Roxy training diary month 31
December 2005

Thorn asks, "What the heck is this"?

Disgusted and discouraged Thorn

Dec 25 (Jim).  I decided to go up skiing for Christmas Day, figuring I could avoid most of the crowds.  Snowbasin is closer, and I really like it there, but it's been warm and rainy (in the 50s up here on the benches, probably in the 40s at the valley floor which forms the Snowbasin base).  That really trashes the snow.  So, I drove down to Snowbird for Christmas skiing.  I had my picture taken on three Bassackwards runs (the name of the run, not necessarily indicative of my skiing style).  When those come to me in the mail, I'll post them here so all of you can critique my form.

Even at Snowbird, conditions were not great.  The snow was kinda skied off and icy, but it did loosen up a bit over in Gad Valley as the sun hit it in the afternoon.  I was skiing off the Tram first thing in the morning, then went over to Gad for mid-day, then back to the Tram for the last couple of runs.  Especially on Chip's Run, off the Tram, I found a good number of rocks to ski over.  Ah well, that's what P-Tex is for.

I did find a run that I had discovered 18 years ago, on my first visit to Snowbird for the Winter Brain Conference.  If I recall correctly, there was no Tram then; it was a gondola.  At the time, I told Rosemary about it and she thought I was insane.  You zip down a narrow little creekbed (Peruvian Gulch, as it turns out) and then at the exit, back 18 years ago, someone had made a little step so you get some air on the exit.  I picked my way down it, so I don't know if there was air to be had.  I need to go do that run in the morning, when my legs are fresh.  Afternoons are about not getting hurt for me now, while mornings are more fun.

Roxy and Dylan and I did some agility practice Christmas Eve.  Roxy was having some trouble with the seesaw/dog walk discrimination exercise I had set up, and I suppose I should be happy that she is stubbornly obstacle-focused. 

Roxy's sister Thorn has a new gift, named, appropriately, Gift.  Liz Sharpe, Thorn's mom, has been swallowed by the Dark Side and adopted a Border Collie puppy. 

Thorn and Roxy look so much alike, which I guess is appropriate since they are littermates.  Even their "WTF" looks are the same, as evinced by these pictures.  They have similarly rough lives, with soft, downy throws to lay on when things get really rough.  Roxy does not have a cute Holstein pillow, it's true, but she does have two cute mooseprint pillows. 

All the dogs love their dog beds by the gas log fireplace.  Roxy can often be found there, curled up in a dog ball, enjoying the warmth of the fire.

Rosemary was re-organizing and unpacking the contents of what we called the "Dog Closet" in Jackson.  Now, the dog toys and such have an entire bedroom of their own.  Annie was helping Rosemary to pick out the very favorites from a wide selection.  She finally chose the Wiggly Giggly Platypus, a toy sent to puppy Roxy by her aunt Liz Sharpe (see June '03 Roxylog), that she hadn't seen in over 2 years.  She wasted no time making its acquaintance in characteristic doggie fashion.

My favorite toy is in here somewhere...

...just a little deeper

Sniffing a Wiggly Giggly Platypuss' butt

Christmas tree and snow-buried street.

There's a ball here somewhere but how can I be expected to work with snow on my eye?

Annie demonstrates the correct way to address the ball.

Championship boomer ball style!

View from the kitchen.

Dogs playing at the bottom of the hill.

Die, ball, die!

Now if I roll the ball under you...

Hey!  You gave me a dead ball!

Biting is always a good option.

Handbags and Gladrags

Ever seen a blind man cross the road,
Trying to make the other side.
Ever seen a young girl growing old,
Trying to make herself a bride.
And what becomes of you my love,
When they have finally stripped you of,
The handbags and the gladrags,
That your Grandad had to sweat so you could buy.

Once I was a young man,
And all I thought I had to do was smile.
So listen all you young girls,
Who have bought everything that’s in style.
‘Cos once you think you're in you're out,
For you don't mean a thing without,
The handbags and the gladrags,
That your Grandad had to sweat so you could buy.

Sing a song of six-pence for your sake,
And take a bottle full of rye.
Four and twenty blackbirds in a cake,
And bake ‘em all in a pie.
They told me you missed school today,
So I suggest you just throw away,
The handbags and the gladrags,
That your Grandad had to sweat so you could buy.

And what becomes of you my love,
When they have finally stripped you of,
The handbags and the gladrags,
That your Grandad had to sweat so you could buy.

                                             —Mike d'Abo

Dec 15.  The song lyrics at left are dedicated to one of my favorite targets, Paris Hilton.  Paris, wherever you are, this song is written for you.  And I still have a 43Things goal of hitting you in the face with a cream pie, so watch out.

Ironically, this song was written in 1967, by Olivia d'Abo's father about the time she was born.  Paris Hilton, on the other hand, was born 14 years later, in 1981, when I was in grad skool at Berkeley, which makes me feel old. 

