Mitch vs. The Baby Store

It's been busy times for me and the blogging has suffered from front office budget cuts and children being born. However, sometimes your just overwhelmed with such epic stupidity that you are inspired to write. I guess that today was one of those days.

As I am running an errands tonight, I was assigned by the wife to stop by Babies R Us out in the suburbs. I don't do a lot of this shopping for the baby as my wife is more into shopping in the sea of pink baby clothes, or shopping at all for that matter. As I walk into the store the overwhelming smell of plastic and baby oil might make you wonder if your in a strip club but you quickly realize it's not as the whimsical tune of crying toddlers and lullabies right the ship. All was going smoothly for me on the routine diaper run until I reached the checkout.

The woman who was helping me started by asking me in baby talk, "awww, how old is the baby?"
I cheerfully responded, 7 months," but wanted to just say the diapers were for me when I drink too much and wet the bed.

Her response: "She's barely a baby anymore, she'll have a birthday soon."

Is it cute that I have a 7 month old or cute that I am buying a 768 pack of diapers, for about a weeks pay, that will end up living on for 7 thousand years in a landfill? She is actually certainly still a baby you weird lady.....my basic analysis of this is based on the following criteria: She can't walk, she can't talk, she eats blended up food and drinks from a bottle and she soils herself multiple times a day. As for the birthday comment......her birthday is 5 months away, not exactly time to send out invitations but I appreciate the enthusiasm, I guess.

As I fumble for the credit card to expedite this cumbersomely awkward and forced social situation she asks me, "Do you have a coat for her, it's going to be cold this weekend?"

I'm not sure what I even said to this as I was just thinking to myself...filter, filter, filter. What was screaming through my head was to say A) stop talking to me like I am a baby.....the baby isn't even with me 2) No, we don't have a coat for her, we don't even dress her, she sits naked in the house and sleeps outside on a leash........I certainly don't claim to be the expert rookie parent but I do have enough common sense to put a coat on a miniature human should it be cold out.

As I waited impatiently for the credit card to process she offered, unprompted, to me that "she was thinking about taking her child to the punkin patch this weekend." What the hell is a punkin? Do I look like I care? Why are you talking to me? I wanted to say, "make sure you wear a coat," but I used self control and took my super mega pack of diapers and got the hell out of there.

A Big Day at the News Desk

It has been a long time since I have blogged two days in a row, but today there was so much irrelevant breaking news that I just had to dump some of the garbage out of my already small, but full, brain into the vomit receptacle that often is my blog. As is the norm, I have done my best to excessively paraphrase and simplify all of these news stories to better serve the genera needs of the Adventures of Mitch Nation.

Cats Do Control Humans (click for link to story)
If the cat is controlling me, then why does it tell me to throw shoes at it or fling it by the tail into a passing lane of the interstate? I am not a cat person. God didn't want me to be a cat person so he makes my eyes itch when I am around them. This scholarly study further extrapolates that dog people are obviously wiser than cat people as dog people can't be controlled by animals. My less than scientific proof would be that there are a lot people who are pretty normal with 2-3 dogs. However, the people that own 3-700 cats always seem to live in a creepy old house, are single women and go to the grocery store in a prom gown and tiara because they don't get out of the house much and have never been on date. They may also be guys who walk their cats in harnesses to pick up chicks at the local park. There may be a few assumptions here, but my study is working it's way towards being airtight once I run the numbers a few more times.

Holy Shit! Cussing is Good for You!!! (click for link to story)
This is actually news worthy because if reading my blog causes you pain, you can cuss out loud while you read it. I think what's important in this article is that I would like to define pain as anything you dislike physically or emotionally. If we can include this definition of pain in the study we can basically cuss freely about anything (in case you don't already). I can't even imagine the study playing out with college students dipping their hand in ice cold water while repeating a cuss word of their choosing. If they were drinking and passed out they would have pissed their pants as well which would really give them a reason to cuss. This study was done in England so were they really sober when they did this and then accidentally got the study into the NeuroReport Journal? I really like the control in the study where they put their hand in the ice water and repeated a word they use to describe a table. Huh? Pretty much seals the deal on the fact they were drinking when they came up with this study. I guess in the end I would be happy to cuss with my hand in ice water instead of being a part of the totally irrelevant picture attached to the article of a guy getting pepper spray in his eyes. Who's the moron that chose pepper spray over ice water? I'd like to see the second part where you get pepper spray in the eyes and then respond by saying a word you use to describe a table.

