Ecclesiastes 3:4

To everything there is a season, and the season where Dr. A and Mrs. B led the theatre department I graduated from has now passed.

When word spread that these two ladies were leaving the department, Laurel from A Little White Noise began coordinating a surprise party to celebrate their combined 29 years of teaching. In the end nearly fifty people would come by to see Dr. A and Mrs. B, either at the actual event or later in the evening as the festivities moved elsewhere.

It was strange to get to see so many old friends from that time in my life, particularly because I've moved so far afield from theatre. Unfortunately, I did not get to stay as late as I wanted to, due to the utter exhaustion I was feeling from a week of staying up until 3 am.

Admittedly one of those nights was because we went to see Thor (and I echo Sherri's high marks for that movie!). However, the rest of the week I was wrapped up in putting together a slideshow set to music. Laurel had contacted me the week before the event to put it together, and unfortunately I didn't get the message and a chance to start work until Monday, when the event was Friday. This lead to a week of late nights: collecting photos, tweaking photos, finding music, changing music, splicing things together, inserting new pictures, and eventually burning it all off.

Yes, that was the week I didn't blog anything. What tipped you off?

Still, in the end it was worth it. Everyone seemed to enjoy the slideshow, especially Dr. A and Mrs. B.

Throughout the weeks leading up to "The Festival," I found myself reflecting back on the four years I spent with them. Like many of the theatre students, I had a close relationship with them both. They each in their own ways taught me how to harness my independent streak and channel it in a useful manner. They opened my eyes to possibilities in myself that had never occurred to me before--talents and skills that would have remained dormant without their inspiration.

Most importantly, they showed me that one can be a Christian and yet still live in the world and influence the people around you. Too often Christians hide themselves away from the world, creating and performing only for other Christians. They taught me that we can use our gifts and talents out in the "real world," surrounded by all manners of people and lifestyles that "the church" would not approve of, and still bear witness and remain ourselves.

When I first went to college, I was a young Christian in pretty much every sense of the phrase. Had the Christian university I attended stressed "Christian Theater," I could easily have ended up the type of Christian Artist who looks down upon Non-Christians and abhors the sight or sound of anything potentially thought-provoking or outside of my comfort zone.

That or I'd have gone crazy and moved to a different school after a couple of  years.

Instead, I found two teachers who did not hesitate to teach us all that theatre encompasses. Sometimes, this led to them locking horns with the administration. Sometimes it meant upsetting their students by forcing them to consider ideas and lifestyles completely foreign. And sometimes it meant teaching us how to compromise so that our message could be heard, even if it wasn't as overt as originally intended.

While it's true that I've left theatre behind in the sense that I sincerely doubt I will ever design, direct, or run a show again, these are all lessons that I apply each and every day to living. I'm able to acknowledge and contemplate ideas without rejecting them out of hand. It influences my writing, conversations, and debate styles. And all of those skills that they developed and honed in me--organization, design, communication, construction, sewing, drawing, analysis--make me better equipped to handle life as it happens.

Our time together wasn't always perfect. There were times when they made mistakes. There were times when their students (especially me!) made mistakes. But we grew together, and we grew well.

So, here's to Dr. A, Mrs. B, and legacy they've left after 29 years of teaching!

Photo taken by Rebekah Byland

¹ There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: ² a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, ³ a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, ⁴ a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, ⁵ a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing, ⁶ a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, ⁷ a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak, ⁸ a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.
--Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Shiner

Our yard is looking pretty ragged right now. Between my project last week (and yes, I am still planning to go into detail about it, give me time!), friends coming to town, and the wonky weather, we just haven't had a chance to get out and mow it the way it needs.

When I got up yesterday, the weatherman was predicting rain for yesterday afternoon through today. With that in mind, I decided that I would help Sammy out and go ahead and mow the lawn. I grabbed my old-lady-gardening hat and headed outside to the garage.

Currently Sam and I have two push lawnmowers--one from each of our fathers. Last summer we had issues with neither one working very well, but this spring Papa got one of them running for us. This was fantastic! Unfortunately, I couldn't for the life of me remember which of the lawn mowers was the working one. However, when I went into the garage, one of the lawnmowers was easily accessible and sitting next to the trimmer, while the other was clear in the back and difficult to reach.

Obviously, I went with the one that was with all of the other lawn tools.

I got it out, checked its oil and fuel, and decided it was ripe and ready to run.

I then proceeded to spend the next 10 minutes trying to get the bloody thing to run. I'd likely have stopped sooner and gone for the second mower, but on three separate occasions I did get it to turn over and start, but before I could increase the throttle it would die again.

Finally I decided I'd give it one last try. I'd primed it, pulled gently back on the pull start until I had tension, and then YANKED.

Next thing I know, something's whipping across my face and my glasses are flying across the yard. Somehow, in the course of pulling on the pull start, it got loose from my grip and pistol whipped me across the face.

Needless to say by the time I finally recovered my glasses, I decided I was done with that for the day and went back inside. Of course, when I talked to Sam later, he explained that the other mower was the working one, because he found it easier to take it out of the big garage door. Which makes sense, except I can never open the bloody thing.

Ah well.

Anyway, this morning, this is what I woke up to:

It's kind of hard to see in the pic, but I have one helluva bruise at the corner of my eye/temple of my forehead. o.0

Oh, no. Humans are far too private to ever do that....

I laughed a great deal at this particular video. It's a little longish (10 minutes or so), but totally worth the time invested. It's a mother's recounting of how she ended up sharing the news about "the birds and the bees" with her 8-year-old daughter, so be forewarned that some, ahem, clinical terms are used. However, if those words don't bother you, then it's a perfectly clean and wholesome story. Mostly.



Mom and Dad just headed back north, carting off our old van with them. We also have an action-packed weekend planned, so it's entirely possible you will not hear from me again until Monday. Have an excellent weekend!

T.V. Tropes

I spent more time yesterday than I care to admit looking through the website TV Tropes. It started with someone linking to it about Eberron, then moved to looking at Our Elves Are Better, which lead to... there's got to be a better way to do this.

Okay.

Eberron --> Our Elves Are Better --> Can't Argue with Elves --> Babylon 5 --> Badass Boast --> I Am the Noun --> The Thrawn Trilogy --> Nightmare Fuel --> Who Wants to Live Forever --> And I Must Scream --> Fallout --> It Just Bugs Me --> Aladdin --> Clark Kenting --> Magical Girl --> Sailor Moon --> Xanatos Gambit --> Xanatos Speed Chess --> Magnificent Bastard --> Word of God --> Shrug of God --> A Wizard Did It --> Fridge Logic --> Fridge Horror --> Stuffed in the Fridge --> Put on a Bus --> The Wheel of Time

To be honest, I could easily continue from there, but I don't honestly remember the path I took from there to get to The Wesley.

So, basically, if you enjoy having names for archetypes and tricks in stories, it's a place you can very easily lose a week. If you decide to venture forth, I do recommend you have someone who can come pull you out of it.

Just saying.

Devil in the Details

Despite our best efforts and intentions, I still don't have a computer.

When we ordered all the pieces and parts for the new compy, we selected an AMD Phenom II six-core processor and an MSI motherboard. We also picked up 4 gig of ram, several fans, and a new case. Everything else we already had and could easily transfer over.