Yesterday, Rosemary and I went out to do our shopping for Sub for Santa.  I drew a 7-month-old boy and a 10-year-old boy.  The baby needed a car seat, and the Drop and Roar Dinosaur was a hoot to buy.  The older boy needed a remote control car and Guinness Book of World Records.

My, the Guinness Book sure has changed since I last bought one.  The Barnes & Noble clerk had to show us where they were, because I wasn't looking for a lime-green psychedelic thang. 

While I was in Barnes & Noble, I decided to do a little freelance work for the Ministry of Reshelving. 

Kennedy Morning

Metal sausages with wings

Take to the red sky

43 W 43rd St, Manhattan

Rosemary's Ancestral Home

Every Bathroom Needs a Dirty Rock

Dec 11 (Mt. Kisco, New York).  Today, Jim was in New York City.  From there, he still writes in the third person.  Okay, he will stop now.

Whew.  I really, really have wanted for a long time to make Delta Silver Medallion status.  I was only 2500 miles short this year, so I took one of Delta's last minute deals and got a cheap ticket to anywhere so I could achieve Silver Medallion for 2006, go hang out in the Crown Club (that'll cost me 60,000 miles, which I also have in my account), get priority boarding, and get free upgrades to First Class from time to time.  People travelling with me get upgraded, too, so I don't need to leave my wife back in coach while I enjoy First Class when we are traveling together.  (Yes, I know someone who is enough of an a-hole to have done that.  I know, because I kept his wife company during the flight from California to Mississippi.  What a mook.)

My internet friend Tara has a blog about things which contain the number 43.  I met Tara on 43Things, naturally enough.  Together, we were part of a team whose goal was "Do NaNoWriMo", and now we are preparing to exchange our novels.  So, since both 43 E 43rd and 43 W 43rd are right by Grand Central Station, I decided to go take pictures of the facade of both addresses.  Sadly, there is no 43 E 43rd but there is a building at 43 W 43rd.  Here's a picture, cropped in a 4:3 ratio just for fun.

I then went walking, just for fun and exercise.  I wandered by the TKTS booth in Times Square, thinking, "if they have cheap tickets to Spamalot, I will go; if not, then I will keep walking."  Spamalot did not appear on the Big Board of Discount Tickets, so I kept walking. 

I went by Al's Soup Kitchen International to meet the Soup Nazi in person, but his joint was closed, maybe permanently. 

Did you know that "CHOUT!" means to pay attention and not walk in front of cars?  I heard a woman shouting that to her husband, twice.  ("Chout.  CHOUT!").

I cut along the south edge of Central Park, and figured I could go for a hansom cab ride (something I've never done, and it was a snowy day in New York City) but the line to do that was too long for my tastes (not as long as the TKTS line, which looked to be about a 2-hour thing).  So I kept walking.  I went up Fifth, and then Park Avenue, to 86th, where I caught the subway line to the Bronx so I could go visit Rosemary's ancestral home.  Unfortunately, I took the wrong train (the #4) and the one I was on was an Express to boot, so I had to transfer at 125th to the right one — the #6.  That goes through some pretty scary real estate to Zerega Avenue, which is where Rosemary grew up.

It was getting late for lunch, and I really needed to take a bathroom break, so I stopped off at a restaurant near the Castle Hill Avenue station, just south of Zerega Avenue.  It was a Chinese/Spanish restaurant.  Really.  Half the people working there were Puerto Rican and half were Chinese.  I ordered the paella, and while I was waiting a woman came in and spoke to the waitress in Spanish.  From what I could gather, the woman was getting food for her family and wanted paella but did not have enough money, so she ordered something else that was cheaper.  When they brought out my paella, it was waay too much food for me, and I only wanted to eat one third of what I had.  So, I asked for a takeout container and gave the other customer my 2/3 order of paella, with a cheery "Feliz Navidad".  To my surprise, she took it with her, so we both felt cheerful.  I hated to see the food thrown out, and I need to learn not to eat so much with this Weight Watchers journey I'm on.  It's all good, then.

It started to snow, but I was dressed warmly, and was enjoying myself immensely.  I took the train back to Manhattan, this time getting off at 96th.  (I was forbidden by Rosemary — for good reason, I might add, based on the people I saw and the neighborhoods we passed through — from setting foot on pavement between 96th and the Zerega Ave stop, although I did stretch the rules a bit to walk to Castle Hill.)  I started walking down Park, looking for a cup of coffee.  Nothing for blocks and blocks.  So, I remembered Lexington, and switched a block east and there were lots of restaurants.

