Wet Socks, Cold Toes, and Other Reasons To Wear Boots in the Snow

I had barely cleared the neighbor's mailbox before snow had made its way into my sneakers. I sighed, lifted my head to the blowing wind, and pulled on the hood to my coat. Poochie wanted a walk. Now. In the snow. And I had told her that if she quit barking, we could go. I tugged her away from the mailbox post she was enthusiastically sniffing and stomped down the sidewalk.
We reached the corner and she dropped to her stomach, turning her paws, and gnawing at the clump of snow wedged between her toes. Because of her fine fur, snow often gets trapped between the soft pads of her feet, forming an ice-ball and making it painful to walk. I used to bend down and get the snow out of her paws myself, but she can do it much quicker with her teeth. So I stood there, stomping my feet. She chewed on the ice-ball for a moment, then spit it out.
We trudged on.
As we turned the corner, the wind shifted, blowing directly into my hood. I ducked my head and squinted at my feet. Poochie knew the way around the block, so I followed her footsteps. She kept a steady, if meandering pace, and stopped at every bush, post, fence, and tree to sniff and leave her mark. Every yard or so, I'd glance up, just to make sure we hadn't wandered into the road. The snow melted in my shoes, instantly attacking my toes.
"Come on," I whined to Poochie, jiggling the leash. "You've seen that tree before. The quicker we get home, the quicker my feet will dry."
She sniffed, pawed at the snow, and dropped to her stomach to gnaw on her paws. She got the ice-ball out and then remained on her stomach, staring at a passing car.
"Come on!" I said again, pulling her to her feet. "Let's run home!"
There is an inch of snow on the ground. And I just told my dog to run through it. Ever obedient, she took off, wrenching my shoulder in the process.
I followed, head down, in a loping stride, watching the placement of my feet. The last thing I wanted to do was fall.
Then I did.
Poochie suddenly dropped to her stomach, nose buried in her paws. I slammed to a stop, balancing on my toes, inches away from stepping on her bum. My arms pinwheeled, trying to correct my balance.
"Gaaaah!" I squealed as my toes lost their grip on the snowy pavement and flew behind me.
I let go of the leash, put my arms out, and dropped.
I landed in the classic push-up position, with a hand on either side of Poochie, my nose inches from her back.
"Wait, wait wait," I ordered as her muscles shifted under her fur in preparation to get to her feet.
She didn't listen. She heaved herself free and I remained at push-up number one with no plans to try for two.
A car honked and I turned my head.
"You okay?" the lady called out of her window. "I saw you fall!"
"I'm fine!" I called back, and to prove it rolled to my side and jumped to my feet. "Thanks!"
She waved and drove on.
I brushed the snow off my pants, coat, and stuck my wet, gloved hands in my pocket.
"You know," I told Poochie, "they make snow-shoes for dogs, so this kind of thing doesn't happen."
Poochie stared at me for a moment, then continued down the block.
I chased after her to grab the trailing leash.
"Warn me next time, will ya?" I muttered.
Poochie sneezed and shook her head.

