Welcome to Florida, Here is Your Hamster Ball

Of all the things I found most annoying about being Up North, the one that kept coming back and soaking me to the bone was being cold.

Hate it.

Mind you, when I hear descriptions of what the Moslem World thinks heaven will be like, I immediately picture a certain spot in Valley Forge National Park.




You know, Pennsylvania.

I got spoiled by just how pretty country is up there.  Any time after the trees come in until the leaves fall.  Beautiful country. 

Rolling hills, small babbling brooks pouring off the sides of those same hills to get to the valleys where a river flows.  Open fields, green verdant mountainsides.




I could easily speak of New Jersey, Connecticut, Vermont, and a dozen places other like that.

Then the leaves fall and we're miserable until the trees are back in full leaf again.   The world gets locked in by this ugly white stuff and things just go dormant.  Including the people.  It's dark, cold, and covered in ice and snow.  At the peak of this thing called Winter, people are getting into survival gear just to walk to the corner shops for some milk and a dozen eggs and a loaf of bread.

You know, so when the power goes out due to a freak snowstorm they can make some French Toast.

There's a caveat there.  When it's green they have mosquitoes.  But you can duck away from them.  Just keep moving.

After all, far be it that you aren't food for something else.

But for the most part, they don't get inside to harass you.  It's a rare and random occurrence that you hear one, maybe once a month, in the house.  The House is where you live, and not them.  Outside is for the times you are moving to somewhere else, or doing something else that keeps you moving.  They're small and can't keep up.

Here in Florida I often think we need to build a dome over the town and just pump pesticides into it, then let everyone back into it.

Give the natural world a reset.  Leave the Iguanas, Boa Constrictors, and Pythons in there as well.  They don't belong here either.

That thought comes to me frequently when I hear a certain sound.

EEEEEEEE!  In my left ear.

I reach up to that appliance that I never really thought there was a need for Up North, and turn it on full blast.

The Ceiling Fan.

It's not on so much to cool me.  I'm fine at a temperature that would wilt a Scotsman.  It's to keep the mosquitoes away until I can come after it with a spray of instant death, or just a clap of the hands.

Great, now the dog's scared.  Besides, the mosquitoes here can bench press a Buick or carry off a Moose.

I'm muttering about how cold it is in here and I'm overheard.

"Turn off the fan then".
"No, I'm already a quart low and I don't want to donate any more blood to my pets!"
"Is there a mosquito in the house AGAIN?"
"When isn't there?"

I'm sitting in a down draft that would cause me to consider whether I could stand upright in it outdoors, and I'm being asked if I'm cold.

The mosquito is hovering, over there, just out of the "cooling breezes", waiting.  She knows I have to leave my little Hamster Ball of wind.

Eventually.

Then she will drink the sweet, sweet nectar of my arm so that she may make children.

Not. If. I. Can. Help. It.

I go into the Kitchen.  Washer's beeping its insistent "BeepBeepBeepBeepBeep...".  I look in the Red Solo Cup on the counter.  There's the culprit!

There are a dozen seeds in there I'm trying to get going.  Meyer Lemons.  Wonderful fruit that are almost sweet enough to eat from hand.  In the little puddle of water with the seeds there are some wrigglers.

I drain them out into the sink with a maniacal laugh.

In my best Mad Scientist (boo!) voice I tell them: "Live no longer my children for you meet doom in the whirling chamber of death!".

I turn on the hottest water I can, and the garbage disposal, and they go down into the dark beyond of the sanitary sewer.

I laugh as I turn it all off and empty the Washer.

One less group of blood suckers down.

I bend down to move the clothes into the Dryer, close the door, and hear a familiar sound.

EEEEEEEE!

That's what you get for Living Outdoors.  They get inside.  Besides, you left the Hamster Ball.  Go back to the safe zone, they'll get you again.

But no, you eventually have to wander out of that safe zone where the little blighters are waiting.

Walk near the nearest source of water and they'll be there.

In this case, the bathroom.  The drafts grab hold of them and draw them into the hallway where they smell the water.  I walk into the bathroom and close the door.  The lights come on full, four large CFL lights that are so bright you have to shade  your eyes at 5AM when you're up.

I hear it.  EEEEEEEE!
She's in here.

