It’s almost Thanksgiving in the states and we’ve been busy baking pies and tracing hand turkeys. Making a hand turkey is tough when you’ve got hooves or otter hands. Bishop makes a pretty wicked looking turkey with his giant polar bear paws. You have to lay out four pieces of paper just to make his whole hand fit.
Since Thanksgiving is all about giving thanks I asked everyone to share three things that they are thankful for.
Low wind days when you have to fly to the grocery store
Decent WiFi signals
Mr. C. Cow is thankful for…
Free snack vendors
We are all thankful for so many different things but have one thing in common. Each other. We are thankful to have each other. We’re also thankful for all of you that read our postcards every week. Without friendship, love, and all of you none of this would be possible.
With an enormous camper comes enormous responsibilities. If you’re going to drive a camper you need to make sure that your backing up skills are on point. Parking skills must be polished. Knowing how to properly read warning signs so you don’t run off of a cliff or into a zombie horde.
When Mr. C. Cow drives I worry that he’ll forget to use his side mirrors. One of these days he’s going to merge into something unmergable. Until he remembers that side mirrors are your friend he’s restricted to driving in little to no traffic.
There are so many other things you need to remember when driving a camper. Always be aware of how tall your vehicle is. Getting stuck under a bridge does not make you friends. It consistently makes people upset and costs a lot of money to repair damages. Also pay attention to height limit signs at parking garages. I once hit a parking height sign while driving a van. A lovely woman yelled words at me that I cannot repeat here in polite company. This has made me extremely aware of how tall my vehicle is. My advice is to not try to park a camper in a parking garage.
There is a camper driving habit that I am desperate for Mr. C. Cow to break. I can understand driving through tunnels while on the highway. It beats trying to take a vehicle straight up a mountain. What Mr. C. doesn’t understand is that you don’t always have to drive through a tunnel. Or in his case, drive off the road and into a cave.
Driving off of the road to go into cave is not responsible. When that cave looks like a giant skull about to eat your vehicle it is not only irresponsible but it is reckless. Mr. C. Cow thinks it’s fun. I think that, one day, something is going to eat us.
I hope that, if you plan on purchasing a camper in the future, you are a responsible owner/driver. Beware of low bridges. Learn to back up correctly. Don’t drive into caves with teeth.
I am exasperated over all of the rain we have had these past few days. The sun has decided to take a vacation from our neck of the woods. The sky has looked like night decided to overstay its welcome and my hair has frizzed out WAY beyond the normal, safe levels. My locks have been on “defcon puff” alert so much that the alarms have not stopped warning me that my entire head may be taken over by a hair army. It’s wet out.
Side Note: I hate it when it is “misting” outside. Either rain or go home weather! Go all in or get out!
When my hair gets to critical mass and Mr. C. Cow is moo-crying over his hoofs getting muddy we know it’s not the weather for us. One time I caught Mr. C. Cow washing his muddy hoofs in the kitchen sink. This takes considerable stretching exercises beforehand to be able to put a hoof in a sink. It might get dirt all over the place but at least he’s exercising.
When it showers outside I like to curl up with a good book. Maybe a glass of wine. Wrap myself up like a fuzzy blanket burrito on the couch. Mr. C. Cow is the complete opposite. It’s like precipitation drives him bonkers. He has to do EVERYTHING all at once. Put together a puzzle while playing cards. Bake a cake and a pie while tap dancing in the kitchen. When it’s not raining outside he’s more than content to be a lump on the floor watching television. I’m not sure if precipitation hyperactivity is a thing but it sure is for him.
So far today he’s reorganized the spice cupboard in alphabetical order and made a reminder list to remind himself to make a list to remember. If Mr. C. Cow is going to get so wound up then I might be able to get him to clean his muddy hoof prints off the kitchen ceiling.
Fall is in the air and it’s one of the best seasons of the year to hit up a farmers market.
I know that Summer is also a good time. Spring isn’t bad either. Autumn markets are the prime time for buying if you’re into the squash, pumpkins, and brussels sprouts. They are also great for those of us who have to plan a unique and enormous Thanksgiving holiday menu. When you have guests that don’t eat meat, are usually considered the “main entrée”, and won’t eat asparagus (Who doesn’t like asparagus??!!??) it can be a challenge.
Mr. C. Cow went with me on what he called my “squash quest” to start planning the holiday feast. I think he only wanted to come along because it involves food and questing. Anything that he considers a “quest” always needs a heroic cow sidekick. I don’t know how much protection I need on a “squash quest” but I’ll take the extra set of helping hoofs to carry groceries.
