Thanksgiving is next week and for many of us the thought of the holiday brings back happy memories. Like the time Uncle Chuck staggered in, grinning, just as the amen’s floated heavenward after grace. Under his arm, scrawny neck thrust forward and beady eyes piercing inhabitants of the dining room, was a 23-pound live turkey named Waldo. True, Chuck had asked if he could bring his friend Waldo to dinner and even admitted “he’s a real turkey.” Still, everyone at the table was shocked that Waldo wasn’t wearing a tie.
Every Thanksgiving comes with its own memories, such as the time my daughter misread the directions and thought she was supposed to cook the turkey in a 160 degree oven until the bird reached a temperature of 350. It was almost Friday by the time we ate.
Many of my favorite memories revolve around Canada Thanksgivings, which are on Oct. 12. For years we have been on our annual waterfowl hunting trip in Nokomis, Saskatchewan, at that time so we join a group of local friends and outside hunters at a farm for a potluck dinner and trap shoot. It’s an experience.
Grungy hunters arrive after the morning’s duck shoot garbed in camo and carrying potholdered pans and pots. Still searching for birds, gundogs nose the ground in front of them. The main culinary contribution is meat garnered from Mother Nature: shish-kabobbed pheasant, venison, souped-up hun, and sharptail and goose fixed in all sorts of ways.
These men, who wouldn’t dream of turning a page in a Betty Crocker cookbook, glean cooking information from hunting buddies who are experienced wild game chefs and have the dirty aprons to prove it. Most recipes start out with the basics: “Pluck the duck. Hunk it up. Get yourself a can of mushroom soup…”
A big crock-pot is essential for most wild game chefs. No fuss. No muss. You just dump in your soup. Dump in your duck. Throw in an onion, some water and turn it on high. Before serving, skim off the feathers floating on top. The real advantage of a crock-pot is that the slow boiling action causes the shot to sink to the bottom, where it can easily be scooped up and dumped in the can on the reloading bench.
My husband’s prize recipe is for gourmet goose. The trick is in the orange pop. The original recipe came from a Tennessee fellow who not only saves feathers to make his own pillows but is a champion award-winning goose caller…one of the reasons, perhaps, why he is divorced.
I don’t really like wild game. Well, except for sheep, buffalo and pheasant. Men like the stuff because they bagged it and dragged it home. Kids like it because Dad shot it. Wives like it because it saves money.
Wild game is like fine French cuisine. I’m not a drinker but I think each category has an alcoholic beverage that compliments its particular flavor. Kind of like the way red wine goes with red meat and white with poultry.
Beer goes best with buffalo or moose burgers, the quantity of cans depending on two things: toughness and the proximity of the animal to the rutting season at the time of its demise. Wine, a nice blush, goes well with pheasant or grain-fed ducks and geese. If the birds are slough- or swamp-dwellers, it is advisable to move up to a more potent beverage such as sake or Jim Beam.
Venison definitely calls for a hearty glass, or perhaps a bottle, of Jack Daniels. Mutton, which isn’t really considered wild game except for its tendency to crawl out of the pan when it’s being cooked, requires liberal doses of Everclear, or, if the person isn’t a drinker, a few Valium tablets an hour before dinner.
Tequila goes well with wild meat that has any of the following flaws: an abundance of feather-wrapped shot; portions that are bloodshot; excessive hair that requires more than a plastic Bic razor for removal; liver flukes; and a roast with a head, foot, or tail still attached.
Actually, much wild game goes well with a bald lie, such as: “Gee, I really like leg of mountain lion but recently I acquired an enzyme/anachtroidal deficiency which makes it impossible for my digestive system to absorb the chromosomal qualities of some wild game. I’d try it but I can’t really afford the corrective surgery it would require right now.”
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
Up or down: the never-ending saga of the toilet seat
Troy and I recently spent time on a goose/duck hunting trip at our place in Saskatchewan. Troy’s friend, John, was with us. I was outnumbered two to one. Since they were the hunters and I was the tag-along who had to do some badly-needed household chores after being away from the place for six years, I didn’t gripe about the toilet seat.
The Canada house only has one bathroom. In our normal lives we have two bathrooms that are basically his and hers. He always keeps the toilet seat down in mine but I rarely use his so I really don’t care if it is up or down or sideways. He can keep it up and use that toilet for a wading pool for all I care.
The toilet seat in the Canada house – which I fondly call House of the Whispering Floors because of the creaky old wood floors – seemed to always be up. My husband wasn’t being his normal chivalrous self. Maybe it was the hunting testosterone kicking in.