Attack of the Crazies

Did you know there is a day specifically put aside for crazy people to jump out of the woodwork and accost people? I didn't either. Apparently, my special day is November 5. I have it circled in red on the calendar.
Luckily for me, my Crazy People Day started just a little bit after noon. I drove to Wal-Mart to buy some blue painter's tape. I know this Wal-Mart. I have probably been to this specific Wal-Mart more than two hundred times. I know almost exactly where everything is. If not exactly, at least the general area. Thus, I confidently strode through the automatic sliding doors, nodded to the greeter, and turned left past the leftover Halloween candy. (Incidentally, the candy was on sale and I . . . Did . . . Not . . . Buy . . . Any. Feel free to applaud now.) I held my cell phone pressed to my ear, jabbing with my friend Mr. Million. I wove through shoppers, sidestepped a run-away bouncy ball, and headed to the paint desk. Just as I was about to turn down the tape/caulk aisle, a woman jumped out in front of me, forcing me to halt.
"Do you need any help in the Hardware section today?" she asked, her voice surprisingly chipper for a Wal-Mart employee.
I held the phone away from my ear and eyed this apparition. She had her long gray hair pulled back in a high pony tail on top of her head. Long, sparkly earrings dangled almost down to her shoulders. A camouflage hunter's jacket hung over a gray T-shirt that was in turn tucked into high-waisted, green khaki pants. She had completed the look with heavy, itchy-looking socks and thick-soled sandals. As a connoisseur of badly mismatched clothing (I was famous in elementary school for my lime green socks, purple corduroy pants, and glow-in-the-dark orange shirt combo) I had absolutely nothing to say to her ensemble. Whatever makes you comfortable, right? However, I did begin to suspect that she was not employed by Wal-Mart.
"I'm, uh, looking for painter's tape," I replied, gesturing with my free hand.
"Oh!" It appeared as though she barely restrained clapping her hands. "I know right where that is. Follow me." She hurried down the aisle, coming to a stop halfway down.
"Just a minute," I told Mr. Million on the phone and followed her because, well, she did seem to know where it was and I had to get there anyway.
"Here it is!" she crowed, then held her hands out about six inches apart and moved down the aisle, framing each product with her hands. "Here's the blue tape, and here's the gray tape, and here's pink tape, and here's green tape, and here's yellow tape, and-"
"Great!" I interrupted and randomly grabbed a blue roll. "This will work fine."
"Okay!" she sang. "Light bulbs are two aisles down!"
And then she skipped - I kid you not, she literally skipped - away and became lost among the vacuum cleaners.
I returned to my conversation, writing her off as an enthusiastic Wal-Mart customer who became giddy at the thought of aiding a fellow customer.
And yet, things always happen in threes.
I will say nothing of the second incident, save that it involved Be-Dazzled clothing, a stuffed mountain lion, and a forty-eight year old man watching me like I had hidden the secret of eternal youth somewhere about my person.
(And, no, I do not know the secret to eternal youth, but I do know the secret to eternal immaturity. Contact me with any questions.)
The third alternatively sane person confronted me as I walked to my car at around 4:30 p.m. I held a paint-stained plastic stool in one hand and my keys in the other. This gentleman shuffled toward me, cradling a large 7-Eleven soda in the crook of his right arm, his head tilted to the right as he sucked on the straw. He had slightly better taste in clothing than the Wal-Mart character; wearing a red jacket, a baseball hat, jeans, and a button-up shirt.
I saw that we were about to cross paths, and offered a tentative smile.
He scowled at me. "'Bout time you got to work," he growled. The words came out somewhat slurred, as he refused to take the straw out of his mouth to talk.
I chuckled, having been on the receiving end of this joke before. "Ha ha, I know, it's kinda late to be just starting out."
He hustled by me, dark eyebrows drawn low over his eyes, mouth forced into a warped frown around the straw. "You're really late," he snarled. "They've been waiting for you for a long time."
My mouth dropped open at the open hostility. "Uh . . ." I offered, as my rapier wit had become somewhat dulled in the past couple hours.
"So, so, late," he snapped and continued walking.
All on the same day. What are the odds?
So, my plan for next year's November 5 is to hide in my basement and hope all the crazies pass me by.