I will preface this third bombshell story by saying that I don't frequent OMG.yahoo.com. If I did all of my BFFs would be saying WTF? I was sent here from my yahoo homepage which while I thought was password protected, has clearly been hacked by a 14 year old with a pink cel phone covered in rhinestones, carrying a lame designer purse and who probably owns a dog I could dropkick as far as I can hit a pitching wedge. So, I didn't go to this story because I care about Jessica Simpson, or for that matter Tony Romo, (I do relish his mediocrity and failures on the football field. For those Cowboy fans that are now enraged, please Google: Seattle Seahawks wildcard game 2007) but because someone who is 29 is having a Ken and Barbie birthday party. Really? Didn't we just bury the musician/freak that acted like a small child when he was actually a grown adult? Hopefully Jessica doesn't cut off her nose, or anything else, and try to change here skin color. While the Ken and Barbie party was ruined, and I am sobbing Jessica Simpson made it all better with her worldly quote in the article that makes me want to be in a bubble bath, with a puppy, frolicking in a sunny green field of flowers. Puke.

"Everyone needs to know that hope floats...grab the strings and pull it back to you... Falling asleep with my mom and the dogs. Please, Lord, give all of my beautiful fans, friends, enemies, and family rest. Bring all of us peace."

We now at least know that she isn't paying anyone to write her press releases. You can read the article below.........and don't forget to bookmark OMG.yahoo.com in the process. I have to go now, because Entertainment Tonight is on and there are probably more developments in this massively totally, like, crazy story. I just hope I can sleep tonight.
http://omg.yahoo.com/news/jessica-simpson-dumped-by-tony-romo/25140?nc

If this article hasn't put you to sleep you can always tune into the live TV coverage of the confirmation process of Justice Sotomayor which is about as exciting as the confirmation process of your 13 year old, third cousin.

Tough Economic Times

We all have been overloaded with talk of the difficult economy, lack of employment and other dark clouds of despair looming over us as if someday soon the entire world is going to burst into flames and end the human race.

As I was driving home from work the other day we were zig zagging our way through some marginal neighborhoods near out house. (I don't want to name any names for the population I discuss but it rhymes with bright flash) This is an interesting part of town comprised of the same people you see at the Wal-Mart slapping their kids and writing a check for a case of mountain dew and some Doritos. As we drove by a corner there was a kid on the corner with a sign that said "Cold Drinks 50 Cents." This used to be commonplace, in a world where we used to not be so worried about kidnapping and Michael Jackson's, that we all were little entrepreneurs sitting on the corner with our friends selling lemonade so we could make a little coin without violating child labor laws. This particular corner stand was a little different because my wife and I noticed that the kid sitting next to the cooler in a straggly lawn chair was about 17 years old. REALLY? This kid isnt' going to get the sympathy stop because he is a cute little kid, but maybe you could score a cigarrette to go with your beverage. What kid this age sells "cold drinks" for fifty cents in the front yard. I thought about stopping because I thought he might have stolen all of his dad's beer out the fridge and was selling it in the yard for the passers by during rush hour. After all, fifty cents a beer is a darn good deal. I can't imagine that dad will be too happy when he finds out his son is selling his beer in the yard, but who knows, if it puts food on the table in these tough economic times I guess it has served it's purpose. I also like how we no longer make lemonade to sell to folks so they get the homemade lemonade effect, this guy settles for tossing a few leftover beverages in the cooler, a little ice and head out the the yard. Cutting corners; the real American way. I will note that there was not a line at the stand to purchase his goods, nor did I become a customer.

For the Love of Meat

The blog returns! The staff at 'Adventures of Mitch' apologize for our blogging sabbatical. It seems the rearing of a child has interrupted the blog nation. I hope that my fan base (roughly estimated between 2 and 6 people) have not all passed away or found other things to do with their wasted heartbeats.

For those that know me it's well known that I embrace, celebrate and consume all things about meat. The vegetarian lifestyle is certainly not my 'modus operandi.' As a consummation of my love for the flesh of, farm raised and potentially inhumanely slaughtered, animals I was given a meat smoker for my birthday this year.

