Last weekend was the first weekend I stayed in town, El Boysaaaayy, the big city of Idaho, this entire summer. I can’t say why we decided to stay put, but if I remember correctly, it went something like this. “We should probably stay in town this next weekend, do some yard work, be adult like in behavior.” Sense the maturity and wisdom in that? Had I known, or taken the initiative to check a weather report, I would have seen it was publicly predicted that life as we know it would swelter under a kite of triple digits over said weekend. If I realized heat stroke was on the menu, I would have packed in 5 minutes and headed North, probably to Alaska.

I didn’t. I’m not smart like that.

Photo Credit ~ My daughter Kaitlyn

Since we were officially stuck in a town where Mizz Sunshine was pulling up her dress and flashing her blazin’ 105 degree panties, we did what smart people are expected to do. We said a prayer for our sizzled lawn and went downtown to boil our brains and watch people even smarter than us, bike race the Twilight Criterium.

During the hours of 3 p.m through ohh, about midnight, it felt like we weren’t actually downtown, but in a crematorium sanctioned by Mizz Sunshine herself~~~ ‘Fry those morons who think they can withstand me’ her righteous panties declared.

I honestly tried not to whine, and complain as I sat (melted) in my lawn chair. I tried not to fling the back of my hand to my forehead and beg for mercy. I was after all, sitting and there was (clearly deranged or super human) people racing bicycles under the opressive heat.  We all knew it was HOT because we were reminded every 5 minutes by a loudspeaker ” Folks! According to our thermometer it’s 110 degrees on the concrete out there!”

Although my mind certainly suffered under a degree of heat stroke, I do remember a few things. For one SWEAT. Let me state for the record, I’m not a sweat producing individual. I’m just not. The rare times I have felt the salty sensation called perspiration, it’s usually contained to the armpit region and I’m typically hiking up a steep ass hill when such a breaking of the body rank occurs. I don’t like sweat so I’m pro-active. My Ladies Speed stick is my friend and usually all the reinforcement I need. But on Saturday I could have rolled an entire stick of Ladies shower fresh Speed stick over every inch of my body and it wouldn’t have helped. I discovered there’s more to sweating then just traitorous armpits. I discovered the human body is fully capable of sweating in the 1) armpits, 2) elbow pits 3) knee pits 4) arches of feet 5) back of neck 6) finger pits 7) toe pits upper lip 9) between breasts and 10) I will just say, underwear region. Who knew!  

Now, we were all hot and bothered enough. Truly. The excitement of the race, the sweating that could not be contained, the euphoric phenomenon of heat stroke. We didn’t think it could get much better or enjoyable then that, but add a boobie show to the mix and we’ve got smart perfection.

You know somethings up at a bicycle race if suddenly everyone is looking up, instead of keeping a close watch on the bikes zinging by. Your eyes follow the pointing of fingers and bam, there they are–Boobs. The only thing that could distract fanatical fans (because only fanatical fans would suffer under 105 temps to watch right?) from watching the bikers fly by.

I did what any heat fried brain under such distraction would do. I whipped out Mizz Blackberry and her 1999 pic quality capabilities and captured the Boobs for memory (proof) sake. (Ok, I twittered it, I could. not. resist.)  I guess if I was a youngin, and hordes of sun crazed souls were melting onto the ground below my city apartment, it might have crossed my mind to flash some breast just so the last thing the sad souls below would remember before they flat-lined in the sun was boobs. In the days, I might have been that person. I’m not saying I was that sort of gal because I admit nothing. Anyway……..

The gal seemed to enjoy her place, up there, watching everyone point, strain their necks and cover little kids eyes. She shifted, she flashed, she twisted and gave us different profiles. All in the name of sporting good fun. Come to think of it, she was probably the smartest of everyone that fine Saturday. She was inside, nice and cool, she stole the show from the bikers and I doubt she broke a single droplet of sweat up there in her ivory tower of flashdome.

A day full of smart, all the way around indeed.

This could be oh, me, or it could be a stand in with my hat on...

I may, or may not have escaped for the Mountains this last weekend. I might have had a fantastic time and I could have flung a fly line here and there. I possibly felt the dance of a fish or two and I potentially kissed the air of altitudes at 9500 feet.

Those hypothetical possibilities can be left to the imagination because my continued confessions of frequent escapes is getting a bit repetitious and I am feeling reluctant to write about said moments.

So instead I will write that I am a loyal creature of habit. I find a few things I enjoy immensely and typically go at them with tenacity and focus—until I burn out or find a new shiny distraction to zero in on. In some circles my habits could mirror the description of lets say, compulsive obsessive behavior.

