Havre Daily News
Montana Woman

For permission to publish my weekly/monthly column, View from the North 40, or to reproduce any website content, written or graphic, contact:
Pam Burke (that's me) at pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com, or (406) 265-7338.

It is officially, and undoubtedly, mosquito season in north-central Montana. Our summer has thus far been relatively mosquito free, but 300 gazillion mosquito babies celebrated their birth this week with a blood feast at my house.

I went out to "check" the horses tonight (knowing dang well from their antics that bugs were touching them). Oh My Gawwd! Two of the four boarded horses were --- without exaggeration --- coated in thousands of mosquitoes. I was so mortified for them I didn't even run back into the house to get the camera to digitally record the creepiness.

Before spraying them with repellent, I swiped them with my hands over and over, literally killing handfuls of bloody bugs. The poor bay and white paint looks like an extra in a horror flick with the blood smears showing up so well on his white coat. After treating those two, I had no sympathy for the others who were dealing with maybe a few hundred skeeters.

For the record, I hate bug season about as much as dead of winter. The only thing that makes dead of winter worse is the fear of some thing that produces or helps produce much-needed heat might fail and cause a major catastrophe. Given enough chemicals I can work on the bug problem.

And if that fails, we have iron supplements at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Yeah, so, I'm sorting out my jeans for my last load of laundry this evening and grab my pair of "really comfortably broke-in" jeans that I wore to work on Friday --- because it was Friday, and I had to give a riding lesson right after work without time to change clothes, and we didn't have any U.S. Representatives or Senators scheduled for the day, and it was my only pair of clean jeans ... that fit --- ahem --- moving on ... .

And the first thing I notice about the old faded jeans is the big freakin' hole in the back end, right there along the frayed seam --- about low enough where the crack of dawn ain't safe.

Now, what I want to know is: 1) where all did I travel with my nether regions viewable to world; 2) why in hell did I not notice the extra ventilation where it shouldn't be --- anymore than the sun should be shining; 3) how many public decency laws did I break; and 4) who all do I need to hunt down and kill for seeing my nether regions without saying, y'know, "Hey, Pam, just a little FYI about your crackage ... ."

Barkeep, I'll have a shot of extra-firm handshake, with a butt crack chaser at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Politics: it's all about me

I told you didn't I? I said it all along, and then I blogged it right here June 13th: Hillary Clinton is scary. Like Sybil scary, or Carrie scary, or the exorcist scary.

Don't believe me? Ask that poor Congolese university student who was served his own head on a wooden platter, courtesy of Hillary "The Pitbull."

After being sidelined from the limelight with an elbow fracture, Hillary set out on her Secretary of State comeback tour just as her husband, ex-President Bill "God, I look good posing this way" Clinton agreed to a grip and grin photo op in North Korea, thus securing the release of two imprisoned U.S. journalists.

So, I agree, it had to burn when in Africa, the major leg of her tour, a college student either misspoke out of nervousness or was mistranslated and asked what Mr. Clinton, rather than Mr. Obama, thought about a specific political situation. "... What does Mr. Clinton think through the mouth of Mrs. Clinton ... ," the translator said.

But I think the reply from an obviously irate Hillary was a tad over the top: "You want me to tell you what my husband thinks? My husband is not secretary of state, I am. So if you ask me my opinion, I will tell you my opinion. I am not going to be channeling my husband."

Hostility. Baby's scared.

It was like Sarah "I don't feel like myself without at least one foot lodged in my mouth" Palin on a drug cocktail of mega-steroids and some of those anti-depressants gone wrong that cause people to sniper hunt mall shoppers.

Seriously, I think the video was edited cutting out the part where the woman's head spun completely around while she projectile vomited green bile around the room.

Watch the video at your own risk. You don't ask me my opinion, but I will tell you my opinion: I will not be responsible if you have nightmares. Scuh-huh-hairy. I told you so, I told you so.

In lighter political news, Montana's only U.S. Representative, Republican Denny Rehberg, graced the newspaper office with his presence today. (Check out his website and you tell me if I'm right: dude looks like Eddie Munster all growed up.)

When he got there, head reporter Timbuktu greeted him and then proceeded to introduce him around the editorial department, which is just an open area with a handful of short-walled partitions to give us a back stop to contain the paper spillage from all our desks.

I focused on my work, trying to be invisible but thinking, "I hate meeting new people. Don't bring him over here, don't bring him over here, don't ... ." Didn't work.

I was introduced, I remembered to stand politely to shake his hand, returning the nice firm handshake in kind, and I desperately tried to think of something blah-blah-blah to say after "nice to meet you." Y'know, something that was not about the Eddie Munster look-a-like prize.

And the guy totally looked at his right hand after the handshake --- with near-theatrical obviousness. All I could think was, "Good, god, I don't think my hand was sweaty at all, and certainly not enough to warrant that reaction, man."

Then he said, "Are you a cowgirl?" Oh, hell.

I was so distracted by my struggle not to check my hand for errant horse poop that might've rubbed off on him I didn't even think to tell him, "You're close --- horses, not cows." I just blurted, "Uh, yeah,"

"I knew it," he said. "You've got a very firm grip there." Oh, hell's bells. Thanks. I should've known. And then while getting ready for his interview, he proceeded to go on and on and on about other butch Montana chicks and their strong hands --- until I was ready to stand up and say, "Okaaay, all right already. I'm sorry I out-manned you, grow some balls, or build a bridge and get over it."

This would be just one of the many examples of why I hate meeting people. I hate that moment when the conscious realization comes to them and appears as an odd stillness to the face: This chick's a freak.

I know, I get it, along with all my other not-one-of-us-nesses, I'm not a girly girl!

I. Can't. Help it!! at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Nieces are a wonderful thing --- and I'm not even talking about the fantabulous infant K-Pam whose father tells me she's still young enough to be a "burden," but honestly, I lay some of the problem onto poor parenting. I told him, she's over 4 months old, stop coddling her and give her a list of chores. Whatever. That's a tale for another day. Today is all about the 13-year-old Keen Eye.

We are doing a swap. Keen Eye does labor for me, and I work with her with the horses. She's good help, but the funny part is watching her and Charlie the horse together. That little stinker horse knows that Keen Eye isn't an experienced horseman, so she puts her through the paces when the poor girl tries to get things done.

Yesterday, I sat in the doorway of the tack shed watching the hoof cleaning process, and as Keen Eye was trying to figure out how to make Charlie pick up her hoof, Charlie was busy ignoring her in favor of her intense focus on stuffing as much of the lead rope as possible into her mouth and pulling to tighten the tie knot. By the time they were done, Keen Eye was exhausted, and then she really had to yank hard to get the rope untied. Does it make me evil that I laughed?

You could just see Charlie saying, "Heh, heh, heh, that right there is funny, I don't care who you are. Next time, little girl, how 'bout I untie myself and casually walk away? It'll be fun! You'll come to catch me and I'll keep wandering out of reach. Great game, really."

And it'll learn ya a thing or two at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

FOR SALE: State of Alaska
656,425 sq.mi. --- land 570,374 sq.mi., water 86,051 sq.mi., and coastline 6,640 mi. Rich in natural resources and abundant wildlife, only slightly oil stained around the coastal edges. Brand new bridge to nowhere and newly refurbished governorship. Winter paradise. Buyer must take full and immediate possession of all Alaska residents and close its borders to Hawaii, the continental U.S., and all U.S. territories. Motivated seller.

The past few weeks, I've totally been trying not to mention the unmentionables --- those celebrity people (and I mean that as a euphemism for a slew of other derogatory words) who have become a public name not because cream rises to the top, but because bullshit floats too. However, I must break my own guidelines and speak about one of the unmentionables: apparently the rumor is that former Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin, aka Caribou Barbie, aka The Flakemeister, might be relocating to Montana. Despite what the writer of the linked article says, Montana sux, Sarah, go home to Alaska and tell all your friends.

I'm too distraught to write more.

I just threw up a little bit on my keyboard at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

I don't mean to sound cold and heartless, but did anyone else laugh when they read that Steven Tyler from Aerosmith fell off the stage at a concert in Sturgis during the town's infamous motorcycle rally. I honestly wasn't laughing at the him. It was just that it sounded like something I would do.

He was dancing around on stage, working his ass off trying to keep the audience pumped even though the sound system had just blown a fuse and then the problems were compounded when, whamo, he overbalanced backward off a catwalk. Gasp! But the crowd cheered when he got to his feet to walk backstage bleeding and holding his shoulder.

Omigawd, the bruised ego, the disheartenment, the quick, furtive glance around the room to see if anyone saw that.

Besides, dude's 61 years old. He's been getting AARP notices for 11 years. The ancient Rock god is just a few short years away from Medicare. He's already eligible for senior discounts in most restaurants and movie theaters, including 15-percent off of the already cheap, $5 all-you-can-eat buffets in Vegas, baby.

He could've broken a hip at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

More truths about cats and dogs:

A group of researchers at the Department of Biological Statistics and Computational Biology at Cornell University has made some interesting discoveries about the origin of dog domestication. Apparently --- through DNA tests to determine genetic diversity along with a few hypotheses, some theories, and a few quadratic equations thrown in for good measure --- these researchers have discovered that dogs most likely were first domesticated in northern Africa and Egypt. Good on ya men.

Now they need to help out a couple other groups of researchers studying cats. Apparently these researchers decided that cats domesticated themselves ages ago so that humans would take care of them. Great theory. Domesticated themselves, very clever, ha ha. But their semantics were off a bit: cats domesticated humans ages ago.

Our last cat was a tiny Siamese cross who was 7 lbs. at her "heftiest" and got as low as 4-3/4 lbs. as she aged. Even in her prime, if we had a mouse rattling around the house loud enough to wake her, she'd whip to attention, give an "oh, it's just a mouse shrug," and then go back to sleep. But, boy, if she heard a mouse trap go off, she'd hustle into the kitchen, pop the cupboard door open, grab both mouse and trap and parade "her" prize around. She'd run up to me chirping her non-meow sounds, trap clanking with every stride, so proud that "she" bagged some big game, possibly wondering if I wanted to sample a mouse steak or other vermin-carcass delicacy. Wow, tempting, but no.