Corn Stalker

I threw my little sister in front of a chainsaw-wielding madman yesterday. I heard the rev of the motor somewhere off to my right and saw the wave-like rustle of the corn as he ran towards us. Without hesitation, I snatched Lil' Sis' arm and tossed her closer to the edge of the path while shrieking my lungs out. I closed my eyes, waiting to hear the sound of chain blade meeting flesh.
After a moment, I opened an eye.
Lil' Sis laughed, her shoulders shaking, her face pale and slightly menacing in the moonlight. "Hoo, boy, Hannah," she chuckled. She might have wiped a tear from her eye. "Let's keep going."
She grabbed my elbow and steered me down the path.
I did my level best to stay in the exact middle. I wanted as much room between me and the crazies as I could get. I heard the chain saw moving further away and breathed a sigh of relief.
"I didn't know it was going to be a haunted corn maze," I murmured, softly so as to prevent that guy with the clown mask from getting a lock on our position.
Lil' Sis beamed, her canines lengthening. I blinked rapidly, and her teeth were back to normal.
"Neither did I," she replied, a little too loudly for my sense of security.
I scowled. "I mean, when someone says, 'Let's go to a corn maze', this is not what I--"
BANG!
I screamed and jumped away from the sound. A tall, menacing person in black and an unidentifiable mask loomed out of the darkness. He held a short stick in one hand and banged it against the barrel again. I twitched and Lil' Sis snickered.
"Keep going," she encouraged, her hands pressing into my back. "You have to be in front."
"--why anyone would want to bang on metal barrels is beyond me," I muttered when I remembered how to breathe.
The rest of the haunted portion followed its precedent. A person dressed in frightening apparel would lunge out or bang a barrel or invade my personal space and I would scream while Lil' Sis would laugh. Rinse. Repeat. We made it to the end without losing any body parts, major or otherwise.
"I just come to watch you freak out," Lil' Sis said at one point - which is why I felt fully justified in using her as a human shield.
Too bad she makes such a small one.

If You Hear Me Singing, Just Ignore It

My car is not working (again). Something to do with the fuel pump and cylinders 3 and 4. And so, for those around-the-town errands, I borrow Lil' Sis' car. Not that I miss my car, as one set of wheels is pretty much the same as another, but I fiercely pine for a radio, a cd player, an iPod, or any music-making device that would fend off embarrassment.
I have a habit of singing to myself, often at the top of my lungs, when I am bored, when I wake up in the morning, and when I am sitting in a music-free vehicle. My repertoire includes a vast array of Disney songs, several church hymns, every Christmas carol known to man, and either the chorus or half of more than a few alternative rock songs. Usually, this innocuous habit exhibits itself in front of family or close friends. On rare occasions, it manifests itself in public.
Case in point: It was a warm day, and Lil' Sis' car has no air conditioning. Driving to the store, I had the window down, enjoying the cool air that poured in. I was in a good mood. I had an unexpected day off from work and the time to do whatever I wanted. (That I spent some of that time grocery shopping proves that had I been a hunter-gatherer in prehistoric times, I would put the welfare of my tribe above other activities, such as re-watching Lord of the Rings.) I meandered through Smith's Food and Drug, humming softly. I filled my cart - the one with the squeaky wheel that has my name written all over it - and headed to the checkout. I whistled "Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Da" as I loaded the groceries into the back seat of the car. The whistling morphed into sort of half humming, half singing as I slid into the front seat. I clipped my seat belt, rolled down the window, and belted out the chorus.

"Zip-a-dee-doo-da! Zip-a-dee-ay! My, oh, my, what a wonderful day!" I backed out of the parking space and shifted into drive. "Plenty of sunshine, going my way! It's a jolly holiday with Mary!"

I shifted from Song of the South to Mary Poppins as smoothly as the car. I pulled out onto the street, swaying slightly from side to side, catching a glimpse of my face in the rear-view mirror. I looked happy and I'm sure I sounded happier.

I pulled to a stop at the red light and continued singing. "When the day is gray and ordinary, Mary makes the sun shine bright! Oooohhh! It's a jolly holiday with Mary! No wonder that it's Mary that we . . ."

I trailed off as I became aware of slow, exaggerated clapping. I glanced to my left and froze like my jolly holiday had been cut short by a shark attack.

A man in a blue Ford Explorer grinned openly. He cupped his hands around his mouth. "Sing it, baby! Sing it loud!"

