Yesterday morning I found myself unwillingly cast as the damsel-in-distress in a Charlie Chaplin-era black and white. 

Six a.m. found me hunched over in the pre-dawn darkness, stuck in the middle of Fillmore Street — a busy thoroughfare in my neighborhood. Desperately attempting to complete a mission-critical task, alternating with panicked glances up and into the oncoming traffic. 

Finish the job. Get hit by a Prius. Finish the job. Get hit by a MUNI bus. I knew exactly how the silent film actress in the image above must have felt. 

True, I did not suffer under the duress of a sledgehammer-wielding, bushy-eyebrowed villain. Nor from the constraints of heavy chains. Nor from the menace of 3 bad guys with really really good hatmakers. 

My situation was far more dire. 

My black labbish “puppy” had selected this precarious spot to execute her morning constitution. Nevermind the overabundance of safe venues in the immediate vicinity: empty driveways, sparse sidewalks, even a briefcase-sized patch of grass here and there. An embarrassment of riches as far as morning constitution-ready locales go. 

Instead, she strikes the unmistakable pose mid-street, mid-stride. Full exploiting the element of awful surprise on her “master.” Once she has achieved the squat, there is no moving her. That would only exacerbate the situation, as I dragged a 70-pound statue shedding smaller pieces of statue across a wider field array. 

Nope. Not an option. I’m just going to have to commit to this and make the best of it. 

Fumbling with the lightweight plastic poop bag dispenser velcro’d to the people end of her leash. Careful to avoid the continuous blue bag spool spooling out onto the street. Desperately thumbing with numb fingers in darkness over the flat sheet of bags, searching for the perforation. And then once perforated, anxiously probing both ends of the still-flat, seemingly vacuum-packed bag. Distinguishing between the open end where one’s hand gets inserted, and the sealed end that must remain sealed is absolutely critical. Botch that and you’re in for an uncomfortable walk home with contaminated fingers outstretched. 

And all the while, the train is barreling down the tracks. I feel it coming, ready to roll over me, and my animal. any moment now. 

Wailea has finished her part by this point, and now it is my turn in the process. Assembly-line perfection. But with an electric bus bearing down on us imminently. Skittish, I have to dart back to the spot on the street more than once, looking like I’m delicately handling molten lava.  Hot! Hot! Or maybe my manic efforts to finish the job bear resemblance to the “Ickey Shuffle” (without the “cold cuts today!” celebratory yells). No celebration, this. 

The deed is done, at last. I sprint away and yank the dog’s collar, just a split second before….

Nothing. No MUNI bus. No silver little Prius. No black smoke-spewing locomotive. No wild-eyed bandits poised to pound my noggin with a ball-peen hammer. No rusty chains around my ankles. Just a blue plastic bag full of poop and an overactive imagination. In other words, another Monday morning start to the week. 

Thanks for reading. 

Actually, it turns out I didn’t. But for some reason, I thought I did, and I’ve been telling anyone and everyone that it was I who shot the sheriff. Moreover, I did not and do not deny also shooting the deputy. No one ever asked me about the deputy. But I have been, and remain, prepared to admit–nay, boast–about my central role in the deputy’s demise.

Man, I like Brian Williams. Always have. Same way I like Tom Brokaw. Tom gave the commencement address at my undergraduate institution nearly 25 years ago. I remember at one point he proclaimed that beer counted as “food.”

Then, he hoisted me above his head, grabbing me by my knees and neck. The assembled throngs at Wally Wade Stadium went absolutely wild. From my prone and sideways position, I spied a rabid, fanged javelina and dispensed with it by hurling a Swiss Army Knife through its eye socket at 250 paces. And the entire Duke community–undergraduates, graduates, and Tom Brokaw–all enjoyed a spectacular feast of boar that evening. And Coach K. All of us.

Yep, that is exactly how it happened. Ask anyone.

Wait a minute, on second thought, I may actually have imagined everything after the “food = beer” remark. I don’t know how I managed to conflate a stack of triangular finger sandwiches with a wild boar.

That I ripped asunder! With my bare hands! Putting its gristled skull on my head like a crown! Yeah, a crown. And the masses proclaimed me “King.” Of everything. And I appointed Coach K as my Sergeant-at-Arms. Ask anyone.

Oh gosh, I seem to have done it again. Forgive me.

