffled. Why on Earth did the Nobel people choose to discredit this prize by giving it to somebody who did not earn it?? He hasn't done anything!

I read the official press release, I don't know if I need written permission to duplicate it here, so I'll sum up and give a link:

For efforts to strengthen international diplomacy, and his vision of a world without nuclear weapons.

Yes, friends, strangers, et al., President Barack Obama, 44th president of the United States of America was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for "trying" and "imagining" good things. Not for succeeding or accomplishing. For trying and pretending.

I decided this was going to be an opportunity for Socialists everywhere to point and say, "See, it works!! We really don't have to do anything, and good things will come our way!"

Obama, of course, was very gracious in his response to learning he would be receiving the award, and I have nothing bad to say about his response. However, I did read Rush Limbaugh's response to Obama's address, and though I do think Rush is a right-wing-nut, he made what I believe to be a good point.

He pointed out that this award was almost nothing more than the Nobel committee putting pressure on Obama (Read: bribing him) to leave Iran alone, refuse a surge in Afghanistan, and otherwise weaken the United States.

Best case scenario: The Nobel Peace Prize committee has undervalued their own prize and encouraged the rest of the world to see it as nothing more than a political award given to those who they think they can manipulate into advancing their own agenda.

Worst case scenario: President Obama feels the pressure, gives into it, and moves to completely eliminate the United States' presence in the world as a super power.

Bottome line: The Peace Prize has lost all significance in this frivolous awarding to President Obama. If I were a previous laureat, I would be saddened that my award no longer meant what it used to mean... of course, I suppose this started earlier, maybe when Al Gore received it.

Links:

Nobel Prize Press Release

Fox News (transcript of Rush Limbaugh)

Dog Psychology

This is Argos, our lovable, friendly, easily excitable, puff-ball. He's two years old now, and has been a member of our family for about 18 months. This picture was taken the day we brought him home.

From the time we got married Tammy had hinted at wanting a dog. She'd see dogs running around a neighborhood and point out that the poor things didn't have any home and we should pick them up and give them a new home at our house. Sometimes she was less subtle and would simply say something along the lines of, "We should get a dog."

I did not want a dog. Or any pet. Maybe a fish. You see, I grew up with pets. Cats, dogs, rabbits, fish, a turtle, a chicken, and my parents had horses. So I've had them, been around them, seen them get sick, seen them grow old, retrieved their bodies from the road. I've dealt with pets alive and dead, and I just didn't want to do it anymore. Dead pets are nobody's best friend, and they leave holes in my heart that never want to mend.

But as Cordy became more and more mobile, I came across an old photo of my niece when she was about Cordelia's age, and she was out playing with my brother's dog and her young litter of pups. The smile on her face was a mile wide and I realized that my selfish refusal to have pets would prevent my own child/children from experiencing the unfeigned love and joy that my pets had brought me my entire life. I couldn't live with the idea that I'd be preventing my own little girl from having her own pet-experiences, when animals had always been an extremely important part of my childhood... and adulthood, if I'm ging honest.

So Argos was Tammy's Christmas/Birthday present from me the year Cordelia turned 1 (Cordy's birthday is Dec 23, Tammy's is January 19, so the three kind of lump together when discussing past events). However, since Tammy is violently allergic to life animals, primarily those that tend to live with people, choosing a dog required a great deal of planning on my part. And I had to do it in secret, too.

So for several months prior to Christmas, I spent countless hours on www.dogbreedinfo.com and other websites researching dogs. In addition to Tammy's allergies, I wanted a dog who could be kept indoors (I grew up with outdoor dogs, and it always broke my heart to leave them outside without real company), and we needed a dog we could be comfortable having around small children.

Once the cat was out of the bag... or more precisely: the dog secret was revealed, Tammy and I started looking, together, at the list of most viable options for hypo-allergenic dogs that I had made. Since this was not just any old gift, but an actual living, breathing, potentially thinking creature who would be with us for many many years to come, we did not want to rush into it, and since it was going to be Tammy's dog, she certainly needed to have a say-so in just exactly what dog we got.

As we narrowed down the search, we also picked up season one of The Dog Whisperer on DVD and watched every single episode. We learned a lot about dogs, why they behave the way they do, and a bunch of techniques and tricks to help keep your dog happy. And it is unbelievably easy to do, with a little patience, and a lot of self-control.