Wednesday night, before I'd even finished taking all of the dinner dishes off of the table, Sammy was pulling out his card table and starting to open boxes up. It had the general feeling of Christmas morning--lots of oooooh shiny moments.

It took about three hours, but soon enough we had everything put together, and it was time to turn it on for the first time. With great joy and trepidation, Sam reached out and pushed the power button.

The box lit up, the drives all indicated that they were happy and ready to go, the motherboard has all of its little lights come on... and no video signal.

This was frustrating, as it was problems with video that caused Frank to go buh-bye.

So we proceeded to do a couple of hours of troubleshooting, and eventually determined that even though everything has power, the hard drives were never being accessed. Did a little more digging and determined that the bios wasn't even pulling up.

We then commence on a bit of research. After delving through the manufacturer's websites for our new components, we soon figured out that even though the motherboard said it was compatible with Phenom II processors, it wasn't compatible with this particular Phenom II processor.

So what this means is that we've shipped the motherboard back and we're waiting for a compatible motherboard to arrive.

Oi vey.

Hard sacrifices

I grew up in a union house.

My mother, once upon a time, was a union steward at Ma Bell (yes, back before they broke up into the Baby Bells we all know today). My father has been a proud member of the IAM union for well over 30 years, and even though he's now retired, he still pays his dues to the union.

Papa went on strike five times during his time at "the flying-B ranch," if I remember correctly. As a child, I didn't really understand the significance of it. It just meant that every four years my Daddy would vote on a contract, and sometimes that contract was bad and my father would be home a lot more than usual.

As I grew older, going on strike in my head meant financial worries and stress for my parents--would we be able to pay our bills, have food, etc. The food, of course, was supplemented by the union. Cereal, beans, rice, peanut butter, flour, sugar, canned corn, canned green beans--anything that had a shelf life and was cheap. But the rest of it... I knew families that lost houses, or cars, or got way behind on bills because they were on strike.

My parents lost their first house due to a strike. It's why I grew up in my home town.

But, for all of that, I never remember either of my parents expressing regret for "going on strike." They also instilled in me the idea that it was The Right Thing To Do when necessary.

I remember how angry my parents would get when the local media would try to present the strike as an argument over wages. My father told me more than once that it wasn't about wage increases, but what was happening with the benefits. In the sixties, seventies, and eighties, the company (in exchange for not raising wages at the time) agreed to pay for their employees' insurance, to provide pensions, and to ensure that a worker could not be arbitrarily laid off because they were making too much money in comparison to younger workers. Later on, as health costs started rising and pensions became rarer and rarer in industry at large, they would try to take those away from the workers. And the union, because they could negotiate their contract for the group as a whole, could go on strike and force the company to honor previous agreements and ideas.

Because these people were willing to put their homes and families' well being on the line, they would walk away with a better contract than what they started off with (or, at least, one that wasn't worse than the previous). And because the big manufacturers in the city would provide benefits or increase wages for their workers, the smaller industries in the are would follow suit to a certain extent, and everyone benefited.

Too often, people who go on strike are presented in the media as these lazy, greedy people who are trying to screw businesses out of profits. In reality, these are often people who work in dirty, dangerous, and/or tedious jobs, and oftentimes would work more than 40 hours a week at it. And they'd put everything on the line to help their fellow workers out.

I started thinking about all of this, because I've been keeping an eye on the situation in Wisconsin, where the governor there is trying to push a bill through the legislature to remove the right for public employees to do collective bargaining, a.k.a. have unions. I've also been reading about the thousands of protesters who've been storming the capitol, even to the extent where the governor has been forced to do government business at a nearby corporation because he could not get into the capitol building.

I confess, I did a bit of cheering in my living room this afternoon when I read about various members of the state senate who have gone out of state to prevent there being a quorum so that the legislation does not pass.

Basically, I wanted to let my little part of the world know that I support the workers in Wisconsin. Because I do understand what it's about, and I'm proud of them for making hard choices.

After all, I grew up in a union house.

To all things there is a season

Beeeeeeep. Be-beep.


Beeeeeeep. Be-beep.

Grey-green eyes met mine, a hint of panic in them.


Beeeeeeep. Be-beep.

My hands clenched around the cup of coffee I held, mouth tightening into a thin line. This was not how I expected my Saturday morning to go.


Beeeeeeep. Be-beep.


It's dead, Jim.

Okay, I didn't really say that, but those were the words that flashed through my brain as that awful sound continued.

Beeeeeeep. Be-beep.


Finally, Sam couldn't take it any more and turned Frank, his beloved computer built from scratch, off.

The silence was almost worse than the beeping.

"Let me go see what I can find out," Sam said, grim lines appearing at the corner of his eyes.

As he went into the other room to do some research, I closed my eyes, breathing in the soothing steam off my coffee.

It's going to be okay, I told myself. We've fixed Frank before, we can fix him again.

I don't know how long I sat that way before Sam finally returned.

"Well, from what I can tell, that particular sequence of beeps means the video is out. Whether that means the card or the motherboard...." Sam shrugged with one shoulder. "Let's hope it's the video card, because if the motherboard is out, well, if we have to replace the motherboard, we'll have to replace everything. Frank is too old..." Sam trailed off.

Taking a deep breath, he continued on, "...Frank's components are just old enough that they're incompatible with the newer motherboards."

Please, please let it be the video card.


*    *    *    *    *


"Just think, honey! You're going to have twice as much video memory. Photoshop'll work like a dream," Sam enthused as he set about switching out the video cards.

"That'll be nice," I agreed, not quite as enthusiastic. I had what felt like a band of Mexican jumping beans doing the Macarena in my stomach.

Sam chattered on as he switched out the cards, occasionally tapping out some upbeat rhythm on the table with his screwdriver.

I kept myself busy taking care of morning chores that'd been neglected in our mad dash to the city to fix Frank.

Finally, the moment of truth arrived.

Sam flipped the switch.

I held my breath.

Beeeeeeep. Be-beep.


What followed was a string of colorful metaphors, the like of which I care not to repeat in this setting.

Beeeeeeep. Be-beep.


Sam quickly turned Frank back off.

With a sigh he plopped down on the couch, head in his hands. I walked over and began absentmindedly rubbing the back of his neck.

"It's okay, darling. We can rebuild him. Faster. Better. You'll see," I said.

It's going to be a long couple of months.

This is for all you people who like FPS...

Everyone has something they're not good at. For some people it's writing, for others it's dancing, for a few it's social situations, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

For me, that something is First Person Shooters.

I grew up watching my Dad and brother play games like Castle Wolfenstein and Doom. Later I watched friends playing Halo and Quake. Eventually I married a man who also enjoys the occasional Half Life or Call of Duty.

I, however, am not built to play such games. I have accepted this.

And I do enjoy watching people play these games. But I always wonder, when watching them, just where in the blazes they store all of that equipment--multiple guns, ammo, rocket launchers, grenades, chain saws, crowbars...

And now, thanks to Reddit, I know:

How was the trip?

*bat* *bat* *bat* *bat*

Opening one eye, I see Nala's nose a mere inches from mine. With a sigh I reach up and scratch her ears, then close my eye and try to go back to sleep.

