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.

I am behind the curve --- consuming several thousand too many calories of holiday cheer for five days will slow a person down, fer sure, dude.

I have pictures of the White Trash Estate all hep-cat daddy with the white Christmas vibe, but no time-ola to download and work ye old digitizing magic, so I'll give you a taste of another project I've been working on.

I happened to catch a few words of a Spamgram the other day and the words ... intrigued me. There seemed to be a certain poetry to the English as a Second Language-ness of it. I copied the text over to the word processor and tweaked the line breaks --- no other changes.

_________

Hello guy!
My name is Olesya. I hope

my letter will find you in good mood.

I have decided to write to you and maybe
you will answer. Once upon a time,

the loneliness has come into my home
and since then does not want to let me off.

The loneliness establishes own laws of life
and life filles with sadness and disappointment.

I freeze from loneliness.

Every evening I look
at a sundown
and I try to absorb all warmth of day, up to last drop.

I am looking for a partner in life
to share
simple pleasures
and together
take off

from the soul the weariness and sadness
given birth by loneliness.
I am

looking for a man to become
friends
first of all

and to go

together along the road of life,
to have common joy,
together enjoy autumn magnificence,
together build the future. I do not know if

it is really possible to find it in such a way.

But I know
that
many people not been able to find happiness in the usual life,

have found happiness
in this way. I am happy where I now,
and my life is a good life,
but happiness has no sense
if you cannot share it with person dear to you.

I could not find here
a man who will make me blossom
like flower.
That is why I took this courageous for me step.

As speak, the journey of a thousand miles begins
with a
single
step.

To tell about itself briefly
is impossibly, therefore

I will not try to do it now.
I will wait for your letter
and if you are really serious in your search,
maybe we will find interest in
each other.

Please reply

I am baited with breath waiting at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Hark! In this joyous season a miracle has blessed the baby child K-Pam who sprouted her two front teeth for Christmas.

Unfortunately, her dad said, hey, that was all she wanted, so I'm taking all her other gifts back.

I know, how Scrooge-ish can he get? Luckily, her mom was able to save all the boxes and filled them with cans and sticks to give K-Pam something to play with while she sat snugly next to her roasting lump of coal. Poor Tiny K-Pam.

Thankfully, Auntie Pam has come through with a xylophone. She'll be rocking down the house with that ding-dong-boooong beauty.

Of course, I jest. Well, not about the teeth or the xylophone. I'll get photographic evidence of the teeth for you next time we're together.

The xylophone, that was a tricky one. I had to try every one in the store to find one without at least one flat key. John said, yeah, I could hear your dilemma from halfway across the store. Hey, technically it's not disturbing the peace --- it's testing the quality of merchandise, which was sketchy at best --- what, are we all tone deaf in the toy factory these days?

Here at the North 40, we are having a white Christmas. Also, the temp is -20-something degrees, so the Christmas is guaranteed to stay white because none of us is going out there to sully the snow.

Hark! I hear creatures, er, family stirring in my house, so I'm outta here to go open presents!

I hope I didn't get another unbroke pony for Christmas ...

Oh, who'm I kidding, I'd take it and love it at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

I've been waiting and holding my breath and hardly even moving to go take a shower and then ... Omigawd, did you feel it?!

Did you notice that today was totally longer than yesterday?! Woohoo! We are one day post winter solstice and --- I don't know what sort of things your senses are tuned into --- but I feel spring is already in the air. I can totally feel its awesome warmness in my sensory memory like it was just nine months ago, and it's coming to a region near and dear to you, soon.

Who gives a rip about Christmas? Who's prepared for that kind of shenanigans, anyway? I'm totally fast-forwarding to sunshine, green grass and T-shirts.

Who's up for margarita's at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Welcome to Linkapalooza Tuesday.

Because I'm starting my annual yearning for warmer climes early this year --- thanks to the 11-days-straight of subzero temps. Some of them quite subzero, thank you very much. Where was I? Oh, because I'm starting my winter blues early this year, I've been looking at weather stats, housing and job markets, et al. in more southerly locations, imagining that I would ever move from Montana, and I found this site. It give loads of information about different cities and towns across the country.

It's not monumental news, just thought I'd share, y'know, in case you want to trade whatever hell you are coping with at the moment for an all-new hell thousands of miles away.

This article is for Tiger Woods. One of the guys who wears the Patriots' official mascot costume was arrested for soliciting a prostitute. I'm guessing that Tiger is hoping this will turn into a major prostitution ring scandal involving all the mascots and some of the team members with photos of one of the guys in full costume getting a lap dance at a seedy bar, to deflect some of the sports news away from him and his current issues.

Incidentally, does anyone else find it bemusing that a full grown adult is gainfully employed dressing up in a funky, big-headed costume and acting like a spaz? In sympathy for the guy, how does one make that work when looking for a date? No wonder he had to pay for it.

Sadly, both he and the prostitute probably earn way more than I do.

According to this article, I would die if I were me in the Stone Ages because women who love to shop display the qualities needed for the female gatherer half of the hunter-gatherer society back in the day when fire was new and living was by subsistence alone.

That said, I prefer to think of myself as evolved, that my aversion to shopping makes me better than the so-called normal women. Right.

The more artfully inclined Readers may want to get in on New York City's design contest to create a new look for the official NYC condom. Those big-town folks go well beyond the official city seal. Apparently, the mayor's office gives away more than 40 million condoms a year, making him the most popular guy at any party.

Let's wrap this up on a holidayish note:

This is a news story fit to give you tears. And I don't mean that sarcastically. The daughter of one of my coworkers is helping a kid in the neighborhood where her horse is boarded in southern California get a horse of his own. Totally made me cry just to hear the about it, then I saw the news clip.

Sniffle me a river.

By the by, I deleted all the crabby-news links. You're welcome. Though I'm still gonna say it:

I. Hate. Winter. At: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

A picture is worth a thousand words and billions and billions of double-takes.

Just to prove that Butte, MT, (and that's pronounced "b'yoot", not "butt") isn't all about parties, bar fights, and Evel Knievel, I give you this photo taken by the friend of a friend of a coworker's sister a few weeks ago:

Other than to say that I'm hunting down the photographer to give credit for this gem where credit is due, I honestly don't think I have anything at all to add to the visual.

Um, I think I'll have the chicken, thank you, at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

I don't often strive to better myself. My reasoning is that the path of least resistance --- the downhill slide into debauchery, slothfulness, mental and moral atrophy, physical decay, you get the picture --- is less complicated and less likely to make me sweat literally or figuratively. Plus, if I rise up, like on a pedestal or to some admirable goals, I may get a nose bleed or hurt myself falling from way up there --- stub a toe, poke an eye out, break a nail. It could happen.

That said, I'm giving up one of my great loves: Diet Coke. Luckily, it's so cold outside that I have, except at work, been happy to replace it with hot tea. Usually an herbal brand. Gads, that sounds healthy.

I hardly recognize myself anymore.

By the by, the Petulant Princess is back to full-time eating. No harm, no foul, probably no lesson learned. Yay for me.

And just so you know, spilth is in the dictionary. It's a noun meaning the act of spilling, the stuff spilled, or refuse in general. In context:

My kitchen is overrun with spilth --- again --- at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

My training-resistant horse Jilly lost a little weight over the weekend after an unfortunate slip of her brain gears.

After work Friday I came home, put a halter on her and rode her around bareback --- cozier that way with your butt right on the warm horse, y'know. Once I got loaded up, Jilly did her instantaneous transformation from Party Princess to Petulant Princess. In grand Varuca Salt fashion she was stomping her feet, hopping and whirling around at every request, and saying "no" and "screw you" to me --- the Center of her Universe, the person who controls how much work she is to perform on any given day. Imagine that.

While waging her final rebellion of the day, she belligerently refused to move and started buckling her knees as a precursor to dropping onto the ground. Because I asked her to back up. It's the equivalent of asking your 20-year-old child to wash and cut up some vegetables for supper and having him throw himself on the floor in refusal.

"You have got to be kidding me, Jilly." Nope, she finally did it. Dumped her 1,300-pound self onto the ground in a tantrum.

Break out the 2-by-4s we're having us an old-fashioned attitude adjustment party.

Yes, she got into trouble. Yes, I hopped back on. Yes, ma'am, she decided to be a good girl after this. (an exasperated emoticon would be appropriate here)

But Saturday morning dawned with an ill-acting Jilly --- despondency and no eating or drinking. Worried, I did all the appropriate diagnostic things I could think of, and they all came up negative, no clue. And she wasn't talking.

It wasn't until after dark that I had an idea, but I had to wait until daylight to check her out. I was right. Get this: She chews on her tongue when she gets excited, nervous or mad --- like a properly high-strung Thoroughbred --- and apparently at some point during her temper tantrum she bit her own tongue. Nothing serious, about like having a canker sore, and she's already recovered fully. But still, she. Bit. Her. Own. Tongue.

Frankly, you'll just have to call the ASPCA on me because I had trouble being 100% sympathetic to her plight. It was like Fate, in all her loveliness, helping me out giving Jilly a tiny bit of the comeuppance she deserved.

Sure, if I had caused the injury or if it had happened accidentally while she was being good, then yeah, I'd be all kinds of Florence Nightingale for her. As it stands, though, she got about 1.89% sympathy from me. A little pat on the head, and some extra checking to make sure that the owie wasn't getting infected and that she was ingesting some nourishment to fight the cold temps. Plus, I only chuckled at her and didn't belly laugh or finger point.