I look over to the bathtub and she's coming for me.  I close the one door, then the other to seal the mosquito in.

Do my own business, then it's personal.

I arm myself with the tile cleaner and open the door.

Immediately she sees me.  The battle is on!  I notice she's moving slowly.

The bottle gets set down and ... CLAP!!!!!

GOT YOU!

I'm safe for another day.  Scratching my right arm, I realize she got me too.

Damn.

She Thought She Found Her High School Sweetheart!

I was recently sitting in the waiting room for my first appointment with a new dentist when I noticed his DDS diploma, which bore his full name.

Suddenly, I remembered a tall, handsome, dark-haired boy with the same name who was in my high school class almost 50 years ago. Could he be the same guy that I had a secret crush on, way back then?

Upon seeing him, however, I quickly discarded any such thought. This balding, gray-haired man with the deeply lined face was way too old to have been my classmate.

After he examined my teeth, I asked him if he had attended my High School.
“Yes. yes, I did. I’m a Mustang,” he gleamed with pride.

“When did you graduate?” I asked.
 He answered , “In 1971. Why do you ask?”
“You were in my class!” I exclaimed.

He looked at me closely. Then, that ugly, old, bald, wrinkled, fat ass, gray-haired, decrepit son-of-a-bitch asked, “What did you teach?”

Lost In The Himalayas

Deep in the Himalayas, a hiker has been traveling for days, trying to find his way back down. Just as he's about to call it quits and give up, he spots a Buddhist monastery just a little ways ahead. When he gets to the monastery, one of the monks comes out to greet him.

"Hello," said the monk, "I am Brother Singh. What brings you all the way here to our monastery?"
"Well," said the hiker, "I've been wandering for days, trying to find a way off the mountains. I've had no luck, though... I'm hopelessly lost."
"You should come inside, we'll get you some food and water and a blanket to warm up. We're having a feast later on tonight as well, feel free to come."  Not one to refuse an offer like this, the hiker goes inside.

Later that evening, Brother Singh brings him to the feast. The first thing the hiker notices when he arrives is that some of the monks are standing up, saying numbers, and then the monks all burst out laughing.

"Brother Singh, why is it that everyone is cracking up at these numbers?" he asks.
"You see, all the monks here are only allowed to speak on one day each year - that day is today. They also love to tell jokes, so we numbered the jokes so that we can save time telling them all. You should give it a try!"

After contemplating for a moment, the hiker stands up and says "372."
The monks all break out in immense laughter, rolling on the floor and pounding on the tables.

"What... What was so funny?" the hiker asks.
"Well, they've never heard that one."

Was Rack Under The Weather Or Was The Weather Under Him?

When I heard we were getting "Weather" I thought that would be great.  The yards around us are looking dry, and that's normal for April in South Florida.

The second thought I had was "I wonder how Rack would deal with it?".

The answer is so-so.

By the end of the rains we had called the Vet to see if it was possible he had a bladder infection.

You see, he's been "good".  The first weeks we had him, Rack, my McNab SuperDog (TM) watered the front door once, and the little table next to the door once. 

That's it.  Rather good for a then seven month old puppy who was put through hell getting here.  A first owner who was an idiot who apparently tried to use a McNab for a hunting dog.  I question why anyone needs a hunting dog in this day and age, but a McNab is known to be "sensitive" to loud noises and especially percussive noises like gunshots. 

That was followed by him being owner-surrendered and warehoused for 36 days in a Vet's office.  By the time I got him, he spent a week with the Dog Liberator who realized that this poor creature who was showing PTSD needed just the right owner to make him shine.

His shine is a little tarnished.  He still is terrified of noises like the 50 Bus blowing its air brakes, a dropped dish, and of course, Thunder.

We had a lot of that over the last week.  Over 2 inches of rain in two days, again normal for South Florida, accompanied by lightning and other atmospherics. 

He dealt with that by hanging near me, always keeping me in sight.  He could have been like he was when I got him by climbing under me and shivering enough to make things rattle, which would cause more shivering. 

"Nasty feedback loop, Rack, get out from under the chair!"

However it wasn't all hearts and flowers.  He pretty much shut down.  During the day he moved to the back of the crate.  So far back that he might have passed across the border into the next city, over a half of a mile away.