Yeah, so I like Brian Williams. I like that he often returns to his anchor chair after a vacation with obvious tan marks from his sunglasses. I like that his face is imperfect, a little crooked. Maybe he broke his nose once and it wasn’t quite fixed back to the way it was. I like his straight-forward delivery, and the way he doesn’t seem to emphasize certain words a certain way and at a certain cadence the way every other journalist SEEMS…to…DO. The way Adam West’s Batman did. I don’t like that. Brian Williams doesn’t talk like that.

So I’m inclined to cut Bee Dub some slack. (No that is not his nickname, I just made it up, but I like this nickname too.) The dude made a mistake. Remembered something in such a way as to have someone else’s halo appear over his own head. This is not an admirable thing to do. And I’m not advocating stealing someone else’s thunder this way. But of all the potential transgressions perpetrated by people the rest of us watch on TV or on movie screens or on iPad screens, a tale of false bravado seems trivial.

Which reminds me of an epic wild boar feast back in 1990….

Thanks for reading.

“Dad, do you know the one thing I want before I die?”

This from the mouth of my 9-year old in the backseat the other day.  No one else in the car.  My eyes begin darting around in rapid movements.  My mind startled as I grasp for something appropriate to offer in the silent moments after Everett’s death wish.  Scanning my memory banks for the latest research on pre-teen suicidal tendencies.  I come up empty, for lack of time and due to the ambush-factor. 

“Um, what’s that, buddy?” is all I can manage to squeak from my own mouth.  A half-octave higher than my normal voice, and reed-thin.  Presumably I’ve blown my cover, revealing my panicky incompetence as a father.

“A Twinkie.”

My head swims from all the adrenaline flooding my bloodstream and electrical impulses firing madly in my brain.  The blood rushes downwards from my face and inwards from my extremities.  I look cross-eyed at my hands on the steering wheel, trying desperately to snap my vision back into focus.  Force myself to pull it together.  Regain my composure.  I didn’t go over the metaphorical cliff as I thought I surely would.  The roller coaster, thankfully, bottomed out.  I’m still here. Deep breath, then exhale.

“A Twinkie??” I inquire into the rearview mirror.

“Yeah,” he responds, matter-of-factly.  “‘Cuz they’re not around anymore.”

A Twinkie. A Twinkie?  It feels goofy even to type that word. Twinkie.

I probably should have anticipated that something like this was coming.  A few minutes earlier, Everett reported unprompted that he wanted to work in a fortune cookie factory.  Maybe it’s Fortune Cookie Factory.  He explained that he wanted to put “terrible messages” into the fortune cookies. 

“Like what?” I say, bracing myself for the worst.

“Like…’SUCKS TO BE YOU.'”

I contort my face, scrunching my nose and wincing my eyes, trying to figure out whether this is awful or actually funny. Intensive psychotherapy or a congratulatory slap on the back from his beaming teacher?  Budding psychopathic serial killer or comedian in a new medium? Incarceration or hoisting a golden trophy by the legs?  Now that I think about it, a Funny Fortune Cookie Factory that produces fortune cookies containing truly funny fortunes is not a bad idea for a business.  But, someone else has got to be already doing this….

Ev then snaps me out of my mental gymnastics funk, reducing the topic to yet another data point supporting the absent work ethic of younger generations:  “That way, they would fire me after 2 days.”  My shoulders slump, utterly defeated.

Presumably, Ev figures, he could then get back to the truly important business of spreading his Lego pieces all along the ridges of our living room couch.  And precariously hanging a couple dozen Buckyballs like a magnetic icicle from his bedside lamp.  Anything other than some sort of real job.  And clearly, he is hell-bent on sabotaging himself right out of the gates with this new Funny Fortune Cookie Factory business of his.  It doesn’t matter how hard he worked to develop the idea, research the market, build a business plan, file this or that with the USPTO, take in some outside investment, hire a few dozen workers, enter into a long-term lease agreement for some old brick warehouse space, and find vendors wiling to supply a couple tons of raw fortune cookie dough and several reams of white paper cut and ready for his unique speciality:  Authoring “terrible” fortunes.  Everett can’t really type, so presumably he dictates the terrible fortunes or hand-writes them for someone else to type up. Probably that someone else has had to sign a solemn confidentiality agreement so that the company can keep the terrible fortunes proprietary, away from their competitors’ prying eyes.