OK, so maybe I was 2.44% sympathetic at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Oh, it's 40 below, but I don't give a --- whah? Ho, wait a minute, that song is dirty. We can't be singing it around here. Children might be reading this. We'll just hum a few more bars and laugh like drunken sailors.

So, yeah, high of 5 degrees today in the great white north. Yay. Practice listening --- visually speaking --- to this phrase: I. Hate. Winter.

Get used to hearing it --- well, with your eyes --- because I'm starting in early this year.

I put a tank heater in the second water trough today. It was a big production with many trips hauling things, heavy things, back and forth to the big shop. Didn't get done before the wind chill hit the double-digits, negatively speaking. Now I can't get my fat warmed up again.

The whole water trough exercise culminated with having to use the Junkman-in-law's hoses for the trough refill job. Of course, stupid me, I trusted the hose fitting replaced by the Junkman himself to attach to the hydrant. The man lives up to the name for a reason --- the fitting sprayed a heavy mist/stream of water in a ragged fan shape for five feet out from the hydrant. Teddy the (draft-cross) Wonder Pony stood there --- in the spray --- for a while hoping that I was putting water in his very favorite trough, though it's filled with ice and officially abandoned until the next thaw. The poor 1,800 pound sweety is a-scairt of the black trough, though.

He quickly decided I wasn't going to fulfill his wishes and was tired of getting sprinkled on so abandoned his post. Then Xena --- who I had assumed was sticking her head in the spray on occasion just to get in on Ted's trough begging action --- repositioned herself so that she could stand directly in the shower. I figured she'd give it up like Ted did so went about my business, a perk of which was ignoring her.

I came back a few minutes later, and she was still standing there in the spray, in the 5 degree weather, playing --- head-bobbing, eyes blinking from the scattering droplets, lips smacking at the water stream, icicles already forming all over her face, neck and chest. I finally backed her away from the hydrant. Had to save the poor child from her own stupidity.

After I was done with the watering and getting things put away I saw her standing behind Ted scrubbing her face on his butt because the icicles glittering over and hanging from her face and jaw line were irritating her hair follicles and skin. Ted and I shared a "She's a moron" glance. Hallmark all the way.

Pretty is a goofy does at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

I've totally wasted my life on low-paying and menial jobs that didn't adequately compensate me for my self-underrated expertise. I have found my salvation and am prepared to fulfill my destiny.

The head IT guy in an Arizona school district has resigned because administrators discovered that he was using the district's office and classroom computers to search for extraterrestrial life.

Seems the techie downloaded the SETI @ home software --- which utilizes personal computers during their normal sleep-mode time to analyze radioastronomy data for alien radiowaves --- onto the district's computers. It's actually a brilliant way for SETI to boost their search capacity without costing them, and doesn't slow the "donor's" computer down. It just costs them a little extra dough-ray-me because the computers don't go into sleep mode.

One article on the incident claims that Mr. Techie Space-nerd was not fired for the SETI software, but rather for the 18 district-owned computers sitting in his house. But let's not get off topic.

All of the articles agree that administration is reported as saying our man Spacie's techno-stunt will cost the district more than $1 million to fix.

Really? One million dollars, clams, greenbacks, smack-a-ro-roonies? I am totally bidding on the job. Hello. The district has 2,000 to 5,000 computers and even if you went with the higher number of computers and a straight $1M pay out, that still gives you $200 per computer ...

To hit "uninstall" --- which takes an average of about 1 minute plus 4 for good measure, 15 minutes if you're having a bad day. This translates into $800 to $2,400 per HOUR.

Click, uninstall, oh yay, click, uninstall, oh yay, click .... .

Have delete finger, will travel from: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

The magic of Thanksgiving is the hugs from family you can never see too often. It's the gathering of friends. The care with which people prepare their food stuffs. The camaraderie of ribald banter with beer chasers and homemade schnapps pre-dinner appetizers around the turkey fryer.

It's the too-full bellies of people still willing to lick the serving spoons as dishes are wrapped for home. Grandpa in his recliner sleeping off the tryptophan OD with his top dentures slipping loose, making him look like a dapper chipmunk until he wakes and joins in the laughter --- teeth in place. The card games in which neither the hand nor the draw matters as much as the verbal jostling, and the winner is really the person who laughed the most, so it was a six-way tie.

It's talking around the table, swapping tales, sharing the latest projects, hollering at all the dogs, washing dishes together, and goo-gooing over the newest family member.

I miss my family.

But I am here to report my most treasured success of the weekend, captured in digital images and enhanced with a little Pamville dialogue:

"Hey, K-Pam---"

"Whuuaa?"

"Whatcha eating? "

"Hold on a sec. Let me just roll this mm-sss-fff-rrnnd---"

"Raspberries!!!"

"Ha, ha, haaaa! I'm funnier than crap!"

"Whuh?! Hey! I didn't mean crap crap, like in my pants crap! Don't go disturbing a fine meal to dig around in my padded, elastic-legged, hermetically sealed drawers. I wanna eat! I promise I won't listen to Auntie Pam and spit out anymore food. Honest!"

"pffffttt!"

"Suckers!! Ooo, crap, that was a good one, huh Auntie."

Ya gotta love a quick learner at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Written by yours truly, and ripped from the editorial page of Black Friday's paper by moi, also:

Dear Mr. Turkey, Your Royal Plumpness of Thanksgiving:

I'm sorry you are getting this Thanksgiving letter a day late.

As you can see, I went the publishing route to reach you this year. Since the heretics at the U.S. Postal Service won't be delivering mail to Santa at the North Pole this year, I figured my chances of getting those lousy Feds to find you are worse than my chances of beating Dad to a drumstick. No offense.

I hope this Thanksgiving season finds you with a lot to be thankful for. I am working on a list to demonstrate my gratitude for all the wonderful things that have happened to me this year.

So far the list is kind of short:

No. 1, I'm grateful that I am still breathing.

No. 2, ... .

I guess you could call the list a work in progress, but still, I think that first entry is a pretty important one. Right?

I hope your list begins the same way this fine Thanksgiving season.

Do you ever wonder, Mr. Turkey, if you're the icon for the country's one holiday centered entirely around eating because you say "gobble, gobble, gobble," and maybe if you said "ribbet" or "grrr," which don't mean anything, you might be safer? I'm just asking.

This year I'm supposed to say the Thanksgiving blessing before we sit down to eat. That's my family's version of the holiday crazies --- putting me in charge of a project that requires me to be solemn and heartwarming and, well, not mean, even though there will be a room full of targets, uh, people.

I've actually been trying hard to do this right and not insult anyone, so I've come up with a multi/nondenominational crossbreed blessing. What do you think:

----
O great big Something,

A dinner of bounty is a joy to celebrate. Its loveliness increases until the meal of a thousand dishes begins with one bite, and it will pass into nothingness within 15 minutes because we, who know that enough is enough, will always make room for more.

Yeah, though I walk through the banquet line with this gluttonous horde of family and friends, I fear no fork stabbings, for Something has created the fruit of the vine and brought forth bread from the earth, for this is the kitchen, and the power and the cooking gadgets, forever.

I am grateful for this food we eat. At meal's end, may I realize the Path of Sleeping for the sake of my distended belly. And when I lay me down to sleep, I pray the leftover foods will keep. If the desserts are gone before I wake, I pray Something will smite the pig who got the last serving of pumpkin pie, for ever and ever --- whatever.
----

I think that just about covers everything and hope it does justice to the grand turkeyness of the celebration.

Thank you for taking the time to read my letter, Mr. Turkey. I guess that makes you the big No. 2 on my gratitude list. Ha ha :)

Pam

P.S. If you're not too busy --- and, of course, if you're still breathing --- could you maybe fly my letter up to Santa this year?

I pay standard postage rates at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

The week of discovery!

First discovery:
The baby namesake rockin' a brown pony in a bookstore. Could she be more mini-me-ish than that? Notice how her head is all blurry? Either Mom's kicking that little pony into whiplash gear, or Dad's trying to take the cell photo while texting and beating some elderly woman away from the last Shakespeare compendium on the shelf. Hang on, baby child, it's a wild ride!

Second discovery:
Wilcoxson's dairy products brand makes a chocolate ice cream that has a thick ribbon of dark, fudgie chocolate running through it. I'm guessing it was a misguided attempt to honor Norman MacLean and "A River Runs Through It" or a mental spasticity moment that prompted them to name the ice cream Chocolate Runs Through It.

Seriously people? Whatever. The ice cream itself is beyond scrumptious, and the only problem I see with it (besides that name) is that we can only find it in half gallons. That's, like, one serving each for John and I. And what makes it even more aggravating is that Wilcoxson's does the 5-quart big containers. I need to write these people.

Third discovery:
Higgle is in the dictionary. It sounds totally funny, but it's just a spelling variant of haggle and not to be confused with usage of the term higgledy-piggledy. In comparison to higgledy-piggledy, poor little higgle seemed mundane at first, a dishwater blonde of words, but then I considered substituting higgle into a conversation and now I can't wait to take it on a conversational spin.

Fourth discovery:
Fug. It's in the dictionary. It's actually usable in polite conversation and is not to be confused with fugly, the word-meld meaning ugly to the fth degree. Fug just means stuffy atmosphere or foul-smelling emanation.

As a noun: The fug was so thick and redolent I couldn't see across the room, nor bear to enter it.

Adjective: The fugging room stunk.

Verb: He fugged the room up again.

Adverb: His mood lurked fuggily close to rock bottom.

