Lucky Dog: tail-waggin’ good

Lucky Dog Lounge & Grille Manager Terry Hall serves up
a rib eye steak recently at the restaurant in Umatilla.

1/28/2011

TAMMY MALGESINI

East Oregonian
Inside my shoes 

Even after more than 27 years of marriage, I still do things that surprise my husband. Most recently it had to do with eating steak at Lucky Dog Lounge & Grille in Umatilla.

Since John doesn’t eat red meat, I rarely make it at home. So, it wasn’t the act of ordering steak that had John raising his eyebrows — it was the fact I didn’t slather it in ketchup before consuming it.

And that’s saying something. You see, old habits die hard — my mom cooked the juices out of steak, and in order to add flavor and refrain from choking, I loaded on the ketchup.

The fact I didn’t find it necessary to smother the flavor of the rib eye at Lucky Dog means it was lip-smacking good. In fact, John pointed out that I periodically closed my eyes while I was chewing and emitted sounds that clearly indicated I was enjoying the steak. If I had a tail, it certainly would have been wagging.

I purposedly ordered the 12-ounce, figuring for an extra buck I’d have some to take home. Well, that was not to be. I ate every single morsal — there wasn’t even a scrap left behind to take home to our canine kids.

John, who has always been more adventurous when it comes to ordering food, had the seared duck. Of course I snuck a taste and it was mighty fine too. But the real treat unleashed on John’s plate was the cranberry wild rice — delicious doesn’t even begin to describe it.

What I realized from our recent dining experience is that we waited way too long to check out Lucky Dog.

Opening in the fall of 2009, Manager Terry Hall said the restaurant is still working to establish itself.

“What we’re really trying to focus on is a fine dining experience, with a touch of Texas-style, hickory-smoked barbecue,” he said.

I was already sold on the steak, but when Hall said “barbecue,” I was salivating.

The nice thing about Lucky Dog is it offers upscale dining in a casual atmosphere. In addition, we can just hop in the car and take the short drive to Umatilla. Sometimes I get a hankering for some really good food, but I don’t feel like driving to the Tri-Cities, Pendleton or Walla Walla.

Lucky Dog Lounge & Grille, which also has a full service bar, is in the Crossroads Truck Stop, located on Highway 730 at the Interstate 82 junction in Umatilla. It’s open Wednesday through Sundays from 5-10 p.m. For more information, call 541-922-3297.

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Tammy Malgesini is the EO community editor. Her column, Inside my shoes, include general musings about life. You can reach her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539.

Fighting back

January 18, 2011

Tammy Malgesini
East Oregonian
Inside my shoes 

I’m wearing purple today. I don’t have many purple clothes. In fact, I don’t really think purple is my color, but one of my old college roomies was recently diagnosed with a particularly aggressive form of breast cancer and I’m wearing it in her honor. Relay for Life, the premiere fundraising event for the American Cancer Society, has identified purple as the color of hope.

It’s fitting that it’s “Power of Purple Week.” Hermiston Relay for Life is doing activities each day this week to raise awareness about cancer and its upcoming Kickoff Rally, which is Friday at 7 p.m., at the Hermiston Conference Center.  A potato bar fundraiser, sponsored by the Bud Rich team, will begin at 6 p.m.

I’ve covered the Relay for Life several times over the years. One year after getting my story posted I went back in time for the luminary service. It had special meaning because Joanne Creamer, one of my friends, died from leukemia a couple of years before. Another year, one of the Relay teams was selling “Cancer Sucks” T-shirts. I didn’t buy one, but now I want one.

Mary Hensal and Linda Schultz, the "purple police."

Cancer really does suck. My brother, Mike, recently lost one of his old high school buddies to liver cancer. My brotherman doesn’t have much money, but was able to travel by train to see Dave before he died. When Mike saw him, there was some hope that Dave might be on the upswing, but it was not to be — the cancer had ravaged his body.

And the thing about cancer that really sucks, is it can hit anyone. Sure, some types of cancer are directly related to lifestyle choices, but the majority of cancers are indiscriminate and anyone can be stricken.