*bat* *bat* *bat* *bat*

Nala's decided I've been lazy enough for one morning, it's nine o'clock, and by golly she's going to bat at my face until I get up and get dressed.

For a brief moment I consider opening a Chinese restaurant, but decide she's too cute and I love her.

After stumbling out of my bed to brush my teeth and get dressed, I proceed to continue stumbling to the coffee pot before sitting in front of the computer.

I wonder what everyone's up to today? I think to myself as I open up Facebook.

Oh look, the local university has closed down for the third day in a row. They never did that while I was in school there. Kids these days... Hey, my friend posted pics of her wedding dress! She's so pretty. I hope I can make it down to Houston for the big day... Wow, I wish I was going back to London soon, lucky dog...

Having caught up on all the little updates that Facebook provides, I then move over to my blog reading, starting with people I actually know.

will's kid is so gosh darn cute. Makes me want a little one of my own. Literary Cat has posted new list of books for me to check out, awesome! Ah man, she's got a cold too. Can't blame Sam for this one--he hid away while Rapier Wit was in town. Aww, thanks Sherri! I now know exactly how much snow fell 'round these parts...


*   *   *   *   *


You may be wondering why I just posted a snippet of my morning routine--it's setup for this fascinating op-ed over at Mashable about how social media is making us more like our grandparents' generation.

Here's the core of Josh Rose's argument:

Our grandparents talked with their parents. Family dinners were an essential part of life, not to mention ball games, religious discussions, family outings and just plain hanging out on the porch. But the culture of our parents’ generation became somewhat more escapist; James Dean, punk rock, The Outsiders, TV dinners, video games, and yes, even the Internet.

But, a good portion of our grandparents’ sensibilities are back today, thanks to social media.

Kids aren’t blocking their parents from their Facebook profiles — well, OK, some are, but not all of them. Teens are texting their parents about their comings and goings. And although it looks a whole lot different than the Cleavers’ family dinner, in a strange way the book is wider open today than it has been in 100 years. Because of blogging, tweeting, checking in and status updating, the lock is off the diary.

Additionally, emotions are more accepted. Pain more vocalized. I know someone on Facebook who is dealing with cancer and posts regularly about that for all her friends and family to see. We are rediscovering what we once knew inherently; community makes us less lonely.

And in many ways I see that reflected in my own life, as shown in the snippet up above. Even though I live in a completely different state from a large swath of my friends and family, I still know when people are going on trips, what the weather is like there, and how everyone's kids are doing in school. Having grown up in a small town, that doesn't seem very strange to me, as I typically knew that information about the people in the community. But I can see how it's easier now than it was when I was a kid, and I can also see why this is such a novelty for many people who did not grow up in a town of 10,000 people.

What do you guys think?

Water works

"Um, honey? I think we may have a leak in our front yard."

At Sam's declaration, I looked up from where I was reheating some potato soup for the two of us.

"What do you mean our front yard has a leak?" I asked, humorous visions of old Daffy Duck cartoons popping into my head.

Or maybe it was Donald Duck.

"Well, come take a look."

With a sigh I set the two bowls of steaming soup aside, already knowing that my day was about to become substantially more hectic.

Looking out of my front door, I could already see that there was a river of water flowing down our driveway. While not unheard of, in the past it was always proceeded by a goodly amount of rain, and we'd been dry (except for the non-stick snow storm earlier in the week).

"At first I thought maybe the car had sprung some kind of a leak this morning, because when I left there was a huge ice patch under the jeep. But that's obviously not the case," Sam said.

"Why didn't you mention it earlier?" I asked, watching my foot slowly sink in a particularly muddy patch next to the rock garden.

"To be honest it slipped my mind until I pulled back into the drive. I need to give our landlady a call," and suiting words to actions, Sam pulled out his cell phone.

I had to reheat the soup again before we had a chance to eat it.

*   *   *   *   *

"You've sprung a major leak--you can see the indicator on the meter spinning out of control. I can leave the water on if you'd like, but that'll result in an astronomical bill."

Unthinkingly I reached up and pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to stave off the impending headache. Our landlady and the gentleman from the water department stared at me, waiting for my reply.

"Go ahead and turn it off. We can find somewhere else to stay if necessary," I decided. After all, one of the major reasons we'd moved back here was to be closer to friends and family. If this had happened when we'd been in the city... well, some things are better not contemplated.

While the water worker went to shut off the water, the landlady said, "I'll send my son and my carpenter out to track down the leak. We'll get this fixed for you as soon as possible."

"It's alright," I reassured her. "It's just one of those things that happen."

*   *   *   *   *

Sometimes it's easy to forget just how much we rely on indoor plumbing. Still, we'd managed to make it through one night without it, and my parents had come on down to keep us out of trouble for the weekend.

As my parents and I pulled back up to the house after lunch, we saw the landlady's son digging up a portion of the yard.

"Well, I found the leak," he told me as I walked up. "First spot I decided to check and there it was. Unfortunately, I cut your cable line."

"It's okay, we don't watch TV," I explained to him, looking down at the split cable sticking up out of yard.

"We'll be back out tomorrow to lay a new line for you. This old galvanized pipe... well, it's amazing it lasted as long as it did. We'll just go ahead and lay whole new PVC for you. You should have water back by tomorrow evening," he said.

"That'd be fantastic!" I told him, then left him and my father discussing how to lay the new pipe. It was pretty cold outside, and I was eager to go inside with my mother.

Mom asked me something about the weather, so I went to the computer to pull up the weather report.

Nothing. No response. Just 404.

With a look of dread I turned to the modem. Sure enough, looking back at me was a flashing red light.

He'd accidentally cut our DSL.

*   *   *   *   *

Mom and Dad had gone on home a couple of days earlier, and, indeed, they'd managed to get the water back on to the house by the end of the weekend. Sam had gotten up to go back to work, and I was trying to persuade myself that, yes, it was time to drag my lazy bones out of bed.

Sam sat down on the edge of the bed, lightly poking me until I rolled over and looked up at him with one cranky eye. "Yes?" I asked.

"Um, honey? You need to get up. We've sprung another leak in the front yard," Sam explained.

Suppressing the desire to start cursing, I proceeded to get up and dressed before heading outside to see the latest carnage.

This time the driveway was dry. However, the rock garden all along the side of the house had standing water, and right next to the hatch to underneath the house, we could see the water pouring out.

Sam called the landlady and explained what had happened before going and turning the water off himself.

*   *   *   *   *

Later we found out that when they hooked up the new line, apparently they'd left one of the pipes running back to the garage uncapped, which was what caused all of the leaking. By lunch that day they had everything fixed, water wise anyway.

The DSL... well, that took another week.

Loaded Potato Soup

As I think I've mentioned a time or three this week, it's gotten pretty cold here abouts. Today's high is supposed to be a grand total of 26. Now, for many of you out there, that sounds like a fine, spring morning. I, however, am from Two Rivers country, not the Borderlands.

(Not that we have much in the way of woods around here, mind you. Actually, we may be closer to Ghealdean... If you do not get the reference, it's okay.)

Anyway, this time of year Sam and I have a tendency to have lots of soup: potato soup, chicken noodle soup, tomato soup, chili, stew... et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Yesterday evening I decided to make us potato soup, and on a lark I decided to pretend I know what I'm doing and took photographs of the process.