First (and only) announcement:
Starting tomorrow, I will be busy preparing for, celebrating, and digesting down from opening weekend of the grand, month-long holiday season. If the Thanksgiving feast and all the entertaining and the more eating don't do me in, on Sunday I will be spreading all new words of joy, sarcasm and other descriptives, most of which aren't meant for family time.

Throw open the door and get the fug outta here at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

My hero Susan Boyle has a CD coming out tomorrow and it has accrued the record highest number of pre-sold "albums" in Amazon history. Go, Susan, it's your birthday. I hope it's everything she ever dreamed it would be.

I totally want to buy one.

And speaking of buying, Baby Brother and Donut bought little K-Pam her first car. I know what you're thinking: Isn't eight-months a little young for that kind of responsibility? And, in part, I agree, however, it is a brand new car with a service agreement so she won't have to do the actual mechanic work herself.

I think that she's ready, mentally speaking, to learn the discipline of car maintenance schedules and precision parallel parking. That said, she could do a lot of damage to her growing body trying to turn a wrench before her bones completely solidify. Thusly, new car was a healthy choice.

Growth plates are fragile things at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

So there I was on Wednesday, struggling to write my freakin' column, thinking that I was going to do something about an article I read about strange plastic surgeries ... and coming up dead in the funny department.

What do you do, huh?

"I'm sorry, editor-boss-man, I won't have a column this week because my funny bone died. Seriously, it went kind of deadish-numb, turned black and fell off. The ligament that attaches my funny bone to my cerebral funtext wasn't severed, though, and the sudden yank of that bone dropping just ripped the funny right out of my brain pan. It wasn't pretty. So I can be excused from writing this week, right?"

Still in the throes of my unfunny agonizing, I decided to read the news one more time --- and was saved. I discovered that researchers using over 147,000 IBM computer processors simulated cat brain processes. They made kitty thoughts --- kind of.

This is the part that I thought was a kicker: They claimed that having the supercomputer identify business logos, presumably in a way that cats would do so, proved that the computer was thinking cat-wise. Huh? Cats identifying business logos? Any self-respecting cat would bite your stupid self for waking it up to look at flash cards of human stuff. Rightly so, too.

And thusly an article is born. Even though, it didn't turn out the way I had conjured it during the initial supercomputer in the head time, for some reason I enjoyed writing it. I don't know where else I would use it, and I felt like sharing it, so you can find it on the sample page.

On another track of personal bits of nothingness: I told John I would make him a winter hat and I've been trying to picture what he wants from what he's been telling me. This week we finally saw a hat in a store that made him say, "Like that," and he didn't add too many more "excepts," "buts," or "onlys." Basically, he wants to look like Elmer Fudd with a low crown and earflaps.

That'll be sexy at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

You know how scientists say men think of sex an average of, like, every .03 seconds of every waking moment of their lives?

(sex)Hi, Hon. (sex) What are we (sex) having for (sex) dinner (sex) tonight? (definitely sex) I'm just (sex) going to eat (sex) light tonight (O-yeah sex) because I have (sex) a cold coming on (and that sex is gonna fix me right up).

That's me thinking about horses most days. But it's not just horses, it's my individual horses, all the sports, training and different breeds, the tack, the videos, the calendars, the hauling, their health, and so on ... you get it, right.

(Where are my horses?)Hi, Hon. (Do I have time to ride?) What are we (The farrier is coming on Thursday) having for dinner (Frankly, I could pretend I'm French, shoot that rotten Jilly, package her, and fill my freezer with a year's worth of red meat) tonight? (Definitely making time to ride.) I'm just (waiting for a call from my friend, Speedracer, about her barrel race yesterday) going to eat (My harness and cart will fit Charlie for sure) light tonight (O-yeah, gonna trail ride) because I have (to get fit for some harder rides) a cold coming on (and the warm fresh scent of a horse is gonna fix me right up).

The impulses are the same.

For a few years in my adulthood(ishness) I was too busy and stressed to think of horses much. It was quite like being the walking dead. I'm beyond that now.

Last weekend, I was taking a break from the high winds by searching horse stuff online. I got the wild hair to look for a Lusitano stud in Montana. Lusitanos are the cattle horses of Portugal, but they're cattle horses like Tiger Woods is a golfer, or Alison Krauss is a singer, or the Greek masters were artists. They're, like, pretty good and kinda showy.

I've loved the breed since I was a child. Still love their physical, athletic and mental aptitude. Plus, they kick butt in the bullfighting ring. How's that for cajones?

So now this week, I've watched way too many Youtube videos --- apparently the dreamy-eyed look comes in blood-shot red.

And, yeah, can't get the horses out of my head. Want to get one, buy all new tack and learn how to train a horse for garrocha.

I learned about the working equitation competitions that include style classes. These classes are a lot like trail classes in America, but you know you're in Europe because the ginormous fake booze bottles are wine rather than beer. But if that's too tame for you then you can pump up the adrenalin with the X-game, speed class --- seen here with the same horse and here with another horse who keeps himself packaged together a little better at speed. (Because a picture is worth a thousand words, and a video is worth being able to keep my mouth shut and just point, watch how much more coordinated the second horse's back legs work as he's maneuvering to understand what "packaged together" means). And you can't beat seeing a horse bank off a rail-lined bridge at a gallop, either.

One of the other classes in the competition is the cattle test which I would like to know more about. Because if this is it, it seems a lot easier than the American equivalent of team penning, but I still would hate to have to outsmart the cattle.

Beyond this equitation contest is the ultimate X-sport for the breed: bullfighting. This clip doesn't show the bull getting killed because this is, after all, Portugal and bulls aren't killed in the fights there. However, it does show the bull getting stabbed with short decorative spears, so the squeamish should opt out of watching.

Normally, I think of palominos as being the Barbie and Ken dolls of the day, but this handsome stud goes way beyond Ken-dom. Humna, humna, baby.

Sigh ... I apologize if I bored the non-horsey Lovely Readers, but I can't get beyond actually getting to watch these horses in action. I'm in love all over again, and the miracle of Internet made it possible.

Maybe I can arrange for Xena to meet a handsome stud in a chat room at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

I have a fascination with moments in which completely unrelated things occur in the same instant. Like a cupboard door clapping shut at the exact moment the furnace turns on. Or the time one fall day when I was riding a young horse who was spooking at a large cottonwood log. I let her slowly approach the log for a sniff and just as her nose touched the log a gunshot from about a half-mile away broke the silence. That horse never did walk past that log without at least tipping an ear at it.

So the other day I was whipping out some emails before running outside to do chores, soak up some vitamin D. I hit send on the last email then waited for the message that it went, and just as this: "Sending message (100% complete)" disappeared from the bottom bar on the screen, the power went out.

It's like there are only so many dots, blips, sparks or flashes of impulse to make things happen in the universe. In the nanosecond that my computer got confirmation from the server about my message, a truck driver in town came to a sudden stop against a power pole. And maybe a kid diving into a lake in Tibet just broke the water's surface with his outstretched fingers, a jumping goat landed on someone's car hood in Uruguay, a bomb blew up a family in a market place in the Middle East, a new tree sprouted in a forest somewhere where no heard it, the voices of 10,000 teen-aged boys in random points around the globe all cracked at a most inopportune moment, a marsh hawk leaped from a branch into the sky, a woman in Toronto hit her thumb with a hammer trying to drive a nail in the wall so she could hang her favorite piece of artwork in her new house, and two chunks of space detritus at the far end of the galaxy collided with a big bang.

Just sayin'.

Think about it at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

File this under "Things I recommend."

I've just finished the book "All I did was Ask" by Terry Gross, a talk show host for National Public Radio. The book is filled with excerpts from selected interviews with various writers, artists, musicians and actors. I can't say enough about how engaging, enlightening and funny the interviews are --- because of both the interviewer and the interviewees. The only problem I saw with the book is that I felt like a fourth-rate dolt --- scratch that, a first-class dolt and a fourth-rate hack in comparison to the people Gross interviewed, and to Gross herself. Nothing funny from me on this one. Just humble admiration.

And for the horse-oriented Readers: the DVD "If Horses Could Speak" with German dressage trainer/competitor and veterinarian Dr. med. vet. Gerd Heuschmann presenting the results of his studies of the anatomy and biomechanics of horse movement. The presentation includes live action clips, drawings and 3D animation. Be prepared to watch it through 2-3 times to absorb the wealth of information. The downside is that Heuschmann's work is inspired by his campaign to end the inhumanities of "modern" dressage training techniques based on competition motives and return to the classic training principles. In his campaign to end cruel training/riding practices, he's more than willing to beat the viewer about the head and body with his unsubtle message. Presumably the viewer is there out of interest in improving their horsemanship practices, so it's like god-smiting the choir with hellfire and threat of salt pillars. You can skip the last quarter of the DVD, but the quality of information in the rest will make up for the wasted disc space.

I'm hunkered in here as the howling wind scours the prairie free of moisture and tumble weeds.

Wind tunnel for rent at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

On a lovely day of sunshine and high, blustery winds, I am cleaning house and doing laundry. Two tasks well overdue --- though somehow not as important as avoiding them at the computer.

Laundry isn't bad. It's mostly a matter of remembering to come back to it. Besides, the alternative is having John destroy all my clothes with his laundering efforts. Which means I would have to go shopping. Maybe kill someone.

House cleaning, though, is painful. I seem to be totally incapable of focusing on one room at a time so I spend a lot of efforts doing random bits of cleaning from one room to the next as I shuffle our various assortments of crap from one room to the next.

