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.

As it turns out, one day is more than enough time to spend behind the wheel of a Chevy Aveo.

Granted, I’m not gung-ho on rental cars to begin with. It takes me too many highway-swerving minutes to tune the radio, adjust the mirrors, and to decide whether the beams shooting out of the front of  my car are headlights or running lights (the jury’s still out on that one, but at least I didn’t drain the battery, on any account). Trying to fill up the gas tank without prior investigation is always good for a hoot. Granted, once I find the tank, it’s always superduper fun to locate the lever that actually opens it.

Driving this cheap piece of tin to work today, I couldn’t find the @!# cupholder. Apparently it was a design dream to have the holders  recede into the dashboard–indicated with a little logo that looks like nothing so much as a tornado. Of course! Here’s where I store my swirly beverages!

And then there’s the steering wheel.

I still haven’t deciphered the buttons to the left of the wheel, and now I never will. “Power” seemed far too presumptive…I mean, who wants all that responsibility? To the right, I discovered cruise control. I admit that I refused to touch those buttons for several long, speedy miles. The button in the middle had a clock logo, so I was absolutely certain that once I touched it the countdown would begin. I could just picture myself blowing the cherry red hood off  going 75 mph down I-90.

(I blame Transporter 3 for this sort of mad fantasy.)

 The worst design feature, though, has to go to the sun visor. I yanked it down in desperation this morning when the sun–imagine that–came blaring through the windshield at a wattage equal only to night games at Yankee Stadium. And what to my wondering eyes should appear–but a tiny, super-reflective mirror.

??????????????????????

Does Chevy assume that Aveo drivers are so vain that they need instant access to their visages? Apparently, accurate lipstick-application comes before driver safety. I mean, I had sun coming at me from all angles. The last thing I needed was another way to bounce those beams off my skull. But that’s exactly what I got.

I turned the car back in today without the least bit of remorse.

The gas tank, for the record, is on the passenger’s side.

Apparently metabolism isn’t the only thing that changes as you age. I’m finding myself increasingly frustrated by “art house” uh, art. Movies, books, paintings, etcetera. Living in Wyoming, it’s hard to speak about much more than books and movies. We’re pretty far removed from the visual arts, here. Unless you like horses. In that case, we’re smack dab in the middle of the action.

Movie-wise, we’re not privvy to the more experimental releases, as you might well imagine. But we do have a twice-annual (spring and fall) film festival. It’s a great addition to our non-existent nightlife, though it only shows on Wednesdays. After the Oscars. Mostly after the films have come out on DVD.

I caught Synecdoche, New York this week. Wow. I really am getting old! In my aged impatience, I have a need for films to flow….linking scene to scene…ultimately telling a story. I never knew that about myself. All throughout grad school I argued with the concept that writers were storytellers. At that point, I thought it was sufficient to record human experiences. The more mature I get, the more I believe that our real job as writers is to shape our experiences into palatable, truthful, beautiful and sometimes cruel tales. With a beginning, a middle, an end.  As well as characters that pay dividends on a stranger’s generous investment.

I have no interest in hanging out with whiny, self-absorbed dudes (Sideways was a prime offender). This preference explains my distaste for most of the Beat writers, some Hemingway, and, though I haven’t quite given up on him: Charlie Kaufman. I love the absurdist elements in Synechdoche. I love the bold dialogue. I hate that the movie doesn’t tie up in any kind of package, let alone a neat one. Caden Cotard’s conumdrum is best left for someone who could possibly give a crap about a cheating, hypocondriac, egotistical creep–decidedly not my fave type to fill the hero shoes.

Now, I have no problem with flawed characters as a rule. As long as there’s an arc: Learn, grow, change. DO SOMETHING! Without an arc, I’m forced to play therapist. Or Lit major.  My tastes are not particularly populist, but I do enjoy certain aspects of commercialism. Like storytelling. And good, clean links between scenes.

If nothing else, my own taste is refined with every instance of bad execution I experience. So for that, I would like to thank Mr. Kaufman. You can cling to the elitist “she just didn’t ‘get’ it.” I will stick to my “he just didn’t execute it well enough for me to care.”

Now back to my studio to practice what I preach….

I’ve heard it in spoken language, and it irked me then. But it’s even worse in print. Apparently, it’s a rural tradition to abolish verbs:

Hamlet would have no quandry whatsoever if he moved to Wyoming. He wouldn’t agonize over whether ”to be” or “not to be.” He would just declare himself “needs drunk” and head to the Mint Bar.

The snake was, apparently, hidden in the tall grass. There certainly is a lot of it to hide in: Chez Chris and the Man, we mow a two-people-and-a-dog-sized patch a couple times a year and let the rest lie fallow. It’s a good way to get your neighbors not to stop by unannounced. (Though ours is far from the most ignored house on the block: the couple across the street still have Christmas roping wrapped around their lamppost.)

After the reptile sighting, I decided it was time to add to my previously blank list titled “Why People Mow.” Here it is, my sole reason: snakes. They love tall grass and I don’t love snakes. I might as well get used to them, though; I have the patience of a hyperactive chipmunk when it comes to yardwork. And damn if snakebite kits aren’t cheaper than a gas mower….

I decided the snake was harmless, of course.  I assume most non-human animals are harmless–with the exception of growling dogs. Growling dogs I assume are going to eat me.

In matter of fact, I didn’t even spill my cup of coffee when I saw the snake. The first thing I said was “Snake!” (apparently I’m reduced to naming my fears in times of potential crisis) then “Don’t kill it!” because I was afraid the man might try to go all heroic on its reptilian ass. Little did I know that we were both lucky I was walking ahead–by his own admission, he would’ve had to brew another pot of java.  But I was several paces ahead. So we both kept our initial supply of caffeine, assigned the word “garter” to the snake, and sidestepped its slithering body.