The premise behind Relay for Life is “Celebrate, Remember, Fight Back.” Celebrate those who have beaten cancer, remember those who have lost their lives to the disease and fight back by raising awareness and money for cancer research in hopes of a cure.

Relay for Life takes place June 17-18 in Pendleton and June 24-25 in Hermiston.

For more information about Hermiston Relay for Life, contact Linda Schultz at 541-564-1871 or Deanna Phelan at 541-561-3031. For more information about Pendleton Relay for Life, contact Robin Alexander at 541-966-1509 or Becca Picknell at 541-377-6798.

I would venture to guess that most people know someone who has been touched by cancer. I know I have, and I’m not satisfied to just sit back and watch. I’m fighting back.

A trucker from Bowman Trucking blasts his horn in along Highway 395 in Hermiston Monday as Relay for Life supporters raise awareness for its upcoming kickoff rally

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Tammy Malgesini is the EO community editor. Her column, Inside my shoes, include general musings about life. You can reach her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539.

Waiting for meds to kick in ... I was in massive pain

Recent injury tests wedding vows
By TAMMY MALGESINI
East Oregonian
Over the years I've put our wedding vows to the test. Most recently I focused on "in sickness and in health." In mid-June I broke my humerus, but I wasn't laughing.

When I found myself writhing on the floor in pain, it became apparent my husband John and I wouldn't be spending nearly two weeks in Moab tearing up the trails aboard our ATV. This wasn't at all part of our summer plans. I say "ours" because it definitely impacted my husband.

While I convalesced with a broken shoulder, John sprang to action providing such services as nurse, chauffeur, cook, waiter, hair stylist and cabana boy. And I gotta say, he makes some killer pecan pancakes.

During the six weeks I was off work, I suffered from severe bouts of cabin fever, wore a trail from our bed to my daybed and watched more dumb movies than I can count.

However, the worst was yet to come. Physical therapy. Those two words have been known to make grown men cry.

If you look closely in the center film, you can see the bone wedge.

The thing is, physical therapy isn't all about big fancy therapeutic equipment. I mean, who knew a broomstick, belt and pillowcase could cause so much pain?

Seriously, the first day at Eastern Oregon Physical Therapy they had me work on external rotation when they handed me a "wand" and directed me on how to do the stretches. I looked at the "wand" and asked, is this really specialized physical therapy equipment because it looks like broomstick? Also propped in the "wand" corner is a piece of pipe and a wooden closet dowel - evidently they come in different sizes and weights depending on how far along in treatment you are.

Gravity ... the bruising dropped down my arm, even though the break was in my shoulder.

For internal rotation, they presented me with a "strap." It actually looks like an ordinary tie-down for a motorcycle or bike. Because I don't have a large wingspan, while doing exercises at home I can actually use one of the flexible cloth belts that came free with a pair of shorts. I have deemed this the "handcuff exercise."

EOPT sent a pulley home with me. Oh goody.

You know, when the cop tells you to put your hands behind your back (not that I have personal experience with that - I've seen it on TV).

And then there's the table slide. Honestly, I'm not sure what the purpose behind this exercise is, other than cleaning off the therapy tables. I slip my hand into a folded pillow case and move back and forth on the surface. Periodically they have me move down the table and use a disinfectant wipe (okay, I made that last part up).

Although I never made vows with Eastern Oregon Physical Therapy, I'm evidently in for the long haul ... for better or for worse.

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Tammy Malgesini is the EO community editor. Her column, Inside my shoes, includes general musings about life. You can reach her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539.

Some golfers will play rain or shine

Some golfers will play rain or shine

By TAMMY MALGESINI The East Oregonian

When I first started golfing, the two words I used the most were "fore" and, well, the other one isn't suitable for print.

I was late hitting the links for the first time, because I was appalled that players on TV wore slacks and collared shirts. How could that be a sport? I played softball, basketball, field hockey and ran hurdles - real sports where you sweat and get dirty.