I know I blushed because I felt like I had been plunged face-first into a steam bath.

"Sing it!" He kept shouting. "Sing it like you love it!"

"I do love it," I muttered and rolled up the window.
I pretended to fiddle with the radio. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man continue to clap. I faced forward, determined to ignore unappreciative audiences everywhere, and continued singing.
The windows of a geo metro are not soundproof. I discovered this as a piercing whistle all but fractured the glass. I glanced sideways as Mr. Ford Explorer let loose another wolf-whistle. I sort of scrunched down in my seat, glaring at the traffic light, willing the red light to switch to green.
"I love Mary Poppins!" the guy shouted.
I cranked down the window. "So do I!" I yelled.
Unfortunately, the light changed and screaming at the back of someone's car doesn't have quite the same effect. The car behind me leaned on the horn and I pressed on the gas pedal, mood ruined. I muttered for about half a block before Walt Disney found me again - this time in the form of The Lion King.
"Oh, I just can't wait to be king!" I crowed, deciding to not care if the pedestrians objected.
We're getting a radio put in this weekend.

The Swine that Flew

When I was six years old, I was chased by a pig. It started out innocently enough - just your run-of-the-mill kindergarten field trip to a working farm. Fifteen kids huddled around the teacher and a large, sweaty man in overalls as they pointed out the cows, supervised the petting of the goat, and distributed small kernels of corn to feed the chickens. Growing up in rural Utah, I wasn't exactly awestruck by all the sights and smells. I remember exploring the barn and chicken coop with the fearless confidence of one who regularly stuck her hand through an electric fence to pet horses. Nothing, I thought, could be worse than brushing against the electric wire.
I was wrong.
I wonder at the reasoning behind letting five and six year old children eat sack lunches in the vicinity of pushy, obnoxious barnyard animals. And yet, that is exactly what we did. We spread out on hay bales, small step ladders, and the non-working tractor, and ate our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, apples, and twinkies. I say ate, but we mostly fed our lunch to the various animals crowding us. I remember very carefully breaking my sandwich into four pieces. One for me, one for the goose, one for the goat, and one for the little, pink piglet. You can't look at a baby pig and not want to hold it. The pale, wrinkled snout snuffed at my purple corduroy pants. The heavily lashed eyes looked like black marbles. I held out my apple and touched it's surprisingly soft ears as it munched away. I gingerly slipped two hands under its belly and lifted.
Did you know that pigs scream? Well, now you know.
The unearthly shriek pierced my ears and I immediately dropped the pig. It took off toward a small shed next to the barn. I gave chase. I remember hearing shouts of "Catch the pig!" and suddenly being surrounded by a herd of laughing children. It was my pig. I was going to catch it. I pinned my eyes on the curly pink tail and pumped my arms and legs, willing myself to run like the wind. Alas, the piglet was faster. So was that boy with the brown hair. He stopped outside the shed and peeked around the corner.
"Shhh!" He held a finger up to his lips.
Five kids came to a crashing stop.
"The mommy's in there," he whispered.
We craned our necks to catch a glimpse of mommy pig. It was bigger than a pony. Bigger than a cow. She was as big as a house. A huge, hulking beast, with pink skin and hooves the size of my desk at school. She rooted around in a trough of food scraps while four or five piglets scampered around her feet. Some sort of cage surrounded the pigs - dull red bars that seemed almost black against the paleness of the pigs' flesh. The little pig we had been chasing bolted under the bottom bar, squealing as it slid against the far wall. Mommy pig whirled around, snorting. What looked like half a head of cabbage slid out of her mouth and plopped to the floor. All of us squealed (rather like piglets) and shrank back. She turned her head and lowered it to the food trough again.
"It's okay," I whispered, "she can't get out." I pointed to the bars corralling her against one corner of the wall.
Brown haired boy and I inched forward, both of us determined to catch a pig. We eyed each other and then, at the same time, slipped our hands under the bar. I don't know whose piglet squealed first, mine or his, but we both fell backwards as mommy pig slammed against the bars. To my everlasting horror, the bars fell to the ground and mommy pig barreled out of her pen.
I remember blurs of color as I picked myself up and ran. Brown, blue, yellow, and green melded into a finger-paint landscape as I ran out of the door. I remember screaming and hearing the other children scream. The ground trembled and I could hear snorting and heavy breathing behind me. I risked a glance over my shoulder. The huge porcine mass of filled my vision, her hooves tearing up the ground, her head lowered, eyes pinned on me. She was going too fast to be simply running. She had wings. She flew. I ran faster, determined not to be trampled to death by a pig at age 6.
I remember tripping, falling to my hands and knees, and someone landing on my back. When I looked up, the giant farmer had effectively clipped the pig's wings with a forward tackle. He led her back into the shed, screaming something that I couldn't hear with all the noise I was making.
I made it home in one piece after a lecture from our teacher. And, somehow, managed to avoid a lifetime of grappling with swinophobia.
And yet, last month at the state fair, when I saw a sleeping mommy pig surrounded by adorable sleeping piglets, I felt a prickling between my shoulder blades. My sense of unease further escalated when I saw a woman reach her hand between the bars, grasp the back leg of a little pig, and give it a little jiggle.
"Wake up, little piggy," she said.
I took a step back and pulled out the camera, determined to document any mishap that was to follow.
"I want to pet the baby," my niece said, slipping closer to the bars.
"Or," I said brightly, envisioning terror and mayhem in all of it's swine-like glory, "we could go for another carnival ride!"
Lil' Sis snatched the niece's hand and whirled around. There may have been a smirk on her face, but I'm not sure. I was too busy backing away slowly from the pen, shaking my head in wonder at the fascinated audience. Let them be, people. Let sleeping pigs lie.

