WanderingAmylessly 2.0

Magnificent creature, isn't it? Yeah, maybe. In a zoo. How about in residential areas of cities, near schools and businesses? Or along your favorite walking trails? In the past week or so, there have been three mountain lion or cougar sightings in town. The first two caused a lockdown at some area elementary schools, and children were not allowed outside for recess. The third sighting was along a trail near our grocery store. Should I start a freakout? I scoffed at the first sightings, thinking someone saw an overweight Maine Coon. But this third sighting has me fearful. We have wooded trails near our house. These are trails I run on several times a week. And Tim shares a bit of info with me. "If you see one, don't run. Act really big and make roaring noises." Well...what if I'm already running and come upon one? Turn the bend and...HELLO, CAT. Don't RUN AWAY? That goes against every ounce of self-preservation I have. From the Internet: As with many predators,

I've spent the morning trying to stay awake. And/or engaged in my work. YOU try being engaged in my work. My job is to make sure words are spelled correctly, in the right order, and surrounded by the appropriate punctuation. Still awake? Yeah, I thought so. Your face started to imprint itself with the textured pattern of your shirt. And that, right there, might be a hint of drool... It's Friday. It's beautiful outside. I've been listening to my favorite music and radio talk shows. So why am I in such a funk? 9/11. That must be it. I have a strange, seemingly misplaced feeling of dread washing over me. I cannot help but feel as though something is about to happen. Something bad. Something even worse than Obama's toilet-tanking approval rating or the putrid economy that's joining it. Odd how I had no such feeling just moments before I turned on my car radio to listen to NPR on the way to the newsroom at the Ogden Standard-Examiner that pre-fall morning. That's

Who decided to put an egg on a hamburger and call it gourmet? Maybe I'm missing out, but I've started to see this dismal delicacy pop up on menus at trendy restaurants and just cannot wrap my mouth around it. I've never tried it, so perhaps I shouldn't knock it. Maybe I need more information. Is it a scrambled egg, all crispy on the edges? Or is it sunny-side up, with yellow yoke oozing out between the burger and bun? Or how about hard boiled and chopped into egg salad, then spread atop the meat? None of that sounds like anything but a bucket of yuck. Add the egg-on-beef to the growing list of food oddities that I could do without. Frickles (fried pickles). Chocolate-covered bacon. Ben & Jerry's Late Night Snack flavor ice cream with giant chunks of fudge-covered potato chips. New diet idea! Serve me these. I'll pass, thanks.

Every time I think about organized sports, I begin to feel ill. I remember that time in first grade when I went out for T-ball and hated every single moment of it. I made myself sick worrying that I would strike out. Or get called out. Or fall on my face. Or not be able to propel my chubby, unathletic body around the bases. I cried before every practice and every game, fearful of failure and embarrassment and pathetic ineptitude. Once that season ended, I put any notion of athletics out of my head and settled in to a life of flabby bookworm nerdiness. Picked last in P.E. Never able to do more than hang on the climbing rope for (barely) the required time. Fast forward to junior high, when my P.E. teacher -- in an effort, I think, to boost my confidence and get my fatness in check -- encouraged me to try out for volleyball. I showed promise, she insisted. After the first practice, I couldn't move for several days. And I quit. Ever since, I've done my share of aerobics classes, bi

On the way home from swim practice last night, H shares: H: Mom, guess what?! I have purified vision!! Me: Purified vision? What's that? H: Purified vision. I can see out the corner of my eye! Me: Oh...you mean peripheral vision? H: Oh. Yeah! That!!