In the middle of one night, feeling the need to visit the john, I padded through the living room and made my way to the bathroom and sat down. Every woman who has done this knows the exquisite feel of a bed-warmed derriere plunged into a pool of ice water. First of all, the bowl is much larger than the seat so you are at least six inches deep in frigid water. Secondly, the bowl is quite a bit closer to the floor than the seat, which causes wrenching pain to the back and hip area.
After a bit of creative cursing and wiping myself dry with a towel, I grumbled back to bed. My first instinct was to shake him awake and ask if HE was the one who left the seat up. But I knew it wouldn’t be a meaningful conversation, just a series of huh? huhs? as he tried to come up from sleep fog to figure out what I was talking about.
Have you ever had fleeting fantasies that just send you into gales of laughter? I do that quite often, frequently in the middle of the night. In this case I was silently laughing so hard I was shaking the bed.
The fantasy was to just simply remove the toilet seat. Just unscrew the plastic bolts and retire it to the shed or the dump. And the next time he wanted to do the toilet ritual that involved sitting down he’d holler, “Where the heck’s the toilet seat?”
“Oh that?,” I’d yell back, “Since it’s always up and not used I figured it wasn’t needed so I hauled it away to the nuisance grounds (At our little town of Nokomis the dump is called the “nuisance grounds.”)
“What?!”
“I’ll tell you what,” I’d holler with great pleasure. “why don’t you just sit down there and do your business underwater, like you expect me to do.”
Until the end of time there will probably always be a war on whether the toilet seat should be up or down. Maybe we females should be like a woman I know who has her male-dominated family trained. Her guys all sit on the toilet instead of anointing it from a standing position.
It should, of course, be put down, and I’m not saying this from simply a female perspective. Men are taught to treat women with respect and courtesy and the toilet seat thing goes along with opening doors and being polite and chivalrous. It is simple good manners.
And if they can’t do that? Put a lock on the bathroom door and hide the key. There are a lot of trees out there.
The Canada house only has one bathroom. In our normal lives we have two bathrooms that are basically his and hers. He always keeps the toilet seat down in mine but I rarely use his so I really don’t care if it is up or down or sideways. He can keep it up and use that toilet for a wading pool for all I care.
The toilet seat in the Canada house – which I fondly call House of the Whispering Floors because of the creaky old wood floors – seemed to always be up. My husband wasn’t being his normal chivalrous self. Maybe it was the hunting testosterone kicking in.
In the middle of one night, feeling the need to visit the john, I padded through the living room and made my way to the bathroom and sat down. Every woman who has done this knows the exquisite feel of a bed-warmed derriere plunged into a pool of ice water. First of all, the bowl is much larger than the seat so you are at least six inches deep in frigid water. Secondly, the bowl is quite a bit closer to the floor than the seat, which causes wrenching pain to the back and hip area.
After a bit of creative cursing and wiping myself dry with a towel, I grumbled back to bed. My first instinct was to shake him awake and ask if HE was the one who left the seat up. But I knew it wouldn’t be a meaningful conversation, just a series of huh? huhs? as he tried to come up from sleep fog to figure out what I was talking about.
Have you ever had fleeting fantasies that just send you into gales of laughter? I do that quite often, frequently in the middle of the night. In this case I was silently laughing so hard I was shaking the bed.
The fantasy was to just simply remove the toilet seat. Just unscrew the plastic bolts and retire it to the shed or the dump. And the next time he wanted to do the toilet ritual that involved sitting down he’d holler, “Where the heck’s the toilet seat?”
“Oh that?,” I’d yell back, “Since it’s always up and not used I figured it wasn’t needed so I hauled it away to the nuisance grounds (At our little town of Nokomis the dump is called the “nuisance grounds.”)
“What?!”
“I’ll tell you what,” I’d holler with great pleasure. “why don’t you just sit down there and do your business underwater, like you expect me to do.”
Until the end of time there will probably always be a war on whether the toilet seat should be up or down. Maybe we females should be like a woman I know who has her male-dominated family trained. Her guys all sit on the toilet instead of anointing it from a standing position.
It should, of course, be put down, and I’m not saying this from simply a female perspective. Men are taught to treat women with respect and courtesy and the toilet seat thing goes along with opening doors and being polite and chivalrous. It is simple good manners.