I bring this up because I used to harass the cat for disregarding my efforts in catching the mice, saying that she was worthless for not taking care of the vermin before I did all the work. But lately, it's been a hot and busy summer, and I sometimes forget to check the trap-line if we haven't gotten a mouse for months, and this can be bad in hot weather when the Singlewide Mansion heats up like the metal box stove that it is. Half-baked mouse ain't a pretty thing. I long for the days when my cat would save me from this perdicament.

On the plus side, I've gotten a lot of work done in the past two weeks despite the heat.

Couldn't smell the mouse past my armpits at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Oh look, it's guy day in the news.

Kind of, because the first news bit is really not real guy stuff, it's only essence of guy elements. It's the Beer Summit with President Barack Obama, Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates Jr., Sgt. James Crowley and Vice President Joe Biden for beers in the Rose Garden at the White House to discuss their issues.

Can I just say that the most guy thing about this was the idea of sitting down for beers. Period.

They had to schedule this little soiree days in advance. Whatever happened to an unexpected knock on the door from a buddy with a dewy cold six-pack and the random, undeniable urge to par-tay.

Then the big plan was to talk about issues. It's so like a guy to get in touch with his feelings ... in TV commercials. But in the real world, beer-swilling, butt-crack baring, breast-joke telling, use your pant leg for an oil rag thinking guys everywhere know that getting in touch with their feelings and the hard-hitting social issues is to say: "So, like, how do you feel about the new engine restrictions in NASCAR this year? I could just weep for how slow those cars are going."

And the president "nibbled on snacks." WTH? Where's the stale popcorn and the peanut shells on the floor? Did anyone even eat enough to keep from getting dry heaves from the projectile expectoration of excess alcohol?

Don't bother to answer that last one. They sipped their beers. They didn't play Quarters. Biden drank non-alcoholic beer. They wore suits.

Should've just given the pack of girlfriends a pitcher of Shirley Temples, a silver serving platter of crustless, cucumber finger sandwiches and a box of aloe vera infused tissues.

As a side note, here's the caption for the promotional still shot from MSNBC video of the foursome at the table: "July 30: President Obama sits down for a beer with Harvard Professor Henry Louis Gates and the Massachusetts police officer who arrested him."

Um, perhaps the author should've used Obama and Gates' full names in there, in the interest of, y'know, thorough reporting. Still, though, that's a heckuva lot better than the treatment Crowley got. Why not just say "the white Johnny-law suppressor of minorities"? And poor Biden, he's so white and so entirely uninteresting the author didn't even mention him.

Joe, dude, embezzle some money or get caught playing "Bill and Monica" with an intern in drag in the Oval Office. At this point, any press coverage really is good coverage for you.

Now here to save the day by putting the guyishness back into the men's department is Japanese astronaut Koichi Wakata who has been testing a new type of anti-bacterial, water-absorbent, odor-eliminating clothing designed for space missions. Specifically, our guy of the day has been wearing a specially fabricated, silver coated, "cross between boxers and briefs." His test consisted of wearing said "undies" for an entire month while orbiting the Earth. His tests were not to gag his space-roomies with any stale undies stench and to prove that he's totally a guy. I don't know about the first one, especially with a skid mark in there that's about a month long, but your second test is a positive, dude.

Interestingly, the man-undies are billed as being "antistatic and flame retardant." OK, I get antistatic, because of the technological nature of the space machinery and, honestly, nothing's worse than when your space suit static-clings to your bum. But flame retardant? I don't thing you're supposed to be lighting farts in space, guys.

Just saying, at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Y'know how sometimes when you yawn your eardrum makes a funny little popping noise, or maybe not, but mine do. Well, last night I was sleeping the deep sleep of the guiltless and then I was suddenly awake. No big deal because I never get through a night without waking at least once --- see, I'm guilty after all --- but I just hang out there in that mild, sleep delirium until I get comfy and nod off again.

Then my right ear made that funny popping noise, only it was 5-6 rapid-fire pops. Yeah, totally awake now.

Several breaths later, happens again ... and keeps happening about 2-3 times a minute and I can't figure out what the problem is.

However, I am totally remembering being horrified while reading a few years ago about a woman in Australia who had a spider in her ear --- yes, a freakin' SPIDER. In. Her. Ear. It made popping noises as it scuttled around her eardrum.

I couldn't take it anymore and woke John, and he got up to look in my ear because I mentioned the horrifying spider-in-ear story. (And I Googled it today so I could provide a link, but I couldn't find the story --- only several other spider-in-ear stories so I'm freakin' freaked, now. You'll have to find your own links. I can't do it.)

John flushed my ear for me. Still popping, still freaking. I did some neck stretches to get myself off that panic attack ledge and the noise started getting softer. So I went to bed and continued with the neck relaxation. I'm a big girl, I can work through this, breath, it's just a muscle spasm or something ...

Then John said to me in the dark, "I suppose it could be a spider---"

"Shut up, dude. Don't talk to me about it."

"I'm just saying that I agree with you."

"Are you retarded, or just mean?! Shut your pie hole about the spider-thing! I am creeped out and completely serious! Not another word!!"

I don't know how I got back to sleep after that, but I did finally --- no thanks to John. My ear has popped a few times today but just single pops.

However, I still have heeby-jeebies at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Have you ever been going along, having a pretty good day, and then your spouse walks into the house to say that your horse is three-legged lame and you take her to the vet and he says she has a chipped bone in her fetlock joint (ankle) and it sorta kills your good buzz? Yeah, me too.

In fact, it happened Tuesday to me and, of course, my horse, this horse, Jilly, Her Royal Highness the Petulant Princess, my Veruca Salt who was just getting mature enough to like being a riding horse.

When the vet manipulated the joint, the chip popped out of the way of her joint action, and she started putting weight on the leg. The swelling is going down, but the chip is still floating around waiting to wreak havoc, evil-doer that it is. She is staying quiet (for as long as possible) in the large pen behind the shop, and we are waiting to see if she heals well enough to be functional for at least a while.

Sighing at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

On the up side, all that hard, sweaty work I've been doing to get my pens built is starting to make my body feel fitter --- in an "Oh, look, I'm not quite so flabby and squishy" way.

On the down side, the extra muscle build-up has made me gain 5 lbs. That's painful to see on a scale.

On the up side, my pants-legs and shirt-sleeves are looser.

On the total downer side --- when you get firmer muscles without actually losing any body fat you develop an issue. You know how all the health and fitness people harp on strengthening your core, all those stomach muscles from your belly button in to your spine --- yeah, well, all that fat you don't lose while you're getting firmer migrates to your core. Even if your core is getting strengthened. It's like your core isn't just your center of balance and strength, it's the core of your gravitational pull and it sucks all your fat cells to it. Yes, your belly actually gets bigger as you get firmer.

And by you, I mean me.

Gawd-o-friday, I look like a weeble with legs. A lumpy weeble.

Wobbling, falling down into a vat of ice cream, again, at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

We went to the rodeo last night for the first time in a few years. Awesome bucking horses --- although I'd like to match Xena up against any of them. The bulls and bullriders were a little lackluster, but as a consolation prize, one of the bullfighters was Lloyd Ketchum of NFR fame. I totally wanted to go say, "Hey." And wished I was younger so I could add, "Would you sign the back pocket of my jeans." Oh well, my luck, he's probably a breast man.

By the by, I'm taking this moment to print a retraction for my column --- here on my website where it makes no difference. I like the irony. Anyway, in my column on the 10th, I referred to the babes in advertising at the newspaper as "prima donnas." I know, it's rude, but it's what I do, plus I only did it because I didn't have enough space for the running joke of how they please their customers for money, thus making advertising akin to the oldest profession. Sometimes it hurts to cut words.

So the very next week (that would be last week) two of them had to go retrieve a couple boxes of printed inserts from the dumpster (long story, without a funny bone) and they did so in the pouring rain. Then on Friday, they participated in the "calf-dressing" fundraiser at the rodeo in which three of them had to wrestle a calf into submission, put a T-shirt on it and lead it to a finish box. No, they didn't win, but it wasn't for lack of effort or willingness to get into the dirt. Not a prima donna thing to do anymore than dumpster diving in the rain was. So I take back the prima donna line and stand corrected, or rather STETed as we would say in the newspaper office.

But I'm sticking with the prostitute inferrence --- what with the shoe fitting and all at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

I've been pulling nails --- and by nails I mean everything from 5-inch nails to 8-inch spikes, all made of the honkin' hard steal from the early- to mid-1900s --- out of 50+ posts --- and by posts I mean 10-foot to 18-foot creosote-treated railroad ties. I'm going to use the posts to expand my corrals. It isn't easy work, and it dang sure ain't fun.

Tips to Readers: If you've ever bent a Wonder Bar, or, uh, two, trying to pull spikes from creosote treated posts, get a 3-foot crow bar. It's the right hoochie momma for the job and makes you feel invincible. Well, until you whack yourself in the head with the thing when it slips off a nail head, but if no one's watching and it doesn't make a big mark, no one will know you felt stupid for a moment and the invincible thing stands.

I got to one post this morning that had some angle-iron screwed to it --- and by screwed I mean attached with four somethings that look like 6-inch long 1/2-inch bolts with pointy tips and square heads. So I trooped to the big shop (source of the fabulous crow bar), absconded with a big crescent wrench and took care of those bad boys in short order.

But then came the debate, the ethical dilemma, do I keep the crescent wrench until I'm done for the day, or return it. This is the first I've needed it in three days and I don't see anymore use for it, but you never know. However, if I keep it with me I run the risk of getting to the end of this work session and saying, "Gawd, I'm just so hot and tired. I think I'll throw all this stuff in my shed and go make cozy with a big glass of water in my recliner ... I'll take that wrench back later." This is bad because I will then forget the wrench and that will most certainly queer my deal on keeping the precious crow bar with my other tools in my shed.

I did the right thing and took the wrench back right away. Clump clump clump clump to the shop. Clump clump clump clump back to the work site.

The very next post I rolled into place to work on had four bolts that I needed a crescent wrench to remove. Aaargh. I pulled all the nails and spikes in it and called it quits for the day. I cussed, too. Oops.

No good deed goes unpunished at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

It's late. I don't have time for this blogish nonsense. Go here for a recent North 40 column that I feel compelled to share.

What are you doing here still?

Go away and let me sleep at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Kenzie Redux: Conversations between a girl and her dogs

Kenzie: "Hey, guys, does this onesy make my butt look big?"

Tinkerbell: "From here, I'd say mondo big, kid."