Dangers of Driving with Poochie

I have heard horrible stories about what happens when you let your dog hang his/her head out of the window. There's the cocker spaniel that was snatched right out of the window by a golden eagle. Or the doberman pinscher who was smeared across the side of its owner's mini cooper by a passing bus. The Labrador retriever whose ear drums exploded due to the air pressure at 70 mph. A Boston terrier jumped out of the car and fell ninety feet to a raging river. And my favorite (because no death or injury is involved), the border collie who passed a field of sheep, forced its owner to pull over, and refused to leave without herding at least three sheep into the back of the truck. I've heard all these and more, and yet I still allow Poochie to stick her head out the window as we cruise 4100 south. (Don't worry, if I ever accelerate to more than 40 mph, I roll up the window and Poochie must deal with it.)
And now I have a new tale of caution to add. If you let your dog hang his/her head out the window while you are driving, you could crash and die.
It happened like this: Last Thursday, after dropping my car off at the repair shop, I slipped into the front seat of Lil' Sis's car with Poochie in the back seat. I wrenched my arm backward and rolled down the window halfway to allow Poochie to bask in all the sights and smells. Duty accomplished, I stretched out as much as one can in a Geo Metro, and began whining to Lil' Sis about car problems.
The sudden whirlwind of angry barking caught me by surprise. I twisted around and saw Poochie snarling and snapping, turning in tight circles on the back seat. I watched for a moment, then saw a small, flying object.
"Must be a bee in the car," I commented to Lil' Sis, who, I must say, seemed remarkably calm for a person with a growling dog right behind her.
"I think it's a wasp," she replied.
Then it flew into the front seat and out the driver's side window.
Poochie followed.
"Get her off!" Lil' Sis snapped as sixty nine pounds of black fur dove into her lap.
I made a hasty grab and managed to wrench Poochie onto my lap. This, of course, gave Lil' Sis a face-ful of swishing tail.
My stomach dropped to my feet as the car swerved into oncoming traffic. At least, I think it was oncoming traffic. I couldn't see anything but Poochie's neck.
"Back seat!" Lil Sis growled. "Back seat!"
Poochie huffed, sat down on my thighs, and stuck her head out of my window. Her front paws sought purchase in my stomach, allowing me nothing more than a groan.
"Get in the back seat!" Lil Sis yelled, tugging on Poochie's tail.
It is very, very difficult to force a dog to do an about-face in the front seat of a Geo Metro. Especially if 1) the dog doesn't want to and 2) the dog weighs over fifty pounds.
I think we hit the curb at one point, but we did manage to get Poochie into the back seat. She shook her head, her ears whipping back and forth, and immediately stuck her head out the window.
"Stung," Lil' Sis said.
You'd think that after two decades of living with her, I would get used to her cryptic remarks.
"What?"
"Her ear. The wasp stung her ear."
"Oh." I glanced back at Poochie. "I'll check when we get home."
She looked happy enough with her tongue lolling out of her mouth and her ears flapping in the wind. Every once in a while she would give her head a violent shake.
"We could have died!" I exclaimed.
Lil' Sis shrugged. "Yeah. You go to work today?"
And the subject was closed.
But, beware, dog owners: if you let your dog hang its head out the window, it could be stung in the ear by a wasp, erupt in a furious frenzy, and run you off the road.