Regardless, despite all of this work, in Ev’s perfect world, he’s already been fired and escorted from the building by security long before a diner discovers that it sucks to be him or her.  Appalled and deeply offended, the diner finds the “Funny Fortune Cookie Factory” on Yelp, dials up, and indignantly tells the customer service representative his or her story of the “terrible fortune,” demanding immediate satisfaction. Recompense! “Oh,” the monotone voice on the phone reports, “We let the terrible fortune cookie writer go last week. He doesn’t work here anymore. I think he’s over at the Twinkie Factory now.”  

Apoplectic, and attempting to slam the phone down in anger — an archaic therapeutic physical act that cannot be achieved by touching a fingertip to an iPhone screen — “Harummph!” goes the diner, whom it evidently does suck to be. 

Thanks for reading.

Patience has never been a virtue of mine.  If I could fairly be described as epitomizing any real virtues, “patience” would not be one of them.  My answer to most questions about when I would like for something to happen, a start-date, a beginning, whatever, is “yesterday.” Followed by a flat affect, a hard stare betraying not a hint of humor.  I could resist the urge to blink my eyelids for hours when in such a state.  Probably wouldn’t even realize that my eyes needed a blink. 

Don’t get me wrong, this is not about impulsiveness or self-control.  I’ve read the Stanford cupcake stories.  I don’t need cupcakes.  It’s about collapsing the time-space continuum with the snap of one’s fingers.  Making shit happen, you might say.  And the “happen” part ought to happen pronto.  Yesterday. 

I can’t recall the last time I didn’t have a goal in-mind, a place to be, a scheduled point in time, a clear intention, a purpose.  And I’m not necessarily talking about big stuff like running a marathon, graduating from some program or another, or landing a new professional gig.  I’m thinking of “walk the dog at 9am.” “Start the coffee machine on the kitchen counter, then fill up the dog’s bowl, then and only then pull up the KQED app on the cracked iPad propped up on the kitchen counter.”  In that order.  Not OCD.  Just the most efficient, time-maximizing processes of which I can conceive. No time for casual daydreaming.  We can schedule “casual daydreaming time” in my iPhone’s calendar for later this afternoon, if you like.  We could do that. There.  It’s done.

This is probably not an especially healthy approach to daily life.  I recognize that.  Or rather, I will recognize that, from 12:30pm to 12:45pm today — the window I’ve set aside to contemplate “a healthy approach to life.”  There’s just not a lot of unscheduled time going on in my head reserved for not being reserved.  That makes for an extremely productive human being, perhaps, but not one humming “ommm” cross-legged in a blissful state.

I see glimpses, for sure.  (Albeit scheduled glimpses.)  A moment during a frigid swim in San Francisco Bay just off the beach at Crissy Field.  The rising sun paints the Golden Gate Bridge a purple hue, just over my shoulder, the aching of my frozen teeth fading temporarily into the background.  Wailea playfully grabbing and throttling the nearest oversized stick lying on a trail in the Presidio, responding to the slight dog-like hunch of my back I show her from a distance.  Me communicating with my dog half a football field away, via this all-but-imperceptible nuanced posture.  Watching our 13 year-old grappling in the corner of the soccer pitch with an opponent whose uniform holds 40 more pounds than Max’s.  In these moments, Max is oblivious to the outside world, losing himself completely in his white-hot desire to win the battle of elbows and hips.  I mind-meld with him, silently experiencing and savoring his emotions and the jostling and the smell of the steamy turf as if I were the one wrestling near the flag.

I live for these moments.  I foolishly believe that I can calendar them.  Queue them up on my updated to-do list.  Impatient for their materialization at the appointed hour.  But that’s not the way it works, apparently.  That’s OK.  I’ll wait.  Ommmmmmm….

Thanks for reading. 

I never visited my undergraduate university before getting accepted.  Never even saw it before showing up on campus on the first day of my freshman year.  The main reason I applied, as I recall, is that I read somewhere that students had kidnapped their arch rival’s mascot and stowed him or her away for some time in a closet.  Of course this sounds absolutely awful now.  Shameful.  Illegal.  The kind of thing that blots one’s permanent record.  Not to mention that poor Carolina student stuck in a cramped closet flirting with suffocation under that hot ram’s head mask, drifting in and out of consciousness.  That kind of thing would scar someone for life, I suspect.  Creating life-long aversions to closed closets, animal masks and maybe even costumes of any kind and perhaps even Halloween in general and maybe Greek mythology too given the whole half-man-half-goat thing they had going on. 

And from there it’s not too much of a stretch to speculate that the mascot loses his or her mind if Zamfir seeps through the elevator speakers.  We’re talking full-on, pan flute-triggered PTSD.