Kenzie: "OK, but it's still cute. Right?"

Puck: "Absolutely, kid. What can I say? I like big butts and I can not lie."

Kenzie: "I knew it! I make infant wear look goooood!"

K-Pam's so cute, she's cool and hot at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Al Franken is a shining beacon of bright light. He is the bar-raiser. He is the Ronald Reagan of the jokesters. He is an official United States Senator.

If I ever run for mayor of the great city of Havre --- oh, crap, I just snorted breakfast cereal out my nose. That's what I get for lyi-er-exaggerating. It's a good city. No, it's really just OK. Ah hell, I'll be generous, it's goodish. Except ... no, I'll stick with the goodish city of Havre. But whatever we call it, my point remains: if I ever run for mayor of Havre, I'll thank Big Al for paving the way for yuk-it-uppers everywhere.

You go, Al. It's your birthday.

In other political news, The Associated Press --- the organization which ever endeavors always to bring us the latest in the most importantest news --- reports that Sarah Palin has issued a semi-formal statement to Runner's World magazine claiming that she could beat President Barack Obama in a foot race.

AP quoted Palin saying, about her need to jog, in the article: "I feel so crappy if I go more than a few days without running." How we could have held our heads up high to have you represent us at a G8 summit, Sarah.

And, regarding a jogging mishap while campaigning to be the vice president, she said: "I was so stinkin' embarrassed that a golf cart full of Secret Service guys had to pull up beside me. My hands just got torn up, and I was dripping blood. In the debate, you could see a big ugly Band-Aid on my right hand."

I'm sure McCain feels the same way about his battle scars, honey, so keep your chin up.

In case you're wondering, according to the AP article, Obama has not commented on the issue.

Imagine that at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Look who came to visit.

Yes, the fabulous and obviously brilliant, K-Pam the namesake, came to hang at the Singlewide Mansion. We laid low, trained some horses, partied. Right after this photo was taken, she belched and threw the empty across the room. Par-tay, girlfriend!

The country air was good for her, and she slept a full eight hours straight the last night here. Or she was totally exhausted from protesting her abandonment at a babysitter's whilst the growed-ups went to the movie. I've been setting aside money for her psycho-therapy fund --- screw college, she's gonna need help outliving the trauma of being in this family. And Auntie Pam's gonna have her back on that one.

How does that make you feel at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

2005 was a tough year for me.

I never fully appreciated that until now, until I was researching the food pyramid (don't ask why --- no, really, don't), and I discovered that the new and improved government food pyramid, circa 2005, is this:

Now what kind of wingnut comes up with an idea like that? A government committee made entirely of specialists, I'm guessing.

What is it supposed to symbolize? Really, because it's a bunch of Skittles-colored racing stripes disappearing into a point that ... represents our infinite need to eat right?

Because it looks like they're trying to tell me that at the top of the pyramid I need to eat less. Like that's gonna happen. Besides, if I hike my substantial frame to the top of a pyramid, I'll expect some vittles. Preferably a calorie-laden bowl of vittles of "immense proportions." Something that would feed an entire starving third world family for a full day.

And what's up with the guy running up the steps, anyway? I know he's supposed to represent exercise, but, hello, it's a FOOD pyramid. Unless he's about to slip on a banana, or he's running from the cops because he has a ham tucked under his arm, he doesn't belong.

I ain't bbq'ing him this weekend at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

I am a loser. There, I said it. Loo-zer.

The paper submitted some of my columns to the Montana Newspaper Association's annual "Best of ..." competition. I didn't even get an honorable mention. So now I am a big fat loo-hoo-hoo-hoo-zer.

I'm crying on the inside.

I'd be weeping inconsolably on the outside but for this: 1) Looking at the winners, I think it's fair to assume that the judges were looking for serious editorial comment. Seriously? Right. Maybe next year, kids. Riiight. And 2) the judges were from North Dakota newspapers, so what do they know? The only decent things that ever were produced in that state are my second mom and my sister-in-law, both beloved and endearing and ultimately fabu. And, hey, they left, so N.D.'s got nothing now ... except some wack jobs pretending to be all serious about the news. Whatever.

They could've sent me a smiley face at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

Nurse: So, how did you injure yourself?
Me: Horseback riding accident
Nurse: Really? Those seem to be popular today!
Me: Imagine that.
Nurse: I mean, it just seems to be quite a coincidence. I don't mean to make light of your accident.
Me: Oh, no, we can't be poking fun at some things.

We all agree to that, right? I'll head out to the launch pad and ask the equine trebuchet. She'll probably agree --- Xena: Sere-reee-us stuff. Seriously, dude, you should've heard the sound your body made when you hit the ground. Size-mo-graff-icle.

Doctor: So how did it happen?
Me: Do you mean the accident in general, or the specific details that account for the specific injuries?
Doctor: Either. Both.
Me: Because I had a horseback riding accident and really don't recall the details ... for about an hour and a half ... or so.
Doctor: So you got a concussion?
Me: Uh, yes.
Doctor: Did you go the ER or see your doctor.
Me: Uh, no.
Doctor: .... (not quite sighing).
Me: Well, it didn't crack my helmet, and my husband checked my eyes ... so, well, we figured ... y'know ...
Doctor: ... (focusing on keeping his eyes from rolling).
Me: ... everything was fine.
Doctor: It's commendable that you were wearing a helmet, anyway.
Me: Thank you! (smiling as if I just got a gold star on my spelling homework.)

And the verdict is: maybe a slight tear in the pectoral muscle at my sternum, should heal. Definitely tendon and ligament strain around the shoulder joint and clavicle joints. Maybe partially dislocated the shoulder. Give it another 3-4 months. Here are some exercises, take it easier, be careful around the horses.

Ha ha ha! Be careful around the horses. Ha ha. Everybody's a comedian.

30 minutes later, back at the ranch, a bright bay, ex-racehorse, Thoroughbred mare was delivered for training after not being ridden for a year. That looks like careful just waiting to happen.

Then Xena fell instantly and madly in love with the new horse. She tried crawling over the fence panels to get to her and then tried tearing the fence down by using her teeth to rip at the chain and twine bindings connecting the panels. So instead of resting, I had to erect an electric-fence buffer-zone to keep Xena away from the panel fence. And because she really wanted to be tearing the panels down, but couldn't, Xe resorted to other acts of terrorism, namely, ripping into the bags of electric wire insulators, very cleverly choosing the bag of insulators that includes nails to ensure that I spend another 10 minutes out there hunting nails in the dirt.

At this point I wanted to use her as a target for a hammer throw contest, but got worried that I would only injure her and not kill her outright. I have the equipment and land to bury the body and all the evidence, but I don't have the money or time to doctor her, so we know which would've happened. I --- very carefully --- shooshed the horses away from my stuff to finish the fencing in peace.

We're all about careful here at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

I've been ground driving the human-launching, one-horse-powered catapult, Xena, and I have to say that she is doing quite well. We took the show out into the wide-open hay field this evening, and she did a few very cool big girl things:

• Like not pitching a holy-hell fit when she had no less than six deer flies biting her rump at one time (yes, I stopped her and went after the nasty biters, and she quickly figured out that I was slapping her for a good reason then did her best to point out the next fly due for execution).
• Like having a couple brain-glitch moments that I thought were going to turn into run-aways, but coming to a screeching halt as soon as she ran into the bit, so I didn't get pulled forward or anything.
• And like being generally attentive even when we were out of sight of the other horses, and even when we were taking detours on the way home. Woohoo!

OK, I'll stop torturing you, dearest Readers, with horse stuff ...

My new horse boarders (honest, this isn't about horses) have parked their Kubota tractor out here and then volunteered to take it to the arena to work up a couple spots where the thistles were peeking up. Mind you, my arena --- aka, a corner of the irrigated pasture --- is at least 1.5 acres, and I work it with a large tractor and a 12-foot-wide discer. That said, how funny was it to see the guy down there in this itty bitty tractor with its 4-foot-wide wheel base and this little 3- to 4-foot-wide rototiller.

I wanted to say, Aw, isn't yo' wittle twactor cuuute? But I have to say that I love how nice the dirt was in those patches after he was done. I've always thought a rototiller would be the perfect finisher for that dirt. Now I'm jonesing for a 12-foot-wide, hydraulic powered, dirt chewing, hunk-a hunk-a burning love, monster tiller hooked to the John Deere. A girl's gotta have dreams.

Lastly, in the not really horse news department, I'm going to see the orthopedic surgeon tomorrow for a professional opinion on the damage lingering in my shoulder and pec muscle after the ground-pounding in April. Yes, I know, Dad, 'bout time. Build a bridge, get over it. I hate going to doctors. Nothing but bad news and big bills. Sigh. I'll let you all know the verdict.

Stick your arm out and say aaah at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

It's been a wild few days here on the White Trash Estate, literally.

I was walking out to the highway to get the mail on Saturday and decided: Uh, no. Let's not scare this heard of antelope off the pasture onto the highway. So I went back and got the camera.

The small herd was eating right along the road on our place, not far from the highway --- as evidenced by the pickup.

Later in the day John and Cooper were hiking up to the Wi-fi tower and poor Cooper ran right over another rattlesnake. No bite this time, but he had massive flashbacks. John's been carrying a pistol with him when he goes trekking, so he killed the snake and collected the rattles (pictured), but Cooper had quit him and wasn't going anywhere near the trail.

When they got back to the yard, I was comforting Coop, until John walked up to show me the rattles and tell the story about how huge the critter was, then Cooper ran. If he'd been a human, rather than a dog, Coop would've been waving his arms in the air and screaming like a little girl. He was a traumatized little muttley.

I know this badger picture sucks, but I was so surprised I didn't have time to get set up. I went for a walk in hopes of getting a picture of a shy bird we have living around here, but can't identify, and I saw what I thought was a stray cat slinking across the road in the shadows a hundred yards or more ahead of me. Hmm, interesting, in a none-event kind of way.

I just kept wandering along looking for my bird, until --- duuuh --- the "cat" was actually a badger and it was crossing my arena by then. I zoomed in, but lost him from the viewer, so I had to zoom back out and start over. He was almost long gone by then. Yes, I'm technologically challenged. Leave me alone about it.

Not pictured is the bat we had in the shop, because there's this trick to taking pictures: even on fully auto, you still have to actually have the camera in your possession and pointed at the target to get a photo.