If you want to skip the inanity to follow, I totally get it and understand. You won't hurt my feelings. Honest.

*watches the stampede for the door*

Jerks.

Just kidding!

For the three of you who are still here, I somewhat prouldy present:

How to Make Loaded Potato Soup.

First we need to gather our cast of characters:

Half & Half, Milk (2% in this house), 6-10 Golden Butter potatoes, scallions, sour cream, bacon, butter, and 1 slice of Velveeta cheese.

Trust me, you will love the Velveeta cheese. You can substitute any cheese you like, really, but Sam is a huge fan of Velveeta.

Not pictured but also needed will be garlic powder, onion powder, paprika, sage, marjoram, thyme, rosemary, salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes. For the purposes of this demonstration, we will be using dried spices, 'cause that's just how we roll around here.

(I do have high hopes for planting an herb garden this spring. We'll see how that works out.)

To start off with, we'll need to mash all of those potatoes mentioned above. This recipe was originally meant for using up leftover mashed potatoes, but we rarely have any leftover, so I always end up making some just for this soup. If, however, you have any on hand from the previous evening, then spend this time warming them back up.

For the rest of us folks, lets get on with the washing and dicing.

As you finish chopping up each potato, toss the chunks into a 4-6 quart stock pot, until it fully covers the bottom. In my case it took about 8 potatoes.

About like so. Once you have that, fill the pot with water until it covers all of the potatoes, then throw in some salt and place'em on the stove on high. You'll need to boil them for 10-15 minutes, or until tender enough to poke easily with a fork.

While that's going on, it's time to prep the bacon and scallions. First, wash your 4-6 scallions and lop off the roots. Then, go ahead and chop them into 1/2-inch pieces, like so:

Once you've done that, set them aside for the moment.

Next, pull yourself out a skillet, put it on medium heat, and toss in about 2 tablespoons of butter to melt while you're prepping the bacon.

Last night for this soup I used 1/2 pound (8 oz) bacon, which I chopped into roughly one inch pieces.

By the time that's done, the butter in the skillet should be melted down. Throw in a handful of the scallions...

...and all of the bacon.

Stay with the bacon and scallions, stirring occasionally, until the bacon is good and crisp and that poor handful of scallions are pretty much wasted away to nothing.

Set aside the skillet with all of that bacony goodness, and let us return our attention back to our potatoes.

By this point they should be more than ready to come off the fire if you haven't already removed'em. Drain off all of the liquid so that you have a steaming pile of potatoes.

They were steaming. Trust me.

Then throw the potatoes back into the original stock pot and proceed to mash'em.

Once they get to looking like the above picture, add in 1/2 to 3/4 cup of milk, until you can just start to see it amongst the potatoes.

Once you've added the milk, add in 3 tbsp of butter, then finish mashing the potatoes until they look like this:

Now we're ready to actually commence with the soup. Woot!

Place the stock pot back on the stove on medium-low heat. Next add in first 1 cup of 1/2 & 1/2, then 2 cups of milk.

Once you've added in all of the milk and 1/2 & 1/2, put in your first round of spices.

Typically, I don't measure out the spices I put in things--I eyeball it and taste as I go. For an idea of about how much I put in for each "round," here's a view from a little later in the process:

Pictured here is marjoram, sage, paprika, onion powder, garlic powder, pepper, and salt. Again, taste as you go. There have been times where I've put as few as two rounds of spices in, other's I've put as many as 5. Also, you may find you need just a little bit more of one particular spice, so that's all you add instead of a full round.

In this case, however, we're just now adding in our first round of spices.

Stir up the soup, and once thoroughly mixed it should look something like this.

Next add in the bacon, 2 tbsp of the grease, and the rest of the scallions you cut up.

Stir until thoroughly mixed. Next, do another round of spices, and then again, thoroughly mix together.

Now if you wanted you could stop here, and it would be a decent potato soup. However, we're going to add a few more things to make this a great potato soup.

First tear up a slice of Velveeta cheese and add it to the soup. Stir until the cheese has completely melted.

Next, add in one dollop of sour cream.

"What's a dollop?" you ask?

This is a dollop:

Now, the thing with the sour cream is you cannot let the soup come to a boil. If you do, it will start to separate in the soup and it's just not nearly as tasty. So kick the heat down to low, and keep stirring after you've added the sour cream.

Do one last round of spices (if you think it needs it) and also add in just a pinch of red pepper flakes to give it a bit of a kick. Once it looks like the sour cream has melted into the soup, make one last taste test to see if you need to make any adjustments to the spices. If not, you're are ready to serve and enjoy!

Recipe:

Cooking time:  1 hour
Size: 6-8 people
Ingredients:
   6-10 Golden Butter potatoes
   5 tbsp butter
   4-6 scallions
   1/2 lb bacon
   1 cup Half & Half
   2-1/2 cups milk
   1 tbsp marjoram
   2 tsp sage
   1 tsp thyme
   1 tsp rosemary
   1 tbsp paprika
   1 tbsp onion powder
   1 tbsp garlic powder
   1 tbsp pepper
   1 tbsp salt
   1 pinch of pepper flakes
   1 slice of Velveeta cheese
   2 tbsp of sour cream

Instructions:
Wash and dice up potatoes. Put potatoes in 4-6 quart stock pot and cover in water. Boil potatoes on high for 10-15 minutes or until tender.

Chop scallions into 1/2-inch pieces and set aside. Chop bacon into 1 inch pieces and set aside. Melt 2 tbsp of butter on medium high, then sautee tbsp scallions and all of bacon. Once bacon is crisp, set aside, saving 2 tbsp of bacon grease.

Once potatoes are tender, drain of water and then mash using 1/2 cup of milk and remaining butter. Once creamy, put stockpot with mashed potatoes back on the stove on medium-low heat. Add half and half and remaining milk to soup. Then add spices. Next add scallions, bacon, and 2 tbsp bacon grease.

Next add 1 slice of Velveeta. Once the cheese has melted in, kick temperature down to low and add sour cream. Once sour cream has melted in, taste test then serve.

My Brother's Keeper

By this point, I'm sure most of you have heard about the attempted assassination of Rep. Gabrielle Giffords in Arizona on Saturday which resulted in six dead and many more wounded. It's a horrific event, which is something I feel every person, no matter their creed, can agree on.

In the wake of the tragedy, there's been an instant, visceral response from both of the main ideologies in America. The left wing immediately started coming out decrying the violent political rhetoric which the right has been increasingly using over the past three years. The right wing's instant reaction was to reply that this man is obviously unhinged and how dare they presume that the right had anything to do with it. If anything his history suggests that he's a left-wing nutjob.


Watching it unfold, all I could think of was Cain's line to God in Genesis 4:9, when God is wondering where Abel is: "I do not know. Am I my brother's keeper?"

To me, that question goes to the heart of the differences between the right and the left. In any incident, no matter how great or how horrible, the ideology of the right says that they are not responsible for their brother, but only themselves. The ideology of the left would say that they are responsible not only for themselves, but for the life and conditions of their brother as well, and everyone should help whether they want to or not. For example, look at their views on things like market regulations, food stamps, climate control, gun control, unemployment, affirmative action... the list goes on and on.