And if they can’t do that? Put a lock on the bathroom door and hide the key. There are a lot of trees out there.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
OUT WITH THE OLD, IN WITH THE NEW
We met several times and did a sort of pseudo-practice on each other, crawling around on the floor and finding the push-spot on strange chests and pretending to blow air in strange mouths.
For all of us, this new CPR thing was remarkable and it was a heady thing, knowing we could save lives. After the training I kept my eyes open for any poor soul who dropped to the floor from a heart attack. If anyone in a store looked a little suspicious I would follow closely. It didn’t occur to me that before the training I never encountered a single person having a heart attack.
Then one day it happened. I was driving to Kalispell and pulled off to the side of the road was a battered old clunker with a man slumped over the wheel. I screeched to a halt and raced to the car door and pounded the window. He didn’t respond. I jerked it open, the whole time going over the routine in my head.
The stench reached me in seconds, before the guy lifted his head and looked at me through bleary eyes. He was drunker than seven skunks and had puked all over himself. His clothes were filthy, the car was trashed, and he obviously hadn’t visited a shower or bathtub in a long time. Booze and cigarettes and vomit notwithstanding, the guy stunk.
I wandered back to my car, chagrined at the knowledge that even if he had been in a medical crisis there was no way I was going to slap my lips over his.
In case you missed it, a recent Parade Magazine had a marvelous article about the new CPR where you don’t have to do the lip-to-lip thing. Like me, most people were reluctant to do mouth-to-mouth on a collapsed stranger. In an effort to determine if there was a way to encourage CPR, studies were done which proved that chest compressions were enough. There is enough oxygen in the blood that as long as it is kept circulating there’s no need for doing more than compressions. In fact, the studies showed that chances of survival were greater if you didn’t take the time for the breaths.
The key to saving a life is to call 911 and then performing 100 chest compressions a minute and not stopping until help arrives.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Great ideas warm hearts
Sometimes it seems like I’m surrounded by good ideas. They’re swirling and dancing around me like enigmatic sylphic nymphs, their gossamer wings too feathery and swift to fully grasp and study them.
The home and garden channel is like that to me… one good idea after another after another. I mentally get out the paint brushes and fuchsia and orange paint and plot a project when it’s overtaken by the idea of putting random pieces of wallpaper on a floor and preserving them forevermore with varathane. Gorgeous! But wait – here’s a better idea….get yourself some old toilet paper tubes and then you…
You get the gist.
Recently, the best idea in a sea of great ideas was handed to me by my daughter, Lisa.
Her husband, Rick’s birthday was last week. Besides a gift she gave him a Thanksgiving dinner. A Thanksgiving dinner! Now isn’t that just a fabulous idea?!
Lisa’s life has been so blessed by this man and she wanted to thank him for being a wonderful caring husband and an awesome father. So she and the kids bought a whopping big turkey and when he came home from work last Wednesday he encountered a Thanksgiving feast all the trimmings, right down to the green bean casserole.
Sometimes the best ideas are the simplest, and the ones that come from the heart. Maybe your husband or wife or your entire family needs the loving surprise of a Thanksgiving dinner. If my husband didn’t know about Lisa’s idea I’d be planning such a dinner myself. So what if he doesn’t like turkey. He’d love the pumpkin pie.
The home and garden channel is like that to me… one good idea after another after another. I mentally get out the paint brushes and fuchsia and orange paint and plot a project when it’s overtaken by the idea of putting random pieces of wallpaper on a floor and preserving them forevermore with varathane. Gorgeous! But wait – here’s a better idea….get yourself some old toilet paper tubes and then you…
You get the gist.
Recently, the best idea in a sea of great ideas was handed to me by my daughter, Lisa.
Her husband, Rick’s birthday was last week. Besides a gift she gave him a Thanksgiving dinner. A Thanksgiving dinner! Now isn’t that just a fabulous idea?!
Lisa’s life has been so blessed by this man and she wanted to thank him for being a wonderful caring husband and an awesome father. So she and the kids bought a whopping big turkey and when he came home from work last Wednesday he encountered a Thanksgiving feast all the trimmings, right down to the green bean casserole.
Sometimes the best ideas are the simplest, and the ones that come from the heart. Maybe your husband or wife or your entire family needs the loving surprise of a Thanksgiving dinner. If my husband didn’t know about Lisa’s idea I’d be planning such a dinner myself. So what if he doesn’t like turkey. He’d love the pumpkin pie.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Lorraine, is that you?
I went to the store the other day and there was a card table set up in front of a toilet paper display. The red-smocked woman behind it was giving away free samples of pineapple.
