Sunday, March 6, 2011

Weekend Get-away

The Poopheads -- my brother- and sister-in-law -- were in town this weekend, visiting from Seattle.

They're not REALLY poopheads -- they're actually quite lovely, my sister- and brother-in-law. You would love them in a New York minute. We most certainly do

It's just that, some years back, when we went to preview their newly purchased condo overlooking Green Lake, the Wonderfully Patient Spouse and I could barely contain our sophomoric selves as Mr. PH pushed the elevator button labeled "PH." We just had to ask -- ever-so-NOT-innocently -- if it stood for "Poophead."


That's what you get when you let the bumpkins out of Bermtopia.

As a result, the moniker, "Poopheads," stuck like, well, you know.

Oh dear, it just never ends, does it? Shameless. We are utterly shameless.


There were multiple reasons for this fine visit of theirs. First, an early celebration of Young Bob Flynn's 91st birthday. We gathered at one of our favorities eateries -- The Safari Room -- for flatbreads and cocktails Friday night.

Young Bob Flynn was in rare form -- tossing out "In perfect harmonies" and "Now, what am I eating's" like glorious handfuls of confetti.

And in her mind's eye, Robt. D., her beloved husband, was "around here somewhere."

In spirit, Robt. D, in spirit.


The Poopheads handed out "Live Strong" wristbands so we could be as one with their daughter, our niece SeattleNiece#1, who is going through a heinous (word of the month, folks!) regimen of chemo, radiation and surgery for breast cancer.

She is 34-years-old. With two little ones. A wonderful husband. And Sasha -- a very large Bernese Mountain Dog.

Yeah. Breast cancer sucks. Big time.

So (deep cleansing breath), that's why it's time to drop what you're doing and take a break from reading this stultifying prose. Get up, wander through the castle, and give that favorite fiance/fiancee, spousal unit, child, step-child, grand-child, grand-parent, in-law, out-law or otherwise significant creature in your life -- a hug.

I'll be here when you get back.


Oh. And the final reason for the Poopheads' visit?

The Get-away. The Outdoor Get-away, to be specific. It's an auction for the Idaho Outfitters and Guides Association.

(Now, before you jump to the conclusion that I'm some wild outdoorsy Wilderness Woman, let me categorically dispel that assumption. I. am. not. I'm way too attached to dry feet, mattresses and indoor plumbing.

BUT, the WPS and his family are devoted fly fishermen/women. As a result and a lot of good fortune, we have become good friends with a couple who run the St. Joe Fishing Lodge. And Barb just happens to be the auction coordinator.)

The Get-away is not your typical auction. No dinner-theater tickets or signed basketballs by your favorite team. Instead, you can bid on loud-auction items like a 28-gauge Beretta White Onyx Over/Under Shotgun. . . a Cast and Blast guided trip (flyfishing and black bear and grouse hunting!). . . and, for that trophy bear you bring down, bear rug taxidermy services.

The silent auction features dozens of tempting treasures like beaver pelts and Koops' -- the best mustard you'll ever taste. (Don't even laugh, I now have a 2 years' supply. So there.)

There are cowboy-auctioneers.

And there are critters. Usually a mule.

But this year, a puppy. A hound. A Kemmer Mountain Cur. They're skilled trackers -- and really good at treeing cougars. Pretty much a necessity in MY uber urban neighborhood.

Oh my heart. He was adorable.
That being said, the mustards (and a kaleidoscope) came home with us.
The puppy did not.
Ben would never have forgiven us.

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