A loud shower of rain disturbs Ameer's concentration, causing his finger to twitch. The carefully balanced screw Ameer is about to insert in the rear wheel of the model Lamborghini he's constructing slips from the tweezers, rolls around a few times before falling over the side of the desk, landing with a tiny plink somewhere under it. “Hell's bloody bells!” Ameer swears in frustration. “How am I supposed to retrieve that screw now?” he asks aloud. His pet cockatiel, Cassiopia, looks sternly at him from her perch in her cage before she screeches loudly, “Be quiet!”. His last strand of patience shattered, Ameer snaps at her in response. “You be quiet, birdbrain! Don't make me throw your cover over you and turn your day into night!” he threatens her, but only light-heartedly. He loves Cassiopia too much to ever be mean to her. As if the bird knows this, she chirps back bossily, “You and what army, hombre?” In spite of his annoyance, Ameer can't help but to laugh at the bird's sarcasm. Just as Ameer is about to bend down to look for the lost screw, his bedroom door opens. His brother, Rafeeq, stands just at the threshold, knowing he dare not set foot into Ameer's domain unless invited. “What d'ya want, shrimp?” “Mom's looking for you. She says you need to go to Uncle Ebie to fetch the vacuum cleaner,” Rafeeq blurts out, afraid of Ameer's temper. Tsking irritably, Ameer says, “Fine. I'll be down soon. I need to find a loose screw that fell under the desk.” “Oh,” Rafeeq says, then smiles mischievously. “I always knew you had a screw loose, Ameer.” Then Rafeeq runs for his life as his brother's fury explodes. From the bedroom, Cassiopia shrieks petulantly, “No loose screws here. Be quiet, I say!”

Is it just me or does the thought of going on a cruise ship immediately make you think of the part of "The Life Aquatic" where they get boarded by pirates or the scene in the "Titanic" where Leo is chained to a pipe and water is rising up around him? Knowing my luck, I would be on the cruise ship that was boarded by pirates while it was sinking and be somehow trapped in the room with the pipes. Cruise ships are a hard pass. Is it just me or does the thought of your neighbors being upset with your chickens make you wake up at 6:30 in the morning just to run outside and "shush" them while they strut around the coop screeching/boasting about the eggs they just laid or the eggs they're planning on laying, and then when that inevitably doesn't work you end up giving them all of your rice cakes so they don't wake up everyone in a 3 mile radius, but the thought of getting rid of said chickens makes you nauseous with guilt? Is it just me or is that sound outside probably a murderer? Is it just me or are these WEB MD diagnoses making it sound like I either have the common cold or the bubonic plague? No inbetween. Is it just me or do awkward moments in a TV show or a movie cause you to get up and leave the room with excuses like, "I have to go pee, you don't have to pause it for me," or " I am going to make 5 batches of cookies, leave it on, I can watch from the kitchen," ? Shows like "Extras" and "Curb Your Enthusiasm" are basically reasons for me to get things done around the house so I can avoid seeing other people make asses out of themselves. Is it just me or should we give these pickled beets I canned last summer to someone else so they can act as my poison tester. If they don't die after eating them then maybe I will open the other can. But what if they lied about opening them just so I wouldn't be upset that they hadn't yet? Or what if THAT jar was fine but MY jar is actually filled with botulism? Is it just me or is it too late to become that kind of parent that doesn't give their kids screens? And if I take screens away do I have to replace it with something? Or can they just figure that shit out themselves? Is it just me or is my Memoji prettier than I am in real life? Is it just me or did that prescription commercial just quickly list about 500 ways it could kill me, making me want to remember the name of it just so I can tell my doctor what I DON"T want should I ever develop the ailment that those middle aged, white collar, housewives had? Is it just me or did the cat puke in my sandals on purpose? Is it just me or did I say that thing that one time and everyone still remembers it and probably hates me? Is it just me or...?