Yes, we forgot to get the picture at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

My biggest disappointment of the decade is that we had a chance for a female president and then a female veep, and, out of good conscience, I couldn't vote for either of them.

Hillary Clinton scared me in too many ways. But Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin, our little Caribou Barbie, was an embarrassment, even to us red-blooded, true-blue, white-trash American hick chicks. And she's still in the news running with the philosophy that any news coverage is good news coverage.

Um, no Sarah, it doesn't always work that way. Sometimes you need to shut your pie hole until someone with experience feeds you the proper response, because you will not win the war of wits with David Letterman using hyperbolic outrage.

The summary of the brouhaha is that Sarah and Todd Palin took their daughter to a NY Yankees game and then Letterman made this joke during his monolog: "There was one awkward moment during the seventh inning stretch. Her daughter was knocked up by Alex Rodriguez."

Unfortunately, the daughter who went to the game was the 14-year-old Willow, not the 18-year-old teen mom, Bristol. So if you take the joke in a literal sense, it's not just in poor taste, it's in downright bad taste. (In the interest of full disclosure: Yes, I would've laughed, but I would've known it was wrong. And then laughed again because I'm a bad girl.)

Sarah and Todd Palin in various statements and appearances are expressing their outrage over the joke suggesting that Letterman was proposing acceptance of statutory rape of their daughter and other young women, claiming that he needs to apologize to all young women. And going on to say that "it would be wise to keep Willow away from him," alluding to the idea that Letterman might try something himself.

Puh-lease. Keep that up and you'll owe all young women your own apology for being such a dunderhead while your position in power and the lime-light should be making you a positive role model. It's important that each young girl in America learn that she has, at least, to act like she has an intelligent thought in her pretty little head in order to become a leader. That's how the good politicians of any gender do it.

Mike Murphy, NBC political analyst, summed it up wonderfully: "I think she's snatching defeat out of the jaws of victory by overreacting a little bit now."

Exactly, because Letterman, love him or hate him, is a master at what he does --- and much of that is subtly killing with satire. Since he's going up against Conan O'Brien in his regular time slot now, he's going to milk this situation for all it's worth, and he has a nightly forum in which to wreak havoc. In his apology-slash-rebuttal he spent 8 minutes making jokes about the Palins, himself, the situation, his own sincere apology, etc. His ratings are already up. This will become a running joke on his show.

Sarah, honey, your response was like Wile E. Coyote climbing into the Acme Whizbang Catapult to launch himself, knife and fork in hand, onto that rascally Roadrunner. You could've landed in the middle of the situation in control and armed for success and made your points about tasteless jokes, problems with female imagery in our culture, defending your family, etc., if you'd handled this with subtly and class.

But no, you had to crank the catapult handle a little too tightly, and then you ground pounded yourself into the pavement. Now you're face down in a 5-foot deep, Palin-shaped crater, and the catapult is about to crash on top of you.

It's gonna leave a mark at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

I am totally hooked on Britain's Got Talent. If you haven't seen Susan Boyle's final performance, then go here because she sounded brilliant, and I hope all her dreams come true and that they're everything she has hoped for through the years.

As if my BFF Susan weren't enough to bring me back, I spent Sunday morning laughing my head off at the wacked-out nutters that showed up to perform and the program staff who don't seem to be any saner.

Because I keep thinking about the clips, and chuckling, I'm sharing some of my favorites:

• Andy Demetriou, dancer extraordinaire. The hosts, Ant and Dec, are so invited to party at the White Trash Estate any day.
• Fabia Cerra, who's well endowed with talent. British TV (telly, eh?) must be ever so much more lenient than U.S. TV. Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake obviously had their wardrobe malfunction on the wrong continent.

And if you want to watch a father-son pair who are both hilarious (on purpose) and endearing, watch all three performances of Stavros Flatley: Lord of the Dance:

• Audition
• Semi-final
• Final

I've never been so attracted to a short pudgy guy in my life at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

This photo begs several questions: If a biological mouse kills a technological mouse, is it still considered murder? If he's a radical rodent Luddite, is it an act of terrorism? If he was doing it because he was too defective or too freakin' crazy to notice the dog and human food accessible to him not 20 feet away in the kitchen, was his death a mercy killing on my part? Or am I just kidding myself, and it was truly just an act of vengeance? Do I care which as long as the mouse is dead?

I don't know about all the other questions, but the answer to the last one is, no, don't care. He's dead. Buh-bye.

That is my computer mouse. Or rather, it was my computer mouse, until a rotten, low-down, vandalous murderer climbed up on my desk and just chewed through the wiring. I don't know why. To make my life hell?

To cleanse our minds of the trauma, I offer you this photo from my favorite view in the world:

It was taken Sunday. We'd gotten 1.5" of rain the day before and had intermittent rain, drizzle and mist this day. No snow as the weatherman had threatened.

Find a happy place at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

Last night I took Xena, the human-rocket launcher, to --- get this --- a barrel racing. Yeah, no, we didn't barrel race. No, I didn't ride her at all. Yeah, that just means we went and hung out. Admission was free, so what the heck.

Actually, Big Girl needs some socializing, and this was going on just a few miles down the road from my house.

I unloaded her from the horse trailer, and she looked around at the unfamiliar setting all big-eyed and a-wonderin' "whassuuup." Then she starting realizing that there were more horses there than she'd ever seen in her life. Her head cranked way up, her ears pinned forward, and she started doing her cautious snort that makes this low, sputtering rumble on both the inhale and exhale.

It was like, "Holy Mother of All Horsedom! I never knew there were so many of my kind! I mean, somehow I felt it, y'know, instinctually, but I ... ohmigawd ... they're ... all ... strangers. ... Pam, can I stand on you for comfort?"

That would be a no.

Actually, she was quite good and settled down well in general, and fabulously considering that she's four years old and this was the first time she's been anywhere besides her birthplace (three years), her current home (almost one year) and the vet's office (once). She even stood tied to the trailer civilly.

My friend, Speed Racer, had a great run on her barrel horse --- I think she took first overall --- and I got to visit with lots of friends and people I know in the horse world.

I don't think I was even too socially retarded, but I have to say that I've had so much social interaction with people lately that I've been having some very noisy, talk-talk-talking dreams. Apparently, I need to get out more often. Or shut up more often when I am out. What?! Naaawww! How am I supposed to get my foot wedged into my mouth if it's not yapping open constantly? Honestly, every once in a while I have the craziest thoughts.

As a side note, I might have caused the weather to get so bad that snow is predicted for the weekend. I shaved Cooper. Hey, he was overheating and miserable, what with all the hot weather and the healing and the hair. So now that he's half-naked, the high tomorrow is supposed to be 45 degrees with 80-percent chance of rain, and Sunday 49 with snow.

I'll knit him a sweater. Right after I sing an aria on key.

OMG, I just cuh-racked myself up at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

Who needs John for hand holding and nose wiping? I figgered out that thar new computer graphics program all on my own. Who's your mama now 'puter?

As promised the pictures of Cooper's hideous and tragic rattler bite wound:

I think this one was taken about May 30. The purple and swelling from the venom are down, but he's holding his owied foot off the floor.

This photo was taken June 2, eight days after being bitten by the rattler. Just the one scabbed over hole and a little dead flesh. Such a brave doggy.

Re-Cooper-ating at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

I write tonight duly chastised for not blogging fully about Cooper's recent brush with death.

Cooper's dramatus gloriae --- which is fake Latin for gloriously dramatic story --- begins during a lovely early evening, the last day of the three-day Memorial Day holiday in such weather perfection that even the most die-hard barbecue-centric people would be inspired to pause a moment from the festivities to pay respects to those who have passed away for causes both noble and ig.

I was training the spunky little paint mare in the arena. John was working on a project in the big shop. Both secure in the knowledge that Cooper was protecting the homestead in his capacity as guardia del rabbito algodon-rabo --- which is fake Spanish for one who guards against cottontail bunny invasion.

Suddenly, John and I heard our canine protector's shrill kiyi for backup, assistance STAT-wise, y'know, man down, man down. Aiyiyiyiyiyaiyiyi... !

We ran to his aid --- me running about 500 yards with a confused, but highly obedient pony who got tied hastily to a post and was summarily abandoned there for an hour.

John, first on the scene, could only report that Cooper was protecting his right front leg. Unable to ascertain the damage, we carried him the 100 yards to shade at the house --- us uttering reassurances between pants, Coop panting between kiyis in my ear.

A thorough exam revealed one hole high on the inside of his right foreleg, no sign of a foreign object embedded in the muscle, no sign of broken bones. Only a small tear in the skin, a couple drops of blood and lots more kiyiing. Man down. Man down.

We soaked him with wet towels to cool him. We shaved the injury area --- no more luck at finding further signs of the cause of so much pain. We kept asking, "What's wrong, little buddy?!" But he would not say. Imagine that.

John searched for snake bite symptoms on the Internet despite the appearance of only one puncture and freaked himself out over some of the horror stories he read. We decided to get Cooper into the house, wait and monitor his wound.

This means, every so often one of us would go to Cooper as he lay cringing and panting on the floor and make him start kiyiing again as we looked at his owie. Nice plan, human torturers, so we finally let him rest --- which is fake American English euphamism for continue cringing and panting --- for a longer period of time. Longer period is fake doctor lingo for letting him alone at just the right time, for just long enough, to let the symptoms get a little nasty.

By 9:15 p.m. the wound was swollen and purple and weeping. Nice job, human morons. We got a hold of a vet by 9:20 and arranged to meet him at 10 p.m. ... on Memorial Day. We were effusive with our gratefulness, but that kind of job must suck-a-lux.

Coop got a cortisone shot and some antibiotic and went home with prednisone and more antibiotic. He swelled more the next day, leveled off, then started going back to normal after three days. He was quite weak and in pain during that time. He didn't get up off the floor until 6 p.m. the next day and even then it was only because John bribed him with food. Never underestimate the healing power of a barbecued bratwurst.

We finally coaxed, urged, lugged him outside at 9:30 p.m., and he peed for what I reported to friends as 17 minutes, but really it was more like 30 minutes. Seriously, I've never seen anyone, four-legged or two, pee that much in one sitting, or rather squatting --- because his leg hurt too badly to be hiking in a properly guyish fashion. Poor dogimus (more fake-Latin).