It's likely that with a new baby the last thing I needed was a way to make meals that takes 5-10 hours to complete. However, I find myself in a carnivorous version of heaven as I gaze over the freshly mowed yard sipping a cold beer as the luscious hickory smoke wafts peacefully among my senses. I restrain myself from taking off my shirt so the smoke can seep into my skin as if I were a giant brisket wearing a hat and shoes. Additionally, it's very likely I would be divorced and shunned from the neighborhood for such actions. It has already been frowned upon that I considered swapping out my deodorant in the mornings for my favorite pork dry rub.

While I am merely a bat boy in the game of barbecue with my little smoker, (size supposedly doesn't matter, right?) I feel a part of a cult-like community of the most masculine of all food preparation methods. My lovely wife, whom could care less about eating meat at all, somehow dropped off the holy meat ship even though she was raised on a farm in Iowa where to be considered a meal there needs to be a dead animal on the table. Amen. So now, not only does it take me the better part of the day to prepare a smoked delicacy, but I am usually cooking for myself and any friends or passers by I can wrangle in from the smell and trade animal flesh for beer. How sweet the simplicity of the barter system is.

Mall Walker Texas Ranger vs. The Baby Time Machine

How does it work that you wake up at 7am or earlier with the baby and then time vaporizes and it's noon? I'm undressed, unshowered and eating cereal at 11am, then lunch at 3:30, dinner at 5:30 and sleeping at 9pm. With a baby it seems you are in some sort of time machine that scrambles the day. I end up doing everything in the day, but in absolutely no logical order. Some meals are 12 hours apart, others are two hours apart. I'm walking around the house simultaneously cleaning the toilet while eating a bagel and putting on socks. Then, before completing all the tasks you end up getting crapped on or taking a nap. Last weekend I reallized at one point that I was teaching a class at the university in a t-shirt I slept in the night before. It seems to be a cruel joke as our times and schedules are erratic and unaccounted for, and baby forges ahead on here military schedule of eat, crap, eat, sleep, cry, repeat. The baby doesn't care about sunrise, sunset, clocks, solid food or any form of personal hygeine. In hindsight, I probably wouldn't care about any of these things either if someone else was wiping my ass and I was feeding from a boob.

As I tried to get the baby dressed for our big outing to the mall today I was thinking about all the tiny socks strewn about our house. It seems babies have some sort of magical sock ninja escape skill. The socks are big, small, tight or loose and they are out of them like lightning. It's amazing. No adult could get from two socks to zero, without using their hands, as fast as an infant. They are all swaddled up and whamo, socks are off. It's really quite amazing and has nothing to do with anything in the rest of this post, but it's the random thought of the day.

While I am on a tangent, I narrowly missed being projectile crapped on yesterday. After undiapering the beatuful innocent baby I was smiling at her as she seems to enjoy airing out her buttocks when the opportunity presents. Then, unexpectedly, their is a blast of the yellow seedy infant poo that narrowly misses me. Initially, I ran from the changing table and hit the deck as if I was on a ship at war. Upon gathering myself I realized that I was now changing a diaper, cleaning the changing table cover, and changing table cover, cover (again) as well as wiping down the door, the changing table and the wall. My wife was laughing so hard she was crying, or maybe she was just crying, and I was left googling "diaper changing face blast shield." The search did not turn up much, but I have seen dentists wear a similar device. Best advice woud be to not look down the barrel of the gun.

Back to the sotry at hand: We all dream. If you don't, your missing out. Until about 11 days ago I dreamed of climbing and skiing and a variety of other hobbies I have gone over the top in committing my life to. I never dreamed about spending 4 and a half hours pushing a stroller around the Mall of America on a random Wednesday. Today, I lived that dream. Like any good climber gearhead, I left no stone unturned on this venture. I would not be outdone by the other stroller toting wannabes. I would be the best mall baby stroller pusher dude out there. (Please note in the photo above how much I am dominating the lamos behind me at mall walking/stroller pushing.)

I had the new stroller, freshly stripped of its tags, and nubbins still on the inflatable, high performance tires ready to roll. The previous evening I affixed all the necessary add ons to the stroller like a cyclist tuning his machine for the following days race. I picked out a nice outfit for Ella to wear to the mall and dressed myself in the best clothes I had seen in a week or more of being mainly confined to the house. I had the Starbucks cup in hand, the diaper bag buckled to the handlebar, and all other necessities safely stowed in the carrying compartment of the suspension enhanced stroller. And that is how we rolled; and rolled and rolled. The baby was quite pleased and the wife needed to get out of the house badly. It was a great little day out. Tommorrow I will probably lift weights, drink beer and not shave, just to balance everything out. After all, I am a new father and there are a lot of hormones raging in me.