I picked up my first club as a freshman in college. I figured it would be a fluff class and I could work on my tan.

Ah, but soon I found chasing a little white ball around was harder than it looked. But it quickly became a social activity for me, as I often visited other fairways on my quest to hit my ball to the right green.

So when I recently worked on a story about women and golf, it was painful to hang out on the course, drive a golf cart and watch others tee off, chip and putt. I desperately wanted to take a few swings.

Anyway, last Tuesday I hung out with women from the Big River Golf Course ladies league - the weather was pretty decent. But I gotta tell you, my hat's off to Carol Neely, Sharon Edgerly and Lisa Hagerman - those three ladies hit the links Wednesday at Echo Hills Golf Course. The wind was blowing and it was downright cold.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not necessarily a fair- weather golfer. Just ask Bonnie Gracia. I insisted on plodding forward to "get our money's worth" while golfing one time at Kinzua Hills Golf Club.

The quaint little course near Fossil is played on the "honor system." The whole honor thing and golf cracks me up. The little scorecard pencils don't even have erasers. Anyway, it was $5 for each time around the six-hole course. Yes, for five bucks I risked life and limb as the sky became foreboding.

It began to sprinkle as we played the first hole, but I was ok with that. By the time we got to the second hole, I would describe the precipitation as raining lightly. Bonnie, who looked disturbed that I would forge on, interpreted the weather on the second hole as a torrential downpour. Not even - that was to come later.

As we headed towards the third hole I thought I heard thunder, but I didn't see any lightning, so I figured it was no problem.

By the time we had teed off, I was delusional in thinking the sky looked like it was clearing up. The deer - who were munching on a hole earlier - were heading for cover.

As it started to rain again, I acted like I couldn't hear Bonnie as she made an observation about the weather.

Leaving my bag behind, I made my way to the fourth tee box with a couple of clubs. And just as I was about to address the ball there was a thunderous boom. Since I didn't see any lightning, I re-addressed my ball and hit my best shot of the day.

As I headed down from the tee box I met Bonnie, who was hunkered down in a crevice. And then there was a loud crackle and I saw it - the biggest, baddest bolt of lightning. With sheer panic on my face, I yelled, "Do you want to leave now?"

While her mouth merely said, "Yes," her face said, "I wanted to leave a long time ago."

Rather than heading to the clubhouse, I ran the opposite way. Bonnie screamed over the storm, "Where are you going?"

I pointed to my lightning rods, I mean golf clubs.

As we ran dragging our pull carts behind, I thought, "Who says you don't get a cardio work-out while golfing?"

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Tammy Malgesini is the EO community editor. Her column, Inside my shoes, appears twice a month. You can reach her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539.

Varsity letter arrives four decades later

03-26-2010

By TAMMY MALGESINI  East Oregonian

It's been four decades since I've heard the imaginary announcer in my head.

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"Tammy Stockman, a 5-foot-4-inch guard, drives the lane - she scores!"

First of all, I'm not 5-4 by any stretch of the imagination, but that's how I was listed when I played basketball at Marshfield High School. Secondly, there were no announcers at girls' games back in the '70s in Coos Bay.

Even though it's been 32 years since I last donned a purple and gold uniform, I got a big dose of Pirate pride earlier this month when I received my varsity letter.

Back in the day, we received letter certificates that stated, "Marshfield High School Athletic Department awards this 'M' certificate to Tammy Stockman in recognition of his (note: HIS) participation in basketball." However, we didn't actually receive a physical letter.

Basketball wasn't even a Oregon School Activities Association-sanctioned sport for girls until 1976, which might explain why I had to buy a T-shirt when I played junior varsity as a freshman. Not only did the guys have spiffy-looking uniforms, but they also had practice shorts and jerseys. 

That's just the way things were. I remember thinking it wasn't right, but how does a teenager challenge a system that clearly overlooks the achievements of female athletes? 