Our family is just about squeezed through the microscopic knot hole known in these parts as “the high school admissions process.”  We peered into said knot hole in late summer, jammed our skulls in there a few months ago, and wriggled the rest of our bodies in, twisting and turning, until it felt more like that “naturalist” who recently entered the belly of an anaconda wearing a snake-proof suit.  Only we did not have the benefit of a snake-proof suit.

Reflecting back on these past few months, this process could not be further removed from my own high school “admissions process.”  In fact, those months have been far more challenging than my own college admissions process (see above re Carolina Ram, Pan the Greek God, and Zamfir).  And I think the same is true for my law school admissions process.  I never visited my law school of choice, either, before arriving on day one of first year.  But I did learn how to operate a stick-shift whilst driving solo the 6 hours to law school from my parents’ home.  Pulling a U-Haul trailer, no less, behind my “new” gold Chrysler station wagon.  That is perhaps a story for another day. 

So in light of all this, my wife and I have decided (read: she will learn of this decision for the first time when she reads this blog post, but of course she will whole-heartedly endorse it) to home-school.  Yep, despite the hundreds of hours sunk into this thing by this point, we’re gonna hit the “eject” button.  I refuse to subject the fruit of my loins to the traumatizing effects of goat-headed mascots, Greek Gods of Shepherds, Romanian pan flute musicians, or second longest snakes known to man. Nope.  We will spare our children these stressors that would otherwise undoubtedly lead to long-term neuroses.

So classes are forming now at our newly-established homeschool high school — Zamfir Academy.  Keep an eye out for our commercials on TV.

Thanks for reading.

This is the time of year folks are supposed to set new goals for themselves.  Resolutions.  Ambitions spoken aloud, made public.  Historically, I’ve always been pretty dependable when it came to creating my own annual list of New Year’s Resolutions.  Although I’m several smartphones along, a quick scan of my current iPhone’s “Notes” reveals lists going back several years.  But I haven’t made a list yet for 2015. 

I can’t seem to conjure up a clear and persuasive answer to the question, “What’s next?”

2014 began as a rough year, objectively speaking.  My maternal grandmother passed away in January, providing a sudden and unwelcome jolt to my entire extended family.  All of us would likely agree, however, that Grandma’s passing brought us all closer together.  Renewed and reaffirmed old but rock-solid bonds.  Her death was also the main inspiration for starting this “Lemonade Chronicles” blog of mine.  Finally putting pen to paper — fingertips to QWERTY keyboards — after years of mulling it over.  I’ve published 121 posts this year.  All, in one way or another, celebrating and perhaps attempting to emulate my grandmother’s uncanny ability to make lemonade out of lemons.  Her own life presented her with gargantuan lemons.  Zero advantage.  No money to speak of.  Plenty of adversity.  So I feel silly, in comparison, bemoaning anything about my own current existence. 

I frequently and proudly remind my kids of my (and thus their) modest beginnings.  The frequency of these reminders reached a fever pitch during the Christmas season.  For every new petition for a PS4 or Anki Drive, I countered with, “Do you know that Grandma Graham’s kids were happy to get only one gift under the tree?  Usually hand-made, and I think Daddy’s mommy was lucky if she got a raggedy doll.”  And if the kids ever complain about where we live, I remind them that when I was born, my parents (both scrapping towards master’s degrees) lived in a trailer.  The same deal when it comes to the boys’ expensive private school.  Both of my sons know that my high school now has metal detectors at the entrances.  And that I actually know what it sounds like when one boy steps down hard on another boy’s head on a lunch room floor.  The answer?  Like a milk carton popping. (Don’t worry, the junior high schooler somehow was pretty much totally fine despite the awful-looking stomping). 

I don’t mean to overdo this.  Other kids had it far worse than I.  Many people who knew me well then or know me well now would understandably laugh out loud at my suggesting that anything in my life has been rough.  And I think I had a really great childhood.  I have a head chocked full of fond memories.  Even the memories of which I am not fond, many of those I think helped me become a more resilient human being. 

I don’t know whether these sorts of “where you come from” lessons do any good when dispensed from the head of the dinner table or from the car’s driver seat.  The mini-sermons typically trigger eye rolls rather than thoughtful reflection.  I don’t think I even know what “thoughtful reflection” would look like on my children’s faces. 