Here are some basics:

1. Dogs are not people, and no matter what you may interpret, dogs do not think that they are people. At most, dogs think that their 'masters' are dogs.
2. When a dog is frightened or nervous, soothing sounds and cuddles do not reassure them and make them feel better. They are not people (see number 1). Soothing and cuddling them is interpretted as a reward for their behavior. It actually encourages them to be frightend or nervous! Yikes!
3. Dogs are instinctive walkers. They need to walk, to roam. A majority of behavioral problems in dogs can be averted simply by taking the dog for a brisk daily walk for 30-60 minutes (depending on the breed). And it isn't about exercise. A dog can get lots and lots of exercise playing fetch, frisbee, or just running around the back yard, but exercise doesn't physiologically trigger whatever it is the dog gets psychologically from a good walk.
4. Dogs are pack animals. They see their family as their pack. And as such they need a very clear understanding of the pack hierarchy. If there are other dogs in the house, they'll figure out which dogs fall where in the hierarchy all on their own, naturally. But because people are primates, our hierarchies form differently than those of canines, and we have to consciously make an effort to establish a pack order for the dog's benefit. It isn't hard to do, but it does have to be consistent. It is simply a matter of learning a little about pack behavior and then incorporating it:

• Whoever is physically in the lead during a walk, is the alpha dog. Do not let your dog walk you. Keep him/her beside or behind you. Use a leash that actually allows you to do that.
• The higher up in the hierarchy you are, the sooner you get to eat, in relation to the rest of the pack. Dogs should not eat before or while the rest of the family is eating.
• If a dog shows dominance towards a child, that dog should immediately be disciplined by getting him/her in a submissive position (aka, lying on its back), and the child should be placed standing above the dog, even straddling it, for a few seconds to allow the dog to imprint that the child is dominant.

Some of this stuff sounds heartless, or mean, or even stupid to us as humans; but it's because we are humans. We have empathy and compassion and all kinds of emotions that either dogs don't have, or experience differently than we do.

Now, about Argos and his psychology. Today's main event.

We finally settled on an Australian Labradoodle. There are two Labradoodle breeds, one of them is just any cross between a Labrador Retriever and a Poodle. And then there are Australian Labradoodles, which are considered a pure breed. They are the result of professional dog breeders working to breed together specific traits of two separate breeds in order to create a new breed altogether. Whereas a "Labradoodle" is a mixed breed, an Australian Labradoodle is pure.

The breeders were looking to create a new breed of dog that could be used as a service animal for people with dog allergies.

Poodles are hypo-allergenic dogs, Labs are not. Both are very intelligent dogs. Both are traditionally "water dogs," which is to say their original breeding was as bird-dogs - the dogs that go and retrieve the duck after the hunter shoots it from the sky.

If I understand correctly, Poodles are just a little too independent for the service animal tasks (as a breed on the whole, though I'm sure some animals as individuals could do the job just fine). So the good folks down under started working on getting some of the submissive love from the Labs and mixing it in with the allergy-free coats of the Poodles. The result, several decades later, is a wonderfully obedient dog with all the energy a small family can handle. He's clever (sometimes sneaky), very friendly, very very patient with small children who poke him in his eyes, and he never barks. Well, never used to bark. Something has happened and I've caught him barking a couple of times in the past two months. But even with that... he's not a barker.

Oh, and he doesn't shed. At all.

Argos is, however, terrified of the vacuum. He hides under the bed, runs into the other room, gets away and gets away fast. I've tried the psychological fixes that Cesar Milan (the Dog Whisperer) uses. I refused to coddle him, and I've even commanded the poor dog to stay in the room, on the bed, close enough to the vacuum to see it, and have refused to comfort him in his fear. It hurts me (as a human) to do this to him, but it works. Or it has worked. It's kind of hard to be consistent with it, because once he's under the bed, he's not coming back out. Ugh.

So this is where I get confused. He's terrified of the vacuum, but he plays chicken with the lawn-mower!!!! What is wrong with my dog? As I mow the lawn he charges it, then dodges aside at the last second. He'll pick up his ball and make a mad dash across the path of the mower, just feet in front of me. Today he just stood in my path staring at the machine as I rolled closer. I finally had to stop and yell at him to move. He did it twice, the second time he ignored me until I started pushing on towards him.

And this lawn mower isn't safe. I had to stop letting Cordelia be outside with me while I was mowing the lawn last summer after the spinning blades threw a rock or a peach-pit (or something small, hard, and aerodynamic at high speeds) at the house at a frightening velocity. If it had hit a window it would have smashed right through. Cordelia had been on the other side of the yard, picking flowers or something. I stopped the motor right then and urged her quickly into the house, explaining to Tammy why people were not allowed in the yard while I was mowing.

I'm honestly not comfortable with Argos out there while I'm mowing, but he loves being outside so much and he usually stays clear, chewing on his toys or playing with fallen apples, that I'm not terribly worried about him. And if I'm being honest, dogs just aren't little girls, no matter how cute and cuddly they can be sometimes.