Tales of Poop and Pencil Shavings

There is a learning curve to raising an infant. The learning curve is not the gentle curve, but much more erratic. It's about as smooth as trying to ride a mechanical bull inside a VW beetle. Sweet baby Ella. The photos are so tranquil but there is a behind the scenes. It's a hidden reality that we as the public pretend is not there. For example: Does a super model rip off some giant farts while taking a dump? Probably, but we don't think about that. It's the same with baby.

I can tell you my hands have been thoroughly irrigated by baby urine several times. I hear urine is quite sterile, so in many ways I am cleaner than I have ever been. My diaper dexterity is rapidly improving and Ella is even a little calmer as she seems to sense I have developed some level of competency. Previously her cries were simply expressing the feeling we would have if our doctor showed up in a Skynyrd t-shirt smoking a cigarette for our physical....not a lot of credibility. Baby can see right through the facade of the "World's Greatest Dad" t-shirt and the smell of hand sanitizer.

On one occasion, during a changing, a cute little spout of urine flowed from the baby while her diaper was off. It was kind of funny and she seemed pleased with her accomplishment. The next time however, it involved urine running down her back onto the changing thingy (kind of looks like mini bouldering pad) and also onto me. Not as cute as this time, as I was now changing diaper, clothes, changing pad cover, changing pad cover cover and basically bathing the child with diaper wipes.

Then comes the crapping. Whoa. If I crapped that much I would have to subscribe to a lot more magazines. I have not been hit by any crap, and usually keep it off my hands now which is both rewarding and convenient.

The rewards of being a father are amazing. The baby really just wants mom, so I hold her when she's sleeping mostly. When she wakes and tries to suck on me, she finds little success. It's far more furry and flat than what she is looking for under my shirt. That rapidly progresses to crying which only ceases for a quick diaper bombing or arrival on mom's lap. This keeps momma really busy and pretty much the sole provider of anything important for baby E. In mom's downtime she rests or scribbles out to do lists for me. This leaves me doing anything I can to help around the house and keep the infrastructure going around baby E. Momma has a lot going on and so I get assigned some very rewarding family duties. Just this morning it was imperative that I get all the pencils in the pencil drawer sharpened (at 7am). Later today I may be polishing the toaster or checking the batteries in the smoke detector with my tongue. Everything baby E, or momma, would want to keep the home comfy and warm will be at my beckon call. I am totally fine with this arrangement as it's the least I can do in exchange for the other half having to act as a feeder for the baby like those bottles our hamsters drank out of.

After sharpening the pencils mom teared up a bit with joy. This may be because I did such an immaculate job of sharpening or simply because she is a little emotional, I will let that be her little secret (but I think I am a very good pencil sharpener).

I'm Responsible for a Small Human Being

Childbirth. It's a secret society that you are not let into until you have been there. There is a reason for this. It's like a tornado filled with dynamite in a sex education class taught by Sam Kinison. Sounds pretty crazy, but I can't divulge anymore details because there may be people reading this who have not been admitted into this secret society. I was surely standing in that delivery room like a deer in the headlights of an F-14 going the speed of sound. All of a sudden, there's a baby and I am sobbing with joy and I can't feel my hands because they are tingling like I just jumped out of an airplane.

Then my eyes see the most amazing baby ever. By the time I go to bed that night my head is spinning with emotions (it's been a crazy couple of days). We took all the classes to prepare, but putting diapers on and bathing the plastic doll is a bunch of crap compared to the real thing, no pun intended. I changed my first diaper today and it was a lot like trying to type with your feet. By the time I finished, I used half a pack of wipes and the used diaper was in the trash like a roadkilled carcus. I have no idea how to bundle up a used diaper and the baby ended up with crap on her feet, ankles and who knows what else that I missed. She wasn't pleased with me putting on the new diaper, but it didn't fall off when I picked her up which was a huge moral boost (equivalent to a participation ribbon in a track meet). I have no doubt that I will figure this out, but I openly admit I have no idea what I'm doing. Scary? Yes. But give me a break, everyone that does this is in the same boat. Sweet baby, take it is easy on your dad, he's usually a pretty quick learner.