Exercise Equipment Can Save Your Life

An old stair master machine saved my life today.
As I lay sprawled across the hood of Mom's car - legs tangled in my bicycle frame, right hand clutching the stair master's handle, head inches away from the concrete - I realized I hadn't put the stair master up for sale yet and idly wondered if anyone would buy it if advertised as a life-saving device.
Probably not.
Because I work exactly one and a half blocks away from where I live, I ride my bicycle. The fact that only two out of our three cars are working at any given time has nothing to do with my healthy, earth-saving decision. Well, almost nothing. On the way to work, I pedal up a 5% incline, across a fairly flat road, and then through a field. Meaning, of course, that on the way home, I pedal through a field, across the flat road, and then coast down the small, small hill to our driveway.
I've gotten into the habit of pedaling as fast as I can down that hill and coasting up our driveway until I come to rest just in front of the shed door. In fact, I am so comfortable with this routine that I even lift my right foot off the pedal and rest it on the crossbar. I don't need to expend any energy at all to arrive home. The only requirement is a judicious application of the hand brakes.
On several occasions, I have awed and inspired the neighborhood children with my bicycle prowess. It is (more than) slightly gratifying to watch their mouths drop open and hear exclamations of "Wow!", "Cool!", and, once, "Be careful!".
Lately, I have developed a certain amount of confidence on my bicycle. I do not have the arrogance to say that I would win a bicycle race, but I can ride and talk on the cell phone at the same time. I can ride and text at the same time. This pride has developed so much so that I sometimes wonder if I could ride my bicycle, talk on the cell phone, type a paper on the laptop, and whip up some brownies simultaneously.
Fortunately, I literally knocked this pride out of me before it evolved into a fatal hubris.
After extensive analysis (that took approximately 3 minutes), I determined that the cause of my crash was a direct result from braking too early. I wobbled, over-corrected, and landed upside-down on the hood of Mom's car. As I slid toward the cement floor, I saw the stair master out of the corner of my eye, grabbed it, and thus was saved from having my brain soaking up the oil stains. Incoherent gurgling and screams forced themselves from my throat. Positioned in such a way that prevented me from gracefully exiting the pose, I waited in vain for help to arrive. Eventually, I kicked myself free from the bicycle and slid to the ground.
I put the bicycle into the shed, shut the door, and turned to see Lil' Sis standing at the back door with Poochie.
"Hi, Hannah," she said. "You okay?"
I don't know if I glared or not, but I felt like it. "Yeah."
"Didja crash?" she asked as she opened the screen for me.
I nodded. "Yes."
"Huh. Dinner's ready," she replied and walked into the kitchen.
I repositioned the stair master in its original position, just in case I should need it again.
Maybe, to thank the stair master for going above and beyond the call of duty, I should wash it down and place it in the living room. On a coffee table. It would make an interesting conversation piece.

