On New England and Silence of the Deer

When many people think of fall, they think of autumn in New England. The bright colors, the crisp air and of course the delightful fall sweaters. But I live in Montana, so the sure signs of fall are a little different.

Here's an example. The other day I was driving back to my office during the lunch hour, and pulled up at a stop light. Next to me was a pickup (certainly a symbol of Big Sky Country). And in it's bed, pointed straight up to heaven, were four hoofs (or is it hooves?) attached to thin, fur-covered legs. Presumably, the legs were attached to a deer or an elk or some other former woodland creature on its way to the butcher. Instead of a nice wool sweater, the driver was wearing a bright orange vest over what may have been a camo sweatshirt. (It being camo, I couldn't actually see it.) And I presume, instead of the fresh-pressed cider served in the northeast, the driver most likely had sampled fresh-pressed Coors at at least one point in the last 48 hours.

But here's what gets me. It didn't even phase me in the least. Where some, certainly those more refined than I, would have raised a brow and perhaps hit their speed-dial for PETA, I reminisced about my childhood, when we would go visit my father at hunting camp where, after 10 days on the mountain, both the hunters and their quarters had taken on unique personalities all their own. We'd play around the deer and elk hanging in the trees, without the slightest pause.

Or, after my dad stopped doing the two-week hunting sojourns, when I'd come home to find a deer or other four-footed forest dweller hanging from, of all things, my swingset. Yep, I'd still swing right next to it and think about how tasty the jerky would be.

When I think of it now, I must pause to wonder precisely why there wasn't some sort of "silence of the deer" thing that resulted therefrom. But luckily, I'm perfectly normal.

Normal being somewhat relative...at least during hunting season.

On funky smells and dances...

Do you think that mass murderers and other folks who are up to no good are terrified of women who run in place, wringing their hands and shrieking like banshee? Because this appears to be my preferred M.O. when it comes to being startled or surprised in a less than pleasant way.

Last night I headed downstairs to do a little work in my office, and could smell something...well...a little funky. I did a little tour of the place, looking for anything suspicious--and found nothing. In fact, I decided that either my smeller was broken or, in the alternative, I was the thing that was malodorous and would rectify the situation with a leisurely soak later in the evening. So I toddled into my office and went to work.

My DH came down a bit later, chatted with me, and then went to surf awhile on the computer in our downstairs family room. A kiss goodnight, and he headed upstairs to go to sleep while I immersed myself in research. Soon, however, I realized that Project Runway (yes, I know, I watch that stuff) was on (it comes on twice in the same night) and thought that I would go out and use the other computer while I watched/listened to it.

So I toddled out, began to assume a comfortable position, looked down and saw...a DEAD MOUSE RIGHT BY THE CHAIR. I leapt to my feet, avoiding the dearly departed rodent, and engaged in the most cardio I've had in some time as I did a dance that Richard Simmons himself would be proud of. Panicked and beyond thought, I headed upstairs, roused my husband and made him, groggily, remove the offending creature from our household. Oh--and I also elected to do yet another jazzercise routine the moment he touched a dustpan to the mouse.

It's now been nearly 24 hours, and I have seen no further unwanted guests in the household. I believe that my intruder dance may have been effective, but you can never tell.

Wait--was that a scurry I just heard? I'd better start stretching just in case a repeat performance is necessary.... Be afraid, rodent. Be very afraid.

Cinderella and Me

What is it about a new outfit that makes girls feel so good? I'm not sure if there is a psychological diagnosis for it--if there is, I think that it should be called a Cinderella complex. I mean, there's just something so wonderful about slipping into something that looks and feels and even smells brand new.

Today I wore a brand new outfit--from the boots on my feet to the jewelry around my neck. And even though my hair still needs a trim and my nails need some work, I felt like I could take on the world. I admit it--I had a different spring in my step and a different feeling about my whole day. Isn't that the strangest thing?

Now, I do know that my daughter loves to primp in front of a mirror, and that she, too, gets a little boost of joy when I pull out a darling new dress and put her hair in ponies--and it's still going strong hours later. And I am left to wonder if perhaps it is just a girl thing--something that's as intrinsic to us as...I don't know...estrogen. I mean, my son likes to get a new shirt every now and then, but he pretty much moves on after about ten minutes of having me ooh and ahh over him--preferring to focus on his Nintendo rather than his outfit (yeah, I don't get it either.)

I am SUCH a girl.