Farewell Old Friend

Daisy the dog, lived a life as full as any dog could ever hope for. Most that knew her questioned whether she understood that she was actually a dog. After all, she spent her life sleeping in a bed, under the covers, until I was married. After that she slept on the best chair in the house and was covered by a blanket each night. Failure to fulfill her expectations would undoubtedly leave her walking in circles near your bedside clicking her nails in disapproval until you rectified the situation.

There are a lot of stories out there about this dog. My career path and education left her in the hands of many wonderful friends to watch over her through the years. She spent one Spring Break on the beach in South Carolina while I guided a group down the Rio Grande River. She spent a semester at the University of Iowa with my friend Matt while he was in Medical School and while I was an intern in Tennessee. She spent countless time with my parents and inlaws whenever we traveled. It would not have been possible to board this dog. After all, who would cover her up at night? She ate whole loaves of bread and other sundries from unsuspecting caregivers who were not savvy to her ninja like tactics.

Most of all, she loved people. She wanted nothing more than to be on your lap, in your bed or standing on your foot at all times. She would happily jump up on the couch and lay her head on your lap hoping you would pet her velvet ears. I, and I only, could pick her up and hold or carry her like a baby her entire life. Cradled in my arms on her back, or upright on one hip. It looked totally ridiculous, but it was just what we did. 50 pounds or not, she loved it. She lived up to the stereotype of the Vizsla breed being called 'velcro dogs' as she always wanted to be touching you.

There are not too many people that know me and didn't know, Daisy. When I purchased this fine beast at the naive and careless age of 19 I had no idea what I was doing. I didn't tell my parents and they certainly questioned the purchase to say the least. I bribed my sister to ride with me to get her in the fall of 1995. She was a slippery little beast in her young age. Lots of energy was a giant understatement.

In her last couple of years she had lost most of her hearing and the majority of her sight, but she always came home with a spotless bill of health ready to go for a walk, then sleep for 20+ hours. After she turned 100 (in dog years) I changed her name to Miracle. She was deaf, so it didn't matter to her and I thought it had a nice ring to it. Over the years she was also lovingly referred to as, the Sneezla (Trent, who now has 2 of his own sneezlas), Sneezie (Brandi), Daisers (my dad), Maisers (Matt and Carli Herold), That Dog (Boone), The Beast (Pertzborn) and many others that probably contained expletives based on her immediate behavior at the time.

Her final moments were on my lap, in my arms; exactly the way she was when she was 8 weeks old over 14 years ago. Daisy: Often imitated, never duplicated. I know that I will never have another dog quite like her. She was above and beyond anything I could have ever asked of a dog and more. While she will be missed by me a lot, her stories and legend will be around a long time among my friends and family.


Goodbye Daisy from Justin Evidon on Vimeo.

Impatiently Waiting

Long story short: Baby is due this Thursday, it feels like it should already be here. I don't do that well with waiting. I hate waiting in lines, stoplights, traffic, just about anything that doesn't allow me to move at my desired speed, which is usually timely and efficient. Waiting for your first child to come out is really a strange type of waiting. I really want to meet her, but realize each day that life will never be quite the same once she arrives. This isn't bad, it's just different. She is certainly kicking, pounding, rolling and moving like she may want out of there soon, and sometimes I wonder if she is ok in there. I asked her (the baby) today, and her response was a foot to my wife's ribs. Hmmmm, I bet that's how my wife wishes she could answer some of my questions as well. What to do while you hang around home waiting for a baby?

Today we decided we needed to make space in the freezer. This really means that my wife thinks I should eat all of the old food in there. So for lunch I ate pre-Obama onion rings, and a flaming meatball sandwich (made up recipe). That pretty much left me a few beers short of Homer Simpson. Having all motivation rapidly taken away I settled in to feed my PGA Tour addiction. Next thing you know a little Facebook, the Wild were playing hockey, and WHALA, I wasted the entire day. I took enough naps throughout the day that I am not tired tonight and am wondering why my DVR is recording the show 'Hole in the Wall?' Moreover, why is this show on television to start with? My big day of napping, watching golf, and eating made me too tired to make supper so I ate some crackers and deer sausage which means I now feel like crap and will probably feel worse when I wake up. I suppose that it's good for me to document this as the next posting on this blog will probably involve the birth of my child and my interpretation of that whole process. It's likely this description will be morbidly sarcastic, so be prepared. If this baby really wanted to be a daddy's girl, she would be on time, or even early. That's probably not going to happen and this is natures way of preparing me for the estrogen invasion that my home will soon undergo. It will be like throwing away your Twisted Sister posters after you got married and started painting accent walls in your house to match the towels you bought at Bed, Bath and Beyond. Instead I will be having tea with a little girl and three random dolls while I paint my own toenails and pretend the really small chair I'm sitting in is comfortable. In the end, it's really what's best. I am going to dig into the freezer for some more freezer burned 'treats.'