With market regulations, the right insists that because everyone is looking out for themselves, people will act in their self-interest and won't do anything too detrimental, as in the end other self-interested people will react and make the instigator's business fail. The left replies that the other self-interested people wouldn't have enough power to truly affect the instigator, and so to prevent market failures regulations need to be in place to prevent people breaking the system. And back and forth and back and forth...

With food stamps/welfare, the right insists that by helping out those less fortunate, they're just encouraging those using welfare not to go back to work or improve their lives, and why should they have to pay for someone else's mistakes. The left replies that sometimes Bad Things Happen, and not having a safety net there to catch their brother when they fall will result in further Bad Things such as increased crime and poverty, and so You Should Help Them No Matter What. And back and forth and back and forth...

With climate control... well, you get the picture. Obviously, their views on these subjects have been simplified a bit to fit within the context (and length) of this post. Still, the underlying theme of their arguments, regardless of the topic, seems to run thusly:

Right: No matter what is going on, I am responsible only for myself. I do not want or need interference from anyone around me, especially the government, and I do not wish to involve myself in anyone else's problem, unless it affects me personally.

Left: Not only am I responsible for myself, but as a person I am also responsible for the common welfare of my fellow humans. As such, I need to make sacrifices and involve myself in the lives of those around me, regardless of their effect on me personally.

Of course, in real life people aren't generally this black and white, with people crossing over to one side or the other on various issues. But, again, we're talking about the underlying ideas.

And we can see it playing out in the discussion of rhetoric in the wake of the shooting.

The most obvious example that will get play again and again is Sarah Palin's website that had posted a map with gun crosshairs over various districts that Democratic representatives, including Rep. Giffords. Honestly, I doubt Ms. Palin ever intended or dreamed that someone may take that to mean that a person should go out and actually shoot one of the people listed on the map. And, to be honest, I doubt that her map had anything to do with why Jared Loughner attempted to assassinate Rep. Giffords.

However.

It very easily could have been. As Rep. Steve Driehaus stated last March (after then-Minority Leader Boehner suggested Driehaus would be a "dead man" for his vote on health care), "It doesn't really matter  the way you meant it, nor the way I accept. It's how the least sane person in my district accepts it."

It saddens me greatly that there are so many people who are unwilling to acknowledge that their words and actions, however indirectly, have consequences. If you tell people that a portion of the country (progressives) is a cancer that's trying to kill us all, that environmentalists are the same as jihadists, that having a revolution every now and then is a good thing, and to not retreat but instead, reload, sooner or later the odds are someone is going to take you seriously.

I don't hold with the idea that we should restrict people's ability to express their frustrations, even if it uses violent imagery. I do, however, believe that if you use it, you need to be prepared to take responsibility for your words.

I don't blame Sarah Palin or Glenn Beck for what happened. I don't blame Barrack Obama, or Keith Olbermann either. But I would exhort everybody, no matter their faith, creed, or ideology, to truly think about the power of their words.

Because I do believe I am my brother's keeper.

Recovery

Sam and I are doing much better, and the rest of the day will be taken up with helping the house recover from 3 days of neglect. Then tomorrow will be all about baking and making stuff for the Christmas party on Monday.

As such, I'm going to be away the next day or two, so I thought I'd share this bit of wisdom I came across this morning. Why didn't he tell me this 20+ years ago?



If my father were to tell me one thing, and Sir Patrick Stewart was to tell me another, I don't know who I'd be more inclined to believe. That wonderful voice! O.O

Kill the cwicket, kill the cwicket, kill the cwicket, kill it dead!

I hate bugs.

When I was a little girl--three, maybe four years old--my parents, my grandparents, my brother, and I all went to a park for a picnic. I don't remember the details of why we were there, though I think it may have been a family reunion of some sort. (Or a funeral. In my family, frequently that's what causes family reunions.) But we were at a park.

I was old enough that I could go to the bathroom by myself. This is an important fact, because while we were at this particular park I really, really had to go. So my grandparents took me over to a port-a-potty that was in this park, and I went in by myself, closed the door behind me, and proceeded to Take Care of Business.

It was dimly lit, and something about it just seemed wrong. I went to stand up, and suddenly there were things flying all around me. Screaming at the top of my tiny lungs, I forced the door open and tried to run away, but tripped and fell because I still had my pants down around my ankles.

Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of moths came hurtling out of that port-a-potty behind me.

When my mother relays that story, she often comments that my grandfather was initially convinced that there had been a hive of bees in there, since he saw his grand-daughter come screaming bloody murder and tons of insects flying out.

*shudders*

Thus began a long and abiding fear and loathing of all insects. Spiders top the list, because poisonous creatures with 8 hairy legs are terrifying; however, all insects are evil and suspect as far as I'm concerned.

Fast-forward 20-odd years to today.

Once again, I really, really had to go, so I sauntered into my own bathroom and proceeded to Take Care of Business. I had my iPhone with me, and thus was distracted, but I could sense that something just seemed wrong. I finished the job (complete with paperwork), and when I looked down, this is what I saw between the toilet and the wall:

All this is a picture I found on Google, and it still squicks me out!

And I proceeded to run from the bathroom, screaming at the top of my now much-larger lungs.

At first, I was convinced it was a spider, because from 5-6 feet away, all I saw was 8 long things extending out from an obviously insectoid body.

I believe I then proceeded to send Sam a profanity-laden message about a huge bleeping spider in the bathroom. When I went back to check on it, however, it had disappeared from where I had seen it.

(Yes, I did spend the afternoon curled up in a small ball on the couch, waiting for Sam to come home. Why do you ask?)

Eventually, Sam did come home, and we went back to the bathroom to see if we could track down the spider. When we found it, Sam surprised me by freaking out himself, "That's a bloody cave cricket! I hate those things!"

(Okay, so that's a highly sanitized version of what he said, but the gist is there.)

Apparently when he'd moved to town several years ago, he'd had a horrifying experience of one of them being between the sheets of his bed, and he's hated'em ever since. So now there were two full-grown adults who wanted absolutely nothing to do with that monstrosity in the bathroom. Sam suggested we sic the cats on'em.

I went back to the bedroom, trying to coax Techie, Nala, or Tiger to actually enter the bathroom, hopefully see the cricket, and commence with pouncing.

Can't you see we're sleeping, Mama?

They were most unimpressed by Sam and I's plight. Eventually, I dug out the laser pointer to trick Nala into running into the bathroom. Once she saw the cricket, she proceeded to masterfully chomp off the cricket's hind legs. No sooner had Nala's teeth closed on the cricket than Techie appeared out of the shadows like Batman. In three swift moves he somehow managed to trap the cricket under the bathroom trashcan.

Of course, now the cricket was trapped under the trash can, and the felines could not complete their meal. They spent the next five minutes trying to free the cricket again. Or maybe they were just torturing the leg that was still sticking out. Cats are sadistic that way.

Hearing the commotion in the bathroom, Tiger had to come check on her younger compatriots' handy-work. Seeing the other two batting at the trashcan, she heaved a sigh and nonchalantly let the cricket free from it's prison. Before the cricket had a chance to even register that it was no longer under the can, Tiger bit off another two legs with a surgeon's accuracy. A couple more swats, and then the three cats strutted back out of the bathroom, tails in the air.