All that I suppose is meant to convey the notion that I have a pretty good sense of my beginnings.  And I’m at the point in my life where I embrace and appreciate those beginnings.  But that doesn’t make it any easier to whip up my list of 2015 New Year’s Resolutions.  To identify what’s next.

Professionally, I’m enjoying consulting for a number of early-stage, consumer-facing businesses whose products fall somewhere in the outdoor lifestyle space.  Helping them get from where they are now to and through a key milestone.  Helping them figure out how to tell the world about their truly great products.  Consulting provides me with a fulfilling sense of autonomy — I help move my clients’ dials, for sure, and I also take my dog for long walks on the beach, shuttle my boys from one practice to another, spend countless hours coaching on Little League diamonds, cook pretty impressive dinners served on pretty impressive table settings, blog(!), run or swim or hike or bike every day, and generally decide on my own how best to spend every hour of every day.

I know that probably sounds great.  And it is, for the most part.  But I’m ready for a new challenge, professionally.  Something to put my back into whole-heartedly.  My current day-to-day, work-wise, is just too…comfortable. Too easy.  I’m just passing time, not leaving a distinct mark that truly matters.

I suppose I yearn for the days when I went to bed thinking about work and woke up thinking about work.  Not in a death-struggle-pit-in-your-stomach way, but in a “I can’t wait to whip my legs off the bed and slap my feet on the floor to get back into the office” way.  When the stuff I worked on, I honestly believed, could inspire other people.  Change their lives in a positive way.  Help them see they can do things — or at least attempt to do things — they’d previously thought impossible. 

It’s been a long time since I felt that.  I miss it.  I would like to find that feeling again in 2015.

So what else?

I suppose I would like to tackle something that is physically ridiculous in 2015.  I’m inspired by Caldwell and Jorgeson’s current attempt on Yosemite’s “Dawn Wall.”  But I don’t have time to pick up another hobby like rock-climbing.  And I probably don’t have the intestinal fortitude to hang a tent off a sheer cliff 1,000 feet up in the air.  I’ve already done a bunch of marathons and triathlons, though.  I was swimming in the first leg of the inaugural Ironman Utah when a fellow participant drowned in chaotic, whipped-up waves.  I’ve done the swim from Alcatraz a dozen or so times.  I got a black belt in karate many years ago, having to do some objectively impossible stuff along the way.  Holding my legs in a squat for 90 minutes while resisting the urge to vomit and pass out, for example.  Facing a long line of far more experienced black belts, one after another, who tried to punch my lights out.  Also while resisting the urge to vomit and pass out. 

So I think I have a handle on what it means to extend oneself.  Push the limits.  Learn who you really are.  What you’re really made of. But it’s been a long time since I explored those limits.  Really pushed myself. 

Instead, now at 46 years old, I realize that I’ve settled into a comfortable pattern of daily physical activity.  Too-comfortable.  The kind that can mostly be quantified by the plastic band I wear on my left wrist and monitor obsessively. I can’t remember the last truly difficult or nerve-wracking physical task I undertook.  I don’t think I can even remember the last time I caught a whiff or fleeting glimpse of my own limits.  Out there somewhere off in the distance.  Around the bend. I fear I may have lost touch with who I really am and what I’m really made of.  I miss that feeling, too. 

So I would like to take a gander at those limits in 2015.  I’m not sure how, but I would like to get back there.

Wish me luck.  

Thanks for reading.

Hurricane Wailea has expanded the scope of her diet once again.  In the past, I’ve chronicled her adventures devouring playing cards, US currency, leather boots, leather gloves, and the like.  But last week, our black Lab-ish pup outdid herself.

We brought her up to Lake Tahoe for her first encounter with the snow.  She jumped out of the hatchback into the white stuff with aplomb.  Dancing around as if she were playing in the sand by Crissy Field.  Several photos and videos were captured, Snapfished, and Instagrammed for posterity.  All was right in the world.

And then the bottom dropped out.  Not immediately, but definitely literally and figuratively — the bottom dropped out.  Of the trash bag.  In the garage downstairs.  While we were all, for the most part, gone for the day at Kirkwood cajoling and coddling our kids.  We entrusted the care of our dog to a normally very trustworthy family friend.  Let’s call him “Jack.”  (“Jack” may or may not be his real name.)  Others in our group who were headed to the mountain also so entrusted him with their own dogs. 

Now, though it may seem that I am about to throw Jack under the bus, let me be clear:  I am. 