As luck has it I was able to get a good idea on what to serve this year without it involving meat or (sigh) asparagus. No warlocks tried to block my way to the market. Not a single booby trap was tripped while walking from the camper. We didn’t even see any forbidding signs telling us to “beware”. I think the quest protection was not needed but Mr. C. Cow said his being there was working.
Speaking of Mr. C. Cow, he seemed to find the whole farmers market thing amusing. Before you could say “But I like asparagus!” he was standing next to a cart juggling gourds. I don’t think the gourd seller appreciated it until I gave him a few dollars for the juggled produce. When Mr. C. attempted to trade an old shoestring he found in his pocket for an apple from an agitated orchard grower, I was able to distract him with snacks.
Holiday meal planning takes a lot of time and effort when you’re trying to do the best you can for all of your family and friends. I’m glad I have enough time to get a menu all planned out. Maybe Mr. C. Cow can resist the urge to haggle or juggle the next time we’re at a market and help me out. At least he kept me safe from warlocks.
Marslean is the one that asked that we not serve any asparagus at this years meal. I don’t think we’ve ever served it for Thanksgiving but she insisted it not be on the table. After explaining that it wasn’t even in season, she was still adamant that we not serve it. I’m going to have to find out if this is a taste thing or a fear thing. If it’s fear then would it be “asparagaphobia”?
I apologize for the lack of a postcard last week Thursday. Mr. C. Cow has been taking typing lessons and spend the entire day practicing. He’s trying to get his “words per minute” speed up from three to ten. Typing with hoofs can’t be easy and finding out that words like “dfa;ejoiardd” and “areraeasdereeee” are not real can be frustrating. Mr. C. could use “talk to type” but he’s determined to do it on his own. I’m glad he’s putting a little effort into it with the classes and practice.
Since Mr. C. Cow was preoccupied with his work, I spent the day at a petting zoo feeding the animals. I must say that I never thought this would be a relaxing way to pass the time. Normally this would be a stressed filled activity involving the feeding of wildlife as well as the feeding of Mr. C. I should call it “expensive and stressful”.
Being an otter, I am naturally curious as to why other animals choose the career path of professional zoo animal. A pro zoo animal is hard enough but being a pro petting zoo animal must be harder. Not only do you have to be on public display but people are always trying to pet you. I don’t even like it when someone touches my beehive. Germs is another reason why I could never take this type of work. Who knows where those hands have been!
I asked a lot of different animals why they decided to get into the professional petting zoo field. The chipmunks were all about the free food. A llama told me it was for the great dental benefits. One goat told me she was doing it to help pay for her liberal arts degree. I can understand the need to make a living. More power to all you zoo animals out there!
When I returned from my educational excursion, Mr. C. Cow was eating a peanut butter banana sandwich and watching old reruns of “As The Cowbell Tings”. Sneaking a peek at his timed typing practice quizzes, I noticed he increased his word count from three to a solid twelve. In celebration of his mastery over a keyboard I should take him to the petting zoo sometime. With extra food to keep the costs down and a cocktail to calm my nerves.
I’ve been to a lot of different kinds of bars before. Cocktail bars. Salad bars. I’ve even tasted a candy bar at the risk of losing my girlish otter figure. Mr. C. Cow has decided to “raise the bar” by finding us one that involves nachos.
When I think of a nacho bar, I keep picturing a bunch of cheesy tortilla chips kicking back, having a beer, discussing the pros and cons of jalapeños. I know this can’t be true as tortilla chips prefer to discuss the market price of tomatoes.
Mr. C. Cow, being smart in the food department, knows I’m just being silly and informs me that a nacho bar just involves the opportunity to make as many nachos as possible. If you want to eat fifty plates of nachos that are only covered in lettuce and salsa then knock yourself out. I don’t know how one could eat fifty plates but Mr. C. has goals.
I do have a bit of a nacho problem as I want to try all of the toppings but can’t seem to fit them onto one plate. Mr. C. Cow suggested I skip the tiny plates and use a hubcap from the camper instead. I don’t feel like washing cheese off of a hubcap so I’ll just skip the whole process. He can partake in the all you can eat while I find the type of bar that serves craft beers.
After I had a few libations, I felt it was time to call it a day. The camper was parked for the evening and I just wanted to go to bed. Mr. C. Cow wasn’t done making nachos so he decided to use a surfboard to carry his creations back to the camper. A surfboard is almost as ridiculous as a hubcap plate but a little more awkward due to length. How was he going to get it in the camper? How many nachos does it take to fill a surfboard? Is it safe to try to walk down stairs with a nacho surfboard?