"Where's Rack?"
"In the Crate-Annex.  So far back that he's crossed back into Oakland Park."

Nice town but not a great place for him to hide.  The weather there is just as rainy as here.

We did what we could but the thing about Fear in Fearful Dogs is that you have to let them confront their fears in a controlled manner.  Since we can't yet control the weather, we had to let him tough that one out.

Lettie, my departed dog, used to hate Thunderstorms as well.  She'd run around the house and bark at the skies.  If I even said the word "Boom" she'd grumble and fret.  While Lettie had her phobias and fears, she was approaching normal and didn't really have this PTSD that Rack has.

The solution in a less severe case is to "Make Storm Time, Play Time".  We were fortunate that Lettie had a strong prey drive.  She was easy then.  Toss a tennis ball at her and she'd catch it.  Bounce it on the floor and she'd try to play.  If the thunder hit at that moment, she'd bark at the thunder, then grab the ball.

I don't have that option with Rack.  So I just let him enjoy the darkness of the back of the Crate-Annex that virtually crossed the dimension into another city.  If he came out, I'd lavish attention on him.

Great.  Less work for me I guess, I don't have to be "on" all the time.  Dad could relax.  He didn't want attention most of the time.

That left feeding and walks.

Feeding is always a challenge.  He's missing a tooth which means his food must be soft.  This created a problem with him as a puppy and some truly frustrating moments until I pieced it together and had the vet specifically look at his mouth.

"He's missing a pre-molar!"

I told them from that point forward his normal food would be softened with hot tap water and that made it "better".  Not perfect, but "better".  He's now eating but it takes my own attention with tapping the bowl and telling him to eat to get the food into him.  It's slow going on most days except when ...

BOOM!

The solution for that is to watch the weather closely.  I have to check Radar within an hour of his eating and if there is a storm within 20 miles, he gets fed immediately.  This is even if the storm isn't coming this way.  All the ducks have to be in a row with him.  Then praise when he eats and a gentle "Hungry, Rack?" over and over in a mantra to get him back on task.

Finally, walks. 

This was why we thought he had a bladder problem.  You see, he didn't.  He had a fear of thunder.

I walked him for his normal distance each of those noisy and rainy days.  We would do our best with the timing of the storms, but one night it was thunder to the left, fireworks to the right.   We were done for.

Came home and the next morning as soon as he got out of the bedroom, he marched to the front door and relieved himself on the towel we kept there to catch the slop of coming inside.

That's what it's there for, and there's a lot of sand here near the beach.

Same thing tomorrow.  Walks were painful, arm was being wrenched from sockets, thunder and lightning.  The second morning an new towel gets painted.  I just couldn't get out of the bedroom fast enough to let him out a door to water the mailbox's post.

However the first non-rainy day, we had him blocked in the bedroom until I could get myself out and ready to walk him.  It also helped that the last walk the night before, he was truly empty.   We restricted water and I was able to get him out before an accident.

The towel was unmolested, and then I removed it the next day.

He's been good ever since.  The rains faded to no thunder.  His personality came back from the Crate-Annex, and he's not quite so panicked.

Basically that's the thing with Fearful Dogs.  You have to be more patient and take things on their terms.  For that matter, dogs in general, you have to do things on their terms.  They will bend and can become an amazing friend and partner, but there's a limit to too far you can push.

With a Fearful Dog, every day is a learning experience, but some things simply take longer to re-learn

Lizards in the Bougainvillea

Every morning, after breakfast, it's time for a wander out back.  I am never alone.  Usually by that time, Rack the SuperDog (TM) is ready for his final excursion of the morning.  He will have a full day of resting, napping, and generally watching me do my own thing until Lunch time when he tries for a morsel or two as a snack.

He usually gets some, I'm a soft touch.

Or so I have been told.

We will generally inspect the area.  He has his perimeter search and if there aren't any dreaded trash trucks in the neighborhood, he may even decide that he wants to romp a bit.

If not, I entertain myself with what goes on in the yard.  There are always gardening chores to look into.  The cutting pots must be watered.  Orchids will have to be looked after.  The Staghorn ferns probably have had their Spanish Moss tossed out of them and need to be picked up and set right. 