I believe I mentioned cats are sadistic, yes? As proof, I submit that after batting around the cricket, eating off it's legs, and beating it some more, the three cats left the poor bastard twitching on the bathroom floor.

Alive.

Finally, we decided the cats were not going to finish the job. (Or rather, it would take them another twelve hours to do so, with the periodic torture session, and we wanted to be able to use the bathroom.) Sam didn't want to touch it, and I sure as hell wasn't going to get close to it. After some thought, I got out my Swiffer mop (sans moist towelette) and  Sam proceeded to whack the cricket into oblivion. Once we were positive it was dead, we scooped it up in a Tupperware container I didn't want any more, and set it outside for the semi-feral cats to take care of.

Thanks for the noms, lady!

I hate bugs.

Jalapeños and Rubber Gloves

A couple of weeks ago, I decided that I wanted to try and make chili for Sam and I.

My Mama has made chili for the family every Christmas Eve for as long as I can remember. It's just One of Those Things(tm). If there's no chili, it's not Christmas Eve. (A post on various other Christmas traditions will be forthcoming at a later date and time.) And my Mama has always used Williams Chili Seasoning to make her chili.

Williams Chili Seasoning is such an ingrained part of my family's chili experience that periodically my parents will send my brother a package for Christmas that contains nothing but dozens and dozens of Williams Chili Seasoning packages. Scott is unable to find it out in his part of the country, and thus considers it a fantastic Christmas Present whenever he gets it.

Needless to say, my inclination for our chili was to get a seasoning packet and go to town.

When I casually mentioned to Sam that I was contemplating making us chili, he immediately lit up like a child on Christmas morning when they're finally allowed to open all of those presents. (I'm taken to understand that some families force their children to wait until after Christmas Dinner to open their presents. That was not how I was raised. But again, that will be a post forthcoming at a later date and time).

"You're going to make it from scratch? Right? I mean, I've never really cared for the prepackaged mixes, and you're so good at making stuff..."

That was Sam, by the way.

Also, that may or may not be an exact quote of what he said. But that was the general gist.

Anyway, I started crying on the inside, but unwilling to show fear to my beloved, I replied: "Of course I am going to make it from scratch! That's totally how I roll!"

Again, that may or may not be an exact quote of what I said.

Next grocery trip we made, I started gathering up the ingredients I was going to need. Tomato sauce, kidney beans (light red and dark red), hamburger, sausage, diced tomatoes, and so forth. Then I had to figure out what spices to put in. I had done a wee bit of research online, and had quickly determined that there are as many different recipes for chili as there are people who make chili. After consideration, the set of spices I opted for consisted of spices I already had, save for coriander.

Feeling good about my plans, we continued on our merry way, until we got to the veggie section. I wanted to toss a red bell pepper into the chili, and Sam suggested adding jalapeños and Serrano peppers to the mix. I had never worked with either (though I had eaten my fair share of jalapeños over the years), but I was confident I could figure it out.

Next day, I decided to go ahead and make the chili in the crock-pot. I figured that jalapeños and Serrano peppers were like bell peppers in how one prepped'em, so I lopped off their tops, cleaned out the seeds with my fingers, cut out the white stringy stuff, chopped'em up, and continued on with the cooking. Not long after I had everything cooking in the crock-pot, a couple of my friends kidnapped me to go up to the city with them and help them repaint their old apartment.

As the day went on, I noticed that underneath a couple of my fingernails there was a burning sensation going on, but if I was applying pressure (like when holding a paintbrush) it wasn't really noticeable, and so didn't think anything of it.

Sam and I greatly enjoyed the chili that evening, and continued to eat off of it for the next three days. We enjoyed it so much, in fact (and it was so cost effective), that we decided to make chili again a week or so ago, especially since it had gotten colder and our heater wasn't working properly (it's working better now).

I made a few minor adjustments to the spices I used, but pretty much did everything the same way again. This time, after I prepped everything and threw it into the crock-pot, I immediately noticed that my hands had a burning sensation--much more intense than what had happened the first time. I tried washing my hands, and that helped a little bit, but it was certainly aggravating. My hands had turned bright red, and it felt as if hundreds of needles were trying to get out from under my skin. After an hour or two, it finally faded away, and by the time Sam got home that night it had passed from my mind.

Today, I came across a blog post from Scott Adams of Dilbert fame, talking about his beginning adventures in cooking. I highly recommend it, as it is completely hilarious (as one would expect of Scott Adams). However, I did learn something very important:

That burning sensation? The one that Scott Adams described as

Imagine turning a broom upside down, so the pointy bristles are facing up. You take your hand, palm facing down, and bounce it on the pointy bristles. Can you imagine how uncomfortable that feels on your hand? Okay, good.

Now imagine that a giant troll sees you playing with the broom. He snatches it out of your hand, chews the handle into a point and shoves it so far up your ass that you can taste it. Then he uses you like a huge flyswatter to kill a nest of porcupines that are living in his salt mine. My hand hurt like that.

Yeah, that's from the jalapeño juices.

So, if you ever decide, my dear friends, that you want to chop up and use a jalapeño in something that you're cooking, please, in the name of all that is good and holy, wear rubber gloves! 


This message was sponsored by the Angel Cole Learn from My Fail department.

Reading the Fine Print

Sam and I have come to a very sad, very disheartening realization/decision. We're going to have to find J.J. a new home.

We both love J.J.--he's an absolutely adorable dog, very smart and very playful. Unfortunately, he is not a good fit in regards to our cats. J.J.'s first instinct is to hunt--he has what is called a "high prey instinct." As such, if you toss a toy, he doesn't just want to fetch it--he wants to rip it to shreds.

The last couple of days have been very rough, especially Monday. When we awoke Monday, this is what we saw out of our back yard:



It was a very, very rainy day. So rainy, in fact, that this has been termed a once in 500 year flood. Because of this, we had to keep J.J. inside all day. This was very rough, as J.J. is a high energy dog that needs to burn off lots of energy, and he did not want to go outside into the rain--even to do his business. This meant the entire day I spent in the back room with J.J., trying to watch for signs that J.J. needed to eliminate and to keep him from tearing up everything in the house.

We were doing okay in the morning. In the afternoon, though, he was becoming very aggressive towards me--constantly biting at my fingers and toes, even when I was trying to distract him with his chew toys. By the time Sam returned home from work, I was a nervous wreck from trying to deal with J.J. all day.

Eventually we got through it, however.

Yesterday (Tuesday), the weather was much improved, so we were able to let him be outside. This made the puppy happy, as he very much wants to be outside where he can run around and burn off energy.

Unfortunately, however, he was still being very aggressive with me--particularly after I'd had Nala in my lap for about an hour. When I brought him in that afternoon, he was aggressive/snappy at the cats as well, and had I not been there I think he would have figured a way over the doggie gate in order to chase them.

Last night Sam and I had a long conversation over what to do about J.J. We both like the dog and want him to be happy. However, we don't really want a strictly outside dog, as we're both inside people. (Sam's sunburns from that first day should have hinted at that.) But J.J. wasn't happy whenever we'd bring him inside, as he needed space to run around. More importantly, we didn't feel comfortable about having him around the cats.

