The Dog Thief

So, yeh. The story goes like this....Finishing up a wonderful trip to Mexico, it was now time to think about how to get back on a plane and head for home. For those of you wondering "how hard can that be?" have never been to Punta Allen. Not that this particular paradise is difficult, let's just say you have to be creative when it comes to travel. The road in and out of this small fishing village is a beachie, rutted, weathered road that has survived centuries of hurricanes, rain storms and constant deterioration. Although it is traveled quite often, it is not a road that anyone I know would want to travel everyday as your kidneys, neck and back would surely suffer, but the pay off in beauty and genuine community was well worth the bumpy ride. I digress. Back to my story. I was due to fly out in a few days and needed to find a ride from Punta Allen to Tulum and was told that a local restaurant proprietor was planning to go to Tulum the next morning. I had met this proprietor, Mike, on a few evenings as we sat at his bar and ate delicious food and drank lovely drinks called "La las". A La la can only be described as yummy goodness concocted of a mix of Baileys, Kahlua, maybe rum and something else truly scrumtious. La las are so good you really have to watch yourself or they will knock you on your arse. So, my new friend Miri and I decide to ride our bikes down to this bar and inquire as to a ride to Tulum the next morning for myself. I decided that it was only fitting that I buy Miri a La la on our last night in Punta Allen, so I strap my little handbag on my side and we head for Mike's. A few blocks and a few peddle strokes later and we are belly up at Mike's bar chugging down La las and discussing my travels to Tulum the next morning. The travel plans in place, it was time to pay Mike and head back. Whoa! My little purse handbag is gone. Hmmm? How many La las did I have? Did I actually bring some money? Did I leave it at our last stop? The mystery was beginning. I rode my bike all over that damn town that night desperately looking for my little purse that contained only a small amount of cash as a small point and shoot camera. I finally felt my defeat and decided to sacrifice the purse and it's contents to the La la gods and went to bed. Early the next morning, feeling refreshed a flushed off some of the effects of La La, I decided to jump on the bike and do one last tour-de-Punta-Allen in search of my purse. Up and down the streets where I had been the night before proved to be worthless. I rode down to Mike's one last time and happened to see a dog run away from the front of Mike's tavern. I see a small clump of something in the dusty roadway. As I approach closer, I recognize the shape of my small handbag. Covered in dog slobber and mud, it lay in the middle of an array of scratches and dents in the roadway around the purse - indicating that this dog had been having a purse tossing party all night. A corner of the handbag was chewed off and new stylish bitemarks were adorning the purse now. I picked it up and unzipped to reveal all the contents being intact. Turns out, Mike's dog at the tavern has been accused of this disasterous deed before. He gingerly snagged my purse right off the bench beside me as I slothed down La las! I think Mike trained him to do this ! Now, the picture you see, is not Mike's dog, but if you have ever been to Mexico, most of the dogs look alike anyways. So, beware......when drinking La las, tie your purse to your waist and hold on - you never know when a clepto-Mexican dog is stalking you!

Blood Suckers

For those of you who genuinely hate blood-thirsty pests, more commonly known as mosquitos will appreciate this story. I will not go into what started this mess to begin with, because, well, that's a whole other blog entirely. So, lets just say, I was really stressed out on a beautiful Thursday afternoon! Hard to believe that a simple phone call could desinegrate my entire attitude for the day but, nonetheless, I was pissed and needed an escape. If you have read any of my previous blogs you will realize how much I like to fish. It is a great sport that allows me to mindlessly cast my worries and problems out into the middle of a lake while enjoying the scenery and allowing myself to get caught up in the excitement of a biting fish. A nice little excursion for me that is close and can be accomplished in an afternoon. I race home after work and pack all, well almost all of the necessities for an early evening of fishing! The one most single important thing, that I will find out later, was bug spray that did not make it into my car! I throw my cell phone in the glove box, pretty much punishing it for the news I received and determined that I was not going to let my night get any worse by answering the phone again. Hummed my way up the pass to the closest lake, Dumont Lake. It sits, nestled below Rabbit Ears Pass, a really beautiful setting! Knowing that the air gets colder in the mountains, I put long pants on and a long sleeve shirt as I was not going to let coldness ruin my short vacation. Upon arrival, I jump out of my rig and high tail it to the lake shore a mere 100 yard walk with all my gear. I no longer set my bags and poles down, when I detected a buzzing. I look around and notice that yes, there are quite a few mosquitos hanging around my little vacation destination. Bummer, no spray! But, hey, I have long pants and a good shirt. Maybe my feet, adourned in Keen boat shoes, my hands and face will be the only areas affected by these little pests. I continue on, afterall, I am not going to let stupid bugs further ruin my day. So I cast, slap, reel-in, slap, slap. Cast out again, slap, slap and shake my legs because I notice I am collecting quite a flock of bugs on my pant legs. Slap, curse, slap! Slap, slap, reel in a little trout, slap, cast out again. Slap, shake, slap, shake, wiggle my butt because the little buggers are collecting on my posh deriere. Brutal. After an hour and a half, and three fish later, I am tired, mostly from slapping and shaking, and head back to the car. I am eaten up, but at least the stress I was feeling earlier in the day is now overshadowed by the feeling that I have lost 10 pounds of blood via mosquito. Quite sure, I have many bug bites and feeling worm guts under my fingernails, I decide to head straight for the shower after arriving home! Now, as we all know, mosquito poison takes a few hours to materialize under your skin. At least that is my theory. You never really know you have been bitten until the next day or so, when the bite flares up, boil sized, and sends you into such a scratching frenzy that makes you want to take a pocket knife out and actually cut out the infected area. I got up for work the next morning and first noticed my feet. Every inch of space on each foot that had not been covered in Keen material, was red and had a really nice bumpy surface. I ambled into the bathroom, naked and turned in the mirror to inspect the insect damage. If I wasn't so modest, I would post a picture of the half eaten ass that was now my posterior. I had bites on top of bites! The mosquitos must have been mating and decided to have a smoke and a bite of my butt when they were finished! In fact, I think some of them had their babies and then offered my butt up as nourishment for their young. I had so many bites, bruises were forming. Yep, bug hematomas! Thank heavens my face, survived the ordeal!

