Tag Archives: cow clock

From junkyard cow clocks to lung masses – everything deserves a name

I knew the second I hit ‘publish’ last night that closing out the post with a reference to my cow clock made of spoons and then not including a picture of it was a colossal mistake.  Of epic proportions.  What was I thinking?  

So, here he is, in all his recycled bovine splendor.  We picked him up on vacation from a little gallery in Skagway, Alaska. We took one look at him and knew we had to have him.  The spoon parts always get top billing in our description of his composition, but he also boasts a bread pan, a mason jar lid and various other nuts and bolts in his design.  We named him ‘Cowie.’  We are a simple people who tend to name most things in our household … including kitchen knives, scrap metal squirrel-rats and Magnolia trees in the front yard.


Which reminds me …  my sister-in-law thinks I should name the lung mass.  I feel it is male but am open to female names and gender-neutral suggestions as well.  Pop culture references, relevant homages and pithy puns are all welcome.  Let’s name the damned thing as we’ll be getting to know him/her/it pretty well in the next few weeks.  Please submit your ideas below.

Oh, and if you’ve never commented on the blog before … Geez, register yourself already and throw your idea in the ring.  What’s keeping you?


Wanna keep abreast of all new ODNT postings? Like me on Facebook. Follow me on Twitter.

The surgery is scheduled … so I was surprised with a new toy

Within an hour of waking this morning, my surgery was scheduled. I heard the buzzing but, since I was making breakfast for my kids, I opted to let it go. For fear of overbuttering my cell phone. Pretty cavalier considering I was supposed to be looking out for the hospital’s call. (In that sentence, cavalier = stupid.) As soon as I realized my dumb ass mistake, I ran for the phone but, of course, I had already missed the call. So, I washed up, immediately called back, left a message and turned the phone to LOUD ringing (which means Coldplay … for now) rather than vibrate. And, once I had adequately rebuttered my hands, the phone rang again and, this time, I answered it.

My surgery date is Thursday, December 1.

I need to be there for 5am, which is likely what everyone should be most worried about. The only chance I have of getting there on time is having my Dad spend the night on the 30th. (Dad, mark your calendar, please.)

The rather ironic thing is that I had slated the next day for my original surgery. The other one. The elective one. December 2nd was going to be that big day. Nothing was in ink on my calendar but I had used a very good pencil and pressed hard when I wrote it so there would have still been an impression on the page even if I had tried to erase it. Of course, now it’s just scratched through … serving as a constant reminder of the significant change of course on which I am now taking all of you.

So, I have ten days to prepare for everything and avoid driving my family … and myself … too crazy. Today was ‘suddenly throw shit wildly out of the closet’ day. With the holidays fast approaching, festive odds and ends will soon be festooning every nook and cranny of my house. And thus I felt the need to purge before the Russian doll Santas and Nutcrackers descend upon us.

And, in the midst of my brain melt, my husband went out and purchased a rather pricey, non-Christmas present for me. A brand new 13-inch MacBookPro. Check her out. She’s a beauty.


My old PC is a virus-riddled, slow-moving dinosaur. I honestly think my husband was embarrassed for me to be seen at the coffee shop with the old girl. I snapped a close-up of the keyboard so you could see which of its “features” most aggravated my kids when they tried to use it. Unless you know the letters very well, you were pretty much screwed.


Anyway, I just want to say a big thank you to my husband for my for-no-reason present. I think you’ve figured out that writing about everything is our last hope of keeping the unraveling strands of my brain bound together. Frankly, I’m surprised you’re not afraid I’m going to try to shove the whole damned thing in the toaster and serve it with gravy to our family on Thursday.

I really appreciate your efforts to keep my sanity as much a part of our home as the cow clock made of spoons hanging in our kitchen.