My lovely, ever patient wife went to town today. The mid morning sky was chromed in classic Montana blue as a summer breeze performed a Burlesque fan dance through the forest. She had some errands to run, and needed a well deserved break from her retired husband's manic rants. Not a quarter mile from our off-grid cabin, she witnessed a mountain lion take down a small Whitetail. The muscular cougar stretched across the gravel road, -seven feet whiskers to tail tip- caught the deer by the shoulder and snapped its neck. The attack was quick, efficient and both creatures disappeared before her SUV passed the spot where it happened. Nature is like that, succinct. My wife adjusted her sunglasses, checked all her mirrors and proceeded down the mountain. Four blind curves and two cutbacks later she watched as a towering Larch fell on top of a single-wide motorhome, crushing it into the ground. The huge conifer bounced two times before settling in a cloud of clay dust and pine needles. A lone man carrying a running chainsaw walked out of the brush and threw his hat on the ground. My wife shook her head, not bothering to stop and ask if he was alright. The smashed motorhome looked like a cross between an accordion and a bow tie. Today it was a motor home, tomorrow a pick-up truck. Those type of incidents happen all the time. The second most told story at Wednesday night bowling league only overshadowed by someone's latest hunting story. About a mile from the Teddy Roosevelt steel bridge, linking the East side of the Kootenai river to the West and connecting the forest to the town my pro-life sweetie swerved to avoid mashing a squirrel and blew a tire instead. After steering her SUV to the side of the road, and waiting for the gravel dust to settle, she got out and examined the tire. There's no cell phone reception in the mountains, even this close to town. The only reception spot is in the Southwest corner of the grocery store parking lot. My sure-to-be canonized spouse had to walk the last mile into town. Fortunately it was a beautiful day, sunny, warm but not hot and the forest smelled of wild flowers. She crossed the bridge, stopping momentarily to admire the emerald clarity of the river running beneath. The Kootenai “chameleons” from a milky jade to a deep jade in spring, transforming into a sparkling emerald in the summer and swirls into a deep serpentine green in the fall. The aesthetic never gets old. In town, positioning herself in the Southwest corner of the grocery store parking lot, my sweet love first called the tow service, TAZ towing, and Bobby the owner -a slight of build cartoon character- said he'd pick up the truck right after his lunch at Jacks diner, they were having his favorite, roast beef on toast, gravy and mashed potatoes. That announcement prompted tiny growls of hunger in my wife's stomach. Ignoring the pangs, she next phoned her friend and church buddy who lived south of town for a ride home. The woman said she'd be happy to pick my wife up at the store. With that confirmation, my resourceful honey proceeded inside for some grocery supplies. The check-out computer was down again so the cash registers had to be operated manually. A common occurrence for a technically challenged, small town. A half hour later she stood outside, a plastic bag in each hand and her saddlebag purse hung on her shoulder. Her ride back home was uneventful. Our bullmastiff Tassie raised her head off the couch and made a quiet chuff, and that's how I knew my wife had returned. I walked into the kitchen to refill my coffee cup as she entered the back door. “Hey hon, how was your foray to town?” She set the bags on the counter, dropped her purse on a chair by the door, then went to the glassware shelf and pulled down a cocktail glass. “What cha doin'” I asked, as it was not quiet our customary “booze O'clock” yet. “What does it look like I'm doing? You ask the stupidest questions sometimes.” “I dunno, we're out of vodka.” “Then give me the scotch.” I poured her two fingers and she made a casino Black Jack signal to hit her again. “I take it something happened?” “Nope.” she said taking her four fingers of scotch to her favorite recliner, “Everything was fine. Steins was having a 10lb meat sale.” I peaked out the backdoor window and noticed her truck missing and the taillights of her friends car headed down our long drive. I took a moment to study my wife's profile as she relaxed in her chair and sipping scotch. I admired the calm and content features of the woman who left the big city, learned to gut and dress livestock, qualify 98 out of a hundred target hits with a semi-automatic, garden and can everything from turnips to bear hump, take care of my parents, three dogs and a cat and still strong-arm me into marrying her after 20 years common law. I sipped my coffee and didn't ask anymore questions. I love my wife, she's a rock.

Every few weeks, many of my friends and I get together for lunch. It's been a habit of ours for several years. When my mom moved in with us, I decided to include her in these activities. Mom soon became a favorite member of our group and the women looked forward to hearing her tales of things past, her times in America when she was little and emigrated with her mother from England, but mostly, the antics of her middle child – me! My friends vied for the opportunity to sit next to mom and encourage her speak her memories. Mom always obliged. Knowing mom was nearly blind due to severe age-related macular degeneration, our lunch group made sure mom received all the care and attention she needed. One luncheon started during a beautiful, sunny morning. We met at the restaurant just around 11:30am. However, by the time we were getting ready to leave, the heavens opened, and a torrent of rain was pouring down. We debated trying to make a run for our cars or waiting out the quick-moving Florida rain. Looking at mom, we took into consideration since she was wheelchair bound racing her through the rain wasn't something advisable. The decision was made. We'd stay a bit longer and order dessert, something we dieters rarely do. That day, we'd make an exception. As we looked at the dessert menus, I asked mom what she'd like. Without hesitation, she said, “I'd love a big piece of Strawberry Shortcake!” When the waitress arrived to take our latest orders, I asked for the strawberry shortcake but with two forks.” I had to at pretend to watch my calories! Our orders started arriving at our table and everyone oohed and aahed at each plate. The waitress placed the strawberry shortcake in front of mom. She squinted at it trying desperately to see it and then asked what it was. “Mom, it's the strawberry shortcake you said you wanted” Mom looked perplexed and in a loud voice said, “Why on earth did you listen to me? I was only joking. I don't even like strawberry shortcake!” I ordered a slice of apple pie for mom and I ate the strawberry shortcake. But despite the extra and unneeded calorie intake, we all had a great time and hearty laugh at mom's sense of humor. Yes, mom ate all her apple pie and asked if we could make one once we arrived home. “Mom, you are joking, right?” I really had no idea. Then, in front of the entire group of women added another of her zingers: “Of, course I am” she said, “Everyone knows you can't bake applies pies! You always manage to mess them up. We'll just stop at the supermarket and pick one up for later.” Now, all these years later, whenever I see a piece of strawberry shortcake, it reminds me of mom and the day she ordered hers.