A few minutes ago, I carted a couple stray dirty glasses from my desk into the kitchen and turned my attention to the counter top. Where I discovered an abandoned pepper shaker sitting next to a thick scattering of powdered/gritty something-that-almost-rings-a-bell-but-not-quite.

It didn't look quite like pepper. Cocoa? No. Swiss Miss? Instant chai tea? I had both of them out yesterday for the first time since last winter. No. That's not right. Did John have a spice out for some reason? Hmmm. I pressed my finger into the stuff and sniffed what stuck to the tip.

Smells almost like nothing ... and yet ... . What the hell, stuck my tongue to the unknown counter top substance on my finger. Gritty. Mild. Tastes like---

Dirt.

Oh. Now I remember. John had pulled out some fresh-dug local potatoes and put them there while contemplating fried potatoes with breakfast. Yup, dirt. In my mouth.

Idiocy is hard on the tooth enamel at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

I admit it. I'm frugal. Not in an organized, coupon clipping, buy so much food at Costco in one outing that it pays for the membership and the 200-mile round trip plus the U-haul and an overnight stay at a hotel with a jacuzzi kind of frugal. But we make do on very little income to support the lifestyle to which we have become accustomed.

One of the things that helps is that John and I aren't clothes hounds. Not that I wouldn't like to look more stylish --- well, no that's wrong. Using the word "more" implies that I have some iota of stylishness to begin with. I don't. Seriously, as long as the clothes don't bind, and they cover my body, so I can continue to do my part to keep America beautiful, I'm good.

So, it's not that I wouldn't like to look stylish, but I hate hate hate clothes shopping, and I get very cranked up about the prices of clothes.

Seriously, you want to get me cranked up, tell me you spent $70 on a pair of those stone-washed, pre-faded, factory-frayed, paid extra for the company to wear away half their useful life jeans. Oi, I just deleted a tirade.

John and I probably don't spend more than $300 a year on clothes --- combined. The only thing we spend real money on is some of our coats and shoes/boots --- the ones we need to last, fit well, and look nice. For a good winter coat or work/riding boots, we find quality stuff on sale and do our best to make them last. My tennis shoes? Wal-Mart ... on sale. I'm not going to pay full price for their cheapy crap. My chore coat? Salvation Army. Like I'm going to spend $200 on a nice coat my horses will slime with snot and grain slobber, or that I'll hook on a barbed wire fence. Ain't happening. My current winter chore coat? Down-filled, $5 at Salvation Army, and it's lasted three years.

In fact, I shop Salvation Army for most of my clothes. There, I said it. And you'd be surprised who all shops at that store.

This spring I spotted a pair of brand new, black, leather, lace up boots. They look kind of like combat boots, but have a smoother sole, like a riding boot. They cost $25, though. So I didn't buy them. I wanted them, but I said, hey, they're a half-size too big. They don't have speed laces. They lace higher than I like since my ankles start to ache when they're bound up like that. Blah blah blah. Really, it was the $25.

I just forgot about them. Fast forward to this fall.

I'm worried about my riding boots wearing out within the next year and not having a sale-priced replacement when I need it. I'm thinking ahead to cold weather when I'd like to wear riding boots with thick socks, but that won't work with my current boots which fit just so with regular socks. I've been doing a lot of digging work and filling my tennis shoes with dirt without work boots to wear. Blah blah blah.

About this time, John and I were in Salvation Army, and he suggested I try the boots on again. I was about at the end of my shopping tolerance so I, quick, tried them on, and thought, whatever, they'll work. I threw them in the cart and moved on. Didn't look at nor remember the price tag.

Just about choked when the clerk rang up my purchases. I paid, and then dug through the items after I got in the car to find out --- oh crap. The boots.

And buyer's remorse. Over a stupid $25 on boots (they weren't twenty-five-dollar great, though, right?), on which the sale proceeds go to charity. Shut my pie hole and just build a bridge, get over it.

After avoiding them for a week, I wore them yesterday while post-hole digging to start breaking them in --- I totally love them. Madly and deeply.

They're light weight, the sole is flexible and didn't track mud, the fabric insets at the ankle and calf made them not bind, the tight part stretched easily and I'll be able to get a pair of winter socks in them soon. I could swoon.

Heaven is a good thing gone great at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

I go away for a few days to the birthday celebration of my twin sisters from another mister and come home to 99 percent happy to be back --- horses were well taken care of, house no worse than when I left, all motorized and electronic parts functional, everyone healthy and happy to see me, even decent weather. What, pray tell, is the one percent wrong in my White Trash Wonderland, then?

Apparently, John took the dog hunting on Saturday and poor Coop's wire hair, feathered legs and full beard picked up some cockle burrs that John had to come home and groom out. This I heard about when I called home Saturday night. What was not confessed to me is that the tangles of cockle burrs were removed with scissors rather than a brush and comb.

My dog looks like a 3-year-old gave him haircut, like the loser in an angry duel fought with sheep shears, or the first guy to pass out at a frat party. No, half a beard is NOT better than no beard at all.

One percent mortified at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Web pages, like my blogless one, have a statistics breakdown that tells the owner details about visitors and the search hits on the site. So I know things like I get more hits on the day and day after my column is printed. And I know that most of you read my blog while at work, I so love that I'm a bad influence.

Another feature I like tells me what country people are in when either they or their search engine finds my site. I'm totally fascinated by the fact that most months I have hits from someone (or more ones) in a country called Seychelles. I don't know if the person or people visit my site, or if their word searches keep pinging me, but I'm intrigued. Email me if you're from Seychelles, but don't make it sound like one of those scam emails because I'll delete you without knowing you tried to reach me. And, honestly, if you're not from Seychelles and you knew the country is an archipelago of 115 islands in the Indian Ocean far off the coast of Kenya and northeast of Madagascar (where the feature-length cartoon "Madagascar" was filmed, y'know) then I'm totally impressed with you. I looked it up. Google is my friend.

The stats page also has this funky feature that tells me what search words lead search engines to find my site --- like the few that say something akin to: "Pam Burke Montana" or "Montana view from the north forty."

Surprisingly, the search strings that generate the most hits on the site have to do with my hognose snake photos and entry from last summer. Hands down winner there for months on end. August had seven horse-related hits, including: "ugly paint horse" which makes me wonder why someone wants to find an ugly paint horse. I know "you don't ride the head," but really? You want to find an ugly one when there are so many pretty ones out there? Then of course, there's a related one that I find personally amusing: "pant horse." Yup, we pant over horses here all the time. Centerfolds abound with horses.

September was interesting with: "Does this thong make my ass---" To which I would reply, Yes, it's much better than what those granny panties did for you but, honey, you snug that baby up any tighter, and it won't be makin' your ass so much as breakin' it. Just saying, those thongs are like piano wire in the hands of a trained assassin, slice you in two. And "big butts." I don't want to know why that searcher wants to know about large booty, and I don't want to know how I ended up on that list. Well, maybe someone saw me splittin' my big ass in two with a thong.

This month I've had "bagpiping hick." I know both of those words have been used in my blog, but why would anyone search for something that puts the two words together. I don't think hicks would be caught dead bag piping commando in a plaid skirt. I'm more baffled, though, over "quilts for loggers." What? On this site? Move along search engines, there's nothing to see here. Move along. You're blocking traffic.

As much as I scratch my head in wonder about how people and search engines find me, we can take that times ten wondering what the heck someone typed into the search words box to find this other site which details how to use tampons in craft projects. By the by, BFF Reader Mary said that the Halloween decorations are wicked funny when applied in the proper number to the perfect victim's vehicle. No photos available in the gift shop.

Of course, the next most obvious thing to wonder is: what possessed someone to A) utilize tampons in crafts which far exceed the intended use of the product, and B) create and maintain the website featuring said mind-bending crafts. I thought I was weird, so whoever you are ...

thanks for the moment of normal-by-comparison at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

I know you're all wondering: so what do you guys do on weekends for entertainment? Let me tell you, we lack for naught in the realm of self-amusement.

Yesterday, we went to town for a sausage and pancake breakfast that is a fundraiser for a local ministerial association. I got pancakes from the top of the stack, while John and the next couple got the shoe leather batch underneath. I have no idea how one cooks tough pancakes --- even I haven't advanced to such a level of suckery as that. Entertainment? Munching happily on my tender cakes watching the other three people at my table break plastic-wear and fish out pocket knives and hacksaws to eat their breakfast. I like the senior citizen lady next to me --- funny, nice and unquestionably willing to fork up her pancake and gnaw a few bites off it. She's totally my hero.

Friday, ran to Wally-world for Ben & Jerry's and a handful of $5 movies. Then sat at home watching them while icing my lower back and heating my neck and shoulder and wondering why I didn't notice before purchasing it that the Japanese sci-fi didn't have English dubbing. I kept not watching the screen and getting lost as the action wandered away from any kind of visual storyline.

I also bought a brand spankin' new back brace. Let me tell you, nothin' says there's a party going on in my pants quite so much as an orthopedic lumbar support device. Especially this one. Much more svelte than my last back brace, and it's tres chic in black with midnight blue velcro. I'm too sexy in my brace, too sexy in my brace, too sexy when I hurt, so sex-y ... . With apologies to Right Said Fred for absconding with and perverting their lyrics.

The brace so held my mid-body parts from disintegrating into separate pieces today while digging post holes, stacking hay, tearing down a temporary pen and assembling another pen. However, it requires much more forethought for those potty breaks. Entertainment is me dancing down the hallway trying to escape from three velcro closures while holding back the flood tides of 24 oz. of water that had a Diet Coke chaser.