The peeing thing is apparently an issue. I forgot to ask the vet about it, but someone with experience told me that the prednisone causes "frequent, prolonged urination." It's weird that the dog with a 14-hour bladder now has to go every 4-5 hours, even at night --- which is a sure sign of his need since Coop loooves his sleepy-time.

His healing has progressed much faster than we thought it would, though he had a setback last night with vomiting. We took him off the pred today in case that was upsetting his stomach, and we kept him closer to home in case he just got too much activity. He requires a lot of rest, even for as little activity as he wants/gets. Poor nipper is doing a lot of healing. I predict that he'll be at least a month before he's back to full energy --- and this was a relatively low-dosage bite.

Cuh-razy, man.

I have a lovely, graphic, close-up shot of his healing wound as of this afternoon. It is surprisingly not as gory as one would think a healing snake bite would look. Some decay of damaged flesh, but not too bad all things considered. Of course, I'm too much of a technological dunderhead to figure out how to use our new program to download the thing off my camera without John here for my hand holding and nose wiping, metaphorically speaking, so I'll get back to you on it. Ooooo, updates will be a comin'.

No, we never found the snake, and though we always kill rattlers that come right into the yard to protect the critter family and the humans, I think now the killings will feel more like Mafia-style hits to avenge my family, my damaged child substitute.

You lookin' at me, snake? You lookin' at ME? at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

The news has been so booooring lately. Then I see this --- my new BFF, Susan Boyle, took second place in "Britains Got Talent." Second! Boat-loads of money exchanged hands on that outcome. She was gracious about placing as first loser, but I still say: Stupid Brits ... Just another cold display of how they are suppressing the Scotish people. Up the establishment! Throw a tea party in the harbor! Don't let The Man keep you down Suze! (I can call her that because we're like this. Well, you can't see it, but I'm crossing my eyes to symbolize the fact that Suze and I meet eye-to-eye on things.)

The real tragedy is that I can't use my speakers until morning so I can't hear her sing right now. I had to settle for just watching the YouTube clip all the way through --- I cried anyway.

Because we share a bond at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

OK, I didn't make a complete ass out of myself at the reading, but being a considerable ass was good enough to make me feel authentically me.

First of all, very few people were there. I felt bad for the group, but in a small, small town the numbers were destined to be low. This was compounded by the fact that their local paper (not mine, thankfully) omitted either the place or the time in the news brief they printed about the event. Bummer for the writers group because only the members showed. But good for me because my audience was comfortably small, and I knew half of them. Sounds promising for my success, but I am me and therefore most talented at making even decent situations teeter on the brink of disaster.

I managed to develop a hitch in my breathing faculties, alternating between too much air in my lungs and not enough oxygen in my blood. Hard to speak when your lungs and chest are cramping around a wad of used up oxygen in your alveoli and your vision gets starry.

Then --- in an extraordinary display of my freakishness --- at the emotional turning point in one of my stupid personal poems, I totally cried like a fool. I thought the subject matter was so, like, yesterday, then all of a sudden I was getting teared up. I was pushing on through until one of the members whom I know sniffled, so then I choked momentarily, tears started (omg), and I barely managed to get to end before I had snot issues. And while I did hold the generalized facial tic, I delivered a double order of chin quiver to go with the large water works. GADS! I'm a dork. And I'm never reading that poem in public again. Ever.

The other members contributed some great writings, and I found myself wishing I had thought of a concept or written a phrase from everyone's stuff. Nice artistic inspiration ... since artistic theft is out of the question.

They fed me brownies despite my hopeless moronitude. Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was because I looked so stylish in my stunning outfit that required several changes of shirts and shoes to complete.

Yes, I had an attack of the girlies while getting ready, even though I was running behind getting out the door. Of course, the what-should-I-wear dilemma might not have been so bad had I spent the pre-departure time pre-preparing rather than outside working a horse in the heat and sun right up to the last moment before I needed to get ready to go. I required extra phoofing to deal with the sweat and dirt. But, hey, my shirt and boots matched my pants, and I got all the dirt and manure off my boots, so it was all good.

It's all part of the unplanned brilliance of me at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

I just figured out that I was so tired and upset the other night that I launched an entry out into cyberspace and totally didn't hit the mark. Who knows where it landed --- the moon, a porn site, the FBI's interoffice site. Cooper is doing OK. That will make sense after this:

May 25, 2009, PART TWO

Well, Cooper put the drama of my hideous zit face into a different perspective tonight. He got bit by a rattlesnake. One emergency run to the vet, a couple shots, and two bottles of pills later, and he should be on the mend. Poor traumatized little guy. Poor distraught us.

We'd never survive the human children experience at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

It's like I do it on purpose: sabotage myself.

I've been going to bed late and tired this weekend and last night as I was going through the bedtime routine (late and tired), I realized (great gobs of gravy!) I had forgotten to take my pill for two nights running. Two. Entire. Nights. Without. Proper. Hormone. Intake!

Do you realize what that means?! Acne! Not just a few pimples, oh goodness me. No. I'm talking about industrial strength, face ravaging ACNE!

These babies are huge, inflamed and relentless. Like nothing I ever experienced as a teenager. These are mid-life whoppers that fester crap to the surface, but their core remains hidden, strong, viable probably rooted to my bone structure. I clear away the festered white head and the skin seals, but the core festers and fills the eruptable top again. Only it's bigger this time, redder. So I clear that away and create a small crater where once a simple pore existed.

At the very heart of the crater is the mega-core tapping more energy from my bone marrow aquifer. It continues the festering, erupting, sealing cycle until I have a giant, inflamed zit volcano --- and I'm guaranteed a three or four volcano minimum here. Eventually, I will have the crater widened and weakened enough that I can extract the core, which is laughing maniacally at my oozing wounds that will be weeks in the healing.

I think I'm supposed to be mortified about something about sex with my husband being inconvenienced or interrupted, but I can't get beyond the fact that Thursday, because of my own negligence, I will be facing a crowd of people who have nothing better to do than stare at me with my freaking face full of carbuncles.

The scars, both physical and mental, will last forever.

My life is ruined at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

Entertainment notes from the Junkyard Capitol of the World:

John and I went to see the new "Star Trek" yesterday. I don't want to give anything away for those folks who are still planning to see it, so I'll limit my comments.

1. I like it. I'm not a huge Trekkie so I don't have that heightened, frenetic, borderline OCD loyalism that has stymied many of the latest film's detractors.
2. Chris Pine who plays James T. Kirk caught a lot of grief from loyal Trekkies because was no William Shatner. I agree with the movie critic majority who have said: who can be Shatner? I would add that William Shatner is no William Shatner until he gets up in the morning, slips into his Shatner suit and puts his makeup on. Cut the kid some slack.
3. I thought the writers and director very skillfully used a plot device (that could've easily gone wrong) to allow them to boldly make over the "Star Trek" franchise for future viewing generations and, therefore, continued income generation in the form of merchandising and branding. Well played men. Well played.
4. The costume designer was, perhaps, a bit too loyal to the original uniform that looked like long underwear. I kept thinking "I know that's what they wore, but it doesn't make it right. Gads! The years can't mellow butt ugly." Some things are never back in style.
5. And speaking of, well, not pretty anyway, can we talk about Chris Pine's skin? All I want to say is that we were as front and center as we could sit without having to turn our heads to see the whole screen, and I can tell you that the young Mr. Pine does not have smooth skin. Not that I care about his particular skin per se. In fact, I think Tommy Lee Jones is the bomb, same skin. Brad Pitt, sex symbol across many demographics, same skin. And I do not care if these guys have pitted complexions, I just think it's hugely unfair that a female actor would never, ever, ever make it as a heartthrob leading actress with that skin, ever ... never ... and beyond.

That said, though, one woman is making it somewhere, despite not having runway model looks. My BFF Susan Boyle has made it to the next round of "Britain's got Talent." I'd give you a link to her performance clip on YouTube.com, but --- and this is so tragic --- the glorious Frankencomputer is not set up yet for Java Scripts/video. You'll have to go there and muck about searching, though it should be easy to find. I read that she sang "Memory" which is from the musical "Cats" and is associated with actress/singer Elaine Page whom Boyle idolizes. Sigh. I'll have to save Susan for another day.

Maybe she'll call me, and we can have a chit chat over tea and crumpets about her performance. I could say, "Hey Suzie Q, how's it hangin'. I like the new eyebrows. They're much better than the uni-brow --- as I've discovered myself. I got me a speaking out loud in public gig this week, any tips on how to keep from getting flop sweats?"

Hope talent isn't required at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

I'm all totally grooving on my own happiness this morning. Nice way to start a three-day weekend.

Remember my computer crash of Black Friday? Remember me wailing over lost stuff? Remember me saying that there would be lost stuff that was essentially obliterated from the earth because I didn't even realize it was lost and without it being saved in my brain or in my computer it's like it never existed? Or maybe I just thought that but didn't actually say it --- I can't remember.

So last week I did remember that I had sent some stuff to a friend/colleague to read and I called her (because her email doesn't exist on my computer, of course) to see if she still had the stuff and would email it back to me. And omigawd, Omigawd, OMIGAWD! Not only did I get my final (unarchived) revisions on one of my short stories, but I also got back a poem I hadn't yet remembered writing because I didn't want to think about the lost stuff.

OK, I know purposefully disremembering something like that is probably a little cuckoo bird crazy, but don't dwell on the detail because the real point is that eventually I would have remembered writing it, and I would have tried to recapture to words, and, of course, it would not have been as good as the memory of the original poem.

No problem, now, because the whole poem was saved from total oblivion. Yes, it's a poetic resurrection here in a quiet hamlet in Montana.

Everybody stand up and do a little happy da-a-a-a-ance. I'm ever so much more excited about the upcoming reading now. And I'm totally reading the unlost, disobliviated poem.

The ice cream topper on the feel-good start to the weekend is this news story: Passer-by pushes suicide jumper in China --- which sounds very macabre, but isn't. Well, it is a little grim since a guy wanted to commit suicide, but the pushing part isn't. So I guess if you were a Coen Brothers movie fan you could say that it's "Raising Arizona" dark and not "Fargo" dark.

Passers-by cut through the crap at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

I'm having a thing with my dictionary. Not a disagreement really. I just have to tsk it --- you know, that little smacking sound made with your tongue against the roof of your mouth to indicate mild disgust.

