I happened across this ad for Sunight Federal Credit Union in the local paper:

My new rule: don’t read the local paper while eating. I almost choked on this one:

In defense of my adopted state: it’s a Montana area code. And in defense of Montana: the guy admits he’s a “Dick.”

First, I have to blow my own horn. Before I moved out to Wyoming, the very thought of snakes terrified me. My only experience with them was at the “World of Darkness” exhibit at the Bronx Zoo. Then I came west for a one-month writer’s residency program. I immediately resolved not to hike up in the 80+ acre wilds behind the grounds when I found out that snakes lived there. But I’ve toughened up in the past five years. Snakes don’t scare me anymore.

What scares me is having a casual conversation with my husband, who interrupted our musings about what to do on Friday night with: “Oh. There’s a snake in the house.”

Oh.

Aaaaaaa!!

First of all. It’s been -10 degrees or colder almost all week. Shouldn’t the little guy (or gal) be dead by now? Second: where on earth do we have a hole in our house BIG ENOUGH FOR A SNAKE TO FIT THROUGH? “It’s just a baby,” my husband reassured me. And then he followed up with: “I wonder if there’s a nest.”

I repeat: Aaaaaaa!!

He’s got a good point, actually. It’s very possible that the little venom machine just crawled out of his egg. (BTW, some snakes are born live–but they still come from eggs. The eggs hatch inside the mother’s body.) (Gag.)

Worse: now that baby slither has been captured, my husband is reluctant to release him out of doors. “He’ll die!” mourns the suddenly-animal-rights-activist. Hold on a minute: I’ve been eating strictly vegan meals since August. Can’t I trade in four-months-worth of mammals I never ate for the justified homicide of a reptile? In all seriousness: if the animal who wandered into our home was human, we could legally shoot it. But we can’t let a snake fend for itself because there’s snow on the ground?

It’s been an hour now since I spoke with my husband/zookeeper. He’s not picking up his phone. I fear that we will have a new pet by the time I get home.

Just wait ’til I get my hands on a mongoose.

I’ve long suspected that the cruelest cuts come with a kiss. Today it arrived in the form of a Wyoming State Patrolman who let me off the hook for speeding, but then did something far, far worse.

He wrote a citation, all right–because I don’t have a WY driver’s license. Apparently, even though I have a valid NY license, I was supposed to get it changed over within a year of residency. Oops. Guess they forgot to include that tidbit with the welcome package. I could so with one less bucking bronco sticker and one more “Hey, here’s the state law regarding the operation of motor vehicles.” Might help.

Anyway, I get out of the moving violation. Yay! And then I read the citation. Boo! The legalese is all fine and dandy. But the devastaing part was the physical description. He listed my correct hair color, eye color, height…and proceeded to overestimate my weight by thirty pounds.

I wouldn’t even be that heavy if I were pregnant with twins.

Yes, I read and reread that number and it stayed the same. Triple digits. Mocking me. What kind of man charges you $100, makes you part with your NY license and then PUTS DOWN ON PAPER–IN TRIPLICATE–THAT YOU’RE A FATASS? A Wyoming Highway Patrolman, that’s who.

Sadist.

The man looks me in the eyes, tells me he’s giving me a break, and then proceeds to stab me in my neurotic back. (Through which, my ego insists on noting, you can see ribs.)

That’s it! I’m going to court! I must correct this error for the record! Did you not see the NY license? I don’t have country bones! I’m vegan! I do an hour of aerobic and 1,000 crunches a day!

The upshot was that it took me 27 minutes from the time I left my desk at work to drive to the DMV until I exited, temp WY license in hand. That includes the eye test, photo and fee processing. 27 minutes.

I was sad about parting with my home state until I realized how easy it is to get things done around here. I went to the DMV, the courthouse (they may throw out the ticket) the supermarket and the library all on my lunch break. Hey, maybe this country living ain’t so shabby.

So long as I keep my distance from psychologically devasting highway patrolmen, I’ll be fine.

If anyone asks, he was 450 pounds. Give or take.

We got over an inch of snow last night– September 30th. I was more angry at the fact that it couldn’t wait a night.  Snow in October just doesn’t sound so bad!

The last time it snowed was June 7th, the day after my wedding. I had a house full of family and friends, every last one commenting on the unseasonal weather. All I can say is, it doesn’t feel so damn unseasonal to me. Not when we’ve gone a mere 17 weeks without the white stuff.

Earlier this week, we hit the mid-eighties. And now, obviously, it’s below freezing. Between the super-hyped H1N1 going around and the fact that I can’t possibly figure out what to wear from one day to the next, it’s amazing that the entire state of Wyoming isn’t quarantined until, oh, say, next July, when it decides to warm up for a whole week at a time.

(Actually, it should be easy to get dressed, going forward. I’ll just wear everything in my closet at once. A dozen or so wool sweaters, skirts, pants, boots–oughta do the trick.)

Ah, summer. We came so late to your party, and left so early. Can you please issue an extended invitation to your brother, Indian Summer? I’d really, really, like to see him this year….