If anybody thinks they understand why vacuums = fear and lawnmowers = exciting fun toys, please don't hesitate to speculate at me. I'm interested in all kinds of whacky explanations for my dog's insanity.

Today Part II - Whilst Driving

If you missed Part I, I just want to point out that I've doubled the blog today, so anybody interested enough to read one post may be interested enough to read two.

For those of you who do not already know, I am a motorcycle rider. I love my bike, even though it hasn’t run in over a year.

I take biker safety seriously. Not just because I have a wife and little-girl who love me and want me to be safe, not just because I can’t stand the thought of my daughter growing up and not having any real or lasting memories of her daddy, and not just because biker safety is a smart thing to take seriously. I take biker safety seriously because I don’t want to put anybody through the horrifying experience of having to scrape my mangled, broken, bloody, and gory corpse up off the road. Nobody should have to see that, let alone participate in it.

With that said, sit right back and read a tale, a tale of a homeward trip. It started at a working port aboard my wifey’s car.

(abandon theme music)

As I was driving south on Bangerter Highway, approaching the 201 interchange (for those of you who are out of state or otherwise unfamiliar, you can Google Map this, and then use the little orange guy to get to street level and see just exactly what it looks like there), a motorcyclist with no protective gear – when I say no protective gear, I want to be clear: shorts, not jeans, let alone chaps; short-sleeve shirt, not a leather jacket; and bald… not one hair between him and the open road – started drifting from the far left lane into the center lane, directly ahead of me. At first I thought he was going to lane-split (definition: to ride your motorcycle between cars along the lane-dividers – legal in some states, not legal in Utah), but I was mistaken. He was changing lanes completely, never mind the fact that there was a car in the center lane.

He didn’t bother signaling and from what I could tell, he may have checked his mirror, but didn’t bother turning his head the 10º-15º it would have taken to see that there was a car next to him (directly in front of me). I prepared to brake, rather than risk adding additional trauma to my soon-to-be traumatized psyche. Fortunately, the guy in front of me was more aware of his surroundings than the nugget riding the motorcycle and moved into the right-hand lane, safely enough.

He soon made it through a light that I didn’t fight for. As he disappeared into the ever congealing mass of vehicles that constitutes rush-hour traffic, I began doubting the wisdom in taking Bangerter Hwy. I usually don’t take it, but at the hour I was traveling today, I didn’t figure traffic was going to be any better on the freeway, and the hwy was more direct between work and the in-laws (who tend my princess). I began envisioning clogged transit arteries as rubber-neckers inched, gawking, past a broken, flayed body before emergency vehicles could arrive at the scene and hide the horror from unpaid, unpaying spectators.

I caught up to him again near 4700 south (about 16 blocks from where he’d lost me), and he was still alive and, as I found out later, not planning on changing lanes again before leaving the highway.

This whole drive I had been raging internally at what an idiot this guy was. He was not only stupidly risking his own safety, but he was risking the safety of other people on the road, and being inconsiderate of the feelings of people who presumably love him, not to mention his lack of concern for how his possible ruin could adversely affect those who witnessed it.

But then I caught up to somebody who made that guy look like a 133t super genius. This new guy was wearing approximately the same quality of protective gear, though he did have long, thinning hair on his head, was wearing long pants, and was sporting a sweet handle-bar moustache. Despite these obvious differences, he was by far the less intelligent, qualified biker.

My first thought as I approached him from behind (I was in the center lane, he was in the right-hand lane) was, “Geez, that guy’s only got one arm? He must have a sick, tricked-out bike that only requires one arm to operate!”

Steve’s Educational Corner:

For those who aren’t familiar with motorcycle workings: A motorcycle has a front brake and a rear brake. The front is operated by the right hand, the rear is handled by the right foot. Most bikes are manual transmissions, requiring a clutch and shifter. The clutch is activated by the left hand, the shifter by the left foot. It is possible to shift gears without activating the clutch (unlike a car), but it’s not something I would recommend doing very often, and it’s true that some bikes have automatic transmissions, though I’m only aware of that among scooters.

Once that foolish thought outlived its instant of glory, reality set in and I realized he was talking on his cell phone. His CELL PHONE! On the hwy at… well… considerably less than hwy speeds… like maybe 30 mph. But still. HIS CELL PHONE!!!!