Last weekend was this scenario complete with pictures:

All that week we had anticipated a steam engine towing antique travel cars to pass by Friday on an epic trip from Minneapolis to Portland, Oregon. So at 3:30 p.m. John was up on the hill behind the house setting up the camera on the tripod to get pictures of the train coming down the river valley. I joined him at 4 p.m. --- at which time he promptly drove back down to the house for binoculars and provisions. Togetherness, it's a tear jerker.

I stood up on the hill enjoying the sun and the view and all the other people who drove out to park along the tracks to view the --- screech, ka-bang. Hmm? That was totally weird because it sounded like tires squealing on pavement and then a gunshot. Weird that they happened almost at the same time. La-dee-dah, look at me looking at the pretty river valley. Wow, look at the cars really congregate over at the neighbor's drive about 1.5 miles east of us. Doo-dee-dooo.

Then John got back with the binoculars and --- oh --- goodness me. Look at that gigantic grain truck tipped over in the ditch down there. FYI, dear Readers, grain trucks flipping into the ditch sound just like gun shots. One shouldn't duck for cover so much as maybe go help, or at the very least take pictures.

Done did that second one.

And look how everyone else trying to travel along Hwy 2 at 4 p.m. on a Friday got in on the entertainment action.

But of course no one was having as much fun as everyone in the picture. Looky-Lou's got a good looky-see at the tipped truck (black arrow), the poor bastard (yellow arrow) who got traffic duty out in the middle of the major thoroughfare in the area next to the ambulance (red arrow) with doors gaping open like an invitation to another distracted driving accident, while the cops walked from their patrol cars to the white car which apparently caused the accident (blue circle).

Although, to be fair, the car didn't cause the accident so much as the driver and his two passengers. I found out Monday that their entertainment was to purchase and consume their individual fifths of whiskey while heading down the road. Them country boys sure know how to have fun, eh?

Wait a second. There's our choo-choo train!!

Oh, but here's the real entertainment. Us watching people watch people watching them.

If you say it really fast, you get lightheaded at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

So I don't get to remember the dream from which I awoke laughing uncontrollably, but I distinctly remember dying last night --- helicopter rotor through the torso. Nasty business that.

I dreamed that someone was using a blue and white helicopter to airlift a pickup and horse trailer combo (oddly rust-orange pickup and a silver trailer, nothing fancy or even modern, but like-new shiny condition) into the vastly expanded from real life parking lot behind the junkman-in-law's retirement apartment building. A bunch of us were standing at the edge of the pavement watching the proceedings --- which were precarious at best.

Someone commented, "I didn't know Cody could fly a helicopter." No, I don't know who Cody is, but I can say from what I witnessed in my dream that, in fact, dream-Cody cannot fly a helicopter very well or for very long.

After disengaging from the pickup and horse trailer, ol' dream-Cody screwed the pooch, augering into the pavement and bouncing into the side of the building.

Dream-me was totally compassionate. "That's gonna be expensive," I said. And then the wall caved in. "Times ten," I amended. But I did have the presence of mind to think two things --- the first being, from a more conscious thought-level, that I should probably be running toward the building to see if some grandmas and grandpas needed saving. Yeah, that would be the unselfish thing to do.

And the second thought I actually iterated in the dream: "Where are the rotor blades?"

That's when things started to go to hell for dream-me.

I turned toward my little crowd of loved ones, threw out my arms in a protective herding gesture, and said, "Run for cover!" Good me, brave me, dream-me. The part of my brain that was commenting on the dream had this feeling of impending doom because dream-me didn't understand my rotten Burke-luck or the saying "no good deed goes unpunished."

We made it about three feet and just as I stepped into the spot the other people had vacated --- cuh-shoonk --- one of the blades fell straight out of the sky and sliced off my out-stretched right arm. I thought, "And where's the other shoe?" Cuh-shoonk. It impaled/splatted me. And that's Burke-luck.

Yes, of course, I awoke. That is, I awoke to discover that I had been sleeping so soundly, and in the wrong position, that my right hand was beyond asleep into some alternate parallel universe of pain.

Thus, my day began at 5:30 a.m. at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

In a stunning turn of events this afternoon, our dog Cooper shed his chicken liver ways, sprouted a set of brass cajones and cornered a coyote in the barn. No kidding.

Yes, this is the dog who tucks tail and runs at the mere howl of one coyote from a half-mile away, and once left me lying on the ground in the pasture as bait, the other white hick meat left to distract the predator from his tail-tucked and hasty retreat to home base. He's afraid of the dark. A mini-dachshund backed him down just last month.

But today, all of that has changed. Today when he and I were at the barn to open the gate for John to fetch a round bale with the forklift, Cooper loped into the barn --- beelining for an exit out the far doors --- and spooked up a year-old coyote who was around the far side of the haystack. The coyote ran the other direction and right after he realized I was standing in that doorway, he realized that Coop had executed a sharp 180 and was coming at his tail end with business on his mind.

Young mister coyote made a mad dash for cover in a corner with Cooper in hot pursuit barking and growling. I got Coop called off before he fully went to ground like a proper attack terrier, and he sat next to me waiting, boldly, for John to arrive with the forklift. There was less than 24 feet between him and his not so wily nemesis.

We waited close to forever for John to show up and when he did I got him signaled to stop and kill the engine back a ways. He wasn't in the mood to kill anything other than the engine, even a coyote, but he did get his 1860 Army to put a scare into the little blighter. Now, mind you, this pistol is a cap and ball black powder pistol. It sounds the whomp of a small cannon and billows an impressive plume of smoke when fired. The coyote didn't care. Didn't leave. Didn't even flinch. He was calling Cooper's bluff. What the heck, we let him.

Fun over, we headed back to the house, me towing Cooper who was feeling man enough to double dog dare that coyote to go ahead and bring on the heat. Before I could rush back to the barn with the camera, young mister coyote was outta there.

Cooper went out later and fully investigated the barn to make sure the intruder had vacated the premises. He peed on a few things with a seriousness like he was etching "Property of Cooper - Paws OFF!" into everything.

Every time we let him outside after this, he'd strut out the door woofing, with his chest puffed out and his tail cranked so far beyond maximum allowable torque that it vibrated.

About five minutes ago a coyote howled pretty close to the house, and Coop emerged from his cushy bed in the bedroom to strut out into the living room. Apparently, he's keeping an eye on the front door.

Coop's the man at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Contemplate with me, if you will, the merit of laughter being the best medicine. I woke from a pretty deep dream state in the wee hours Saturday night/Sunday morning. I was too not fully awake to catch the time. Doesn't matter really, but I wish I could remember even a shred of the dream I was having because what woke me was the sound of me laughing --- out loud, AT my dream, not IN it. You know those gigantic belly laughs that get you kicked out of any respectable establishment? I mean, hypothetically speaking, because, y'know, who would ever be so rude ... Still, laughter of that magnitude is what I was trying to choke down, smother in my pillow, contain within my well-sprung ribcage.

Could you imagine the chaos if I'd startled John from slumberland with that? Him jerking awake, damaging a body part, breaking his bedside lamp, spilling his water glass from the dresser top onto the bed, the dog barking incessantly --- me convulsed in laughter, unable to explain, tears rolling down my face. Oh, the sore stomach muscles, the face cramps, the never live it down paybacks.

I've thought about it for days --- I've not thought about it some too --- in hopes that the dream would come to me. No go. Did it cure what ails me? Well, no, not really. My body is still wallowing in the continuing agony of shovel duty. However, I did complain a lot less, so I guess you could say it cured what's been ailing John then.

Got no cheese left to go with my whine at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

I rarely talk about how I come up with ideas for topics and all the little oddments of words and hysteria that I blurt into columns and blog entries. This is because 1) in my world, where irony rules, talking about the conception and birth place of ideas seems like an invitation to a terminal case of writers block, and 2) there's no real formula. Sometimes a funny thing happens to me. Sometimes my brain just runs amok. Sometimes I read something that strikes me as odd or hilarious. Sometimes it's a conversation. Sometimes I'm just desperately pulling ideas out of my astoundingly dulled brain to get the job, self-appointed as it is, done.

My "voice" in my written work is pretty much the voice you get when I'm telling a story or bantering with you --- it's me minus most of the potty mouth, and skirting the racier and more socially incorrect topics and inferences, occasionally adding in a little more research.

Readers who know me personally know that sometimes the wildness leaps unchecked from my brain and out my mouth like a chunky chick taking a running belly flop at the slippery-slide and shooting off the ramp into the pool. Damn the torpedoes and let the white caps flood where they may. It's even better fun if there's someone there to splash around in the pool with me.

Like last night after the junior high concert when I was chatting with a friend who attended along with her elderly mother. Another acquaintance of both of ours walked up and initiated a conversation about what my friend was up to these days. As my friend was explaining her new(ish) job, I blurted "Oh, don't let her kid you, she's turned to prostitution." I gave her elderly mom a consoling pat on the back and added, "It's better you know this about her now before you read about it in the paper." That livened things up a bit and the banter was on, but John started dragging me out the door so I didn't get to say, "Yeah, her husband is handling the booking arrangements. He runs a regular ad in the Friday classifieds saying 'I pimp my bride. For a good time call ...'" That would've kicked the party up to a whole new level, guaranteed.

Other times, I'm as boring as soggy bread. OK, a lot of the time I'm the bread. Moving on.