Generally it's a Quiet Before The Storm time of day.  The neighbors aren't usually rattling around, that's my job.  I'm the one up at stupid hours, so early that even Oscar the parrot goes back to sleep when I settle in.  Going outside is a chance to think about what needs to be done, and set out a plan for the day.

All the while I am being watched.

My friends that live back there, the lizards, watch over me.  Sometimes they're watching to avoid, other times they're actively looking for my attention.  Completely harmless, quite beneficial, and normally entertaining. 

I honestly think that I live in their house and they graciously allow me to remain here, at times.

But there they will be at that hour, recharging their solar batteries.  You would think that they are easy pickings out in the open like that, but I have never seen them molested.  I guess a creature smaller than your finger wouldn't be worth the chase to a larger bird.

They will hang there eating the ants off my palm tree that grew too close to the house.  The tree itself is on borrowed time since it's a hazard in a hurricane, but for now it will remain.  Its replacement was planted in the island in front of the house a year ago and is growing quite well, but this tree with the moss on the North Side will not remain in the long run.

Meanwhile, it provides an environment for my little Cuban Brown friends to hang upside down and dine and pose for the paparazzi that live there with them among the flowers.

As long as I don't get too close, I may even be able to enjoy a little time with them as well.  Even if this one leaves, there will be another one to take its place.  Too good a spot to pass up.

Oatmeal Mango Raisin Cookie Recipe

Every recipe I have posted here I have personally tried.

Some are excellent and I keep referring to them.

Others are a work in progress and need a certain something.

I'd say this is a work in progress.

Now, why would I be posting this?

• These cookies are about as guilt free as you possibly can get.  
• There is zero added fat, sugar, or chemicals.  
• They are low in calories at 50 calories to the ounce.
• They are high in fiber - every ingredient is high fiber.
• They would make an excellent meal replacement.
• They taste of Oats and Mangoes, Cinnamon and Raisins.
• They are easy to make, and actually kind of fun to make too.
• They have no wheat, rye, or barley flour so it is Gluten Free.
• They can be made with Bananas if you don't like Mangoes.

So why the weak praise?  If you were looking in my window at this moment, you would see me chewing on one of these right now.

But, they're just not "sweet".  Oh sure, they're sweet, but cookies traditionally are a sugary treat.  These are a very healthy food, but since there is no added sugar, you just don't get that "dessert-y" sugary kick out of them.

If I were to make these for a proper "snack" I would increase the amount of oats and add some honey to them.

The other drawback is that the texture for the length of time I baked them was wrong.  I'd bake them longer than the 8 minutes you see listed because they were a bit "spongy".  That's a trade off, so bake them until they're well done and you should get something more chewy as the natural sugar in the Mango will caramelize.  Longer still and you'll get crunchy.

Anyway... These puppies will fill you up and probably should be called Granola instead.  But I digress.

The Recipe - as listed made a little more than 8 cookies.

The ingredients:

• 4.5 ounces of Mangoes in chunks - Banana can be substituted as well as firm melons like Canteloupe or Honeydew.
• 1 Cup Quick Oats
• 1 Ounce Raisins
• 1/2 teaspoon Cinnamon

The Process:

• Preheat oven to 350F.
• Chunk your Mango into a mixing bowl.
• Add Quick Oats, Raisins, and Cinnamon to the Mango.
• Mix with your hands the batter until evenly mixed.  The batter will be the consistency of a sticky dough or modeling clay.
• Measure out your cookies in one ounce servings.
• Roll the cookies into a ball and then flatten them out in the palm of your hand.  Thinner is best!
• Place them on the cookie sheet, and since they don't rise, they may be placed closely together.
• Bake at 350F for 8 minutes for soft cookies, longer for other textures.

Eye To Eye With A Dragonfly

Tread Lightly, there are wee creatures about.

This was going through my mind as I walked outside into the late afternoon sun.

I was in the great windup for the evening march about town.  Rack the SuperDog (TM), my faithful sidekick, needed to get out and explore the world, exercise his mind, and water a few shrubs.  I was looking forward to seeing things around town after being cooped up reading accounting books all afternoon, and who knows what all else before that.

Walking to the unreasonably brilliantly white mailbox, I bend down low, grab the post from their hiding place, and start looking at what was misdelivered.  Two for me, 8 for my next door neighbor. 