I dusted off the ol' lawnmower yesterday and took her for a spin around the yard. Of course, when I say dusted off, I mean I made a few half-hearted attempts to dislodge the two-inch layer of grass that is crusted around the engine. Usually, we have the mower covered with an old, vinyl tablecloth, but sometime in the last three weeks it had blown off, thus providing an excellent shelter for all sorts of creepy crawlies. An actual spider web clung to the left side below the handle, complete with resident spider. Little Sis will be happy to hear that I did not jump back and scream until someone arrived to take care of the spider. Instead, I calmly (okay, maybe not so calmly) ignored the eight-legged creature in the process of reviving the mower.

Our lawn mower was born about fifteen years ago, a shiny, red bundle of purring motor and whirling blades. It was not fortunate to be blessed with a grass-clipping bag, nor self propulsion, but all in all, it came into the world a content machine. I was not present during its formative years, but it seemed to learn all the basics and, indeed, nearly excel at the intricate art of grass-cutting. Every Saturday morning, LM, as it was affectionately called, had a mini-tune-up, a quick rub-down, and a leisurely stroll around the front and back yard. I'm sure that someone, somewhere, has photos of little LM cheerfully chugging along and trimming the lawn to a perfect 2 inches. Life in Lawn Mower Land couldn't be happier.

In LM's sixth year of life, we assumed ownership, blissfully unaware that this machine had lived a full and happy life and was looking forward to serving out the rest of eternity in a quiet junk yard. For the first few years, LM gamely put forth the effort, zipping around the yard in front of one of my brothers as they pushed with unparalleled speed. Brothers, I have found, are more than willing to keep the lawn mower in tip-top shape, as it allows them to get out of housework with the (dubiously) legitimate excuse of yard work. In fact, brothers are quite able to ignore potential problems as long as it does not interrupt any lawn mowing activities. And so, when my brothers moved out and on with their lives, they left little LM behind, sad, tired, and with an embarrassing leak.

I dumped another quart of SAE-30 oil into the chronically dripping mower, trying not to notice that the grass upon which LM had been sitting is completely dead. Just another section I don't have to worry about mowing! Let's be optimistic! I wheeled LM out to the front yard, pushed the prime button twelve times, and yanked the cord. At least it starts right away. Never mind that a large blue cloud drifted out and covers the immediate area. It starts and works, and that is all that counts.

It had been about two and a half weeks since I mowed last. Due to an unfortunate water leak and hasty excavation a few years ago, our lawn is not only uneven, but home to three different kinds of grass. Near the driveway, the grass is short and sort of a yellowy-green. The side closest to the neighbor's yard is dark green, long, and fine. The grass in the middle looks mostly like crab grass (but it isn't - I know because WalMart doesn't sell crabgrass . . . I think) and grows like a weed. Wait, not a weed. Grows like really fast-growing grass. The result makes our front lawn look like it has a Mohawk. And, because the blades haven't been sharpened since, well, forever, LM kept choking on the long grass and shutting down. I persevered, adopting a rhythm of tilting the lawn mower on its two back wheels and thunking it down on the organic shaggy carpet. In this way, I managed to circle the entire lawn, successfully trimming the grass. I surveyed my work, gave the sputtering mower a friendly pat, and wheeled it to the backyard, repeating the process. Eventually, I replaced LM back in its dead-grass parking spot and tucked the vinyl tablecloth around it.

One day, little mower, I will replace our entire yard with genetically engineered grass that will grow no more than 2 1/2 inches high, and then you will finally have your rest. Until then, please, please don't die.
I don't want to go back to the scissors.

