Sure, it's cute until somebody gets hurt.

On days like today, I both love and hate my job.

First, let me say that I love electricity.  That probably sounds weird to most people, especially when you consider that I'm a girl.  But what I see that most people don't, is that electricity is like a beautiful, but wild, animal.  It is an amazing, sleak creature with slick black fur and deep green eyes.  We all use it every day.  It makes our lives better.  We are amazed by the things it can do and often take for granted it's beauty.  Just like the wild animal, if treated properly and with appropriate respect, it can amaze us and improve our lives.  But, if we mistreat it, abuse it, or take it's wild nature for granted, then it becomes that viscious beast that will kill us without a moment's hesitation.  Oh, there are some who live to tell about the attack, but I would dare say, none who want to repeat the encounter.
Yes, to me, electricity is a beautiful and viscious thing to be handled with great care.

Now, I come to days like today.  My job, essentially, is to keep the beast in check.  To know how it must be treated and cared for and make sure that those who use it do the same.  I want the people to know that this quiet killer lurking inside their walls has been properly contained so it never presents any unexpected or uninvited danger to them or their families.  On a day like today, where I find gross mishandling of the beast, it infuriates me.  Don't try to walk up and take a picture of that wild bison, they say.  It can turn in an instant and kill you.  Oh, you have a really fancy camera and you read a photography book you got at Home depot?  Well, why didn't you say so.  Sure, you are qualified to walk up to any wild animal and take it's picutre and it won't harm you.  Just make sure it knows about the book from Home Depot.

I have heard it all.  "A trained monkey can pull wire."  "It's just from here to there and slap in a plug, what's the big deal?"

"I don't understand why something so harmless needs so many critical procedures and practices to follow."
  I suppose the hundreds of man hours spent studying about electricity and then writing directions for it's safe use are just a big waste of time.
"It's my house, I can install the wiring without any training or knowledge.  Don't forget, I have that book from Home Depot to follow."
  I guess by that thinking, it's my body, I should be able to prescibe my own medications and do my own surgeries.  I'm sure there's a medical book to tell me how to do it.  I have to go to medical school to treat other patients, but I don't have to have any formal training to put a sleek, wild, black panther in every livingroom and hope it doesn't eat the owners.  I don't even have to tell them I put it there and they can just live in blissful ignorance and hope they don't do something to set it off.

Over the years I have seen so many scary things.  It's like watching people walking ignorantly on the edge of a cliff and wanting to drag them to safety, but not being able to.

Breathe Jane, just breathe.  Being passionate about it only gives you heartburn because you can only do what you can do.

But, I will keep learning about the beast.  I will watch it and do my best to protect others from it as well.  But, then as the saying goes, you can't fix stupid.  There will always be that one person who thinks it's so pretty that it has to be safe.  Just remember, we all use electricity every day, and we do it, for the most part, safely.  But, that's because there are always people like me out there watching the beast and working to keep it safely in it's cage where it's beauty can be enjoyed, and it's danger avoided.

Now, why can't this nice hotel  have a microwave in the room?

