You are currently browsing the monthly archive for July 2010.

You ever have one of those months that you just can’t wait to get behind you? As you can see from the new header photo on this last day of the month, it’ll probably be two weeks before July fades away for me.

Woodworking Rule No.1: Always get close to/over your work so you are in a position of strength and can be in control of said work.

Woodworking Rule No. 2: Always wear safety glasses.

Woodworking Rule No. 3: Disregard Rule No. 1 if you neglect Rule No. 2, or you could poke your eye out with a screwdriver bit. Yes, a screwdriver bit.

I had to really reef on the screwdriver bit to pop it out of the clippy thingy in my handy toolkit case (a place for everything and everything in its place, Primitive Pete). I was in the proper position, directly over the case, when the bit released and did so with extreme prejudice wanging me in the eye. A forcefulness of action which I thought was uncalled for. Really. That’s the kind of violent behavior one would expect from a pencil, maybe a knife.

Now I got a booboo at: pam(at)

Note: here’s the photo


It’s waiting to be expressed, for the words to be formulated in a mind and verbalized for ears to hear. It is the Negative Thing.

So, yeah, a month or so ago a guy came into the office and mentioned that I hadn’t written about mice lately. Then I was invaded.

A few weeks back The Redhead sistah dropped off a horse for me to ride and sell. We discussed turning him out with my two yahoos, but I was reticent because I didn’t want anyone getting hurt I said. Then Jilly (without help from anyone) cut her leg — not bad, thankfully, but enough to lay her off work for a week or so. Then my little paint Charlie wanged her head on something in her pen splitting open her brow ridge and swelling her eye shut. She looked like she lost the heavy weight championship of the world. Today I can see a full half-inch of her eyeball.

And then I wrote a two-part column on rattlesnakes … guess what I got to kill this morning in my arena while I was out spraying weeds. Thanks for the adrenaline rush, universe.

Friday’s column was about New York City’s Naked Cowboy controversy. I’d like to think that the universe will treat me to the view of a hunky, for reals, naked cowboy. But I have this feeling that all I’ll be getting is the view of some nasty guy’s buttcrack. Or worse, I’ll have a clothing malfunction in town and some poor unsuspecting cowboy will be witness to the event and wishing he could stab out his retinas to get the image out of his mind.

Universe is wicked-ironic these days at: pam(at)

So we were standing in the checkout line at the grocery store the other day, and I briefly noticed a nice-looking, early 20-something couple at the register next to ours before unloading our basket. As I started rooting around in my purse for some legitimate form of payment for our groceries, I glanced at John and noticed him staring with an intense, and yet baffled, expression in the direction of the couple.

I swear I need to pay closer attention to the man because I just noted his look and went on with my busy-ness … until he interrupted me with:

“So what’s the third strap for?” What the hell is he talking about? I thought as I glanced up to see him still looking in the direction of that couple with that expression on his face.

I glanced back over my shoulder and noticed that the woman was wearing a tight, black, spaghetti-strap tank top, over a tight turquoise tank top which only showed as turquoise lace at the bottom and spaghetti straps at the top. Sure enough, there was a set of hot pink spaghetti straps also.

“It’s her bra,” I said before turning back to my wallet and fishing out the magic plastic money substitute.

“If she’s cold, why doesn’t she wear a thicker shirt, or one with sleeves?” John said.

Are you kidding me, man? “I don’t think she’s wearing two shirts for the warmth so much as to look stylish and sexy.”

“So showing her bra straps is supposed to be sexy?”

“I guess so,” and I’m laughing in little snorts by now.

“Hmm, y’know, back in the ’70s women wore only one of those tank tops and no bra. Now that was sexy.”

Peace, love and funkadelic support for those free-range boobies.

We’re groovy at: pam(at)

I hate bras. It’s one of the few topics about which I will use that word and mean it. Hate ’em. Always have.

Bras do not fit me. When I was skinnier, I wore a 36″ 3/4A-cup. Yeah, I know. There’s no such thing. A’s were too big. Trainers too small. The A’s that tended to fit were padded because, y’know, clothing designers are adamant about the fact that being an A-cup must be a hideous embarrassment that needs to be “fixed” with a foamy insert so that when I walk into a room, I can lead with my boobs. Not a real high priority of mine.