Historically, summer has certain characteristics that carry over from year to year. American kids don’t go to school, for one. Tourists tour. And it’s supposed to be hot outside. This year, I’ve seen the campers, the out-of-state license plates. But I haven’t felt the heat.

In Wyoming, where it snows six to eight months a year, it’s imperative for my well being that I get good and hot for a few months. The first four years I was living here, it routinely hit 100. One hundred degrees of lovely dry heat. It worked like a charm!  It got so hot for so long that I was excited for it to get cold again.

Here’s the rub: Without a decent dose of mind-melting heat, how am I supposed to be grateful for freezing temperatures to return?  This year I am seriously lacking the will to get through the winter.

I know it’s been similar all over the country. My friends back home tell me about breezy days that should be sweltering. It’s not all bad, not having summer. But it’s not all good, waiting for the leaves to fall off the trees again when I only got to wear shorts twice, either. Maybe August will bring those third-degree sunburns I’m craving….

Well, now I’ve seen everything:

“Winner gets meat, hide and head.” Wow. Just–wow.

We’re going on damn near two weeks of winteresque temps and grey skies, here. Now, that may seem like nothing to write home about for the denizens of, say, the entire state of Oregon, but in ordinarily sunny Sheridan, WY, tempers are running high. I can tell, because the nice old ladies with their crucifixes prominently hung around their necks pause for an extra beat before smiling.

Personally, I hate the color grey. It’s not black, it’s not white. It’s not rain or snow–but it’s not NOT rain or snow, either. Overhead, the color grey holds a promise of something awful. Or else it merely threatens all day long, only to release you, perfectly dry, by evening. Which is even worse.

Grey skies are bullies like that.

And after two weeks of drizzle/hail/snow/dry ground I’m barely functional. Put up or shut up, sky! Dump another ten feet of snow, if you have to. But then let’s get on with calendar-appropriate weather. My poor daffodils are poking their heads up, checking out the cloud cover, and hovering half-in and half-out of the soil. They’re terrified. I can tell.

Personally, I think the rush to cure swine flu should take a backseat to a little something I like to call sun seeding. Because combatting grey-sky-induced depression (and its resultant overeating, which leads to diabetes and contributes to skyrocketing health care costs) with good old-fashioned Vitamin D shining from the sky is just as valuable a use of our scientists’ time. Sorry, Wilbur. Curing the spread of your disease simply isn’t as high on my list as wearing my new, red sandals.

Come to think of it, that may explain why no one ever got back to me about my application to the World Health Organization….

My idea of feminism is pretty passive, these days. It tends to revolve around a few hard-and-fast precepts, such as:

1. My body, my choice.

2. If he hits you, press charges.

3. Stay out of parking garages.

4.  A woman with a skinny waist and big boobs MAY have good genes. It is more likely that she has a good plastic surgeon.

5. Auto repair shops multiply their charges by a female factor.

Yesterday, this fifth precept was blown straight out of the water by Jack’s Autobody in Sheridan, WY.

Given three days and a $1200 buck estimate, Jack’s fixed my car for $123.63. “You didn’t really need all that paint work,” Jack himself told me. “We got the fender to pop out just perfectly.” I nearly fainted. (Not very feminist at all, especially without a corset as motivation.)

I have never in my life gotten a job done in 1/3rd of the time, for 1/10th of the money. Jack did.

And he was honest about it.

And I’m still female.

I will take my car to him for as long as I live within 200 miles. The next car, too. And I will continue to sing his praises. It’s ever so nice to be proven wrong in the right way.

After four years of mile-high living, I saw my first mountain lion this morning. I’m proud to report that I didn’t scream, or freak out, or do anything remotely “girlie.” My bladder held up just fine, too, thank you very much. In fact, two thoughts occurred simultaneously: “I should probably be afraid,” and “There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve got the dog on a leash. I can hand feed him to the lion, if it comes to that.”

It was a remarkably calm frame of mind in which I made the quick decision: I will outlive this dog, dammit. 

Yep: yet another reason I don’t intend to reproduce.  I’ve heard that protective maternal feelings take over, but I’m not so sure. If I was out with a toddler this morning, I could see myself just as easily thinking: “The kid’s got stumpy legs. I’m in the clear.”

The lion was several yards down the road, when I spotted it. I thought it might be a deer at first, or a big dog, but then it turned in profile and I saw its tail. It had some serious lion tail, curved up at the tip. The thing was in no hurry, either, ambling along the road until it got to the tall grass. Then it simply walked into its hiding spot.

How many days has that lion been there, just watching us on our morning run?

And why didn’t my dog alert me to the danger? You’d think a puppy’s hair would stand up on end at the sight. Hardly! And lucky for us. Who knows what would’ve happened if my pup was off the leash, giving chase, barking like the hound dog he is?

One thing for sure: I’m all about pushing my luck. I’ll be running the same route tomorrow morning. Dog sandwich in hand, in case the cougar needs a snack. Our world is all too built up, these days. It’s a gift to see such a reclusive wild creature. A good reminder, too: this is the lion’s home. We’re only visiting.

Thank you Mr. Mountain Lion. Now, please pounce on the four-legged one, first.