Snow drifts, cold and puppy dog tales

Oh the weather outside is frightful! You know you just sang the next line.  The weather here in Western Wyoming has been as frightful as I've ever seen for many years.  Idaho and Utah are having the same fun.  Frigid cold, snow up to my knees, howling winds, school closures, road closures, ya, pretty awesome.  Not a huge deal for me.  I lived in Eastern Idaho most of my life, and this was just par for the course.  (I know, I don't know why I live here either.)  We, my husband and I, live in a house full of furry children.  No, we don't have really hairy kids.  Well, some of them are pretty hairy, but they don't live in our house.  I am referring to our four legged children, and yes, to us, they are family.  Some Dave got stuck with because they were just part of the baggage he was willing to take on when he took on me.  You have to realize that he had never had a pet live in the house, so the idea of accepting my fur babies along with me was a huge compromise on his part.  The funny thing is, since they have lived with us, he has suddenly come to understand how it's possible to love these furry beasts, and, we have now, together, added two additional babies; another dog, and another cat.  So, back to my story of cold and snow.  On a night as cold as last night was, with the blowing and drifting snow, Buddy, the yellow lab who normally spends most of his time outside, was invited to sleep in the house.  Buddy!  He is an 80 pound toddler.  He loves to hop around with his big, pink tongue lolling out of his mouth like he's smiling.  He's always so happy.  He loves to run and he doesn't know he's 80 pounds.  He thinks he's small, like the other three pets.  He can't quite figure out, though, why they fit through the pet door and can come inside whenever they want, and he can't.  He frequently whines and jumps against the patio door, thinking that will help him get inside.  So, giant Buddy is now in the house along with Frank, the miniature Dachshund, Carl, the unusually large Siamese/Manx cross, and Rita, our little feral rescue kitten who believes herself to now be the queen of the world.  So, with everyone in the house, freezing temperatures and drifted snow outside, this is how my morning went.
     I wake up, walk in the living room to find the giant lab reclining on the couch.  He opens one eye, rolls his head back towards me and looks at me as if to say, "is it time for breakfast."  Of course, I fill his bowl with food, heat the bacon grease on the stove and pour it over his kibble to give him a little extra fat for these cold days.  He has become so accustomed to this procedure, that if I don't put the bacon grease on his kibble, he gives me a dirty look and sits, staring at the bowl, until I do.  He promptly rolls off the couch and trots into the kitchen to nibble delightedly at his meal.  About this time Carl, who was just recently curled up on "his" corner of my bed, purring softly, comes padding softly into the kitchen and runs down the stairs where we keep the cat feeder.  He sniffs at Buddy's bowl on the way past, but doesn't really care for the bacon fat as much as Buddy.  How Carl managed to get so huge, I'll never know.  He's a finicky eater and has no front claws.  He does, however, think he's a mountain lion and frequently roams the mountain behind the house.  He has brought home, several times, his kills, which frequently consist of small rabbits.  So, who knows what he really eats.  I suppose the cat kibble in the basement is just snack food to him.  I grab a package of soft doggie kibble for Frank, because he has lost several teeth and can't eat the hard food.  I step in the bedroom, where Rita, laying at the foot of our bed, yawns, stretches, and decides to go back to sleep.  I call Frank from his place burrowed under the pillows in the big arm chair and tell him it's time to go out.  As I mentioned earlier, they have a pet door in the patio door in our bedroom.  But, for some ridiculous, unknown, doggy physco reason, Frank insists on being let personally out the front door in the morning.  Any other time of day, he's fine with the pet door, but in the morning, he insists someone get up and physically open the door and usher him outside.  So, we head to the front door.  He stands anxiously waiting, wagging his little black tail, until I actually open the door and a blast of arctic air gusts in and hits him in the face.  He just looks up at me with that "oh, hell no" look and starts to turn around, at which point, I quickly grab him around his little wiener dog middle and push him out the door.  I assure him it won't take long and close the front door.  One minute later, he has completed his business, run around to the back of the house and comes flying through the pet door at mach speed and gracefully skids to a stop in his little bed, underneath his blanket.  If I ever caught this on camera it would be a you tube phenomenon.  I open the little bag of food and dump it into his bowl, which is placed right next to his bed so that he doesn't have to leave the comfort of his blanket den in order to eat.  By this time, Rita has decided to wake up and wrestle with Buddy.  Now, this activity always fascinates me.  Imagine Rita, the size a large Idaho Baker spud, and Buddy, the size of a miniature horse with teeth that could do some serious damage if they wanted to.  Rita is sitting on his head, chewing on his ears, lips, neck and wickedly scratching him with her hind feet.  He is happily flipping his head around until he grabs her and so gently puts her inside his mouth and holds her, without biting her, until she manages to wiggle out.  She is completely unaware of the danger she is in.  He could literally swallow her whole, or bite her in half with ease.  But she has no fear, and he would never dream of hurting her.  Losing interest in her game, she runs downstairs to have some kibble, and to torment Carl for awhile.  Carl is more mature, and finds her wrestling games quite beneath him.  He growls and snarls at her, which only serves, to his dismay, to make her more playful.  Buddy turns his attention to Frank.  Or should I say Frank's food.  I'm sitting on the bed by this time, applying my makeup, when all I hear is a muffled growl from underneath the pink blanket bunched up in Frank's bed.  How he can tell that Buddy is edging closer to his food bowl from inside his blanket den, I do not know, but he knows and he does not hesitate to let the bigger dog know who is the boss.  Frank might be small, but he will protect his food.  He's only afraid of unfamiliar people.  If  you have never seen Frank in my house before, it's because he hides under the bed whenever a stranger comes around.  If you visit enough times, you will eventually be rewarded with a quick glance of him as he peeks around the corner of the door at you.  If he actually comes into the same room with you, then you are golden.  It is quite a compliment.  Just don't try to eat his food.  So, I spend my morning in conversation that goes something like this.  "Buddy, don't eat Frank's food!  Frank stop growling and eat it if you are afraid someone else might.  Rita, leave Carl alone, he doesn't like you.  Carl, just go outside if she's bothering you.  Buddy, get off the couch! Rita, stop attacking my legs!  No wonder I want to go to work.  You are all a bunch of crazies!"  Pretty soon it's time to leave.  Poor Buddy must go outside and curl up in his dog house.  He is a lab.  I don't think he really cares.  He will jump in the river when it's zero degrees outside and have icicles hanging from his whiskers and he doesn't even care.  Besides, he loves to chase birds and bark at them all day long.  Can't do that in the house.  Frank is snuggled in his blanket den.  Carl is stretched out on the bed.  Rita is still chasing us around the house, darting out and attacking every chance she gets.  I know that once we are gone, she will curl up on the couch, the bed, the computer chair, which by the way, is her favorite spot, and sleep so she is well rested and ready to attack and play and annoy everyone again as soon as we get home.  There are days when I wonder what life would be like without my fur babies.  Boring I think.  They give me purpose.  They need me, and I need them.  I miss my "little" children.  I miss fixing breakfast and barking orders.  "Comb your hair, brush you teeth, make your bed, hurry up, you'll miss the bus."  I miss watching them play and laughing at their unique imaginations.  I suppose after so many years of mothering and grandmothering, my fur babies are a fair substitute to fill that empty whole that you discover when your real babies leave you and make lives of their own.  Yes kids, I have found substitutes, but I will never, ever, be able to find replacements.