All of this is the lead up to: the last entry, the one in which I wrote that made-up bit about maybe missing an email from a fictitious person I named Charles Chesterfield the 3rd. I don't know why I chose the name. I just thought the Charles Chesterfield sounded respectable and a bit pompous with a dash of cartooniness --- just what you'd expect from a con artist (all do apologies to any Charles Chesterfields out there in the universe).

At first, I thought, oh he has to be Chesterfield III, because he's "old money," but he didn't make it, or keep it stable, he's just working hard at spending it. He's reaping the benefits of third generation privilege, and he wants to wallow in the full measure of his inheritance, thus the motive for contacting a stranger for help. (What a crafty fictitious con artist to create this story.)

But the bit in my blog entry was fiction, and it is humor, right? So I quickly backspaced and made him Chesterfield the Third. Because that's just ridiculous that our fictitious con artist persona would think that this was the proper way to denote the third-generation name. Then I figured, oh, what the hell, let's go full-ridiculous and change the quasi-respectable Third to 3rd. Make the con artist so stupid he doesn't even understand that 3rd is absolutely not how you would write the name, and even in written works it's very casual, like it's a placing in a pool tournament. Ha ha har, now I'm chucklin' myself up.

This is all to say that I put some real thought effort into this little snippet from a much larger piece upon which I used equal measure of thinker skills. Granted, the "III" to "3rd" conversion took place in mere seconds, but still, it's an indication of me working diligently for you.

Flash forward to this morning at work when I was typing up the misdemeanor Justice Court records --- one of the many menial and yet somehow fascinating things I do for the day job.

There's me type type typing at the blazing speed of the average 8-year-old, and what do I read but --- and mind you that these are official court documents (though I'm changing the person's first and last name because I can't for the life of me remember them) --- "Doe, John 2nd." As in John Doe the 2nd. In the official court records. Hand to God, I kid you not.

So to recap and to help me get this right-ways in my head: I spent actual thought-time and -energy trying to create the most perfectly ridiculous name. And then I find that I am no more original than either 1) a parent who is either an evil humor-monger or a complete idiot, or 2) a court records clerk who is a total moron.

Either way, I'm trumped at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Crises, Will Robinson. Crises!

Because I am an airhead, one of my boarders had to remind me Thursday to take some promised photos of her horse. Bad me. Rush, rush, rush, to fulfill my promise. Mid-afternoon, then, on the 477th day of my bloglessness. I was outside taking said photos of said horse while the stupid kid, er, young man working for our Internet provider was upgrading our wi-fi equipment up on the hill. Yippee!

I got done with the horse about the time he came down from the tower to talk to John. I put the horse back in her pen and met the guy, me with camera in hand to download and email photos, as he was loading up in his pickup to leave. He smiled warmly and said, "You won't have Internet until Monday." Ha ha ha, very funny. "No, really." What!? "I broke a part while I was up there, and the company can't get it here until Monday." There's no chance that you, Dustin, who apparently is not careful, from Stellar Computer Consulting Co. in Havre, can have us running by tomorrow? "No." Wipe that smile off your face before I do it for ya. "If I'd broken it before 3:00 they could've had it here by tomorrow, but ... ." You have got to be freakin' kidding me!

Four days (or more) without Internet? I have to email photos --- the ones I just took, that I am virtually holding in my hand. I have to email friends and family. I have to stay in touch with my loved ones or they will forget who I am! What if I miss an emailed introduction from a new BFF whom I don't know yet, named something like Charles Chesterfield the 3rd, who is in Zimbabwe settling his late father's estate and requires a mere $1,500 cashier's check from me to release $1M from the bank, of which I will receive a whopping $150,000 in good payment for my faithful assistance in this matter.

I have to blog, more or less, because it's not a real blog that I can access from any computer, I need my hook up, man. I have crucial things to say to people! Well, at least I have a self-appointed obligation to blah blah blah, which I can't do while I am bloglessness-less. So to speak.

I don't have TV or decent radio reception, I will miss the news headlines for the Web blah blah blah as well as said blahs in the weekly newspaper column.

Not only that, what if the latest headline says genealogy researchers discover that President Obama is related to Charles Chesterfield the 3rd's dad, Chesterfield the 2nd, and Obama gets cut in on the inheritance deal before I do?

What if scientists discover that consuming approximately 1-percent of your total body mass in dark chocolate every day is good for you? How will I know to cut my consumption of said dark chocolate in half?

I already missed the whole David Letterman telling everybody and his audience that he's getting blackmailed for having extra-marital sex with his staffers. You can't make that kinda thing up.

And it hinkied our movie watching experience since we couldn't look up things like the pirate chick from the first "Pirates of the Caribbean" on www.us.imdb.com which we wanted to do because we couldn't remember what other movies we've seen her in. No, not Keira Knightley, the other chick, the one who was a real pirate and to whom Capt. Jack Sparrow owed a boat. I know you know who I'm talking about though I haven't a clue what else she was in, I can't search the Internet!

Plus --- and this leads us to the next crisis --- I couldn't look up corporate information on Quilted Northern Bathroom Tissue regarding an issue of the utmost importance. I have been buying Northern since dirt was new, and I was an innocent first out on my own --- whether it's on sale when I need it or not --- because I prefer the product to others offered on the market. Now? Now, I'm very, very, very much highly disappointed in the Quilted Northern higher-uppity people because the rolls in the last 24-pack I just purchased are at least 1/4" narrower. You heard me.

It's an outrage. Pure and simple. Same price, less wipe.

Whoever made this decision to provide less wiping area per square times the length of the roll clearly does not use the company product. It is my civic doody to raise a stink on the issue.

While I'm at it, I'm going to write a letter to the Salsa Brava people for a similar transgression from a few years back when they made their hot sauce (on which I cut my baby teeth it's such a family food tradition) into a medium-hot sauce so they could sell more. Yes, I'm still mad about that years later.

To round out the weekend, I had to do more shoveling. I am sick unto the death of several of my muscles, tendons, and ligaments --- and some crucial spinal joints --- of working on the end of a No. 2 shovel, and the more shoveling I do, the more aches and bouts of limb numbness I have and the less sleep I get at night. In fact, it is 3:30 a.m. as I write these very words because I cannot sleep despite my tiredness. You want to know the worst part? As I was shoveling shoveling shoveling on Sunday I realized how we should've laid the electrical wire so I wouldn't have had to shovel at all. None, nada, zip, zero, zilch, at all. I wanted to cry. I always gotta do things the hard way. To top it all off? We were short electrical wiring so I couldn't even complete the job = more shoveling.

Crises abound.

Everybody together now, aaaand groooan: "Oh shinola ... ." (Don't say the other word, there isn't enough toilet paper.)

PS --- 4 days, 2 hours, 5 minutes and I'm back online. But they can still kiss their Christmas bonus goodbye.

PPS --- It's Zoe Saldana, and we saw her in "The Terminal" and "Star Trek" (the lastest). See how easy that was to find her? When. I. Have. Internet.

PPPS --- I'm still searching for the Quilted Northern CEO in charge of short-sheeting the public, but here's a little tidbit about their *new* 3-ply plush TP product that I turned up from their FAQs page:
Q: "I saw dust particles when I opened the package. What is going on?"
A: "Quilted Northern Ultra Plush is made of the softest fibers available and is fluffed in order to make it softer than ever. The softer fiber particles may shift during product shipping and appear when packages are first opened."

Fuzzier? Oh great, can you say "My GAWD! Look at that Charmin-sized TP dingleberry!!"

Nice upgrade, folks, and you're gonna hear about that too at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

I am so bummed today because I missed photographing the "National Geographic" event of the year!! (As a heads up to all of you who are easily mortified by the cruelty of nature, ya might wanna skip this story.)

While we were up at the front of our property this morning working on the waterline to our new corrals, I heard this distressed, screechy squawk that seemed to come from the direction of my current corrals and, thusly, warranted further investigation. As I walked toward our yard, I paused occasionally to listen for other noises and to see if I could tell where the horses were looking (and if they were distressed). Nothing. Thanks for the help guys.

After I got about 100 yeards from the house, I could see an eagle lift off from the hill along our road past the house. It flew toward the field, so I got all excited thinking that maybe the eagle had struck a badger or fox. Coolness would ensue in this battle of prey animals.

I picked up the pace and just as I got to the yard I could see the eagle and another creature facing off about 300 yards away in the field, but without my glasses I couldn't quite tell what the other animal was. It was like a round body with one leg sticking in the air. Huh? Something just wasn't right.

The eagle flew off once it spotted me, but I rushed into the house and grabbed the binoculars. The other creature was a great blue heron. Not at all what I expected to see. With or without glasses.

While I watched, a handful of cows came charging into my field of vision, making a straight line to the herron. To my surprise, the heron didn't fly off. It must've been injured by the eagle, so it faced off against the cows and squawked at them, adding a warning flap of the wings.

The cows didn't much like getting the what-for in their own field and and ramped up the charge. Oh crap! I need a camera!

I whipped around and took, at most, four seconds to locate the camera, but by the time I got back to the doorway the cows and calves had surrounded and killed the heron while the eagle circled, pissed, a half-mile above. No shinola.

I was agog.

And distraught. I ride out there among those cows. They've chased my doggy. Last week I disciplined a horse for running from them when they chased after us. They killed a defenseless, injured bird. And yeah, I admit it --- all that cool action, literally right outside my door, and all I captured was a photo of a milling herd of cows and calves. Aaargh!

The following photos are what I could gather from the scene (and they appear not in the order in which they were taken):

This bald eagle (mmm, maybe an immature golden eagle)

maimed a bird which normally looks like the one in this photo from the Montana Fish, Wildlife & Parks.