Superboulder III Video

This year's Superboulder has a video to document the event compliments of Jevidon. It's pretty sweet....check it out.

Super Boulder III from Justin Evidon on Vimeo.

Superboulder III

It's in the books. Another Superboulder event at the West Saint Paul International Climbing Facility (a.k.a. my garage). Superboulder this year was headlined by the 5 gallon keg of homebrew compliments of Haun Brewing Company. There was also International competition thanks to George the Canadian. The Canuck was a veritable jack of all trades climbing, baking, making salads and sharpening knives all during his appearance. His brownies laced with Cognac were top shelf!

In an effort to live just a few days, or weeks, longer we shyed from the standard "fried food only" rule of the past two years. I guess the reprocutions of the days that follow far outweighed the joy of feeding on grease soaked delights. The fryer was in action, but it was complimented nicely by a grill full off brats cooked by a certified Wiscononian. Superboulder had record attendance with the unofficial numbers coming in somewhere between 16 and 20 people.

The food creation of the night was definitely the "winged brat." This fantastic creation topped one of Wisconsin's finest links with a hearty helping of Buffalo chicken wing dip. It was truly cramming everything amazing into one fabulous bite. The celebrity appearance was by Kyle Klingmann from Wrestling411.tv. We are hoping that he will report on the event as there was a small skirmish which could have been constrewed as wrestling by a passerby. When the game had been finished and the keg became much lighter, we all settled in for a fitful night of indigestion as we dreamt of the eclecitc mix of food, spirits, climbing and football that make up the kaleidoscope of culture know as Superboulder.

To 'stache or not to 'stache

As I wrap up a long holiday weekend I find myself admiring the fledgling mustache that I have grown over the past four days, much to the wife's dislike. As I gaze into the bathroom mirror before I shave I can only contemplate the various merits of the 'stache. You have a number of options when growing out the hair on your upper lip, but I am not sure which ones are worthy or appropriate for me.

There is the trooper 'stache that is sleek and creepy and often screams of junior college insecurity in a mighty effort to make one look a little tougher than they are. It screams to the world that I drive a cop car by day and then get into a rusted dodge neon at night to drive home in time to watch "Deal, or no Deal."

The Wilford Brimley 'stache is a full bodied affair and works well to accentuate any walrus characteristics in the face that one might have. These 'stache owners comb them out and are always aware of any food that may have become entangled in their lip nest. They tell the world, "I have diabetes, sell oatmeal and am older than Papa Smurf." Interesting.

My personal favorite is the handlebar 'stache. It is probably most appealing because it would take me, by rough calculations, 13-17 years to grow out. It's cool because it's so awesome that you need product for your 'stache. This mustache is intimidating. It's owner usually has the serious look and you can mess with them, but they may have a six shooter in their pocket.

Finally, there is the premier custom staches, as pictured above. These nifty affairs are mere body hair gamesmanship. They say nothing about the owner except that they have nothing better to do with their time than grow some epic mustache that they can post on the web.

Unfortunately, all of my mustache dreams crashed back to earth when I realized that the only 'stache I can harvest is the lame, thin juinor high 'stache. It says to the world that I am displaying my awesomeness by growing out facial hair because I hit puberty before everyone else. In my case, it really just says; I'm 32 and it looks like I have dirt on my lip after not shaving for 4 days.

Cold as #$%@ !!!!!

It has now been multiple days since we have seen a temperature above zero, Fahrenheit that is. This morning was the coldest in five years at -21 and a windchill somewhere around -40, give or take a few degrees. The dog, whose name is now Miracle since turning 100 last month, had to be rescued from the deck this morning after about 45 seconds. She realized that you can't keep two of your paws out of the snow simultaneously and still walk. In her old age she clearly chose to keep the paws out of the snow versus make her way to the door.

It is cold, but worry not, the high will reach -9 today so it should be nice for a lunch outside or some grilling this evening. Here is a fun video from the local weather station of the meteorologist using various fruits and vegetables to pound in nails......now that's just good clean fun!