Bob the Elusive Mountain Cow

Part of a poem I wrote in college after a camping trip to Crater Lake in which I was stalked by Bob the Elusive Mountain Cow:

Home again, home again, lickity split
To soak my big toe because it did split (I broke it the night before I left)

Here it now sits all purple and bruised 
I search for the polish I know it did lose

...

And then there were odd festive bits about random cows that kept wandering the roads leading to the crater. Someone should really look into that. This was also the trip where I (as a first-time solo camper) told myself ghost stories until I freaked myself out at the campsite and fell asleep with my head in a bag full of marshmallows. I awoke to discover my hair a mass of marshmallow goo and no shower in sight so I spent the rest of my trip dodging bovines with a sweet tooth. 

Now we're home from vacation, polish intact, and only a slight twitch from being in the car for 17 hours. One tiny sidetrip to see an alligator farm (never found it) and we were in the wilds of northern Florida for an extra three hours. 

I did, however, high five a stingray the day before. 

And hit the beach with the girls and the husband

And met new friends at Busch Gardens

What did you do for Spring Break?

All work and no play

The fog is settling in and getting comfortable while snow is still busily falling and clinging to the windows. It seems one accepts that it's a good time to slow down and read a book while the other still thinks it has to impress her mother-in-law with how fabulously frantic she is. Right now I'd rather be the fog instead of the snow. 

Giving Up the Ghost is coming along well. I'm writing the haunted doll chapter right now and while I've never been particularly fond of dolls, some of these stories make their blank little faces more intriguing. One lovely shopkeeper I've interviewed has sent me her diary filled with the spooky accounts of her store that has a little extra activity at night. I can't wait to dig in later this week. Speaking of digging, I have the snowquester to dig myself out of this afternoon. Al Roker and Jim Cantore are nearby -- we're doomed.

Oh, and this may happen by the end of the day:

Photo credit: George Takei