Then this herd of evil assassin bovines delivered the final coup de grace.

Rest in peace, blue birdy, as you take the next step in the circle of life.

I don't feel so bad about eating beef anymore.

The end at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Coochie-coo. Coochie-coo. Boo-boo-boo little baby.

It's namesake picture day here in the land of Pam(s):

Aw, isn't that just precious?

"Whadya mean 'say gorgonzola'? I'll flash these large humans a big cheesy grin and have 'em eating out of my hand. What they don't know is I just peed my clean diaper, and I might've flooded it all over my daddy-guy. Heh-heh, heh-heh, heh."

I told you she's getting big and, of course, is displaying a wider range of baby talents.

"They never feed me. Something about honing my drive and talents for 'America's Most Talented --- The Baby Wars'. Like I'm some kind of monkey girl. Hey, could someone help out a little baby and hand me that left toe at the top of the photo?"

One guess which photo I like best ...

"I am absolutely, positively sure that this is the coolest thing ever. This horse-being is warm and cozy and silky and she smells pretty and I want to hug her and squeeze her and call her my own. sigh. How to get mums and dadums to get me one though ... good girl, bad girl routine? Promise them I'll potty train before I turn two? Cling to the horse-being desperately and wail when auntie pulls me off? Man, I almost have the go button figured out."

Just in case little K-Pam has you wantin' a little chunk of baby of your own, though, check out these:

A pregnant woman in Arkansas got pregnant with a second child when she was two-and-a-half weeks pregnant with the first one. Yes, you heard me write.

A woman in Indonesia gave birth to a 19-pound baby.

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

We (as in the royal we, le moi) here at the most blogless of blog sites apologize to one and all because last week's entries were drown in the whitewater of an unforeseen ripple in life's usually even flow of effluent eroding the rut of our days.

We held a wake. We mourn the lost time, the undiscovered words which might've been inspired in those days. But the effluent of life goes on, thus we blog.

Yeah, so, Monday after the half-day job, I worked three horses. The one I lunged in the arena had a brain short that triggered her launch-forward gizmo, and I got a second- almost third-degree burn on my left palm that oozed for five days and is itchy scabby now. Why would such a thing happen, you might reasonably ask. Well, simply because I had this thought: "I wonder if I should get my gloves from the house. Naaaww! Nothing's going to happen." Zing! Burned. And then the phone rang off the hook, taking up the rest of the Monday. Good night.

Tuesday after the half-day job, I did some work outside then took the launcher to a friend's arena because I want her to get some varied experiences. She traded in her launcher for a dance-around-in-front-of-the-horse-trailer-door gizmo. It worked in the front yard for a good 35 minutes, but I think I wore the batteries down because it only worked for 10 minutes when I was trying to load her to come home. I'm still looking for the horse's trailer mis-loading on/off switch. Can't find the manual.

The most precious part of the day was me trying to function in leather gloves --- not so graceful that. Then every time I had to do something that required fingertips I'd pull off my right glove and forget to put it back on, so then I'd be running around with one glove on, looking like a one-hick tribute to Michael Jackson. After the afternoon of more time spent on horse stuff than planned, I topped off the evening with a bit of research and more phone ringing and talk-talk-talking. No problem, I had all Wednesday evening to write my column after an afternoon of cleaning house for the weekend's company ... . Both of those, of course, turned out like the not-needing-a-glove thing. Burned.

We (as in the not-royal we, John and I) had been waiting for a phone call announcing that our order of 100 treated railroad-tie posts would be ready for pickup within a week. Wednesday, while at the half-day job, I got the phone call, but the guy said: "Today." As in that day, the day, the one in which I had planned to put on some big girl panties and make myself clean house and then write my regularly scheduled column for which I have pledged at least to try to be funny --- a pledge which I had anticipated upholding despite the fact that I would've most certainly (among other hideous activities) had to swirl my hand around in a bleach-filled toilet bowl.

So I left work right after the paper went to print, and we got a flat-bed trailer and the required hauling accessories together and went down the road on an 80-mile round trip, with the promise of two more trips in the next day or two because we could only haul two bundles of posts at a time.

The positively notable moment of this trip was the discovery that the sub-contractor's Nebraskan employee, who was loading the posts, turned out to be a shirt-tail relation twice removed and three times twisted about. While writing out the check, I commented something about how it must get old to be away from home for long periods of time doing these contract jobs. He replied that at least he was in Montana where he had family. We kept pecking away at the topic until we discovered that he's a half-brother to some of my cousins on my mother's side, so --- ohmigawd! --- we're kinfolk! He was a nice guy and could operate a Bobcat better than I can keep track of my hands so, shoot, yeah, I'll claim him.

The negatively notable moment came when John and I were unloading the posts when we got home. John parked in what I thought was a weird place to unload, but what the heck, the posts were strapped into bundles, we have a forklift for efficient heavy lifting, you do the physics. Big deal. Besides, after 20 years we're used to seeing logical moves in completely opposite directions. Plus, I was happy just to get this unscheduled project completed quickly so I could go back to the scheduled projects of toilet bowl diving and witty writing. I was even happier that I didn't have to do any heavy lifting. Then John decided to see if the strap on the second bundle could be used for lifting it. I foresaw disaster and said I'd rather slip a chain under the bundle. Naw, he wanted to test the strap a wee bit --- the strap holding the 20 posts totaling approximately 3,200 pounds --- but there was no wee bit about this project. I suggested he test the strap on the bundle he just off-loaded. Naw this'll be fi---kuh-snap. And now I'm mad.

To an unreasonable degree no doubt, but that didn't detract from my justifiable stance. John is usually Mr. Safety. I'm usually all "Hey let's wing it. I haven't dallied with disaster for a whole day, and I'm wantin' to get me a little somethin'-somethin' from the calamity department." And it torqued my temper extra that he refused to admit, via an apology and abject displays of contrition, that he made an unusually stoopid move. That would be the point at which the unreasonableness of my temper tantrum kicked in. It seemed a wee bit obvious to me --- with the off-loading time quadrupled, and me being the one drenched in sweat and gaining rashes of creosote laden slivers --- that his was not a healthy decision.

Could he not see, I hollered sans-gentility, that I was needlessly hot and tired from lifting !#$@% railroad ties, and I still had to go clean the entire @#$%^ house, and when I was done with that I had to find the time and energy to be @#$%! funny because I was ON DEADLINE!

Didn't help. But 20 years of experience with spousal head-butting allowed us to get through the unloading civilly eventually letting go of the whole topic. I skipped cleaning and went straight to attempting funny. I hit deadline with a 550-word flounder aptly summed up as: they can't all be gems. And we were all happy, though not laughing uproariously from any grand displays of wit on my part.

Thursday morning, John's dad, my Junkman-in-law who is semi-part-time-mostly-when-it-suits-him retired, came out because he was bored, decided to go with John for the second load because he was still bored and left as soon as they got home because he was totally bored after all that. [Insert appropriate emoticon here --- almost any will do.] Then John picked me up at work, and we made the final 80-mile round trip but left the last load on the trailer in the yard when we returned so I could hurry up and dive into that house cleaning, toilet bowl and all, before rushing 15 miles the opposite direction to take Cooper to a scheduled vet appointment where we discovered that he has a sprained toe. Whatever. Much ado, much ado.

We got back to our quasi-clean home just in time to greet our company: my namesake K-Pam who has turned into a 6-month-old, hefty chunk of child. She brought her parents along to chauffeur the 250 miles, and change diapers. Aunt Pam isn't big on diapers.

Basically, that evening and the entire weekend was a blur of visiting, baby koochy-kooing, Festival Days participation, laughing, eating, BSing and not sleeping enough. The most notable feature of the long weekend, though, was the multiple trips to the bag-of-books-for-a-buck, four-day, used-book sale at the local public library where, even though we already had too many books, we were bold enough Saturday afternoon to beg permission to paw through the 40-some boxes still in storage in the basement because Baby Brother, Donut and K-Pam were leaving Sunday before the sale opened again. Hey, the workers kept saying that they were going to throw out anything left over. Baby Brother was visibly sick at the thought that the likes of Shakespeare, Frost or Poe would end up lining a dumpster to soak up the slime from someone's rancid kitchen garbage. Desperate times called for desperate measures. I had to curry favors.

All in all, Baby Brother over-loaded his car suspension with books, and John and I scored roughly another 500 pounds of treasures, so if another micro-burst storms through here again, my house won't be shifting off its blocks. Better than stuffing rocks in your pockets.

And, on the seventh day, I rested. The End at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

As penance for almost entirely blowing off work yesterday in favor of attending a horse auction I spent the morning pecking away at the gazillion photos we have to download from the camera and preparing more pretty photos for you, the lovely Readers, to see here. And because a picture is worth 1,000 words, I can be mercifully brief, right?

"Pretty Photo #4 of the Summer of 2009" comes to you from the corral in May. I took this photo of one of my young boarded horses, Lucky, who was named so prior to getting the scabbed up ding you can see in the middle of his blaze. I had to keep Lucky in the corral for a month or so and --- ever so excited to see me, the food dispenser --- every morning he would greet me with his soft, high-pitched, young horse whinny and peek out between the boards while I was getting his hay.

Astute readers will probably note that Lucky is looking at me without hay bulging from his mouth, so, yes, I was torturing him by standing next to the hay taking photos and not, in fact, fulfilling his nickered request for grub to break his overnight fast. Alright, I admit it. Making him wait was mean. But you have to admit that you're glad I did it --- he's pretty cute, eh?