Then we did a little research, to see if there was a way to keep him and train him with the cats. As we read, however, we found that the two breeds of dogs that have the hardest time with cats/other small animals, are hounds and terriers.

J.J. is a Beagle (Hound) / Jack Russel Terrier (Terrier) mix. No wonder we were having such issues with him wanting to attack things!

The two of us both still want a dog, but we need a dog that is a better fit for our home. We do not regret taking J.J. home at all--someone needed to rescue that puppy! However, we don't want to keep him long term. Therefore, we've put out ads in a couple of different places for J.J., in hopes that we can find him his permanent home. Once that's done, then we can look at finding a dog that will fit in with our lives.

Still, it makes me very sad that we will have to part ways soon with J.J., as he's a very lovable puppy.


To err is human, to forgive, canine.
--Unknown

Week 12, Days 4-5

Week 12, Day 4



Saturday was Week 12, Day 4 for our little J.J., and he had a very good, very busy day. He continued on his streak of no accidents (hurrah!), and continued to get better at his pack walks. Despite his desire to chew on the tendril of evil which clips to his collar (his leash), we're still making progress with walking.

That afternoon/evening, Sherri came over to keep me company, since Sam was working all day and had a gig in the city that night. We fed the pup and put him out in the yard for a couple of hours while Sherri and I went to eat some tasty fish at Red Lobster. During dinner, Sherri and I decided to depart decorously and divert dollars towards delivering delicious doggie treats and dainty doggie toys to one deprived, demanding dog.

Oh, and capture a couple of captivating treats/toys for a couple of capricious cats.

(Isn't alliteration fun, children?)

When we came back, J.J. was overflowing with puppy enthusiasm. Literally. So we put him on a leash and took him for a brisk walk together. We then crawled into Sherri's car with J.J. and drove over to her house to introduce J.J. to Grandma K.

It was a good trip all around. J.J. rode excellently in the car (with the help of a treat or two), and when we got to their house he ran rampant in their backyard. J.J. was particularly fond of Grandma K's pant leg.

I wish we could have stayed over longer, but unfortunately I take after my father, and mosquitoes absolutely love the taste of my blood. Finally, the number of bites I was getting forced us to go back home, but J.J. did fairly well when all is said and done!

He rode equally well going back, and once we got him back in his pen, he went straight to sleep and slept most of the night until Sam got back.


Week 12, Day 5



Some days you wake up and not only do you know that everything is going to go your way today, but then it actually does. You get the girl, you get the job, you win the lottery--great things to make a great day.

Sunday was not that day.

Upon completing our pack walk and breakfast, we put J.J. out in the yard so that we could go to church. After church we had lunch with Sherri and Grandma K, which was quite delicious. We came back, took care of the dog, and relaxed a little bit before heading out to play D&D with our local group at about 3 o'clock.

We were a bit flummoxed as to what to do with J.J. while we were gone. On the one hand, it was supposed to be in the mid-nineties that afternoon, and we don't really have a good source of shade yet in the yard for the puppy. Plus, it had also been two days since the puppy had had an accident, so that was encouraging. On the other hand, we'd never left J.J. by himself in the house yet, and it would be about three hours before we could come back and briefly feed him and let him out to do his business. We didn't want to put him in his kennel, because we want him to only associate the kennel with bedtime, not with being punished or loneliness.

After extensive deliberation, we decided to go ahead and leave him in his pen inside the house, sans kennel. After all, we figured, it was better to have to clean up an accident than to end up with a heat-stroke-suffering J.J.

We had a fantastic time playing, and at about 5:30 took a dinner break so we could come back and take care of J.J. Unfortunately, J.J. couldn't last that long, so it took us awhile to clean up, feed him, and put him out in the yard.

However, it wasn't that bad I suppose, and we ran back to the group to finish up our session. When we returned home at about 9:30, J.J. was uber-excited to see us, as he had spent most of the day by himself. We immediately took him out for a rather long walk around the neighborhood, before coming home to play a little bit before bed.

One of the things we've been working on with J.J. is to not bite humans. He can chew on any toy he wants, but humans don't qualify as chew toys. J.J. bit Sam while they were in the back yard and managed to draw blood, so Sam flipped J.J. onto his back and held him down in the yard until he finally submitted. It took about 30 minutes or so, during which time J.J. constantly squirmed and tried to bite at Sam, but eventually J.J. relaxed. I must confess, watching it was very difficult, but Sam said it needed done. Afterward, I cuddled with J.J. for a little bit when they came back in, and then it was bedtime.

Everybody was glad for bed.

Now, if only the puppy and I can survive our fist rainy day together....


Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.
--Roger Caras

Week 12, Days 1-3

Week 12*, Day 1

So Sam and I brought this little rascal home Wednesday afternoon.




In my previous post, I ended with Sam heading to the city for a gig and J.J. and I were hanging out at home (with a brief, 10 minute visit from the pretty Sherri). Thankfully, J.J. was napping and I was researching how to raise a puppy. On his drive home, Sam gave me a call saying he was stopping at Wal-Mart to get a crate for J.J. to sleep in that night. Which was fantastic, because I was planning on suggest he do that very thing.We think the same way sometimes. It's quite frightening. That's right. The world should fear us.

Sam soon returned with a portable, collapsible kennel, like Suzy and Nick use for their dog, Toby. As soon as Sam set it up, Techie ran into it and declared it his new home, and woe unto the foolish mortal who tried to say otherwise.

I then pointed out Techie that he hates any kind of pet carrier. Techie explained I'd never got him a plush, comfy carrier; I'd always provided hard, plastic carriers that were scary to ride in. I then reminded Techie that he worships the ground I walk on. Techie was like, oh yeah, and decided to get out of the carrier.

(Speaking of the cats, Techie tolerates this new animal in their lives much better than Nala. The first night Techie went up and touched noses with the puppy and followed him at a distance. Nala took one look at the dog and ran under the bed until further notice, thank-you-very-much.)

Once we evicted Techie from the kennel, we persuaded J.J. to go in and go to sleep. Sam and I then followed suit.

*When we took J.J. to the vet, they wrote him down as being 12 weeks old. Based off of our research and observations, we think J.J. may be closer to 10 weeks, but for the purposes of this blog we will go with the "official" guess-timation. Also, I'm considering his first day with us as Day 1 of that week. FYI


Week 12, Day 2



About 5 o'clock in the morning, Sam and I awoke to J.J. yelping his little head off, and we figured the poor guy had to go out to the bathroom. Sam got out of bed and told me to go back to sleep, which I quite willingly did. I found out the next morning that sometime during the night, the collapsible kennel had collapsed in on top of J.J., and that as a result he'd soiled the kennel. Not a good start to the day.

First thing in the morning, we took J.J. out for his first pack walk. The trick is teaching him to walk on his leash so that he's walking either right beside or slightly behind us, and not pulling out ahead of us, as that would make him think he is Alpha over us. Being his first time on a leash, he did fairly well. Sam is pretty good at keeping the leash the right length. From what we've read and seen, when you're walking a dog you should have your arm hanging loose at your side so there's no tension, and have just enough slack in the leash for the dog to move about 6 inches in any direction before the leash pulls him.