In retrospect, I further decided, it was pretty cool that a cold-blooded creature could find my home so warm and inviting. As long as any future snakes understand that by “home” I mean “behind the shed, with occasional slithers onto the footpath,” not “upstairs in the loft with my stuffed polar bear and all those sweaters.”

That afternoon,  I discovered another reason to mow: bunnies!  I happened upon a long driveway with a tiny patch of trimmed grass poking through. The grass was no more than the size of a lunchbox–perfect for the rabbit that was breakfasting there. Bunnies, it seems, don’t exactly come running to snack on the tall, dead stuff. 

Seeing that baby bunny, so pleased with its tiny patch of grass, made me wax philosophical. I wished I more often tried to make a meal of the grass within reach. Or a snake farm of the weeds I’m too lazy to mow. Though I am anthropomorphisizing, so perhaps the bunny was really thinking “is this all I get? A #@$! couple inches of grass? I’m moving back to Manhattan.”

Last week, I honestly heard this, word for word, reported as news on a local radio station:

“A lamb was killed by a wolf this week in Bitterroot, Montana.”

Now, this was before Russia started giving Georgia gunpowder noogies. It was even before the Olympics opening ceremonies. But we ARE in an election year. A very important election year, I might add. Oh, and the US is currently waging war in two nations (that we admit to).

You might think that a #$@! lamb getting slaughtered might fall under the metaphor category in times like these. But you’d be wrong. As far as our local news media, this was straight up reportage.

This is also why I listen to NPR. Their local weather forecast may not be as accurate, but at least they occasionally mention Iraq. As in, “Civilians were killed by US troops this week in Baghdad.”

The wolves, my friends, are us.

Yesterday, while huffing and puffing my way up a hill that could by all rights be called a mountain, I happened upon a frightening revelation. Where previously I’d been thrilled to see so many Obama signs stuck into lawns in my small, conservative town, I suddenly realized that the lawns they were stuck into were largely the ones with tall, dead grass.

Are “my people” really as broke as I am?

My own home, too, has its own fair share of tall, dead grass. (And no Obama sign, either: $8 is too rich for my blood). In theory, I’m no fan of wasting water on something as superficial as a half-acre of grass, either. Yet in practice, I feel like the people who put in the effort to water their lawns are somehow superior. They have time and energy and resources that are very much out of reach, on my budget. I mean: sprinklers! An electric lawnmower! A hedge trimmer!

It breaks my heart to see my favorite properties in town–the cutest log cabins with handmade picnic tables by the creek–with McCain posters stuck into their perfectly landscaped lawns.

I could draw conclusions about those neighbors’ ages (they’re probably retired), their income (they probably retired with a lot of it), and environmental concerns (so selfish, to keep their grass so green!) Or I could just enjoy the look of their land and hope like hell that there are enough weed-friendly folks in the voting booths come November.

It’s a good lesson in not judging by appearances–one that we’ll need to learn as a country in the next few months. Maybe my politically like-minded folks are also my economic peers (as much as I’d rather be among the landscaped elite.)  Water costs money. Tools cost money. A vote only costs you a few minutes of waiting on line to pull a lever.

It’s time, America, to raise our freak flags high! (Of course, we’ll have to–so they can be seen over the tall grass).

And if McCain wins, I guess I could always spend my next incentive check on a hedge trimmer.

I’m not sure I believe that today, 8/8/8 is so lucky. Less than five minutes into our run this morning, my dog got mauled by some unseen animal, requiring stitches. His face has three deep clawmarks on either side from the eye to the snout. His ear was torn almost in two. His belly and his leg were slashed and bleeding.

He was off the leash for 4 houses. What is that, an eighth of a mile? In that time, my puppy ran out behind a neighbor’s house and came back ripped to shreds. Apparently I live on Elm Street.

I’m told it wasn’t a cat that did that kind of damage. Or another dog. It’s unlikely that he was attacked by a lion or a bear (because he’s still alive). We’re probably looking at a raccoon. Or a badger. Or some other profoundly uncool, garbage-grubbing creature of the night that decided to come out at 6:15 this morning.

The vet says my mutt’s lucky because his eyes were spared.

In my opinion, lady luck was too busy attending Chinese weddings to glance out west this morning.

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.

Sad but true: there aren’t many farmers in Wyoming, anymore. I went to our once-weekly, two-hour-long farmer’s market on opening day–”buy local,” the signs advertised–and only saw crafts, baked goods, and a few pathetic vegetables. The best stand was operated by Sheridan College, whose students grow produce in the fields where the antelope (literally) roam and even make sausages in their MEAT LAB:

Of course, this being Wyoming, God also put in an appearance:

God apparently is pro-American and pro-organic, although he drives a truck that doesn’t look to be particularly energy-efficient….

Hey, if you’re listening, Almighty One: can you do something about the size of those onions? For a buck, I want at least enough flavoring for a burrito.

If I don’t post for awhile, you’ll know to avoid the Sheridan College Meat Lab. (Common sense for some, unavoidable risk for yours truly. I mean, what looks like the biggest bang for the buck: a handful of limp spinach, or unnameable pig parts, tied up in a fat sac and flash frozen?)

That’s why people use chemicals, folks: to grow pretty fruits and veggies the size of a cutting board, without all those nasty brown spots.

I’ll just attribute the resulting stomach pains to my being smote (smited? smitten?) by the venegeful farmer in the sky.