You see, Jack neglected to quiz us about Wailea’s culinary predilections.  Rather than take pen, pad and clipboard in-hand, Jack merely kept his seat at the kitchen table, continued working on his sleek iPad, and generally gave us the reassuring sense of confidence in his being up to the task.  I have yet to encounter a task to which Jack has not been up, quite frankly.  But still, he really should have sat us down, insisted that we painstakingly fill out a lengthy questionnaire regarding fruits, veggies and such, in the interest of being thorough.  Any serious dog-watcher would do this. 

When we returned later in the afternoon, with sore quads, runny noses, and matted hair, the rising garage door revealed something awful.  Terrible.  Nauseating.  The garbage (we’d call it “compost” in San Francisco, but it’s “garbage” in Tahoe), stowed carefully in a large white plastic bag, had been ripped asunder.  As if a bomb had exploded its insides.  The horrific scene was exacerbated by the kids’ melodramatic dry heaves.  Another friend of mine (let’s call him “Raj”) and I went to work, barely suppressing our own dry heaves, literally shoveling the spewn contents back into the inadequate Hefty bag.  I would recount the various items I shoveled, but I would rather not.  Suffice to say, it was the detritus from the breakfasts, lunches and dinners our tribe of 13 humans had concocted and consumed (mostly) over the last several days. 

Yuck.

My wife and I immediately launched into a defensive posture, blaming the other dogs for ripping into the trash.  (Of course we blamed Jack, as well.  For not keeping the dogs in line during our absence.  He doesn’t blog, as far as I know, so the sound of his his skull rattling under that bus will continue on during this particular paragraph.)  Our dog would never eat trash.  Never.  It must have been the other furry beasts in our group.  Shame on them!  And shame on their careless owners!

Our nagging suspicion as to the true garbage-eating culprit was jarringly confirmed several hours later, at 3am.  That’s when Wailea seemingly turned her stomach inside out, revealing to us her illicit behavior with the Hefty bag. Among other tidbits within the squirrel-sized, um, bolus, were some coffee grounds, as I recall.  Hilary and I did our best rendition of Harvey Keitel’s “The Wolf” in Pulp Fiction, erased from our minds what we have done (for our own peace of mind and mental health), and then settled back into bed. Satisfied that this was but an isolated incident.

Two days later, we packed our little Prius up for the four-hour drive back home to San Francisco.  Of course we carved out a very humanely-sized area in the rear for Wailea. Complete with her little doggie pillow for her little doggie bed.  We had obviously long-since repressed the memory of the 3am vomit-fest.  Vomit-fest?  What vomit-fest?

An hour into the drive, 9 year-old Everett suddenly and violently objected to a noxious scent he detected, immediately and falsely accusing his father (that’s me) of some inappropriate flatulent behavior.  Moments later, the scent wafted towards the front of the car.  It was not of this earth.  Hilary and I began snapping our heads around in the vehicle, as if the offending thing would somehow become immediately visible.  Adrenaline-fueled, I fairly skidded to the side of the road, fishtailing into a local floral shop’s parking lot, so as to permit a full-vehicle inspection.  The inspection was short-lived.  We found another, um, bolus, on Wailea’s little doggie pillow.  I’ll spare you the gory details, except to say that I did spy in my brief glimpse a whole avocado pit.  How Wailea managed to keep that pit in her belly, polish it up, and produce it two days later I will never know. Regardless, Harvey Keitel makes another cameo, all scary things are repressed with forced smiles and some false bravado humming, and we are back on track.  Convinced that (a) this never happened, and (b) if it did happen, it surely would never happen again.

Yesterday, we fell easily back into our post-vacation work and school schedule.  Still basking in the Norman Rockwellian images from our time at Kirkwood. Trading effervescent texts and emails with the group of friends that had all thoroughly enjoyed one another’s company. 

But Wailea wasn’t yet ready to release her own grip on the Sierra Nevada, apparently.  In the afternoon, I found another, um, bolus, on her little doggie pillow (which had been returned to its rightful position in her little doggie crate).  Flabbergasted by our pup’s magical stomach, I studied the, um, bolus, with an archeologist’s intensity, and identified a baseball card-sized chunk of pineapple skin.  Harvey, repress the memory, back to happy happy.

A day later, and it now appears that Wailea’s gastrointestinal tour de force has at long last reached its conclusion. Which is a good thing, because I think another incident would likely trigger a full-blown eruption of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder across my entire family.  PTSD averted, thankfully, though we won’t be serving coffee, guacamole or pineapple upside down cake anytime soon. 

Thanks for reading.