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.”

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. 

Confession: rodeo was a blast. Admittedly, praying to God beforehand was strange, and the announcer’s insistence on supporting the troops grew old. (Are 2007’s last-place finishers in Baghdad right now?) But by and large I found myself riveted.

Best of all were the Indian relay races:

…in which half-naked Native Americans ride bareback, change horses three times and race in a full gallop to the finish line. Yes: the cowboys wrestle farm animals, while the Indians perform stunning feats of athleticism. Hmm. Methinks if it weren’t for those smallpox blankets, the west couldn’t possibly have been ”won.”

The roping events were entertaining, too, if not entirely PETA-friendly. I doubt that group even bothers with membership drives between the east and west coasts. Telling a rancher his family business isn’t “nice” means you’re willing to spray paint future animal-rights messages from your wheelchair–after the nice rancher snaps your nice little neck.

The barrel races were great fun: mainly because the chicks kept knocking the barrels over and I amused myself by pretending they would cry about it later on in the stables, then comfort each other at a big pajama party, complete with curlers and pillow fights. Even now, I’m convinced that’s exactly what went down after the klieg lights cut out.

All things considered, the rodeo was fantastic until the bull riders came out. And kept falling off the damn bulls.

Now, you won’t catch me going near a bull for any percentage of eight seconds. But, see, I’m not a bull-rider. As the capper of the evening, their performances left me deflated. Only two managed to stay on for the full eight seconds.

Perhaps the rest of them should join the war effort.  Or crash the pajama party. Or pray to God for better luck next time.

Or wrap themselves up in blankets they get as gifts from the Indians.

Me, I’ll be up in the stands again next year. Wishing I was a chiropractor.

First off, a shameless plug for the Big Horn Mountain Festival, which I attended with the man this past weekend in Buffalo, WY. It’s always more fun to tear down than build up (as any construction worker can attest) but I have nothing bad to say about this outdoor festival. And I wouldn’t consider myself an afficionado, either. I always thought bluegrass was a kissing cousin to country music (or, as they say in Appalachia: Mommy and Daddy).

Which brings me to my quandry du jour: what the heck is the difference between bluegrass and country music, anyway? Judging by the audiences at the two events I attended this weekend, it’s the difference between mushrooms and Coors.

Country music blared from the speakers at the rodeo, both before and after the group prayer. Later on, the announcer strongly suggested we stand in our seats “if we support the troops.” While I was thinking on that one (eeney, meanie, miney, mo….) the man dragged me up by the elbow. Apparently, he was in no mood to see his fiance lynched by a blindly patriotic crowd. Good call. If I remain alive through rodeo weekend, I can cancel at least one redneck vote, come November.

The audience at the bluegrass festival was pretty much at the opposite end of the spectrum. People were drinking, sure, but the little kids were barefoot and their moms wore braids and straw hats and didn’t shave their legs. They were as close to hippies as you see in rural Wyoming. Of course there were Obama stickers on the cars in the parking lot.

So who decided that country music went to McCain, and bluegrass to Obama? Why are Republicans rodeo folk, while bluegrass music goes to the peace-and-loving Democrats? All I know is that people danced and sang along to “Trailer Park Fire” at the music festival, while the other end of the spectrum ostensibly went home to set theirs ablaze after the rodeo.

I enjoyed stopping by both camps this weekend, and I was even more pleased to fall asleep without either Coors or mushrooms (or corn dogs, natch) in my system. In a house. With a foundation. And just enough of a sunburn to remind me that, on occasion, there are genuine good times to be had outside of its walls.

The phone number is the same in both ads! 

I guess that reward must’ve really been something special, since the guy obviously wanted to keep it himself….

According to the local bulletin board, one of my neighbors is selling natural phenomena. Footlong rainbows, delivered!

I suppose he could be talking about trout, but I prefer my original explanation. I wonder if the length of the rainbow you order will be a complete arc, or if you can purchase a portion of one, or just the colors that appeal to you….

I was tempted to go even further with my critique, and dub “Tru Colors” the worst hair salon in the universe, but then I realized that there might possibly be a more despicable experience to be had on Mars. I mean, in addition to cringe-worthy “customer service,” on the Red Planet, you wouldn’t have access to sufficient oxygen, either. It’s pretty dusty there, too, which is never good for my tresses. And by the time you got back from your million mile plus journey, you’d need to schedule another trim, pronto. So I’m sticking to “worst in Wyo.” 

The horror, the horror: I went to a new ”stylist” because my everyday diva was booked up and I had a conflict with the appointment I’d made in advance. Never again. Next time I will take the scissors straight to my own jugular rather than let a strange chick at my head.

In addition to a long list of minor offenses, starting off with dirty floor and moving along to crappy shampoo job, here’s the worst: this dumb broad answered her cell phone TWICE while I was in her chair, then she attempted to CUT MY HAIR WITH THE PHONE UNDER HER CHIN.

I know Sheridan doesn’t have a branch of Devachan, but neither is it located on the dark side of the moon. Silly me, expecting common courtesy from a stranger.

I’ll be the one in pigtails and baseball caps ’til my diva’s schedule clears in August….