To combat the stairs he kinda nacho surfed the board down, carefully, not losing a single jalapeño or chip. We should start a nacho surfing competition. Give out prizes for style. Points lost if you lose a topping.
On that note, I bid you all a good day but before I finish today’s postcard I want to leave you with a joke.
What do you call cheese that isn’t yours? Nacho cheese!
There is a right way and a wrong way to sit on a bench covered in flowers. The right way is to not sit directly on them. Bench flowers are for looking not for sitting. The wrong way is to sit directly on them and get a thorn stuck in your butt. A massive thorn in your booty is no laughing matter.
It’s no laughing matter when the rump in question just happens to belong to Mr. C. Cow. You can’t explain to a cow how a seat might not actually be a seat but more like a nature art piece. Mr. C. does not grasp this concept and this is how we ended up with a thorn in his backside.
Don’t worry about his bum. After the initial “OMG! I’VE BEEN HIT!”, followed by the process of chasing him around to get it out, we were pretty cool about the whole thing. Mr. C. Cow now has a flower seat war story to tell and I just got to say “fanny” in different ways already in this postcard.
I like the concept of individuals taking items that are not usually thought to be gardening pots and just going with it. An old boot with a cactus in it. A mason jar growing herbs for the kitchen. Mr. C. Cow once grew a potato plant in a hula hoop. Ok. So the potatoes weren’t exactly in the hoop. It was more like he threw the hoop around it and called it a day.
We’re not too bad in the container gardening department. I’m not saying that my paws are green. Quite the contrary. They are more furry brown and small. Mr. C. Cow only has green hoofs when he wear shoes. We once, as a team, accidentally grew too much mint and it made Bishop quite upset. So we grew it in the bucket of a bulldozer. Big deal? Yeah…it’s a big deal! While we thought it was a good place for a plant, Bishop was not happy when he tried to bulldoze things. He could have, at least, appreciated the aroma and cocktail possibilities we had created. Bishop was not amused or appreciative.
I think that we can say that we’ve learned a few valuable life lessons with today’s postcard. Don’t sit on nature or you’ll hurt your keister. If you’re going to do some container gardening ask before using something that doesn’t belong to you. Disapproving polar bears are no laughing matter.
All photos were taken by me in the virtual world of Second Life.
As I said on our last postcard, the area we went to had three distinct areas for us to explore. We thought we would share all of them. Here are the links to the past two postcards if you would like to check it out:
What does “S.K.A.T.E”? stand for exactly? “Secret Karate And Tater Tot Enterprises” was the answer that Mr. C. Cow came up with. I think he just wants to eat tots while doing his “sweet karate moves”. I’m thinking more on the lines of “Selling Kale At The Emporium”. Since there doesn’t seem to be any tater tots or kale around we’re just going to assume they want us to roller skate and not ask too many questions.
Mr. C. Cow is the master of roller skating. I chalk this up to being able to find skates for hoofs. I have a hard time finding any for weeny otter feet and usually end up sitting inside one giant skate. It is pretty comical because all you can see is the top of my beehive as I wheel myself around.
This roller skating rink was pretty funky because there was a colossal tube of lipstick just, randomly, sitting next to some storage lockers. It didn’t look used, but I told Mr. C. Cow that he was not allowed to put any one. You don’t know where it’s been. For all we know it could belong to a giant retro 80’s skate princess with a cold. If a regular cold is bad enough I’m afraid to know what a giant’s retro cold would be like.
The plus side to all of this wheeling myself around in one roller skate and blocking Mr. C. Cow from a grave lipstick error, was the entertainment. As DJ Bass Bear spun a set of 80’s tunes (that felt like you were in some sort of weird film), Mr. C. spun around beautifully in a helicopter whirlwind of flare. At least that is what others told me. When you’re stuck in one roller skate trying to do your thing it’s kinda hard to see. I hope someone at least took a video or a picture for later viewing!
This was a lovely, yet short, excursion from traveling on the road. Mr. C. Cow could have went on skate dancing all night but I was starting to get a bit uncomfortable in my roller skate. I hadn’t packed my personal one so I had to rent one from the rink. Fear of foot odors past and a feeling that I needed a good shower cut our visit short. Next time I’ll remember to pack my own skate. One that fits well enough so I can watch Mr. C. and his helicopter whirlwind flare moves.