Never one to pass up a free sample – isn’t that why most of us shop at Sam’s Club after all? – I stood in line. Well, that’s not true. I was the only one in line, which proved that it must not have been a fruity day.
I felt a bit sorry for the woman in red and her lack of customers. My mind jumped to my last visit to Costco when a wiry fellow with an extravagant comb-over was handing out tiny paper cups of some watery concoction made out of seaweed and vitamins and guaranteed to have been dipped straight from the Fountain of Youth. He declared it was mighty tasty but I declined his proffered cup – politely, of course.
I really didn’t want a slice of pineapple but my daughter insisted I get one so I wandered up to the line and the lady in red. She looked up from where she was straightening her wares and her face broke into a delighted smile.
“Lorraine!” she declared, holding out her arms as if to hug me from afar.
I shook my head. “Nope. Jan. My name is Jan,” I told her.
She looked doubtful. “You’re not Lorraine?”
Maybe she thought I’d forgotten my name that morning…left it home along with the checkbook and the little wad of Kleenex that was slated for the car.
I smiled and told her again that no, my name was Jan, not Lorraine. She peered closely and frowned. “You look just like Lorraine,” she informed me, and then added, “I just saw Lorraine a few minutes ago. Did you change clothes?”
Clearly, she was convinced that I had somehow misplaced my name and that, given time, my mind would pop back to normalcy and I would realize that, by gum, I really was Lorraine.
“Can I have some of that pineapple?” I asked, hoping to get her mind off of the name thing and back to the important task at hand.
She thought about it and finally fished out a little packet of pineapple. She handed it over, but with a bit of trepidation because clearly I was not coming clean with my identity. Maybe she didn’t want to feed a liar.
“You look just like her,” she stated accusingly, with her head cocked just a bit to the left as if maybe a new view of my face would either confirm or deny that I was Lorraine.
“Lorraine works here,” she said, adding that she did think it was odd that Lorraine could walk by just minutes before in her little uniform and suddenly, quick as a wink, be wearing shorts and a t-shirt and sandals and wandering the store just like a normal person.
I thanked her heartily for my pineapple and walked away. I could feel her eyes on me and the arrows of animosity piercing my back. It was not very kind of Lorraine to do this, after all, to pretend she was someone else. As I left the store, the woman in red was totally flummoxed and still staring after me. I’ve wondered ever since what she thought when she encountered the real Lorraine.
Recipe for skunk
You sometimes find the oddest things at garage sales. In this case, along with tables of stuff, a woman was offering skunk recipes. It seems the dog of one of her customers had a close encounter with a little black and white furry beast. The woman used the traditional tomato juice remedy, which did little more than give a tomato scent to the overpowering skunk scent. According to the garage sale woman, this is a better recipe:
1 quart hydrogen peroxide
¼ C baking soda
Dash of Dawn soap
Mix together and wash your pet with a washcloth. Then sit the little bugger down and tell him about skunks.
Quote of the week
Speaking of dogs…
They say the dog is man’s best friend. I don't believe that. How many of your friends have you neutered? (Larry Reeb)
Never one to pass up a free sample – isn’t that why most of us shop at Sam’s Club after all? – I stood in line. Well, that’s not true. I was the only one in line, which proved that it must not have been a fruity day.
I felt a bit sorry for the woman in red and her lack of customers. My mind jumped to my last visit to Costco when a wiry fellow with an extravagant comb-over was handing out tiny paper cups of some watery concoction made out of seaweed and vitamins and guaranteed to have been dipped straight from the Fountain of Youth. He declared it was mighty tasty but I declined his proffered cup – politely, of course.
I really didn’t want a slice of pineapple but my daughter insisted I get one so I wandered up to the line and the lady in red. She looked up from where she was straightening her wares and her face broke into a delighted smile.
“Lorraine!” she declared, holding out her arms as if to hug me from afar.
I shook my head. “Nope. Jan. My name is Jan,” I told her.
She looked doubtful. “You’re not Lorraine?”
Maybe she thought I’d forgotten my name that morning…left it home along with the checkbook and the little wad of Kleenex that was slated for the car.
I smiled and told her again that no, my name was Jan, not Lorraine. She peered closely and frowned. “You look just like Lorraine,” she informed me, and then added, “I just saw Lorraine a few minutes ago. Did you change clothes?”
Clearly, she was convinced that I had somehow misplaced my name and that, given time, my mind would pop back to normalcy and I would realize that, by gum, I really was Lorraine.