Imagine My Horror! I was running late. The mornings I didn't have to go to work, always seemed more hurried than usual. I quickly applied my make-up and, within ten minutes, was heading to my dental appointment. I thought a traffic light was a safe place to search for any make-up flaws. As I slowed to a halt in the line of cars, I pulled the sun visor down to look in the mirror. Then it caught my eye. A gray hair—no, three of them! Beside my left eye, at the temple, were three white hairs. I pulled them up; I pulled them down; I tugged them to the side. Surely it was just the sun glistening off my golden blond hair. The light was green. Shock and disbelief dominated my thinking as I blindly followed in the line of cars to the next stoplight. Again I pressed the brake deep into the floor as I slapped the visor mirror down. There could only be one thing worse than finding gray hairs on the left side of my head. Holding my breath, I slowly looked beside my right eye. Four gray hairs—shining brightly like beacons in the sunlight. No, it can't be! This can't be happening to me! I am blond—I do not get gray hairs! Having always looked younger than I was, the thought of aging had never occurred to me. It just hadn't. I'd gone along in bliss, ignorant to the inevitable. Now at forty-one years old the reality was slapping me across the face; across the temples to be exact. As I glared into the mirror I kept moving my head from side to side, up and down. I waited to see if the gray hairs would suddenly turn blond, but no, they wouldn't change. Imagine my horror! Again, a green light. For the next two lights I yanked at the hair at my temples—my temples! Men get gray at the temples. It looks good on them. I'm sure by now the driver behind me realized I was in a crisis. He honked his horn, signaling the light was green. “This can't be happening,” I said to myself as I grabbed my cell phone. My husband was unavailable so I left a message. “Jerry, I'm gray! Call me!” I had to lament to someone. I called my brunette coworkers to share this terrible news. “Betsy, I have gray hair!” I wailed. “You what?” Betsy recognized my voice but had never heard such urgency in its tone. “I have gray hair! I was just at a stop light and I have gray hair! Seven of them!” I could hear Betsy yell to our thirty-year-old co-worker Stephanie, “It's Kelly. She says she found seven gray hairs!” Then I heard her laugh, “Yeah, she's freakin' out!” Turning her attention back to the phone, Betsy said calmly, “It's because of the stress you've been under lately, Kelly.” “Will they go away when my stress goes away, Bets?” I implored. “No. You'll just get more.” “Gee, thanks Betsy!” To add to my anguish, Stephanie informed me that she had more than seven gray hairs in her pubic area alone. You get gray there, too? That certainly didn't make me feel any better. I tossed my phone into my purse. “How come no one ever told me these things?” I muttered. Those seven gray hairs – The Beacon Seven – were becoming a menace and clouded my thinking. I parked my car and numbly walked into the dentist's office. As I lay back in his examining chair, my hair fell straight back. He positioned the bright light over my face, and for a split second I was sure I saw a look of alarm and repugnance in the eyes of the dentist and his assistant, as they were no doubt shocked by the Beacon Seven. Ashamed, I didn't dare mention them. Obviously these professionals had learned to hide their disgust of such matters. Still, I'm sure they were amazed that someone so terribly youthful—and blond—as I, could have these Seven, mocking gray hairs. Yes, they were staring. I was sure of it. On my way home I kept going over my options. For years I had smugly said that I would dye my hair red, if I ever got gray hair. Then it hit me. I am not getting gray hairs! No! Those Seven are just God-given platinum blond hairs filling in my natural ash and honey blond streaks. Yes, just platinum. They are the Platinum Seven. What a relief! No, blonds do not get gray hair. I didn't think so.