After my grueling battle with Chippy, the killer chipmunk, I suffered from survivor's guilt. My good friends JJ and Heidi thought I needed to get out of the house, away from the place that reminded me of the once-ferocious furry four-inch beast.
They took me to our favorite karaoke bar.
On the way there, I opened up and shared my angst about Chippy's life and my role in shortening it. I told them about my Lady Macbeth spotty-hand moment.
JJ looked at me with kind eyes. "You are soooooo going to hell. Those spots are NEVER, you hear me, NEVER COMING OFF!"
Well, thank God, another friend was there to distract me from my impending fiery end with her profanely poetic rants.
But what got me out of my chipmunk funk was a couple of the karaoke singers. Never mind JJ's changing Hank Williams's Your Cheatin' Heart to this:
Your chipmunk's heart...
will make you weep,
You'll cry and cry, and try to sleep.
But sleep won't come, the whole night through.
Your chipmunk's heart, will tell on you.
I met Tiny, the singing trucker from Juneau, Wis., who is Louis Armstrong reincarnated tellig me about this wonderful world.
Then I met Doug Eggers, a foundry worker from Kaukauna, Wis., who sounds just like Timon from The Lion King. (I know Timon is a cartoon, but just listen to Doug, and tell me you don't agree.)
My chipmunk blues? Gone before JJ and Heidi even started their spot-on rendition of Julio Iglesias and Willie Nelson's To All the Girls I Loved Before.
GraceWrites Gets Out of the Chipmunk Funk
First off, thank you to everyone (with the exception of Marvin49, who suffers from bouts of laughter) for all the critter capture ideas.
As of 1: 30 p.m. today, my basement is now critter-free.
You may be wondering, “Wha? Huh? Grace won?”
Well, I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say what occurred in the basement is reminiscent of a particular scene in Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction.
Know which scene I’m talking about?
Here’s a clue. The character introduces himself with this line: “I’m Winston Wolf, I solve problems.”
Our own Winston Wolf did his job and left no trace.
Those of you who feel you must know what happened, I’ll never say, but I did take the low road and used one of the readers’ tips.
Right now, however, I am feeling a mite like Lady Macbeth, constantly looking at my hands and muttering: “Out, damnn’d* spot! Out, I say!”
And I'm trying to figure out what to say to Renee of the Humane Society when I return the live trap
Woman vs. Killer Chipmunk/Day 2
Update: After pacing (on tiptoes, don't ask) for hours, I finally heard Hubby groggily come downstairs.
"Have you checked the trap?" I ask with great hope in my voice.
He said, "I heard some scraping metal noises last night."
My heart leaped with joy. (Never mind what the Heart Surgeon says in a previous post.) Could it be true? Could that devious little creature be caught in the cage?
Alas, no.
Hubby went downstairs only to report that the cage remained empty.
But...
Some nuts were missing, and the cup of organic peanut butter was tilted.
Take a look.
Confound that wily wascally weasel! (I know, I know it's not a weasel.)
OK, Chippy has thrown down the gauntlet. I am not some shrinking violet sniveling in the corner. So...I haven't slept or gone down the basement in 24 hours doesn't mean anything. I've chased tornadoes in my Cheverolet Chevette. I've joined meth labs raids, armed only with a tape recorder, a notepad and a pen.
That basement is not big enough for the both of us.
One of us will have to go.
Who will it be?
(Anyone want to place odds?)
Read the original post about Chippy and me.
It’s 3:17 p.m. and I’m on my friend Heidi’s porch, calming my nerves with a stiff concoction of unknown ingredients. I’m in self-imposed exile from my home because of an unwanted guest – a killer chipmunk.
You’re thinking, “There she goes again -- telling tall tales.”
I’ll just tell you this: If you had seen the said chipmunk, you’d be sitting on Heidi’s porch nursing a strong one, too, and we’d be exchanging how-we-survived-the-psychotic-rodent tales.
This is how it all came to pass:
Hubby left the front door open for all of a minute so we can bring in a new chair. When we went inside, I saw a small moving object in the middle of our den. Being quite the observant type, I astutely determined that it was not a remote-controlled car.
Puzzled, I stood looking at this thing, which stared at me with its beady eyes. “What’s that?” I yelped.
The chipmunk scurried through our kitchen down the stairs to the basement, to my home office, where ALL MY STUFF LIVES!!!
Hubby and I scampered after the little critter which hid in Hubby’s workroom, home of three tools. I tried trapping the chipmunk with my large piece of cardboard, but the sneaky critter got away.
We found it by our sump pump where I thought, “OK, end of the road, little fella.”
I made my approach, stealth-like, a veritable ninja. I lowered my cardboard so I could trap it in the corner. But I was not prepared for what happened next.