“Can I have some of that pineapple?” I asked, hoping to get her mind off of the name thing and back to the important task at hand.
She thought about it and finally fished out a little packet of pineapple. She handed it over, but with a bit of trepidation because clearly I was not coming clean with my identity. Maybe she didn’t want to feed a liar.
“You look just like her,” she stated accusingly, with her head cocked just a bit to the left as if maybe a new view of my face would either confirm or deny that I was Lorraine.
“Lorraine works here,” she said, adding that she did think it was odd that Lorraine could walk by just minutes before in her little uniform and suddenly, quick as a wink, be wearing shorts and a t-shirt and sandals and wandering the store just like a normal person.
I thanked her heartily for my pineapple and walked away. I could feel her eyes on me and the arrows of animosity piercing my back. It was not very kind of Lorraine to do this, after all, to pretend she was someone else. As I left the store, the woman in red was totally flummoxed and still staring after me. I’ve wondered ever since what she thought when she encountered the real Lorraine.
Recipe for skunk
You sometimes find the oddest things at garage sales. In this case, along with tables of stuff, a woman was offering skunk recipes. It seems the dog of one of her customers had a close encounter with a little black and white furry beast. The woman used the traditional tomato juice remedy, which did little more than give a tomato scent to the overpowering skunk scent. According to the garage sale woman, this is a better recipe:
1 quart hydrogen peroxide
¼ C baking soda
Dash of Dawn soap
Mix together and wash your pet with a washcloth. Then sit the little bugger down and tell him about skunks.
Quote of the week
Speaking of dogs…
They say the dog is man’s best friend. I don't believe that. How many of your friends have you neutered? (Larry Reeb)
Friday, August 14, 2009
The joy of diet and exercise
I have to give credit to a recent change in lifestyle to Gary Black, my ex-News-Miner editor. An email from him declared I needed a new mug shot to go with my weekly column.
OK, I have to admit a lot of the credit also goes to my daughter. Lisa is like one of those ex-smokers who are out to change the world, one cigarette at a time.
Diet and exercise was her sermon. All you need is diet and exercise.
I would mentally nod and verbally agree and say, “Mftmpha.” Translated around a mouthful of McDonald’s chocolate chip cookie, this meant, “Uh huh.”
“Tomorrow” is a pre-dieter’s favorite word. We’ll start the blasted diet and exercise thing tomorrow….after the dinner out with friends, the church potluck, when the rhubarb cake is gone.
Tomorrow we’ll start eating lettuce leaves carrots and fat free cheese. Tomorrow we will put on sneakers and huff for a half mile. The trouble for me is that tomorrow never came. I had started “tomorrowing” at least a year before and was happily eating my way into wider jeans.
It took the email from Gary to “tip the scale,” so to speak. Could I come into the office in a couple days for a new mug shot?
What? A couple of days? I dashed to the mirror and took stock. Good grief! This wouldn’t work at all. I needed a haircut and a dye job and, good Lord, what about that chin thing. And those pudgy cheeks?
And what was wrong with my old mug shot that was taken at least six years before, after a lengthy bout of flu yanked off enough pounds to make me at least appear almost thin?
Nope. Gary insisted. I begged for a small reprieve and he, feeling sorry for me, granted me one.
I went into high gear. Out went the bags of cookies and the ice cream in the freezer. The candy bars hidden in the towel drawer were ripped open, thrown in the garbage, and covered with coffee grounds and leftover tomato soup to quell any temptation to dig them back out.
I stocked up on fruit and vegetables and good stuff. I started walking a mile at noon and walking after work. When I was laid off from my job at Alyeska I hiked up the exercise. Five months later I was 30 pounds lighter.
For my birthday in June I got a Bodybugg. Lisa had one and convinced Troy that I would love it. She was right.
A Bodybugg is a slick little doohickey. It velcroes comfortably on my upper left arm and tracks every bit of movement I make. At night the information is downloaded and up pops a graph that looks like an EKG with peaks and valleys. I can see exactly when and how long I did that staggering run/walk. If I zoning out on TV it is pretty much flat-lined.
The Bodybugg is something like 98 percent correct in calculating exercise and calories burned. Food intake is put in by hand and shows the consumption of fat, carbs, and protein. The goal is to burn more calories than you eat.
The funny thing about all this is that the new mug shot never happened. The new job in Wasilla and giving up my News-Miner column took care of needing one.