Last Friday, for the first time ever, I ran out of gas. This never happens to me. Of course, I allow the gas gauge to hover somewhere between 1/4 tank and empty before I fill it, but I have never, ever allowed it to get so far gone that the vehicle just sputters and dies. And so, if you were driving eastward in the middle lane on 4100 South just west of Bangerter Highway on Friday around 12:30 p.m., I apologize for the hold up.

I was headed across town in a borrowed vehicle to pick up a check, my dog in the seat next to me with her head hanging out of the window. The music on the radio station compelled me to tap my fingers on the steering wheel. The beautiful, sunny (a.k.a. blistering hot) day was for a quick car ride with poochie. I applied the brake as the five cars ahead of me stopped at the red light. My eyes flickered to the gas gauge, noting the little orange gas pump icon that warned of imminent propulsion failure. The gas station I frequent most often lay almost exactly two blocks from my current location. Surely Mr. Isuzu could hold out for another 4,000 feet. The car wheezed and rumbled, then died. No problem, just start this puppy again and we're good to go, right? Ha. Not. After a couple futile attempts to convince Mr. Isuzu that fumes were really, in all actuality, just extremely low-fat gas, I flicked on the hazard lights and whipped out my cell phone.

Person A didn't answer. Person B was caught in the middle of town, and wouldn't be able to get to me for another thirty minutes. Person C's phone consistently dropped the call after the first three words. Mom would be at work and unalbe to come to my aid. Little Sis was an hour away, slogging through mud and gunk. That left my non-existent, super-handsome, charming, and romantic boyfriend. He would, no doubt, put the problem of world peace, world hunger, and green-house warming on hold, and appear momentarily with the gas-can in hand - and the promise to invent that solar-powered car ASAP. I made a mental note to finally track down that guy and beg him to date me.

Meanwhile, I held up ten light changes, wincing and waving apologetically as cars - you know, the ones with full tanks of gas - honk and drive around. One kind and thoughtful lady asked if i wanted to borrow her cell phone. Whoever you are, that was the one thing that prevented me from repeatedly slamming my head into the steering wheel. Thank you.

Inspiration struck. I could push Mr. Isuzu into the next lane and into that empty lot. Tesoro gas lay onoe block behind me. An easy walk. Poochie and I could use a walk. I slipped the car into neutral and told poochie my plan. She didn't seem to care one way or the other, but whatever. It was a GOOD plan. I could get out of this myself. I opened the door, squealed, and slammed it shut again as a large SUV zoomed by. The next time, I looked behind me then opened the door.

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to push an Isuzu Rodeo all by yourself? And where were all those large, helpful men I always see jogging behind stalled F-350's, joking with each other and occasionally tapping the truck with their forefinger to get it moving again? Wasn't there a stalled-car patrol? If not, I intend to invent one. It would be a van full of burly, good-natured people - men and women, let's be fair - that would drive around looking for people in distress. They could change tires, jump batteries, fill gas tanks, and, above all, help people push their car across one lane of traffic into an empty lot.

After being laughed, jeered, and yelled at for a few minutes, I gave up and climbed into the relative safety of the car. Now I began to panic. If I couldn't get gas, I couldn't get across town to pick up the check. If I couldn't get the check, I would be fired. If I was fired, poochie and I would starve. Then we would die.

I had just resigned myself to that fate, when rescue arrived in the form of a little white hatchback car. A tall, brawny man got out and asked if I needed help. His two little girls asked if I wanted a potato chip. I accepted the help, but declined the snack. He attached a tow-cable to the front of Mr. Isuzu and pulled (yes, his little car actually pulled all 15 tons of Mr. Isuzu) me across the Bangeter and into a parking lot. I thanked him profusely for saving my life and the life of my dog. I think I went a little bit overboard, because he stammered "You're welcome," and took off. Thank you, kind sir! I shall never forget what you have done for me!

It ended happily. Person C, having been informed by Person B of the problem, arrived within minutes, so I didn't even have to walk to the gas station. My faith in human kindness has been restored.