The four-inch chipmunk launched its body at my cardboard shield. All my working out with JJ at the Y, wasted, useless against the sheer strength of this crazy critter.
I shrieked. Yes, I admit it, I shrieked, and I AM NOT A SHRIEKER!
The chipmunk found a chink in my trap-the-critter-with-the-cardboard plan, darted by me, tramping over my Teva-sandaled feet.
It was awful. Just awful.
Now you're thinking, where was Grace's Hubby when all this was going down?
Good question. Hubby was stunned by my anti-chipmunk ninja techniques that he was rendered useless. Laughing, he watched helplessly as the chipmunk dashed away.
Hours later, I’m still suffering from post-chipmunk-traumatic syndrome.
I called the Humane Society, talked to Renee, who told me that I could rent a live trap for $5/week with a $20 deposit. Before she could hang up, I was reliving my tale in person to her.
She said, “It’s OK, it’s just a little scared animal. It’s more scared of you.”
I stammered, “No, you weren’t there. You didn’t see its cold, cold eyes.”
She smiled, nodding her head as if humoring some nutcase off the street.
I could feel my agitation rising. “Look! I love animals! That dog over there! I love that dog! If I didn’t have a chipmunk in my basement, I’d take that dog home!”
She calmly showed me how to use the live trap without snapping off my fingers and sent me on my way.
Now I’m parked on Heidi’s porch, mustering up my courage to face down the dangerous creature.
If y’all have any ideas on how to get this chipmunk out of my basement, out of my life, please send them my way.
During our visit to my mom's in Southern California, I told my sons, ages 12 and almost 9, that we'd visit Chinatown, a place they know only from books and Jackie Chan movies. I wanted them to taste real Chinese food and see people who look like their mother and grandmother, who they call Amah.
But first, we hit a couple local Oriental gift stores in search of hidden treasures.
The first store, although tiny, looked promising with all its Asian artifacts, statures of Chinese warlords, hand-carved figurines. I cautioned the boys with the usual warning: DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING!
But my words, as usual, go unheeded.
The boys ooohed and ahhhed over each new item they encounter.
We were soon joined by the proprietor who magically appeared besides me. The man, sporting long black hair to the middle of his back, looked as if he had just walked off a low-budget kung-fu movie set. He wore a mandarin-collared blue jacket and black silk pants.
He asked me in Mandarin if I spoke Chinese. I responded with a tinge of regret: "Sorry, no."
He quickly assessed the situation: Get the boys, get the mom.
He zeroed in on Son No. 2, who glommed onto a 2-foot statue of the Monkey King. The proprietor grabbed an over-sized calculator and asked in English: "How much you pay?"
I begged off, saying rather demurely," No, no, just looking."
But what raged in my mind was this: "Are you kidding me??!!! I don't need anymore stuff in my house!"
The man punched a few keys and showed me the figure: $380.
I hissed at my boys: "DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING!"
He took the arm of Son No. 2 and pulled him to a corner of the store, where he revealed with great flair -- a life-sized Monkey King.
I could see I was losing my son, who locked his hazel eyes on the glorious figure.
Smiling, the man punched a few more keys on his calculator: $3,800.
Panicked, I yelled at the boys: "DON'T LOOK AT THAT! DON'T BREATHE. BACK AWAY!"
Sensing my increasing distress, the man pondered for a few seconds and made a wait-I-just-remembered-something-spectacular motion. Again, he pulled Son No. 2's arm, this time to the front of the store, where he reached behind a large statue. Like a magician he pulled out a miniature Monkey King, a 12-inch figure.
Both boys now were lost. They ahhhhed at the same time.
Son No. 1 said, "Mom..."
The man grinned victoriously.
For a fleeting moment, I tasted defeat, but, no, I am my mother's daughter. I am the daughter of the wiliest barterer in the world, the woman whose limited English made an used car salesman weep pathetically. Really.
The man punched more numbers. This time: $120.
Son No. 2 blurted: "I have that in my bank!"
Sigh...He is his mother's son. Inscrutable to the core.
I said firmly, "That's too much."
The man persisted. He pushed the calculator at me. "How much you pay?" he asked again.
I said, "No, no, the little one," pointing to Son No. 2.
I backed out the store. The man followed. "How much you pay?"
Just for fun, I told my son to punch in $20.
My son looked at me, puzzled. He knows his math. And $20 is not $120.
I whispered, "Put in $20."
He did.
The man looked at the number, straightened up and said, "No, no! Too little!" He herded my other son out of the store and made a shooing motion with his hands. "Go away! Go away!"