As I passed him, I toyed with the idea of honking at him, maybe interrupt his call… maybe let whoever he was talking to in on the secret that his geniusness was in traffic. I opted against it. After I passed him I ended up moving into the lane ahead of him (this was just north of 5600 south, my exit was 6200, which was the next light after 5600). The light turned red, and we had to stop. Again, I toyed with an idea. This time I considered stopping suddenly to see what happened to the phone. I didn’t.

But I did watch him in the mirror. As he came to a stop, he lodged the phone between ear and shoulder so he could clutch and downshift to neutral (neutral lives between 1st and 2nd gears). We were stopped long enough that I could have gotten out of my car and gone back to have a conversation with him. Maybe ask who he was talking to, maybe find out if they would feel terribly good about themselves if he ended up getting killed in an accident while he was on the phone with them. I didn’t.

Time to go again, and voilà, he almost biffed it right there, as he hurriedly shoved the phone back into his neck-cradle and reached for the clutch, losing momentary control of his bike. Fortunately, he got off the hwy at 5600 and I didn’t have to see his freakishly imbecilic attempt at multi-tasking continue.

It’s unsafe to drive a four-wheeled vehicle while talking on the phone. Two wheeled vehicles are considerably more difficult to drive safely while intoxicated or otherwise distracted. In a four-wheeled vehicle you have the luxury of living in a protective box.

Friggin’ idiot.

By way of cynicism, let me express this thought: If you want to kill yourself, a bullet in the head in the privacy of your own home won’t result in a traffic jam, and will likely only traumatize those who love you most. Leave the rest of us out of it.

Today Part I - The Albertsons Tale

I was going to post a single blog with twice the content today, but it got so long that I am opting for a double blog... still with twice the content. So keep an eye out for Part II, coming soon (like within just a few editorial minutes after Part I).

This morning I stopped at Albertsons on my way to work to make a very small purchase. At 6:25 in the AM, they only have their self-checkout open; which is fine with me, since I only use human cashiers when the self-checkout is closed. Thankfully that almost never happens.

So, there I am at the self-checkout, pleased with myself because the product I was purchasing which is normally $2.38 each is currently going at 3 for $4 – a 56% savings! – as long as I use my Albertson’s Preferred Card. Which I always do.

I scan the purchase and place it in a sack, waiting for the friendly self-checkout lady voice asking, “Have you scanned your Albertson’s Preferred Card?” She always asks me this, even though she knows – and I know she knows – that I have not yet scanned it. But she’s polite so I usually just say, “Not yet, but I’m on it.”

Today, she asked me, and I responded as usual, but as I checked my wallet, I couldn’t find my handy little Preferred Card. It’s small, supposed to go on a keychain, but as I loathe bulky key chains or superfluous extras dangling from my car’s ignition switch, I never put anything on the keychain that doesn’t need to be on it.

As I started sifting through the absurd assortment of Jamba Juice and Café Rio “Buy 10 get one free” cards, and a number of Wal*Mart gift cards – which may or may not actually still have any money left on them – I pulled my debit card out and shoved it between two unoccupied fingers of my left hand.

Wouldn’t you know it, I apparently have the finger dexterity of a kiwi (the bird, not the fruit… though I suppose the fruit has about as much finger dexterity as the bird). I dropped the card and it fell. Not generally a big deal for somebody who is able to see, and bend at the waist and knees.

Well, it turns out, I’m extra-special. You see, I didn’t just drop the card. I dropped the card improbably into the little gap between the scanner and the edge of the scanner (see image below). At first I couldn’t believe that it had actually, somehow, managed to fall just right to end up down the narrow chasm. It had to have been at least 2 feet over it, and would have had to fall just so in order to make it.

Then the real concerns crept in. Without my Preferred Card, I wasn’t going to be able to get my awesome deal and would have to pay full price, and worse: I wasn’t going to be able to make my purchase at ALL!! Okay, that wouldn’t have been worse. It wasn’t an absolute necessity, it was a drink. But still.

After a brief lapse of judgment, my senses returned and I sought out (and found) the one employee actually working up front. She was gracious and helpful, and she showed me how incredibly limber the self-checkout lady is. You can lift her monitor screen right up and then her scanner area becomes nimble as a bee, making it easy to lift that scanner up and out, exposing the gratuitous metal bin that the scanner rests in. Lo and behold: my card was retrieved.

And to make things even more exciting, she punched in a code which delivered me the 56% savings I’d been craving! All I need is my phone number! Yay!

The observant reader will have noticed in an above paragraph "keychain" is a compound word, while "key chains" is separate. This is because Microsoft Word 2007 (my editor of choice) recognizes keychain, but not keychains. In a bid to keep Word happy, and in order to have something to criticize at this point in the story, I chose not to add keychains to the dictionary, and compromised the compound word. Enjoy.