Mr. C. Cow came up to me the other day with his front hoofs shaking away. It was like he was waving at me with both hoofs in a jolly, yet strange manner. When Mr. C. informed me that he had the “jazz hoofs”, I started to dial for a doctor. “Jazz hoofs” sounded contagious. I was afraid that he would shake so much that a body part might fall off and I would find myself in a similar situation. To my surprise, Mr. C. Cow took the phone from me, hung it up, and told me it wasn’t some sort of weird disease. Must say that I was mighty relieved!
The reason for the rhythmic hoof shaking was the many hours we had spent listening to Big Band music. Maybe we overdid it a wee bit while driving down the highway. Twelve hours of swinging music would cause anyone to do a jazz hoof thing. After extensive research we decided that the only way to cure “jazz hoofs” (without a doctor) was to visit a jazz club.
Leave it to Mr. C. Cow to find the only jazz club on the planet (possibly the universe) that employed a dragon as a bartender.
Usually you see a dragon employed as a gym instructor or motivational speaker. This just goes to show that you should never judge anyone based on color/gender/species. Frank, the dragon bartender, informed us that his parents wanted him to find work as a cardio workout instructor but he felt more inclined to light cocktails on fire. Who can blame him? Lighting drinks on fire sounds like a great way to make some cash. As long as you remind everyone to blow out their drink before sipping your good to go.
To alleviate the “jazz hoof” shaking that Mr. C. Cow had going on he made his way to the front of the dance floor. Swaying to the beautiful moo-sic was not only therapeutic but also fun to watch. If you’ve never watched a cow dance to the beat of a trumpet then you’re missing out on life. After a while, a snow leopard offered to be his dance partner. Together they proved to be more than adequate at the Charleston.
Hoofs shaking to the musical beat has taught us a few things today. We’ve learned that a doctor is not needed when you get a case of the “jazz hoofs”. To cure this, all you need is a good jazz club with great music and amazing company. When you first meet someone you should never judge them based on looks or background. Every individual is unique and that is what makes the world a wonderful place to live.
One last thing that we’ve learned today….It’s important to blow out a fire on a flaming cocktail so you don’t catch your face on fire.
It’s very difficult to find hiking boots that fit a tiny otter foot (paw…flipper…whatever..). Since my foot is so small others have suggested that I look in the children’s shoe section for a better size. Children with feet my size do not hike. They kinda waddle around and fall down a lot. No real market for hiking boots.
Mr. C. Cow can, strangely enough, find boots in his hoof size but has the problem of having to buy two pairs. Four hoofs = two pairs of hiking boots. He’s usually very thrifty and waits for a “buy one, get one half off” sale. As for where he gets boots for hoofs, I assume it’s the same place he finds anything else that fits a cow. The internet. Maybe I should browse the world-wide web for otter shoes.
Boot shopping aside, today we went camping instead of our usual nightly stay in the camper. The weather has been merciful so it’s not too hot or rainy to put up a tent. Gives me an opportunity to wash and hang bed sheets outside while giving Mr. C. Cow the opportunity to search for the perfect stick to roast s’mores on.
My laundry endeavor was going brilliantly while Mr. C. Cow’s s’more stick search was not. I had managed to wash and hang multiple loads of blankets while he moo-plained about “this stick is too short” and “this stick looks too sticky”. In exchange for his help, I promised to help him find the perfect stick. His help proved to be pretty amazing as his blanket hanging skills made our campsite look like some sort of hippy blanket den. Right on!
As for the s’more stick search, this proved to be more difficult than I had imagined. Who knew that a stick had to be the perfect length, height, and width, as well as have a balanced marshmallow surface ratio. How am I suppose to figure out this whole surface balance ratio thing? Do I need to use a calculator or a protractor? Do we even own a protractor? Does anyone, actually, own a protractor and use it the correct way that isn’t a mathematician?
After much measuring and calculating, the proper s’more stick was put into service. To optimize our marshmallow output, our stick was able to accommodate, comfortably, twenty-three marshmallows. I, personally, don’t see the point of roasting twenty-three marshmallows for two individuals. Mr. C. Cow, on the other hand, does not see the point in not taking advantage of such a fine specimen of s’more stick.
One Cow + One Otter + Three Marshmallows Roasted = Two For Mr. C. Cow And One For Me. This seems like proper math! Mr. C. Cow, on the other hand, sees it as twenty-two for himself and one for me. Fair? Not really, but I don’t want more than one anyways. Here’s to hoping he doesn’t get marshmallow sick.