Now, that got me to thinking.  Who made the rule that doctors and expensive condos are on Park, and restaurants and shops are on Lexington?  All New Yorkers must know this basic rule, and accept it as the Order of Things, but why?  I'm sure someone will tell me it's because of the price of real estate, but didn't the composition of the businesses on the street drive the price of real estate, rather than the other way around?  After all, they're only a block apart.   Isn't it fascinating how things are arranged, not necessarily for any particular reason? 

While getting my coffee, I wedged into a seat at a counter in the little shop on Lexington (not on Park, no coffee or muffins on Park, you see) and mused some more about cities.  I can see why people miss living in a city like New York.  There is a sensuality, I think, about the random contact and the closeness you feel in a place like this.  It's a contact with rules — people aren't just bumping into each other like billiard balls or grabbing sensitive areas — but it's contact nonetheless.  It's fun to be in The City.

I also thought, as I was walking, that my response to New York is completely different than the first (and until this visit, last) time I visited, in 1978 at the age of 19.  I've sure changed a lot since then.    Now it's just another big Eastern city.  I could be walking the streets of Washington, DC or Philadelphia or Boston or Baltimore.  They all look the same now. 

When I was 19, it was a magical place, an Emerald City.  Now it's just a city.  Funny how that changes.  I probably should have made a pilgrimage to Ground Zero, since my last trip I had gone to the top of the World Trade Center like any other tourist. 

But I wasn't in the mood for gawking crowds.  I did stop in a très cher store with doggie stuff, Canine Styles (yes, on Lexington, not on Park) and got a "Good Dog" bowl for Annie that is very much like the "Good Dog" bowl I got in Dupont Square, Washington, for Marieke many years ago.  (See what I mean?) 

I almost bought my sister's dog, Tracker, a sweater, but while I was there a woman from Italy was looking for a sweater for her Bassett Hound (I had to help translate the name of the breed from Italian for the store clerk, which is pretty funny, really) and was quoted $70 for this puny sweater, so I figured a Greyhound sweater for Tracker would set me back too much and I had already paid enough of their Lexington Avenue rent for one day so I left with just the dog bowl and a homespun needlepoint pillow.

Back to Grand Central just in time to catch the 4:50 to Mt. Kisco, where I am staying.  Literally just in time, I ran through the doors at Track 111 just as they closed.  Now I'm back in my room at the Mt. Kisco Holiday Inn, posting to the RoxyLog.  While I was gassing up at a local Getty station, I found a completely worthless rock sitting in the corner of the men's room.  I don't know why.  The room was filthy, which made me glad to be a guy and the rock was the cleanest thing in there.

I almost finished my NaNoWriMo novel on the plane.  I had been 5700 words short in the second-to-last chapter, but I got 3700 knocked off and now I'm ready to finish it on the flight back tomorrow.

Dec 11.   "A tired Cattledog is a good Cattledog." — Mary Healey.

Inspired by watching Weber State's women's basketball team (The Wildcats), Rosemary bought Roxy a basketball of her own at MallWart yesterday.  This morning she locked up the other two dogs and let Roxy have the ball all to herself in the snow-covered back yard. 

Dec 4.  Rosemary arrived late on November 30.  Dylan especially turned into a little wiggle-butt when she came in the front door.  He had been watching the back door (where I usually come in when the car pulls into the garage), so he was doubly surprised.

Annie has been spending a lot of time following Rosemary around to make sure she doesn't get lost again.  Annie is mostly mad that Rosemary got lost, and can't believe that Jim and the rest of the pack were so careless as to misplace her.

Roxy is surprised that the same rules that Jim instituted (rule #1: you can't stand over Annie and glare at her while she is trying to sleep) apply with Rosemary around, only there are twice as many people enforcing them now.

The moving van miraculously arrived the next morning.  There was further disruption and turmoil as everything that had been left in Jackson suddenly appeared in our house.  It must be incredibly crazy-making to be a dog, and just have stuff suddenly teleport itself from thousands of miles away into a new location without warning or preamble. 

Work on unpacking stuff proceeds apace.  It will probably be a long time before everything is unpacked.  If the Jackson house sells quickly (that's what we're hoping for), then we might have the kitchen here on Edgehill remodeled and so there's no point unpacking the kitchen stuff until that is done.  We already have enough to get by with what I had been using here in Ogden for the last five months.

Body Parts?  I Don't See Any Body Parts.

Body Parts?  These Aren't Mine

This week's Big News has been a woman in France who had to have a face transplant after being mauled by a dog.  Even though they were caught red-pawed, as it were, both Dylan and Roxy deny having anything to do with this.  If a cat can get to France without people knowing about it, then certainly a dog can.  I strongly suspect one of them snuck out in the whirlwind of moving, bit this poor woman, then snuck back in. 

Regular RoxyLog readers recall (whew) that perhaps my favorite blog, outside of this cheer RoxyLog, is called Go Fug Yourself.  They really outdid themselves with Friday's Britney Spears rant.  Worth a look.