I was looking up TWILIGHT because I saw it in a usage that was dawn-related and I always thought of it as an evening word --- I was wrong, whatever. My mind is forever open to another dimension of the Twilight Zone.

While working my way from the front practically to the clear back of the dictionary (and y'know I can't start back there because I might miss out on a surprise word of interest --- plus, I think there's a rule against that anyway), yes, of course, I found a word: swot (sounds like "swat" or "sw+ought" or "s+watt").

It caught my attention, of course. How could it not? But the dictionary, tsk, had totally lame definitions.

Swot, vi. swotted; swotting: GRIND 4
Swot, n.: GRIND 2b

As in, "Go look up these definitions under a totally other word." As in, "Webster's can't be bothered to spare ink for this word, so if you want to use it, you ridiculous doof, you gotta go hunting for proper usage." Fine. You're disrespectful to the words, man, but I'm doing it. You can't keep me down. You can't suppress the full expression of my thoughts with your wordly callousness, Webster. Word up.

Grind, vi. 4: DRUDGE; esp. to study hard
Grind, n. 2b: one who works or studies excessively

So I think Webster's is being ironical, eh? Making me work, aka study, hard, aka excessively, to look up the definition of a word that means just that. Pam is a swot, swotting for a definition.

har har har. Whatever.

By the by, the last two entries under GRIND are: (n.) 4: the act of rotating the hips in an erotic manner. And: synonym: see WORK.

Pay=50% of daily take stuffed into thong. See Noah "Vinny" Websterino at the bar for application form.

Drudges need not apply at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

First order of business: Thought for food.

John makes a pretty wicked chocolate bread pudding. We had just one Large or two small servings of his last batch left for desert last night. Because we wouldn't want anything to happen to diminish the size of my buttockal area like suddenly being without desert products, we bought chocolate ice cream (Wilcoxson's of course) during our grocery run.

On the drive home, I got a bright idea: Chocolate bread pudding with chocolate ice cream. OMG. It was delicious. I do recommend the combination.

While we're on the food subject: This morning, John and I did pick asparagus along the river. We didn't find two bags full like my new odd friend from yesterday, but we got enough to dine on pizza and fresh asparagus for lunch today. Tasty.

I do love my food. 'Nuff said.

Now, on to the second order of business: Food for thought

I don't like to smell different. Not different as in different from others, or as in "Ew, um, that's ... different. Go stand down wind of me." Just different from the way I usually smell so it's a big deal when I have to stray from my standard scented products of soap, shampoo, clothes soap, etc. because the store is out of my particular brand. I'm distracted by smelling different.

I know it's mildly psychotic. Leave me alone about it, focus on the story line, the bigger picture.

Last shopping trip I bought my usual soap brand, but it had aloe vera in it, so every morning this week I've been showering away and then, bam!, I smell different. Not unpleasant, just different. It's a change and, therefore, boggles me.

So the thought occurred to me this morning in the shower that maybe I shouldn't be such a big freak about the smell thing. It's such a minor change. Really, I'm always game to try new foods and new food combinations, but, like, don't touch me if your perfume or cologne is going to rub off on me. And for god sake don't rearrange my furniture or give me a hairdo. Too much change.

But I think maybe I'm wrong to feel that way. Maybe change is a good thing. Maybe I should just keep buying differently scented products. Maybe this is a type of aroma therapy, if you will. Maybe it's the perfect instrument of life changes and revitalization, or, I don't know, maybe it's the key to the universe.

As if that William Blake quote should say: To see the world in a grain of sand, and to smell heaven in a new fabric softener ... .

... At this point, if you take hold of a shovel and apply a little muscle to it just here, you'll make your way down through the deep dooky to find the spark at the center of today's shower philosophy:

A month or so ago I committed myself to a public reading on May 28. And, yes, I have to read some of my own written works. It seemed like such a lark at the time that I said, "Hey, give me a call if you decide to hold that reading."

Now I'm about 11 days from the event and feeling the onus of the occasion --- the onus-ness being upped by the fact that the organizing group of writers named me the "featured reader" for the festivity. Yeah, what the ---?! As if I'm not really just some interloper from 40 miles away thinking I could sneak in the side door and horn in on their fun-time to pretend I'm a big girl not afraid of public venues.

Hard to sneak when they shine a spotlight like "featured reader" on you. Doesn't help that all my nifty revisions on the works I was going to read got deleted in the great computer crash of Black Friday.

Build a bridge; get over it.

This'll be good for me, right? Expand my horizons, try new things, get out in the world. You can come see me get a facial tic and speak in an octave uncomfortable to dogs at 7:00 p.m. at the Harlem Library.

I'll be the speaker wearing the new deodorant at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

Everyone has their own magnetism, right? Babies and dogs are drawn to some people. Some people attract trouble and/or a good time --- there's a fine line. And, too, some people attract rich, good looking people.

Like moths to a bug zapper, I attract geeks, freaks and assholes. Have since early puberty. It used to freak me out a bit, mostly because I was so intensely shy that having anyone pay attention to me freaked me out. After a while, I don't know, I guess I found comfort in knowing that at least someone was attracted to me. The geeks and freaks were often endearing and the assholes made good targets for sarcastic barbs.

Admittedly, the assholes have been slowing their migration to the odd essence of me in the last few years. I think it's because they prefer young chicks who put more effort into their personal appearance and less effort into being rude. That's not me so much anymore. But I say, good riddance to ya. I'll keep my loyal geeks and freaks who flock to me despite my decline.

Even John, who was the perfect man, the triple threat, has mellowed into primarily a geek/freak, and I enjoy that too.

Earlier in the evening, John and I buzzed into town to run a quick assault on the grocery store. He went in search of a movie, and I headed to the back of the store to fill our water jugs with filtered water.

As I strolled my cart down the aisle, kind of checking out some sale prices, a somewhat, uh, scruffy-looking, late-fiftiesish guy with long salt and pepper hair hanging lankly from under a worn baseball cap and a wild mess of a beard hanging to his chest wandered up to me and asked if I'd seen where the combs were displayed. His mannerisms were, let's just say, vaguely peculiar. I guessed he was probably a 4 or 5 on my 10-level freak scale --- which, by the by, doesn't include criminal freakishness.

Regrettably, no, I had to tell him, I didn't know where the combs were, but I thought they'd be in the aisle with the beauty products and continued strolling on my way having completed the social interaction with polite efficiency.

"I spent the day hunting asparagus," he called out to my back. Definitely a 5, and yet I looked back over my shoulder and smiled before continuing on my way. I am compelled to follow my be-polite upbringing.

And he was equally compelled to keep our connection alive. "I got in and out of my pickup so many times," he said to my back again, "I probably dropped my comb in a pasture somewhere. No point in going hunting for that." Maybe a 6.

When I got to this point in my retelling of the story to John in the car, he said, "Did you tell him, 'What about me makes you think I care?'"

"Are you kidding?" I said. "I stopped and asked him if he had any luck with the asparagus. Apparently he got two bags full, so I'm thinking we should go over to the river tomorrow and hunt up some asparagus for lunch."

John said, "Gosh, I wonder why these guys talk to you."

He had a slightly sarcastic tone, so I didn't tell him that I went on to find the aisle the guy needed and directed him to it.

Hey, I was just being nice, doesn't mean we're engaged.

Hair accessories in aisle nine at: pam@viewfromthenorth40.com

And now we pause our regular programming to bring you a word from our sponsor: Fear. Which is, as a matter of fact, both the word and the sponsor.

John and I got home about the same time yesterday. He'd been running errands and visiting a few people --- with Cooper in tow, of course. We just can't bear to leave him at home.

About 30 to 45 minutes after our rendezvous back at the Mansion, I came into the office to work and Cooper followed me like he usually does. Only this time, I soon realized, he was shaking violently, staggering, and looking incredibly distressed. He went from a bouncy, tail-wagging greeter to almost falling over in less than an hour.

I didn't freak, per se, but I was very insistent that we get him to the vet immediately. My fear was that he'd gotten into something poisonous that was causing neurological problems. He was also panting and drooling, and he puked in the car on the way to the vet's office. This situation didn't look like it was going to have a happy ending.

The short story of it is that he had a very bad stomach ache.

I was skeptical. John was too and retraced all the stops he and Cooper made to make sure there wasn't something more obviously toxic that Coop could've gotten into.

I stayed home with Cooper who had to have some kind of anti-nausea shot and follow up meds. I fretted over him, I comforted him, I imagined three dozen different horrible scenarios.

Turns out he really did have a tummy ache. From an old barbecued pork chop that had been tossed into a campfire. A fetid pork chop. For crying out loud.

He's still not 100 percent yet but is close. And he's definitely well enough that he got the "only snack on horse poop" lecture. I shook my finger at him ... then took him for a walk.

Happy tail endings at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Pam's smashing good advice for today: When life hands you lemons, pee in a glass and say, "Here, Life, want some lemonade?"

I'm feeling a little sassy because, hey, it's either that or give in to despair over all the lost stuff, the stuff that doesn't back up or wasn't backed up or for some reason getting it reinstalled is whacked up, like all of my web browser "Favorites" that essentially acted as a resources database. Gone.

Like my ability to use my Corel Draw products. Gone.

Like all my email contacts with addresses for family, friends, business contacts, blog Readers, random people with whom I wanted to maintain the ability to stay in touch. Gone.

And information contained in emails. Gone.

The last two months worth of photos. Yup, gone.

The last two months worth of writing and rewriting. I could weep from the pain of it.

But instead, I will enjoy this: The Frankenstein computer that John has cobbled together, with its guts now tucked away neatly, is quieter and faster than my other computer --- the last computer, the dead one. It's so quiet that when John is in the living room and he talks to me when I'm at the computer I don't have to yell, "Huh? What?! I can't hear you! Just a minute ... ," and then get up from my work to go talk face to face.

Now, I know right away if he's talking about something I deem important (such as food) so I can just stay sitting at the computer and yell, "Um, I'm working can this wait?!" The quiet computer gives me more efficient bitchery with a more powerful sit-on-my-buttocker.

The hidden perk of computer crashosity.

By the by, any friends, family and random people who would like to hand me the ability to stalk them via email should drop me a line.

Fighting the disconnect at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Fatal error: On Thursday John's aunt called with a computer emergency so we piled into the car and drove out to her place. While John helped with the computer issue, I chatted with his uncle. During the course of our conversation his uncle said, "I don't do much with a computer."