Amusing, I'll have to walk it over to his box.

I take one step and a cloud of Dragonflies lift from their perches in my grass.

"Oh, yeah!  It's an early wet season.  Watch where I walk!"

I am slowly treading through the turf across the front of the yard.  Dozens of amber and brown gems are floating on the breezes, flickering lights as they go by.  It was the third day after the first rains.  The Dragonflies lay their eggs in the lawn, going through their lives eating grubs that eat the turf, and generally being beneficial to man's way of life.  The rains hit and they make the transition to their next stage of life that we all see. 

The timing is so that those pets that we all have and loathe so much, Mosquitoes, hatch and get out into the environment.  About the only thing I can say good about them is that Mosquitoes feed the Dragonflies that I enjoy watching.  Other than that I would love to put a giant Simpsonian Springfield dome over the city and fill it full of insecticides to kill the blighters off.

Step again, another cloud rises.  At this time I am seeing amber waves of Dragonfly wings rising and falling.  I am in a cloud right out of a Disney movie, sparkling and fluttering on the breeze.  Hundreds of them flying around me as I make my way East.  I leave my neighbor his collection of junk mail, and head back.  This time the amber is brighter as I head into the sun.

Gently I make my way back to the house, enjoying yet another encounter with nature.

Confuse Yourself With A White Mailbox

We moved into the house 10 years ago, roughly.

Since we have been here, we've fixed things.  Other things we haven't really paid too much attention to.  It works, it may not be perfect but it is "Serviceable".   If it broke we could probably fix it, or replace it, or something else that would come to pass.

The mailbox was one of those things.

You don't often give a mailbox much thought.  The postie comes by, drops something in.  If you're home you say hello to Postman Pat, get your daily mail, then wander back to the house with a stop by the recycling bin.

I don't mind getting "Junk Mail" since it's keeping the US Postal Service in business.

But the actual box?  Meh.  It's there.

The same can be said for my house that I grew up in, in the sainted land of New Jersey.  Cherry Hill, NJ. 

We replaced it once.  I can't remember why, but it was there.  Doing its job, day in and day out.

We'd had a discussion here lately about how the old box was getting to look a bit odd.  Tatty.  Dirty actually. 

Off at the local big box store, we'd started looking at new ones.  That was started because some drunk came down our street one night and drove over the post holding the old one up.  I picked up the old post and box off the ground, we pulled the concrete slug holding the thing in until that day, and slid the old post back in the hole. 

Simple and elegant.  Ok, so sure, the mailbox is lower now.  I have to bend down lower to see what's in there, but it works.

The flag on the West Side of the box snapped off in the process and has been mulched by the lawnmower.  Long gone, I'd say.

When we were looking at shiny new boxes we realized we'd need a new post and would have to get all of that at once.

Inertia hit and we left empty handed.

That happened a couple times and finally I got annoyed at the process.   Waiting for the right day, when nobody was there to say otherwise, I attacked the old box.

Early in the morning there was a complex series of events.  Naturally, I'm a bit complex myself.  The bottle of cleaning solution exploded under the sink due to a freak weather front coming through and making my ears pop all day.  I had to clean up all that blue fluid and got A Bright Idea.

I went out to the front yard with the scrubbing pad that was sodden with cleaning solution and scrubbed the old box to a nice charcoal grey.  You know, what your black T Shirt gets to look like when it's too comfortable to toss out, but no longer black?

That's the box.  I scrubbed all the rust off the thing and it was a uniform color.  Quite impressed I mentioned that we had a New To Us mailbox and walked back inside.

Until the next day.

Bright idea time.  I remembered I had the tail end of some Primer White Exterior Flat Latex Paint.  That's what it called itself. 

I walked outside in the heat of the day and proceeded to make myself flash blind.  White Paint on a midday sunshiny day will make you walk into a door frame when you go back indoors, so be careful.

Not so bright that in two hours later I went back outside and gave the old box another coat of white.

Yes, I painted over the numbers.  We need new numbers.  The old ones were stuck to the side of the box and the new ones will be stuck over top of that just like those annoying registration stickers that have no purpose on your license plate.