This sort of focus applies to the majority of things in my life. For example, I don’t just read a book, I must devour it. I have to be careful when I start a book because I must devote the entire day to it. Reading a book over the course of  two, three, four days is unheard of. My mind would revolt at such a concept. Once I start, it’s a first page to last page race of consumption. Moderation doesn’t come into play, therefore I usually only allow myself the glorious feast of one book per week.

My zero in behavior applies to food as well. Once I find something I actually crave, that’s usually my diet for a week, or two, all the way up to a month or so. Thankfully I’m past my Lucky Charms fascination and currently have moved onto apples. I do have to watch my food focus sometimes. It’s a sad day for my ass when I zoom in on say, raspberry turnovers and eat them merrily until my ass expands by the quantity I’ve chowed down. (This happened once so I switched to yogurt and reversed the expansion)

Sadly, some obsessions turn into all out addictions and for many (many) years, Diet Coke is my beverage of choice. Daily. Bi-Daily. Hourly consumption……lets put it this way, I’ve got enough formaldehyde in my system I’m practically a walking corpse. I’ve taken comfort in the fact that should I ever perish on the side of a mountain, it will take weeks for my body to decompose versus the regular rate of deterioration. By the time some random hunter found my body he would still be able to make out my smile and he will have to pry that last can of Diet Coke out of my cold, well preserved hand.

Some weeks I’m a manic writer, some weeks I’m a fanatical painter. Summers inspire the (dedicated) outdoors lady in me and Winter provokes the (stubborn) hermit in me. No matter what, I’m usually focused in on one thing and that one thing gets 100% of my attention. Repeat 30 times.

I’d like to think the good news, or the positive side to my compulsive attention is the fact I can change on the flip on of a coin and I’m off and running in a new direction, compulsively, but new. Unpredictable behavior is just as delicious to my ever wandering activities as repetitious behavior. Finding the line between obligations and responsibility is the trick and as far as I’m concerned, that is always up for interpretation.

It started innocently, as all things that border unintentional illegal usually do. Or maybe that should read, personally, I usually set out on a mission with innocent intentions, but find the boundaries occasionally stretched in the name of getting things done, getting things right.

This story is about a goat. In my neighborhood. Evidently a new addition to the landscape and audio atmosphere of my personal stomping grounds. Despite my outdoor tendencies, let me just say, I live in a highly populated city neighborhood, not rural Idaho with the cows, potato fields and chickens announcing the arrival of the sun.

Crying. It got to me. The sound of wailing that closely mimicked a human baby. All (damn) day long. Bawlin and crying at a constant rate that curled my toes and pulled at my motherly instincts. At one point in time last night, the crying got so bad I did what any normal, sane human being would do I called the police , I twittered my annoyance across the Internet airwaves.

The twitter response was instant. Sympathetic tweets came pouring in from around the world. Disbelief, wonderment, astonishment, and a few, “you can’t be serious and I’d like to see that” tweets. So, being me —a risk taker, a no hold back fearless soul– with new high tech abilities in the name of a Blackberry cell phone capable of taking pictures (more on that evolution later) I tweeted that I was going on a mission to garner proof. I’d BRB ~

The source of my disbelief and annoyance wasn’t hard to find. Just follow the sound of a baby being tortured by unseen force’s. I pinpointed the exact house, the location of my (and the goats) torture. Envisioning a mission worthy of sneaky behavior, I scouted out the street looking for potential witnesses to my innocent mission. No one in sight. I turned my camera on, held it tightly in hand and slid down the side of the house resisting the urge to bend over or pull my shirt up around my face. I took the casual trespasser stance. Make it cool, make it normal. A smooth criminal. Nothing going on to alert suspicious behavior sort of stroll.

I suck as a criminal. I ran up to the fence, clicked my picture, ran back for the street. Nerves got to me. My face flushed red and I again looked for potential witnesses while quickly shooting off my prized picture to twitter. A crappy twitpic of a little brown blur standing in under-watered grass. Regardless, I had my proof. I was shall we say, victorious!  

It wasn’t good enough, in my humble opinion. I hate it when I don’t do things good enough. It will eat at me, bug me, torture me into cryin like that little goat. I couldn’t leave well enough alone. I needed better! I casually strolled back to the location of my recon mission and took a deep breath and went for it again.

Dude: “Hey, what are you doing.”
Me, and I don’t know what is worse, getting caught or what I said: “Twittering your goat”

Busted.