Besides, I’m pretty sure that if I did not have corrective surgery to fix the “lots of character” portions of my otherwise plain face because it’s beyond me to be something I’m not, then I certainly will not pad up my chest to make it something it is not.

Now that I’m chubbier, I wear a 38″ A. Yeah, I know. There’s no such thing of that either. Even at Victoria’s Secret — the holy fortress of all feminine underthings.

(Side note: When I walk into a store like Victoria’s Secret sales attendants are both more uncomfortable and less amused than I am. In fact, this sales chick’s attitude clearly conveyed that she would rather be sales assisting a transvestite with a thong choice. Considering the number of times her eyes darted away, I think she was actually looking for a transvestite underthing-emergency to call her away from me, or the hidden candid cameras. I left the store empty-handed and with the assurance from her eyes that I should take my freak show to a discount store. Thank you very much for your time. Whatever.)

Bra-design experts are pretty sure that if you have a 38″ chest, it’s sporting a B-cup. Not so much here. Thanks to my dad’s DNA contribution, I have this barrel chest that requires extra space at the sternum. With my new, plumper, for-reals A-size I can shift a bra 1/2″ to 3/4″ to the right or left and get that one cup to fit pretty good. Yeah, I know. Awkward.

There’s no fitting both of my breasts in at the same time. They’re just crammed in there as best as possible, and bursting to fall out of the outside bottom edge of the cup. I’m forever adjusting — pulling my bra back down into place.

Guy relevance: imagine this happening in a jock strap and cup. Yeah, now you know.

Plus, I’m a little claustrophobic with a tight band around my chest. In fact, I stopped wearing sports bras that slip on over my head rather than clasp. When you try to “slip” off those pull-on bras over your head while they’re all sweaty, they roll up and bind, and you’re stuck with your arms — elbows high — bound to your head and your thumbs cinched into the knot so you can’t get loose. It’s terrifying. I have run headlong into the wall in a panicked attempt to free myself.

Just saying, there isn’t a whole lot I like about bras. I went many years wearing only dark T-shirts so I didn’t have to wear them, except when riding horses and for “occasions” that required something dressier than a dark T-shirt. Now though, with the office job I have almost daily “occasions,” and even a dark T-shirt can’t hide that flop of age-related connective tissue failure.

I wear bras frequently. It’s a horror.

I bring all this up because the other morning John walked into the bedroom while I was getting dressed for work and said, “Oh my poor, honey. She had to harness up for work. Look at her Cooper, she’s all cinched down and her boobies are going to suffocate.”

I chuckled and moved along to the bathroom to dry my hair, and I admit, I kind of tuned him out for a second as he rattled on to the dog. Then I realized what he was saying.

“It should be a crime to strap down a bodacious set of tah-tahs like that. We prefer free-range boobies, huh, Coop.”

I’ve never before heard of anyone calling an A-cup “bodacious,” but I do love the free-range boobies, so I’m thinking of having T-shirts — dark T-shirts — made that say: “Save the tah-tahs — free-range boobies only.”

I think they’ll be big-ticket items at: pam(at)

Fear the crazy eyes, human.

Snake in the grass has nothing over ol’ crazy eyes here. Those eyes were not in any way digitally enhanced — they are, apparently, a feature unique to the plains spadefoot toad. It’s a pretty small ribbeter, so I didn’t realize I should be nervous and asking him if he’s current on his meds and if he’s homeless because it’s hard for the chronically bipolar to hold down a job. He’s labeled as a “species of concern” with Montana Fish, Wildlife & Parks. I thinks it’s the crazy eyes giving him a rap. Honestly, he seemed sweet, like the musician in “The Soloist,” so we’re cool, and he can hang out in my yard any time. FWP should just get off his case.

He's not a female goldfinch.If crazy-eyed amphibians aren’t your thing, then maybe a sweet, little song bird will do it for you. This is a yellow warbler which I was casually mislabeling as a female goldfinch until John said, uh, I don’t think so. So then I had to look it up and, oops, my bad. It’s probably a male, and I just hurt his standings with the ladies with my double-whammy racial and gender slur. He’ll probably land on my roof at 4:30 a.m. and thunk around on it dancing and singing until I wake up enough I can’t go back to sleep.

So maybe I deserve it, this time, at: pam(at)

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