And I said, "Oh really? I don't know what I'd do without ours."

Did I give you enough white space to think about the ramifications of a statement like that?

How's that? Because you know, don't you, I am a Burke, and Burke Luck would have it that --- as a direct result of that one statement --- I now have to figure out just what I would do without our computer.

On Friday --- the very next day --- John called me at work to say that a small storm cell had gone through east of our place and knocked the power out to the substation serving our home. The technologically minded are guessing that this must have happened at the very instant our computer was doing some complex saving/memory/automatic blah blah blah. Whatever happened, its brains are scrambled. It is a fatal condition.

We have lost, not every last thing, but oh so much.

In the way of humans, we all deal with grief in our own ways. John is working like a possessed madman to restore us to some kind of electronic capacity. I have to stay out of the way so ended up cleaning the kitchen, reading, working outside, working with horses, killing off my shoulders in the name of physical therapy, digging dandelions ... I, apparently, can do a lot of damage while dealing with technological grief and figuring out what to do without a computer.

We are currently limping along with a Frankenstein computer cobbled together with strange pieces, and most of its guts hanging out on the desk. Operating with some odd Linux-based programs for which I am grateful, but whose every foreign command and configuration reminds of our loss. Woe is me.

Y'know I distinctly remember making another statement on Thursday night: "It'd be nice to win the lottery."

Guess we know which message shot straight from my lips to God's ears.

Bear with me while we deal with the Fates' cruel irony.

I'll never talk about my computer like that again at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

The other day I was digging into a pile of dirt by hand (more on that tomorrow after I get the pictures downloaded) and out of my little dirt hole runs this leggy guy:

His body was about 3/4" to 1" long, and he was just a little more brown than this picture makes him look. He also looks a little more like a sinister Hollywood spider in this close up shot than he did from the safe distance at which I kept my head while snapping photos.

I was startled when he came running out of the dirt hole. He must've fallen from his little dwelling in the grass into the hole just as I was scraping a handful of dirt out. The scenario made it appear that I had dug up the spider from about six inches into the packed dirt.

Of course, somewhere in the part of my mind where I'm convinced I'll be eaten by the world's only freshwater, mountain lake or swimming pool shark if I swim alone (that or be devoured by cold water piranhas) is convinced the spider was buried in the dirt. And I may unearth another one. And when it bites me my hand will fall off. Or swell until it explodes. Just saying, it could happen, and I'm using a shovel next time.

I would also like you to note in this zoomed view of his back --- follow the white arrow --- that this spider comes equipped with satellite TV which must have internal play, like projection TV against the inside of his lower-right eye. He's probably curled up in a new dirt grotto somewhere right now watching Mystery Science Theater 3000, cheering on a pack of rabid, nuclear radiation-swollen tarantulas invading a seaside resort in Alaska. Rabid, nuked tarantulas do that sort of thing --- Hollywood's got that right.

BTW, Hollywood, that's how they get internal satellite TV display, too.

When his program's over, he's going to crack open a beer and watch some spring sports.

Pass me a beer too, little buddy, and turn up the volume at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

See this pretty horse:

Yes, this is the paint horse I agreed a few months back to take in. I brought her home today. She doesn't have a name --- well, kind of, but it's CPA and that doesn't roll of the tongue at full hollering volume, so I'm open to any suggestions from you guys.

She's the first paint horse I've ever owned. Um, kind of --- for a few months I was half-owner of a paint pony, so that was like being only a quarter-owner of a whole paint horse on account of the size difference. Whatever.

The real point is that the name and the color of the horse don't matter, what truly matters is that I, in no way, actually needed another horse of any kind. And, even more importantly, I needed another unbroke/green broke adult horse like I need butt implants --- which is to say not at all in this lifetime or the next.

Yet there she is, standing in my corral like she belongs to the place, with my name plastered all over her spankin' new brand inspection.

It would be fair to ask me, then, "Why, Pam? Why did you take in a 6-year-old horse who's training was summed up as 'she's had someone on her'? Good gravy, woman, you agreed to this even before the blow to the head. Why?!"

My only defense is the same one I gave John the day he came home to find me in the throes of my concussion --- riding the horse who just administered said concussion, with the dirt from the hard landing still smeared on me and down feathers from my ripped vest swirling in the breeze around me --- and he asked, "If you think you have a concussion, why are you still riding?"

Because. I. Am. Stupid.

'Nuff said at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Let's file today's entry under "Is it just me ... ?"

First, is it just me or is everyone else disappointed too that people are dying from swine flu because that makes one feel just a wee bit bad about making jokes.

Because, y'know, if it were OK to joke about it I would point out that a reporter for TMZ.com asked Paris Hilton --- a young woman whose mental acuity defies explanation --- if she was worried about getting swine flu. Hilton apparently didn't miss a beat before replying, "I don't eat that." Right. Thanks for playing.

The good news --- for comedians, not the people of Israel and the Jewish and Muslim faiths --- is that Israel's Deputy Health Minister Yakov Litzman apparently consulted with Hilton before issuing his first statement about swine flu. He said that reference to pigs is offensive to both Muslim and Jewish people, and "we should call this Mexican flu and not swine flu."

Uuuum, don't call it swine flu because you don't eat pork, call it Mexican flu because ... eating Mexicans is kosher? Just asking.

This whole flu name thing has been terribly vexing, for so many people that now health and political leaders have been tossing around usage of names like "North American flu" and "North-American flu" --- because the hyphen is terribly important detail for clarification among the masses. They've also been taking "H1N1 flu" out for a spin, but it just doesn't have much sex appeal with anyone but the science fiction folks who've been overheard saying, "Right on, like an homage to the future, ala R2D2."

I say, hell, get it over with and just call it "The other white meat flu." Or is that just me?

Second, is it just me or is there a conundrum here: I was taking a walk and spied a gate into a vast pasture with some signage hanging on it (the gate, not the pasture, of course). "Private Property No Trespassing," read the first sign. "No motorized vehicles beyond this point," read the second sign. And about 50' behind those signs --- in the pasture --- was a bright orange "35mph" sign. You think on it for a while. I've done so for a few weeks. Still doesn't jive.

Finally, is it just me or is everybody out there in Readerville happy that I finally felt able-bodied enough to ride a horse Sunday ... and even happier that 20 minutes of mostly walking made me feel like I'd endured a physical therapy session, but I recovered by morning.

Yeah, I knew you felt it too at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

What a beautiful morning. The sun was shining, the temps above freezing and me without a camera ... or a hazmat suit.

Cooper and I went for a walk this morning after chores to look in our wood stash in the far yard for the perfect length railroad ties. In the coulee west of the house we surprised a herd of about 25 antelope --- at a perfect angle to the sun so I could get awesome pictures. No camera.

We cut south to follow a trail over the hill to the far yard, so we wouldn't disturb the antelope any more than we already had --- I worry about their new spring babies, y'know. And we promptly rousted another herd of antelope at least the same size. I was trying to be nice, but no luck. No camera either.

I worked my way down the hill to the first stack of ties, heard a funny bird noise, and looked up to see what I think was a peregrine falcon flying around. Still had perfect lighting, still had no camera.

Ditto for the herd of five mule deer does in the brush behind the other stack of lumber. I skipped the lumber hunt, left the does to their peace, and went home.

Just as I got to the house, Coop took off after a bunny and I went in for some breakfast. About 45 minutes later it dawned on me that Cooper hadn't asked to come in for his mid-morning nap --- being a dog is so exhausting after all --- so I went dog hunting.

I had to call several times and was just preparing to go find him when he showed up --- looking a little tentative. We've been having a few problems with him ignoring our calls when he's got a bunny cornered, so I'm sure he was a-tumble with emotions. Hated to abandon the hunt, wanted so much to be a good, wasn't sure if he'd come soon enough to qualify as good, etc. He wasn't exactly prompt, but, hey, I didn't have to go get him so I really praised him up ... and checked out his very dirty snout and beard. He must've been trying to dig a bunny out of hiding. Ho ho ho, what a funny tough guy. Right?

We went back to the house, and I noticed that he kept shaking his head. Odd, I thought. We got into the house, and I called him over to see if he was having ear troubles ... .

And from five feet away I could see his head was swarming with fleas. S-WAR-ming Gads! Again with the fleas! Out, out out!!

Not. So. Funny. After all. I had, you realize, touched him and let him in the front door.

No doggy flea shampoo in the house, of course, though frankly, I didn't really want to be dealing with all those fleas actually inside my house. It might be a rat-hole of a house, but it's not a flea-ridden rat-hole. We have standards.

Luckily, I'd bought bug spray for the horses, so I mixed up a batch and toxified him --- and myself --- in the yard . Nasty.

We stewed in the chemical juices for an hour then I bathed him then myself because we smelled like a Superfund site, plus I had the heebie jeebies. It wasn't until I was in the shower that I realized I should've gotten a picture of Coop's flea-ridden head --- it was quite remarkable, creepy, but remarkable. And I do love to share the horrors of the daily life of me.

Public Notice: This living zone has been flea-free for 10 hours.

But I have the heebies again just from talking about it at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

In the category of Weird Science today we have a fart machine.

Yup, you read that right. Here's the quote from the Discovery article by Eric Bland: "It works like this: giving small jolts of electricity to single-celled microorganisms known as archea prompts them to remove C02 from the air and turn it into methane, released as tiny 'farts.' The methane, in turn, can be used to power fuel cells or to store the electrical energy chemically until its needed."

I don't claim to understand the process, but it just sounds mean, doesn't it? I'd probably produce methane farts if you electrocuted me, too. I don't want to prove it, I'm just saying, probably.

And a dual entry in the categories of What's My Irony and SPAMalot we have this spam subject line: "Now nothing can stand on your way to male success."

Really? If nothing can stand, how is it deemed a male success? Besides, I don't particularly need male success. Thanks, but I'm still working on some form of female success. After I achieve that perhaps I can, like, diversify and maybe then you can hook me up with a little sumthin'-sumthin' more masculine.

By the by, we had two days of near-80s temps Tuesday and Wednesday, now today ... snow.

The weather sux at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Today is Wild Visitor Day at the Singlewide Mansion. It started with this creepy Black Widow:

Biyatch showed up hitting on my man while I was away at work. And, yes, I do consider her a visitor at the house officially because the board in the background is the side of my front steps. And, yes, she will come again because, no, John didn't get her squished and she escaped.

