Life

You Have to Laugh at Yourself?

There’s a line at the start of the 1200 Curfews version of the Indigo Girls ‘Least Complicated’, where Emily Saliers, in a chuckle, goes ‘You…have to laugh at yourself… because you’d cry your eyes out if you didn’t.’ I haven’t listened to that album in years, but it’s been dredged up from the recesses of my brain several times recently, usually during some situation that is just so comically ‘WTF’ that something about her lighthearted self-deprecation makes me smile.

This weekend was definitely one for Emily Saliers.

First, there was the refrigerator incident.

My refrigerator hasn’t really been cooling properly since I moved in, which is fine and reasonable, as I’m fairly certain it’s at least 20 years old and was on its last legs anyway. I didn’t totally mind eating ice cream soup because I haven’t really been here for the past few weeks, but now that I’m parking myself in the mountains more full-time, getting food poisoning from spoilt milk has been slightly less appealing. My landlords got a replacement immediately, and we went back and forth on measurements, and all was well.

Tweedledee and Tweedledum from Sears arrived as the snow started flurrying on Saturday at lunchtime and immediately began dissembling the existing fridge, carting it out the front door, and bringing its replacement in piece-by-piece. About an hour later (this was a. process.), I hear them mumbling.

‘Ma’am? This fridge ain’t gonna fit here. Look here.’

Apparently we did not think to measure the entranceway into the kitchen. The counter top overhang was exactly ONE CENTIMETER too wide.

We hemmed. We hawwed. Liability wouldn’t let them lift it over the counter. I called the landlords, and we started looking up other smaller options.

This all went on for about an hour, during which the delivery guys assembled the new fridge, plugged it in in the middle of my living room, and then silently left.

Left… and left the door wide open.

And what do wide open doors mean?

Beagles gone AWOL.

At this point, it was full-on blizzarding (… okay, snowing really, really hard, and really, really windy), and I took off in, sprinting, in the first thing I could grab (my long, puffy jacket) in total fight or flight mode.

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Backyard trail.

I’ve posted some photos, but my house is on a small cul-de-sac in a relatively isolated neighborhood that backs up to a trail that connects to a small network of trails wrapping around it that connects to a large fields abutting the faster, main highway. Any direction would’ve been a reasonable one for him to run in. Any direction could’ve gone for another six miles into the mountains or into the valley, where there are bigger, wild things. Naturally, I immediately saw visions of Otis, stood goofy-faced in the middle of a pack of coyotes snapping their fingers in a very West Side Story-esque way, about to be the mid-afternoon snack while snow silently fell.

Anyway, after running for about an hour (side note: puffy jacket is not good running attire. Also, running in a snowstorm is kind of cold. Like, face-numbing cold.) and driving around, I returned inside for a few minutes to scout from on high, and then felt so guilty and helpless and like a horrible dog-parent that I got back in the car to drive around again. This time I ran into one of the older gents in the ‘hood walking his dog (…the only person I saw the entire time). The conversation went something like this:

ILOSTMYBEAGLEHALPPLEASEHELPIDIOTFRIDGEGUYSBEAGLELOST’
‘Ohh. That’s not good. There are coyotes out there.’
‘Yes. Yes, I know. There is a lot of space too.’
‘Ohh. Yea. There’s the whole trail system. And Martis Creek. And it’s snowing. And there are coyotes.’
‘Yes. Yes, I know.’
‘Well you could tell Public Safety, they might drive around.’

Of course. Because I forgot, Northstar is like Seabrook, and NPOA does, in fact, drive around.

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Oh, hey, Mum.

I hauled up to the Village and tracked down the Public Safety door, barreled past some guys in ski kit and some ongoing renovations, babbled some nonsense… and then I saw it. White tip of tail, poking out from behind a wall, and then that goofy, mouth wide open, ears and eyes wide grin.

Apparently the guys in ski gear had seen Home-Dawg a few hours earlier prancing down the street, and had given him a lift to chill (or not chill, rather).

All in all, I spent 3.5 hours trekking around, and it was a horrible feeling. I lost Otis the first night I was here for about a half hour, and that was bad… this was enough time for the total helplessness to really set in. I’m honestly not really quite sure what I was going to do if that whole latter chain of events hadn’t happened.

Home-Dawg was totally unfazed by everything other than by the giant refrigerator residing awkwardly in the doorway.

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Beagle Confusion = Stare for hours at metallic beast.

I often liken having Otis to single-parenting a hyperactive 2-year-old boy, and people don’t really believe me. But Beagle will be the death of me.

Anyway, that was Saturday.

At midnight, I signed up to run a 100K at the end of April, because at the very last minute of completing the registration, I looked at the course map, decided the second 50K half looked ‘flat’, and changed my option.

This morning, I went to meet a friend up here to run, made it down the street, realized I’d forgotten my wallet and watch, and turned around. I wrapped my watch on my wrist, settled Otis down, went halfway down the stairs, and had a last-minute ‘I should pee one more time before I go’ moment.

As the toilet was flushing, I knocked my watch (which was not securely fastened) off, and in less than 0.5s, it disappeared with a clunk down the whirling flush into a septic grave. Literally: $180 down the drain.

I…don’t even know how this stuff happens to me. Never, ever, ever a dull moment right now.

Sometimes you have to laugh at yourself.

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