When we caught up with my mother and told her what had transpired, she said that the man also shooed her away. She had wanted a necklace priced at $30. She had offered $10. He told her he had paid $15 for it, but would let her have it for $20. This way, he said, he'd make $5 on the deal. Mom said, "I'll give you $10."
The man shooed her away too.
My boys laughed at the thought of anyone shooing their Amah away.
Epilogue: Son No. 1 actually bought a Monkey King, the one pictured, in Chinatown. He paid a grand total of $15. And he didn't even have to barter.
Celebrate the Good: Dance Around the World with Matt Harding
Need a lift? Watch Matt Harding as he dances around the world. Harding was recently featured in two New York Times articles. Read the following:
A Private Dance? Four Million Web Fans Say No By CHARLES McGRATH and Well: Dance Even if Nobody Is Watching By Tara Parker-Pope.
Then watch this video.
My kids watched it with me and, without prompting, they started to dance. Soon, we're all dancing.
Tell me what you think of Matt's video.
Topaz and Charlie, the unlikely friendship between an alpaca and a guard dog
On a recent visit to Cascade Alpacas of Oregon, which breeds award-winning huacaya alpacas, I met Connie Betts, who along with her husband, Thomas, run the 35-herd ranch in Hood River, Oregon. The Betts also run the on-site yarn shop called Foothills Yarn and Fiber.
Here Connie tells the story of Topaz, an 7-month-old alpaca, and Charlie, the 3-year-old Great Pyrenees guard dog.
Five Questions with Connie Betts, owner of Cascade Alpacas of Oregon
1. In 2004, you and your husband left well-paying jobs in the tech and marine retail industries to run an alpaca ranch. Why alpacas? Why not something more traditional like cows or pigs?
Alpacas are highly profitable and easy to care for. I am a knitter, and I love fiber and yarn. Besides, how cute is an alpaca? But, seriously, when you buy a pregnant female you generally are granted an additional breeding after that baby is delivered. You have a 50-50 chance of having a female offspring. When you sell that female offspring, you will probably sell her for as much or more (if you bred to a high-quality herd sire) than you paid for the dam. At that point, you’ve paid for your investment and any other females that are born from that dam contribute to profit.
2. How does your professional background as a software training instructor help you as an alpaca rancher?
Well, I thought that I would get to teach knitting and crocheting classes, but people don’t want to drive to our location in the evening in the winter when knitting and crocheting are in full swing. I have taught dozens of people how to spin, which is very rewarding.
3. There is a popular children's book called Is Your Mama a Llama? by Deborah Guarino. Ever think about giving that book a run for its money with a book on alpacas, which I'd say are just as cute if not cuter.
We have a friend who is an alpaca rancher on the other side of the Columbia River who has written a children’s book about an alpaca and hopes to publish it. Her passion is alpaca photos, which she turns into cards, and writing about alpacas. My passion is the alpaca fiber and yarn.
4. What do your former colleagues think about your new vocation? I’m sure there were some skeptical people, but they were kind enough not to tell me their thoughts. Many are congratulating us after being featured on the cover of the Women in Business special section of the Hood River News last year, in the American Express Open Book (distribution 1 million) last July, Kiplinger’s Personal Finance magazine last November, and Fortune magazine this month. They can see that we are doing very well, loving what we get to do, and loving where we get to live.
5. What advice would you give to people who are thinking about raising alpacas?
Do the research, take classes on the alpaca business, visit alpaca ranches, and talk to your accountant because every person’s financial situation is different. Decide if you want to have a few alpacas for a supplemental income or if you want to make it a full-time business. And, make sure that you have the energy and skill to run your ranch like a business. That said, if you have a passion for something, go for it and do what you love.
For more information about Cascade Alpacas of Oregon, please visit www.cascadealpacas.com. Photo of Topaz and Charlie courtesy of Connie Betts.
'Tis a small world moment: Janice Dotson, who spun some alpaca fiber for me and my kids, went to the University of Wisconsin Oshkosh in 1970.
Tasks for you:
1. What do you think about Topaz and Charlie? Tell me about the unusual friendships you know or are part of.
2. Suggest other interesting vocations for me to spotlight.
Before we get to to the spontaneous masonry, let me give you some background on the type of skills I possess. Simply put, my best friends Heidi and JJ, Midwest natives, often look at me, shake their heads and say: "City folk like you will be the first to go."
While I know my bestest friends in the whole wide world love me, I also know that they are smart, practical women. That means in case of a major disaster, I'm completely dispensable to them.
Both have already told me independently that they would leave me behind but take Heidi's hubby, who apparently is a good man to have along (it says so on his business card), and JJ's dad, who is even better than MacGyver.