And now that I think about it, unless someone twitters, saying “twittering your goat” sounds pretty raunchy. It just jumped out of my mouth. Panic, you know. Now, I was trespassing, BUT the dude has a goat. If I know my city codes well enough, that makes him illegal in the eyes of the law as well. We were on equal ground. So there you have it, a twitterbird busted for taking a picture, and a dude harboring an illegal goat in a city neighborhood doing a stand off………

So I grinned, charmed it up, smiled my – you’re going to love me whether you feel like it or not grin — and made quick peace with the situation. I even got the picture I wanted and shot that off to twitter. No police were involved and I made a new buddy, not the dude, but that sweet little goat that belts out a soprano baby squeal.

Peace is a River

 Paul has referred to me as, ‘she who goes walkabout’ a few times over the years. That’s a reference I’ll wrap around my persona and run with any day I can. Gone is good, gone is fun and gone is movement. My mind and body needs walkabouts, otherwise I do tend to go a bit stir crazy.

No one wants or needs to witness my personal brand of stir crazy, including me.

I had yet another fantastic time away which makes home life pale in comparison. The walls of my home feel bland and constricting compared to the expanse of life outdoors. I’m fairly certain at this point in my life, I could become a nomad. A rubbertramp who could live out of a truck and pull trailer with whatever I could stuff in. I could braid my hair, wrap a bandanna on my head and shower twice a week in a waterfall. Now, I’m not a radical… I wouldn’t try to live off the land. A life without Diet Coke and Oreo cookies would borderline unnecessary self deprivation. I may be off center, but I’m not insane.

Two Big Fish and a Rebecca

I’ve done a lot of writing during this last month of travels. It’s not all fun, fishing and f*ckin off. I can be having the best of times, but my mind keeps writing sentences no matter what I’m doing and those sentences usually demand I stop and write them down. Writing is the most faithful companion to my ever wandering moods.

Sometimes I do wish my mind would write in trashy romance novel themes. It wouldn’t be so bad if I was standing on a bank fishing with 15 men and my brain was ticking off the sentences of a seedy sex scene with robust breasts and throbbing, well, you know……Then I could smile down the bank and laugh secretly to myself with my racy writing thoughts. I’m lacking the, ‘if only they knew’ potential of that sort of writing mind.

It’s time for me to attempt some major catching up with the reality of the world. I hope all is well and the summer is treating everyone in the most brilliant of beautiful ways.

I should mention, I’m now spending time over at RigginZ Outdoors~

I know they say home is where the heart is and to some degree I’ll concede to the roots system.  However, sometimes home looks like same o’ same o’ and away is much more stimulating to the senses. This return home is surrounded with a degree of oh fine, all right! I’ll live without the room service, chocolate on the pillows nightly and still in theater movie options of a hotel room.

While I was gone, I did turn slacker as some of you noticed and lovingly emailed me about ~ Thank you for the nudges and gentle requests. D ~ You get high email marks for the simple, yet, point driven “Are you dead? You haven’t wrote and it’s your fault you got me addicted to regular posts from you. Get on it.” You made me laugh and I offer my humble apologies. I dragged two laptops along with me for the ride and never made a key stroke. I was distracted.

I met some amazing people on the trip and enjoyed mucho socializing time. I enjoyed being in an arena where many smart people are all trying to talk at once. It’s a buffet of information and a circus of words – enhancing and clashing with social electricity all around me. Usually, I’m the one that sits back, nods my head a lot and listens for all I can soak up. I am, the chronic question asker, tis my nature.

I also ate bad buffet and spent one afternoon praying for mercy over the toilet. I didn’t enjoy that part of my trip, nope, not so much. I found comfort in the fact that polling everyone at the event I discovered anyone that ate the breakfast eggs also got sick. Why I would derive twisted comfort from the stomach misery of others is awful to admit.  But the fact I received knowing back pats and compassionate smiles from the other bad egg sufferers made it seem more a group effort rather then individual hell. I’m a firm believer in those who have suffered mutual misery bond on a deeper level……..

Despite my pack whore tendencies, I forgot a hair brush! A hair brush. The most basic of necessities, but by gawd I had 2 laptops, 10 notebooks, 3 books, hand sanitizer, and a partridge in a pear tree. None of which I looked at, picked up or used. Figures.

I feel like weeks and weeks have gone, but I wasn’t exactly a participant in the minutes that clicked by….. Spending half of May in a haze of painkillers didn’t help my cause, then taking off for a week just when I got my brain back has put my entire world into a swirling vortex of hey…..what the hell just happened and was I there? 

Perhaps it’s a good thing to be home after all. Spinning blindly is interesting for a spell, but after awhile even I need to grab a chair and focus once again ~ ~ ~