We ended up having to drag J.J. a bit before he caught on to what was going on, and of course he kept getting distracted by anything and everything. Each time he'd start to stop or go after something different, Sam would make a "chhhkt" noise and tug the lease so J.J. would refocus on following us. It took us about 15 minutes to make it around the block, stopping at each corner and telling/showing J.J. how to sit and wait.

Once we got back, we fed J.J. and then took him immediately outside, as when a puppy is young, food he eats puts pressure on his colon and makes him have to go pretty much immediately. Unfortunately, Sam was feeling pretty horrid due to food poisoning from the Italian restaurant we stopped at the previous day, so he called in sick and went back to bed for about three hours.
During those three hours I was about ready to pull my hair out. It wasn't too bad at first, because J.J. just collapsed at my feet under the desk and slept for an hour. When he woke up, though, I petted him for a couple of minutes and then he squatted down and started to pee.

I immediately did the "chhhkt" noise and stopped him mid-pee, as I'd read that you have to catch dogs in the act for them to understand what they're doing wrong. If you wait until after they pee, and then rub their noses in it and say "bad dog," they learn that the mess is bad, but not that the act of making the mess is bad.

After telling him no, I took him outside so he could finish the job. We stayed out there for about 20-30 minutes and nothing happened, so I brought him back inside. Perhaps a grand total of five minutes passed before he peed, I mean, eliminated, inside of the house. Back outside we went. Another 20-30 minutes pass. Again. We go inside. Again. He eliminated inside of the house. Again.

Rinse. Lather. Repeat. About 2-3 more times.

By the time Sam got up again, I was becoming highly frustrated. Sam took him out for me, and I started doing some more research. Sam went around and started patching all of the holes in the fence, J.J. staying close to him the entire time. Before Sam had finished, I had a plan of attack, which I shared with Sam (he approved). We left J.J. in our newly fixed yard, and went to Walmart.

Once there, we returned the collapsible kennel that had tormented J.J. (ah, customer service, how I don't miss working in your field). We then went and bought J.J. a real, honest-to-goodness crate, a gate, a doggie bed, and some small rawhide rolls; the rawhide bones are too big for his mouth, unfortunately.

After suffering through Walmart's oh-so-fantastic check-out lanes (why, in the name of all that's good and holy, does it always take 20-30 minutes to check out, even when you use the self-check and/or 20-items-or-less aisles?), we came home and put up the dog-fence between the kitchen and laundry room. We set up the crate, put his bed inside of it, and J.J. fell in love. I think he could spend all day curled up in his bed chewing on his rawhide rolls.

Unfortunately, the laundry room is where we were keeping the litterbox, so we had to move it out into the front room for now. Nala had an accident in the bathroom because she couldn't find the litterbox, but once we showed her she was fine. (Hallelujah for accidents not happening on the carpet!)

As the day progressed, we got a better handle on what to do as far as housebreaking is concerned. After he woke up from a nap, and after he got finished eating, we'd take him out until he eliminated. When he did, while he was doing it, we'd tell him to "Do your business!" and then tell him what a good boy he was.

We also took him for his second pack walk. He did better this time around, though he was frightened by some of the dogs we passed by. Sam would gently tug the leash to take his attention away from the dogs when we passed them, and just stayed calm and confident. At one point Sam handed me the leash and marched our two neighbor dogs (little chihuahua terrors) back to their yard, and then we kept walking J.J. He seemed to be doing pretty okay.

That evening Sherri came over, and kept us and the puppy company for a couple of hours. He was doing much better by this point, and Techie and Nala would come up to the fence and look at the sleeping puppy. Once we put J.J. into his crate, Techie even hopped over the fence to say "hi!" to me and stare at the dog in the crate.

When we went to bed, the puppy started howling (a true-blue hound dog howl, too) because we'd left. Sounded almost like a tornado siren. Okay, not really, but it was high and annoying. Based off of what we'd been reading, we just ignored him and eventually he fell asleep.

Day 3



Sam got up every three hours or so during the night to let J.J. out to do his business. Unfortunately, Sam was unable to get to J.J. quickly enough to prevent accidents in his crate, but thankfully we had a couple of different bedding options, so we could be washing one while he was sleeping on the other.

That morning we decided that I would take J.J. on his pack walk by myself, as Sam had to get a few things done before he went to work. Unfortunately, I'm not as good at it as Sam--I was keeping too much tension in my arm, which was making J.J. nervous. But, we managed to get around the block, and when I remembered to relax, he walked pretty well right beside me.

I started doing a routine with J.J. Before he goes outside, I make him sit, praise him, then make sure to walk out the door before he does, and once I'm out side I tell him "Outside, J.J., outside!" and have him follow me. I then tell him to "Go do your business!" At the beginning of the day I had to do it while he was actually eliminating, but by the end of the day, whenever I'd tell him to "Go do your business!" he actually would. In fact, he made it through the entire day (and night!) without having a single accident.

After Sam had left for work and J.J. had had his breakfast, I left J.J. outside for a couple of hours so that I could get some housework done. I'd check on him by looking out the window from time to time, and aside from almost getting his head stuck in a folding chair, he had a fairly uneventful morning; and yes, I did go fold up the chair so it was no longer a hazard.

After I brought him back inside, we did some work on the "Sit" command, though it's difficult to do with just praise and no treats. Thankfully I managed to pick some up today, so starting tomorrow/Monday I'm going to really focus on training him on the "Sit," "Stay," and "Come" commands.

Thankfully, he was tired out enough from his eventful morning that he spent most of the afternoon napping. One of his favorite "sleepy" activities is to lay down in my lap and chew on his rawhide roll while I hold it in place for him. It's a good together activity.

That evening we went on another pack walk, and Sam had to distract him from a couple of dogs that were aggressive towards J.J. However, we controlled our impulse to comfort J.J., and after a few moments he seemed as good as new. Sam's parents came over later that evening to admire our new puppy, and J.J. was pretty well behaved for it.

While Sam was bidding his parents goodnight, I was sitting in the laundry room with J.J., who was curled up in his bed. My hand was draped across his back because I'd been petting him, when Techie nonchalantly walked up to the fence and jumped over it. Regal as a king on his throne, Techie sauntered up to me to be petted by my free hand, completely ignoring the puppy. J.J. made one move as though he wanted to chase after Techie, but a quick "Chhhkt!" stopped him. Techie took three more pats before slowly turning, looking J.J. in the eye, and hissing. Before I could do more than snicker, Techie had turned his back with grace and poise and then jumped back over the fence.

Have I mentioned how much I love and adore Techie? He's the best black cat familiar a witch could hope for!

Nala, meanwhile, still wants nothing to do with "That Thing" in the laundry room.

Also of note, J.J. did not have one single accident that entire day/night.


Thank you for mulling this over. If you haven't finished this, well, I don't blame you. Though I suppose, if you didn't finish it, you didn't read that last sentence. Hmmm.... Well, thank you to those of you who did participate in this meandering, wandering post. I'll try to be more coherent in the future. As it is, it's now 10:45 and I'm going to bed.

Until next time!


Puppies are nature's remedy for feeling unloved, plus numerous other ailments of life.
--Richard Allan Palm