After I got home, a whole herd of prairie goat hos -- uh, does -- showed up. Lookin' to make time with John too, no doubt, but I scared them off with my camera and my fierce little dog. This was the last goat-chick to trot out of the yard. She was bold enough to look back, so I'm posting her picture on the internet to let every other woman on the planet know that she's an attempted man thief. That's my story anyway.

But John's not the only one to attract a little opposite-sex, cross-species flirtation. Ten minutes after the antelope fled the scene an unidentified brown bird flew in the open front door of the Mansion and assaulted John in an attempt to win me over. While I found his little birdy display of masculinity endearing, I felt compelled to stand by my man and shoo my feathered suitor away.

John's comment was that we shouldn't have put the camera away. I think he wanted photographic evidence of the bird attack in case it went to court.

Schedule your Animal Kingdom Adventure today at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

I am returned and recovering from the meet and greet with Mini Me, and the weekend was alright, I guess.

Kenzie spent most of her time in the iPod-zone texting her little friends from the hospital nursery. Then when her dad wouldn't let her borrow the car she threw a temper tantrum and sat in her room with her stereo blaring some nauseating hiphop tunes while she Twittered about her angst and arranged an appointment for a tattoo which she'll pay for with her first paycheck from her new job at Hooters.

I jest, of course.

She's obviously the most brilliant, gifted and beautiful creature on the planet. We all sat around admiring her amazing feats like no other three-week-old baby in the world has ever: made such expressive faces, slept so long, coordinated such a bobbly head lift, cuddled so much, soiled so many people and articles of clothing with one upchuck, stayed awake and worked on focusing so long, blasted such a loud fart, ate so much, stretched so big, or drank so many beers without a potty break before. What? Oh, the last one was my grandpa, sorry. But we were proud of him too.

It's absolutely official: I have held her more than any other baby in all of history. Mostly, this is because she didn't cry at the moment I touched her. Babies scare me, they sense it, they cry and that freaks me out. She slept ... for hours ... curled up like a little pea in a pod against my chest. She was endearing. The next day she hung out in my arms staring at the world. As a bonus for spending some of that time staring at me, I worked on training her to stick out her tongue on cue. I think she was getting the hang of it. She's obviously brilliant.

As a side-note, the weekend wasn't as "Twilight Zone"-ish as I thought it would be. La mamacita Donut, who has the most natural inner balance of any living human, is a natural at this mother-thang. No loss of balance there. And Baby Brother is the dad I imagined he would be. He treats that baby girl just as sweetly as he does his dogs, and this is a very good thing. Me? I wasn't terrorized, nor did I terrorize her. That was different, but ...

It's a good start to a life-long relationship at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Don't get lonely, or feel jealous, but I'm gone for a few days to finally meet Mini Me, my little K-Pam, in all her infant awesomeness.

I'm sure it'll be like spending a weekend in the "Twilight Zone" seeing Baby Brother and Donut koochie cooing a baby and changing diapers, plus I'll miss my guys who are staying home. However, I am compelled to seek out my namesake, shake her hand and chat over a few beers. That's what you do with babies right?

That's how we'd raise 'em at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Do you guys ever visit other blogs? I've seen some that have this mood-o-meter feature. It has a blurb that says something like: "My mood today is:". After this the author has inserted the appropriate mood, like "funky," which is followed by the appropriate emoticon -- which is techno-speak for a smiley-face guy with facial expressions altered to portray the appropriate emotion. No, I don't know what a funky face looks like. It's just an example that I pulled out of my ... thin air.

I don't know. It seems kind of cute, but I'm not much interested in this feature. If you can't tell what kind of mood I'm in from what I've written then I'm doing something seriously wrong. And frankly, if I'm that far off, I'm not going to tip my hand by providing visual evidence. I'm not that stoopid.

You poor Readers would be saying, "She's funky today? Gosh she sounds a little bitchy, but maybe she just hasn't mastered the English language enough for such a 'subtle' connotation difference." Hey, I learned theory of interpretation in literature classes, therefore, I know not to tell you exactly the mood I'm going for -- I leave it open to "interpretation." That is, you all can just make up whatever you see fit and debate your various answers amongst yourselves. Works for me. Shoot, you could write a dissertation about it if that floats your air bubble.

Another thing some bloggers do is tell you what music they're listening to. This I think is totally cool. And it makes me so jealous because I'm totally not one of those people who spends money on music or fancy equipment or has figured out where to download gobs of stuff for my iPod, which I don't have. My CD player plays one CD at a time, and I really just can't be bothered to get up to change discs when I'm hot in the middle of a writing idea ... or playing online mahjongg.

I am a hopeless dork [insert appropriate dork emoticon here].

At best I could maybe tell you what DVD is playing in the other room ... though I can't hear it very well here in the office. Eventually, you'd all be, like, "How many times is she going to play 'Finding Nemo' this month?" Or "Does she really watch 'Big Trouble in Little China'?" Or "How does she go from 'Galaxy Quest' to 'No Country for Old Men' in one day?" (answer to all questions: Shut yer pie hole, it's none of your beeswax)

The good news is this: My friend The Dane has solved my musicless dorkness. He tipped me off to a music website that makes me feel totally like a cool person: www.pandora.com. It's all music, all day, and I can tell the site to play a genre, or an artist, or an artist and various other music similar to my No. 1 pick.

So I typed in Alternative Country as my genre choice tonight and I'm listening to Alison Krauss as I write this (she has the voice of an angel). Now Alison's over and we're on to the next artist -- and this zaniness could go on all night! I've also listened/am listening to Lyle Lovett, Guy Clark, Mary Chapin Carpenter, Van Morrison, Norah Jones, Ryan Adams and Little Bid Town. For free on my old-ass computer.

Who needs to be a music or equipment purchasing junkie at that price?

Mood today: rockin' at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

I spent the weekend perfecting my new hobby: pouting. I'm 11 days into my latest injuries and am tired of being sore and tired. I do, however, admit that I'm making headway. 1) I'm now officially sleeping in the bed again. It's much nicer than the recliner because I get two sleeping positions (right side and face down), I have company, and I can stretch out. 2) I actually have gotten some sleep this weekend, though I'm still hoping to actually feel rested again one day. I don't think that's an unreasonable request. 3) I was able to get my arms twisted around to put a bra on today. That's me going all out for Easter. Admittedly, I could've put one on a few days ago, but by the time I get up in the morning (stiff and sore) do chores, shower and dress I'm ready to take a rest rather than go to work, so I just kept avoiding one extra exhausting step by continuing to wear heavy, dark sweatshirts rather than a bra.

I would like to go back to my disappointed teen-aged self and tell her/me that being flat-chested actually turns out to be a good thing. "Here's the deal Teen Me, you think you'll look better with a B-cup, and maybe so, but one day you'll realize that you hate being constricted and will much prefer dressing in a manner to hide the fact that you've ditched the bra whenever possible. Plus, you'll eventually take up horseback riding and you don't sit the saddle well enough to have B-boobs out there getting jostled even in the sports bras you wear just for the activity. And, speaking of horseback riding, one day -- after you've reached the age of sag and need a bra every day after all -- you'll auger into the dirt off the latest in a long line of brown horses, hurting your upper body bad enough by means you're unable to remember, that you'll be thankful that you don't have to re-injure yourself every day for modesty's sake. You're an A-cup, given the proper clothing no one will know your breasts are going commando."

By the by, John's been pouting a little bit too. Since the French and U.S. militaries have been shooting Somali pirates, he's had to rethink his whole later-life career goals. Somali pirate extraordinaire is looking a little hazardous these days.

I wish he would consider a job as personal masseuse at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Before my chest muscles seize up again today, I want to share this picture of Mini Me:

Isn't she just the cutest koochie koochie little smoochie?

I was fully prepared to call her Mediterranean Me because of her velvety dark skin and dark hair, but the latest report from Baby Brother is that she's shedding out to a paler shade of mien. Word is, too, she's a terror at feeding time, and I say: hey, what's the problem with that? Girlfriend has a right to demand vittles at the top of her lungs. At this point in her life what does she really have to brighten her day but food intake, elimination, sleep and a warm cuddle -- in that order.

Or am I just projecting my own needs onto her itty-bitty baby shoulders?

Just Say No to hunger pangs at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Ache, pain and bruising are the words of the day. As are sleep-deprivation and day-off.

I think the continuity lapses in yesterday's timeline are going to be permanent. But like I told Baby Brother, if anything exciting had happened I would've remembered it by now, so no worries.

Here were the worst things about trying to decide if I needed to seek medical attention. In case of concussion, watch for signs of:

1) Nausea -- well, my sinuses had been draining down the back of my throat all day so, yeah, I was a little nauseous before I got beaned. At what point do I know it's appropriate to freak out?

2) Headache -- hello, just got skewered into the earth like a lawn dart, or maybe flung about like a rag doll, and those aching muscles are causing a head cramp ... or am I hemorrhaging? This is not a time for analysis paralysis. Quick, how much ache constitutes a medical emergency?

3) Confusion -- so every time I did something like use the wrong word, forget a name, or grab the oatmeal instead of can of fruit from the cupboard I had to debate: normal spaciness? or head-cracked-open spaciness? Normal? Head case? Normal? Head case? 100 percent of the time I concluded I'm normally a head case, so we're good.

Fun with concussions at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

For my anniversary today I gave myself a nifty little gift that ought to keep on giving for a few days at least: minor traumatic brain injury (brought to you by Bucking Brown Horse productions, no returns, no trade-ins, and no discounts available on this item.)

I have WebMD.com up with all the symptoms for concussion listed on my screen just in case I might be coherent enough to self-diagnose at a time like this.

I think I've pieced most of the major details back together, though there's still a several hundred yard walk that I don't recall making and the exact details on why my left arm and wrist and both shoulders hurt like a mother have been jarred loose from the hard drive.

I was, prudent-after-the-factly, riding the culprit in the round corral when John got home. He immediately asked if I was alright -- having spousal psychic powers which detect these things. When I told him I got my bell rung and was a little fuzzy about details, he asked why I was riding her again. I wanted to say: "Because you don't think I'm going to let her get away with that do you?" But it came out as: "Because I'm stupid." See, I was already thinking clear-headedly.

John cooked supper and got me ice cream for our anniversary. I like that present much better.

Watch for signs of conpllussion at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com