Don't get me started on that one.  Those stickers make no sense except where they actually put the license plate number on them.  But basically it's there to keep someone in the state capitol employed.  Make Work Project my father would call it and I agree.

Walking back into the house, I called it done as I banged my left shoulder on the door frame.  The job was fine - good enough.  Paint brushes clean.

But the thing is I nudged the apple cart and a few golden delicious fell off the other side.

In my living room are two green chairs.  Mine sits close to the front window.  That's how I like it.  It's a little warmer than the other, but I can see out the window and watch the sunset.  Every night that I am sitting there, I get to watch the sunset over top of the Shoppes and the palm trees.  I always notice.  Unfortunately some days it notices me and shines right into my eyes in brilliant subtropical laser beams.  But lately it has just been pleasant.

While the old mailbox was black and unobtrusive, Zinc Oxide Primer White Exterior Flat Paint is brilliant in the Florida Sun. 

While I ignored the old mailbox before, now it shined in my eye like a beacon.

It was a very bright weekend. 

We watched some old sitcoms, a couple movies, and generally enjoyed domesticity when I commented.

"Now that it's white, I keep looking at the damn thing!"
What's that?
The Mailbox!  It keeps catching my eye!
Don't worry about that, the sprinklers will dye it rust.
We need new paint.  I want some old school Barn Door Red High Gloss Paint!
Yep!  You're at it again!  You're making more work for yourself.  Do you think it will hide the rust?
Better than the white will, I'll have to paint the box over in a month if its left white.

And so it goes.   So if you want to confuse yourself, change something that you never see into something that is brilliantly in your face.  It should give you at least one conversation.

I've heard more than once from the neighbors that I should "DO something with it and be Creative!".  One suggested rainbow colors, another was talking about fire engine red.  Safety Yellow might be an interesting suggestion, but I'm thinking Barn Door Red.

That should be close enough to the rust stains on the house.  Yeah, Barn Door Red!  Get the keys, we need to go to the paint store!

A Man Takes Off Work Early And Goes Drinking

He stays until the bar closes at three in the morning, at which time he is extremely drunk.

After leaving the bar, he returns home on foot.

When he enters his house, he doesn't want to wake anyone, so he takes off his shoes and starts tip-toeing up the stairs.

Half-way up the stairs though, he falls over backwards and lands flat on his back. That wouldn't have been so bad, except that he had couple of empty pint bottles in his back pockets, and they broke; the broken glass carved up his back terribly. Yet, he was so drunk that he didn't know he was hurt.

A few minutes later, as he was undressing, he noticed blood, so he checked himself out in the mirror, and, sure enough, his behind was cut up terribly. He then repaired the damage as best he could under the circumstances, and he went to bed.

The next morning, his head was hurting, his back was hurting, and he was hunkering under the covers trying to think up some good story, when his partner came into the bedroom.

"Well, you really tied one on last night," she said. "Where'd you go?"
"I worked late," he said, "and I stopped off for a couple of beers."

"A couple of beers? That's a laugh," she replied. "You got plastered last night. Where did you go?"
"What makes you so sure I got drunk last night, anyway?"

"Well," she replied, "my first big clue was when I got up this morning and found a bunch of band-aids stuck to the mirror. "

A Young Monk Arrives At The Monastery

A young monk arrives at the monastery. He is assigned to helping the other monks in copying the old canons and laws of the church, by hand.

He notices, however, that all of the monks are copying from copies, not from the original manuscript.

So, the new monk goes to the Old Abbot to question this, pointing out that if someone made even an error in the first copy, it would never be picked up! In fact, that error would be continued in all of the subsequent copies.

The head monk, says, “We have been copying from the copies for centuries, but you make a good point, my son.”

He goes down into the dark caves underneath the monastery where the original manuscripts are held as archives, in a locked vault that hasn’t been opened for hundreds of years.

Hours go by and nobody sees the Old Abbot. So, the young monk gets worried and goes down to look for him. He sees him banging his head against the wall and wailing.

“We missed the R! We missed the R! We missed the bloody R!” His forehead is all bloody and bruised and he is crying uncontrollably.

The young monk asks the old Abbot, “What’s wrong, father?”

With a choking voice, the old Abbot replies,“The word was—CELEBRATE!”