"Pretty Photo #5 of the Summer of 2009" is this classic, lovely rainbow that touched down just across the field from our yard.

I read a funny-to-me French phrase in the dictionary this week (yes, I was looking up something else and got distracted --- leave me alone about it): esprit de l'escalier. The hick pronunciation guide being: es-PREEd-les-KAH-lyay (to be spoken in your best Pepe Le Pew accent). Literally translated it is: "spirit of the staircase," but it means "repartee thought of only too late or on the way home."

And how this relates to the photo is that after this prismatic color spectrum moved on from the field, I realized I should've given John the camera so he could take a picture of me running like a crazed thing, arms a-flailing, across the field toward the legendary pot of gold.

How do you say "doh" in French? at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Before we move on to the latest summer photo. There's this little matter of a sci-fi/fantasy nerd news flash: "The Hobbit" is good to go and it looks like they're doing it as a two-parter. Get this. Guillermo del Toro of "Hellboy" and "Pan's Labyrinth" fame will direct, and Peter Jackson who, among a great many other things, directed the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy, will act as executive producer.

Del Toro is a bit darker and more twisted than Jackson, so it will be interesting to see how Middle Earth is manifested via his vision. Just saying, I'll be there in the theater with the giant tub of popcorn, chocolate covered raisins and the incongruous large Diet Coke to check it out.

Now, for your immediate viewing pleasure, "Pretty Photo #3 of the Summer of 2009," from early August:

I find this picture of a low-lying cloud bank to be particularly captivating from an artistic standpoint. We came home at dusk one evening and the world had that visual clarity only created by a few days of rain washing all the dust from the air and the plants. The thick clouds on the southern skyline were a dark, steel blue-gray with only this nearer cloud bank just over the hill glowing, in contrast, with the last stray light particles from the setting sun.

John and I were unloading the car and rushing because we had a 587 things to get done before bedtime, but he took the time to snap a couple quick shots. Unfortunately, he didn't have time to mess with the light setting and auto-mode left us with very dark images. For kicks and giggles I tried lightening the images, and I got this grainy, old-timey photo which is completely at odds with the actual scene that night, yet accidentally cool.

We'll take cool however we can get it 'round here at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

"Pretty Photo #2 of the Summer of 2009," from late August: I spy with my little eye ...

a young male pheasant. Technically, he should be called an immature male Ring-necked Pheasant. I know these things because my daddy was a game warden (and because I have high-speed Internet and just looked it up at the Montana Fish, Wildlife & Parks field guide website). But I don't really like to use the term immature, because it seems mean to presume that just because he's young, he's immature.

This young guy was wandering across our yard area in a very careful and considerate manner, and that last part is hard to do when careful is of primary importance for you as a wild prey animal of an attractively tender and juicy age. He was, in fact, so careful he escaped notice by Cooper who is always game for rousting out the wildlife.

Anyhow, that seems to demonstrate that the bird was, in fact, comporting himself in a mature manner.

I'm just sayin' at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

I am still a bit ill-affected by sitting at the computer and those life-suckers at the morning job burned up a big wad of my useful typing hours, so I bring you "Pretty Photo #1 of the Summer of 2009" ... which I just, uh, happened to have downloaded and cropped as if I were going to do that anyway. Whatever.

This is a beautiful "fog rainbow" from a morning in July when I went out to feed ponies. (I made up the term, but I'm thinking of submitting it to a scientific society for official recognition. Meanwhile, back in the moment ...) Ah, the digitally mastered, photographic imagery is so poignant, so rustic, so peaceful. You can almost hear the hungry horse nickers and smell their dewy horse poop from the corrals at my back.

Moments over. Time for business --- I have an ice pack calling my name. As a side note, literally, please take notice that I have, once again, transfered another section of blogless entries to their own linked page listed along the left margin of your screen.

Insert appropriate Vanna hands here at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Wow, so I'm back at the computer after my vacation from life. I went away to the floor with my defective spine and sore muscles. We made a few side trips to the chiropractor and day-spa-ed with a couple ice packs and the home TENS unit for some vigorous, electrical stimuli of the muscular system.

We didn't sleep much --- me, my spine and muscles --- didn't want to sleep through the pain party. The chiropractor was pretty impressed with how much my spine and back muscles were living large. I don't think he's ever looked at my back, prodded a few muscles with a finger like he was looking at a freak science experiment and said, "Hmm?mm?mm!" And he got to adjust me, literally, from the base of my skull to my ass-tronomical backside. It was a personal record --- C1 to L5 plus my SI joints. T1-T3 were so tightly bound I had to go back for a second try at freeing them up. Still, I say the most fun was the cramping, shooting pains and occasional numbnesses. Rock on.

I have not taken care of my body as I should have. I was born stronger than I am smart. I don't know if this will change. I suggest you all buy stock in over-the-counter, pain-relieving, anti-inflammatory medications. If anyone knows how to make homemade aspirin, let me know.

Sadly, an aspirin and a Coke don't make you feel drunk at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com

Despite the risk of sounding like I'm obsessed with things netherly located, I am compelled to recount two stories with, more or less, said relationship in order to expose, so to speak, my latest ethical dilemma.

First, John and I went to the big city of Billings last week, and because it was a 3.5 hour drive, complete with water and a soda, I detoured through the bathroom on my way to the office appointment.

This particular public bathroom was a spacious three-stall, two-sink number, completely tiled to amplify any sounds into a most inappropriately loud echo --- the latter being strongly evident when I walked in to the sound of tidal-force flushing and a metal stall door banging open. The flushing woman headed to the sink to wash up and I bee-lined for the middle stall (the first one was taken and, I assume from angle of her travel, flushing woman left behind a warm seat in the third stall --- I don't even want to consider that she may have left behind a wet seat --- public restrooms are a tricking place to navigate).

Anyhow, I was sitting there behind door No. 2 (no pun intended) divesting my bladder of several ounces of processed fluids and kidney wastes, and I heard --- through the echoes of stall No. 3's tank filling its last gallons and the sundry noises of hand washing --- someone talking mid-conversation. Somewhat loudly, given the setting and the echoing quality of the room. Whatever.

More loud talking, though. Enough I could pinpoint the source --- not from the sink or doorway or open area of the bathroom --- from the occupied stall No. 1 next to me.

Is there a kid in there with a parent? I wondered. No. This is a grownup conversation about health insurance, and it's a one-sided conversation. I can see the edge of one of the speaker's well-shod feet, approximately on-level with and pointing in the same direction as my feet. All of this can only mean: the woman was sitting on the toilet, in a very public restroom, chatting on the phone.

I don't own a cellphone so I'm not really up on cellphone etiquette or the new social norms related to public cellphone yakking, but am I the only person in the world who finds this totally bizarre?

Maybe it was unreasonable of me, however, I really had to fight the urge to climb up on the toilet in my stall, glare down at the woman over the partition and say, "Are you such a plugged-in nut job that you can't have even one private moment? This is a bathroom --- a noisy, public bathroom. Get off the *#&%! phone, finish your bizness, wash your freakin' hands, and call that person back when you get to the lobby."

Sometimes I wish I were one of those people who lacks that little voice of reason that keeps us from going too far acting on impulse. Mine gets shorted out on occasion, but it worked as it is supposed to here, and I just finished my own bizness, washed my hands and left. And immediately declared to John and everyone in the room where he was waiting for me: "There is a woman, on the toilet, yacking on her cellphone. What is that all about?"

I just can't let some moments pass by without comment.

The very next day I was waiting my turn for a physical --- a woman's wellness exam, to be exact --- which I have had done at Family Planning since I was a college student. At first because I was poor and their payment schedule accommodated low-incomes, then because I realized that I preferred going somewhere that specialized in, well, woman-stuff, and they have a female NP. This is important because somewhere along the line I decided that having a female provider for this exam is essential. If you haven't had to put your feet in the stirrups and scoot yourSELF down to the edge of the table, I don't want to hear that directive come from your pie hole. Just saying.

Meanwhile back in the waiting room, while I was awaiting my turn, the young woman sitting a few chairs away answered her cellphone, and proceeded to have a private conversation at a very non-private volume. I learned that she was speaking to her baby-daddy who is late on his monthly child support which he agreed without court intervention to pay and who thinks cellphone girl is in possession of some of his personal items. She, on the other hand, is positive that he took everything that is rightfully his, and, BTW, the DVD player is hers, she bought it with her one paycheck. All that being whatever, the more important thing is that he had said that he wanted to be a part of his child's life, but wasn't following through, and she wanted to know if that was going to change in the near future.

Before I could say, "Don't count on it, honey, so just hang up on him. Put us both out of our misery." I was mercifully whisked away to my private room where I was stranded, nude under a large paper napkin that substitutes for a gown these days, and left strangely baffled by yet a second day of inappropriate cellphone revelations in inappropriate places.

So here's my ethical dilemma: I've been rolling my eyes over and poking fun at these two events for a week now (while I've avoided sitting at the computer because my upper spine is killing me). If you think about it, though (and I've had time), blogging about peeing in public bathrooms, getting ones woman-parts examined and all the other personal oddities and embarrassments I'm OK with revealing is hardly any better.

My conclusion is: I am officially a participant in the moral degradation of the American culture. I'll probably burn in a special level of hell reserved for blogging sarcasticates who insist on making up words.

But I'm not giving up these clandestine writings for the ethical high ground.

Ethics? We don't need no stinkin' ethics at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40(dot)com