Me? What's a city girl who can cover a disaster if she survives it to do?
Well, she goes and gets some skills.
For two years, I had begged JJ's dad to let me use the tilling machine. (JJ patiently reminds me, "It's called a tiller, Grace, it's called a tiller.") I love how people who till look so Zen-like as they prepare the earth for new growth. The last time I asked JJ's dad if I could till, he took one look at my soft hands and walked away. But something in my relentlessly whiny voice got to him. In a moment of weakness, he handed over the controls.
This is what happens when I become one with the earth.
Feeling lumber-jacky, I decide then to wield something mightier than a pen -- an ax.
As you can see my ego suffered a big blow. Still unskilled, I sought solace in the most unlikely place - at JJ's.
JJ, in her uncanny way, convinced me to help her put up a basketball hoop, pole and all.
Along with her dad and my hubby, we poured and mixed 1,200 pounds of concrete. That's hard work. (To all those who do this professionally: I know your pain, and I thank you for your good work.)
We had a batch of concrete left. I think most reasonable people would just toss the leftovers, but not JJ. She took that opportunity to teach me another skill -- spontaneous masonry.
Take a look at what we made.
Grace's concrete blob thing.
Tasks for you:
1. Always a student and an embracer of participatory journalism, I'm looking for other skills to master and another story to tell. Share your hidden talents. Please keep it clean.
2. Name the concrete blob thing. The prize will be a permanent folded index card placed next to the concrete blob thing that says you named it.
UPDATE: KermieD gave me a few suggestions on my search for a new sport. See comments below.
Then read the original post before you jump to the newly added old footage of my competitive day as a downhill wagon racer.
It is a rare day when I read something in the news that makes me do two things:
1. Laugh out loud.
2. Think "This is why the rest of the world hates us."
In the early afternoon on the Fourth of July, CNN.com had this breaking news headline stripped across the top of its Web site:
Joey Chestnut wins Nathan's annual hot dog eating contest in a "dog off" with ex champ Takeru Kobayashi.
Story Developing.
The size of the breaking news headline was worthy of, say, the death of longtime lawmaker former U.S. Sen. Jesse Helms or the daring rescue of three Americans, Colombian presidential candidate Ingrid Betancourt and 11 other Colombians from the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia.
Feeling self-righteous, I swore I wouldn't read about Chestnut's win. I wouldn't be one of those people who gawk at car wrecks on the highway, tying up traffic with their prurient curiosity. But if you don't mind being one of those types, you can read it here. (and maybe tell me about it while I pretend I'm not listening.)
I have to admit the idea of eating as sport intrigues me. I am really, really good at eating. Been doing it all my life. In fact, I'd say I was a natural. I have said half-jokingly that I've given up competitive marathoning because I found less painful ways to abuse my body. I thought about picking up competitive eating until I read:
Death by Cheese and the Dreaded Ruptured Stomach
The Past and Future of Competitive Eating Injuries
by Jason Fagone in www.slate.com. You can read his article here.
Prize alert!!!
So now competitive eating is out. I'm now open to suggestions on a new sport to try.
Best suggestion will get a prize even better than the brass-like desk lamp and the color-changing light cube.
Note to golferdude and others motivated by prizes: I know you're thinking, "She's lyin'. Nothing is better than the brass-like desk lamp." Well, you'll just have to see.
* Sports Illustrated has a feature called Signs of the Apocalypse in which some sports figure is quoted saying something so out there that one has to accept that the end of times has arrived.
UPDATED STUFF: I scrounged around my files and found this old footage of my debut as a downhill wagon racer.
WARNING: Please do not try this at home or anywhere else. Stunts like these should be left to the professionals.
What can a self-described gay cross-dressing pagan teach the immigrant daughter of a dirt-poor preacher (Christian, if you must know)who grew up in the mountains of Taiwan?
Turns out, a lot.
Sit back and relax.
Meet the single-monikered Sparkle, who works at The Third Planet in Lawrence, Kansas, which sells funky clothes, bags (bought one) and artifacts from all over the world. All fair trade products. In the seven-minute segment, Sparkles talks about freedom, fashion and why Steven Spielberg should leave the poor aliens alone.
Sparkle's World as done as a movie trailer, courtesy of animoto.com, a cool Web site that takes your photos and converts them into a snazzy professional-looking movie trailer. For free. By the way, the tattooed chest belongs to Trista, who also works at The Third Planet.
I am an unabashed fan of this store, which also carries an array of bumper stickers. Among my favorites:
Zen Buddhism
Don't even think about it.
Question for you: What do think about Sparkle's world? Think there's a way we, the messy lot we call humanity, can coexist peacefully? Or are we too far gone? Weigh in, my friends.