Update on Lisa
After all sorts of tests, including a heart catheterization, we know that our daughter has a perfectly healthy heart and lungs. Her low pulse rate is a puzzle but doctors do have some clues as to the problem, which thankfully isn’t life or lifestyle threatening. Thank you to everyone who prayed for her.
And finally…A preacher went to his church office on Monday morning and discovered a dead mule in the church yard. He called the police. Since there did not appear to be any foul play, the police referred the preacher to the health department. They said since there was no health threat that he should call the sanitation department. The sanitation manager said he could not pick up the mule without authorization from the mayor.
Now the preacher knew the mayor and was not to eager to call him. The mayor had a bad temper and was generally hard to deal with, but the preacher called him anyway.
The mayor did not disappoint. He immediately began to rant and rave at the pastor and finally said, "Why did you call me anyway? Isn’t it your job to bury the dead?"
The preacher paused for a brief moment and then replied: "Yes, Mayor, it is my job to bury the dead, but I always like to notify the next of kin first."
OK, I have to admit a lot of the credit also goes to my daughter. Lisa is like one of those ex-smokers who are out to change the world, one cigarette at a time.
Diet and exercise was her sermon. All you need is diet and exercise.
I would mentally nod and verbally agree and say, “Mftmpha.” Translated around a mouthful of McDonald’s chocolate chip cookie, this meant, “Uh huh.”
“Tomorrow” is a pre-dieter’s favorite word. We’ll start the blasted diet and exercise thing tomorrow….after the dinner out with friends, the church potluck, when the rhubarb cake is gone.
Tomorrow we’ll start eating lettuce leaves carrots and fat free cheese. Tomorrow we will put on sneakers and huff for a half mile. The trouble for me is that tomorrow never came. I had started “tomorrowing” at least a year before and was happily eating my way into wider jeans.
It took the email from Gary to “tip the scale,” so to speak. Could I come into the office in a couple days for a new mug shot?
What? A couple of days? I dashed to the mirror and took stock. Good grief! This wouldn’t work at all. I needed a haircut and a dye job and, good Lord, what about that chin thing. And those pudgy cheeks?
And what was wrong with my old mug shot that was taken at least six years before, after a lengthy bout of flu yanked off enough pounds to make me at least appear almost thin?
Nope. Gary insisted. I begged for a small reprieve and he, feeling sorry for me, granted me one.
I went into high gear. Out went the bags of cookies and the ice cream in the freezer. The candy bars hidden in the towel drawer were ripped open, thrown in the garbage, and covered with coffee grounds and leftover tomato soup to quell any temptation to dig them back out.
I stocked up on fruit and vegetables and good stuff. I started walking a mile at noon and walking after work. When I was laid off from my job at Alyeska I hiked up the exercise. Five months later I was 30 pounds lighter.
For my birthday in June I got a Bodybugg. Lisa had one and convinced Troy that I would love it. She was right.
A Bodybugg is a slick little doohickey. It velcroes comfortably on my upper left arm and tracks every bit of movement I make. At night the information is downloaded and up pops a graph that looks like an EKG with peaks and valleys. I can see exactly when and how long I did that staggering run/walk. If I zoning out on TV it is pretty much flat-lined.
The Bodybugg is something like 98 percent correct in calculating exercise and calories burned. Food intake is put in by hand and shows the consumption of fat, carbs, and protein. The goal is to burn more calories than you eat.
The funny thing about all this is that the new mug shot never happened. The new job in Wasilla and giving up my News-Miner column took care of needing one.
Update on Lisa
After all sorts of tests, including a heart catheterization, we know that our daughter has a perfectly healthy heart and lungs. Her low pulse rate is a puzzle but doctors do have some clues as to the problem, which thankfully isn’t life or lifestyle threatening. Thank you to everyone who prayed for her.
And finally…A preacher went to his church office on Monday morning and discovered a dead mule in the church yard. He called the police. Since there did not appear to be any foul play, the police referred the preacher to the health department. They said since there was no health threat that he should call the sanitation department. The sanitation manager said he could not pick up the mule without authorization from the mayor.
Now the preacher knew the mayor and was not to eager to call him. The mayor had a bad temper and was generally hard to deal with, but the preacher called him anyway.
The mayor did not disappoint. He immediately began to rant and rave at the pastor and finally said, "Why did you call me anyway? Isn’t it your job to bury the dead?"
The preacher paused for a brief moment and then replied: "Yes, Mayor, it is my job to bury the dead, but I always like to notify the next of kin first."
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