I guess if there is a lesson to be learned it is this: Always pack bug spray if you are planning to run away from your problems. The things that "bug" you can always swarm up and bite you in the ass if you don't take precautions.

My rear is healing, I am laughing out loud at myself, and the problem that I was so stressed out to begin with paled in comparison to the itchy scratchiness I felt for almost a week!

Another stupid fish story

So for those of you who know me and those lucky enough to be getting to know me :) , must know that I enjoy fishing from time to time. A very theraputic sport that allows me to float around in my small inflatable raft and take in the awesome scenery that keeps me in Colorado. A week ago, more or less, I had a very successful day at Dumont Lake just east of Steamboat. Successful, in that, it was a beautiful evening, I caught six gorgeous fish, and Lenny (the 9month old terror puppy) had a blast playing in and around the lake. We raced home with our trophy fish on ice intending to clean the fish at home. It is fall here in Steamboat and as soon as the sun starts to go down, it is getting quite chilly. So, the thought of cleaning the fish at the lake was just too cold for me. Much better to be in my nice warm garage! Remembering the stench from the warm weeks before, when I had put the fish guts in the trash can, I had hoped that my dear Mark would perhaps take the bag of fish guts and dispose them at his office dumpster. Monday morning rolled around and the fish guts remained on the shop table in the garage. Tuesday rolled around and the fish guts remained in the bag in the garage.

I have been on a diet and trying to eat well during the week. On this particular Tuesday, I was scheduled to eat a tuna sandwich. (Do you see this story tying in together at all????) Anyways, since I'm on this diet, I make the trek home to make my tuna sandwich. I venture into the backyard to check on Lenny and for some reason he is glued to the garage. I proceed to investigate and voila', there are fish guts strung from one end of the garage to the other and Lenny is looking down in shame. Gag! Gag! Gag! I decide that I have to pick them up then and there because I cannot continue to allow Lenny to feast on rotting fish intestines and such. After feeling the vomit rise in my throat several times, I manage to get the remaining fish guts back into a bag and then double bag them. Taking the bag to my own car, I decide that I am going to have to take control of the destiny of these fish guts and dispose of them myself. Gag....again.

But, now I am starving, did I mention the diet? Grrr! Ever try to eat a tuna fish sandwich with rotted fish gut smell on your hands? I was so hungry, yet so smelly. Fish smell does not go away after washing your hands 51 times. I know. I did it. So, here I am, trying to throw pieces of tuna fish sandwich into the air and into my mouth so my hands don't go near my nose and gross me out. Needless to say, I only ate half of the sandwich, Lenny got the rest.

You'll shoot yer eye out !

Accidents always come in threes! Thank heavens I didn't have access to a Red Rider BB gun or I would have been in trouble yesterday. After hearing my stupid ramblings, you'll appreciate why I've decided that I rather like my new black eye!

Now, lets just say it all started with the makings of a sty! Yes, girls, a sty in my eye! Don't ask me what a sty is, but whatever this painful bump is underneath my lower eyelid is, I am choosing to call it a sty. Cause it sounds cool. So, my sty-eye is already sore and looking good, mind you, when I decide to wrestle with my loveable baby dog, Lenny. Now, for those of you that know Lenny, he is adorable and huge at the same time with paws that could squash a watermelon better than a sledgehammer (for those of you who remember Gallagher). All it took was one swipe with the paw and I ended up with a nice deep scratch along my upper eyelid on the same eye. Cute. He looked at me with his baby dog eyes and was forgiven in an instant. But, now I was looking a bit abused. Did I mention that it was a beautiful Sunday afternoon? Yes girls, a perfect afternoon to go fishing. I had broken my fishing pole the weekend prior and all I needed to do was to re-string another pole and voi'la - I was off fishing! I found the perfect rod, the perfect wire, perfect reel, so there I sit on the front porch stringing up the new magnificant pole. During this tedius process I took the upper end of the pole off to make the pole stringing process a bit easier than trying to work with the full length of the pole. By placing the lower pole between my knees, I could concetrate on tying perfect knots and getting my lures ready. Damn! Dropped the lure. Reach down to grab it off the porch just as the end of the pole gauges my eye. Yep, blood running down my cheek making Mark consider 9-1-1 on the speed dial. Now, fortunately, I missed my eye BALL by a mere centimeter, but ended up with a nice cut just below the sty. Kinda hoped I'd hit the sty and kill two birds with one stone - OR - kill two stys with one pole - something like that.....

So, I am rather proud of my black eye, cause it could have been so much worse. So girls, if you start getting a pimple on your ass - don't, I mean DON'T go near a fishing pole !

How many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie roll tootsie pop?

Things I thought I didn't know. What have you learned about life thats worth sharing?