I ran hurdles and sprints on the varsity track team my freshman year and played three seasons of basketball, "lettering" for two years. I enjoyed the camaraderie of the team. We were doing what we loved - playing a game, but the lack of getting a physical letter nagged at me from time to time. 

When my husband talked about the possibility of awarding letters to his drama students at Umatilla High School this year, I asked him what about last year's group of thespians? The program had been revived after a 12-year hiatus, so don't the drama students of more than a decade ago equally deserve a letter?

The events leading up to my bright gold chenille and felt 'M' with purple outlining arriving in the mail several weeks ago began just before Christmas. 

During a night of insomnia-driven Web surfing, I happened upon a site chronicling the Feb. 4, 2006, event when female athletes of yesteryear were recognized as Pioneer Women and received their long-awaited letters.

I sent an e-mail to Principal Greg Mulkey, who was the athletic director at the time. The letter stated in part, "I will turn 50 in February and can think of no better gift than a varsity letter for my birthday."

I didn't hear from him and got busy with the holidays and then vacation. When I found out the Marshfield boys team was playing a state playoff game in Pendleton, I headed to Warberg Court with a copy of the e-mail. Just as I headed up the bleachers behind the Pirate bench, I spotted a man wearing a Marshfield jacket.

"Do you know if the Marshfield principal is here?" I asked. 

"I am," he responded.

Since I didn't want take up his time during the game, I handed him the e-mail and said it was about the Pioneer Women. After the game, I ran into him and Bryan Trendell, the school's athletic director. Greg handed my note to Bryan and said, "When you get back to Coos Bay, you need to send her a letter."

Although it came a month after I turned 50, it truly is a gift I cherish - probably even more than if I had received it when I actually earned it.
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Tammy Malgesini is the EO community editor. Her column, Inside my shoes, appears twice a month. You can reach her attmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539.

Florida sun, frozen fun? You choose

Florida sun, frozen fun? You choose

By TAMMY MALGESINI
East Oregonian

OK, hands on your buzzer. I have a question for you. Where would you rather celebrate your 50th birthday - go to a festival and gambling in the Colorado Rockies or a trip to Florida and a cruise to the Bahamas?

Before you answer, let me give you a little information about Frozen Dead Guy Days, a festival in Nederland, Colo. At the center of the multiple- day event is Bredo Morstoel, a dead Norwegian, packed in dry ice.

In 2005, Mark Briley and I took his wife, Teri, to celebrate her 50th birthday at the festival, which takes place in early March.

Upon his death in 1989, Grandpa, as he's affectionately called, was cryogenically frozen in Norway. Sometime later, the grand-popsicle was shipped to Los Angeles before taking up residence in a Tuff Shed high in the Rockies.

The permafrost dead guy was "discovered" by the small town of Nederland during a town hall meeting when a relative was denied a certificate of occupancy and would soon be deported back to Norway.

As the story goes, she turned to the person next to her and asked, "Who will take care of the bodies?"

Bodies? Yes there were two; however, since that time Grandpa's refrigerated roomie was cremated. Nothing like extremes - fire and ice.

Herbert Flack, a Belgian actor, knocked 'em dead while filming for a Belgium reality show, "TV De Wereld," during Grandpa's Blue Ball in 2005. Seizing the moment, Mark and I stuck close to Flack for a chance of fame.

People at the International Cryonics Institute and Center for Life Extension (or ICICLE) take the whole cryonics things pretty seriously. During a trip to Grandpa's Tuff Shed I made the faux pas of asking what they expected when they finally thawed the frozen guy. Bo Shaffer, aka the Iceman, corrected me.

"We call it re-animate."

In addition to the frozen ball, the event includes a polar plunge, coffin races, a frozen T-shirt contest, frozen turkey bowling, a grandpa look-alike contest and the crowning of the ice queen.

Yeah, Frozen Dead Guy Days was frigidly fun, but I'm gonna have to go with the cruise to the Bahamas.
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Tammy Malgesini is the EO community editor. Her column, Inside my shoes, appears twice a month. If you've gone to an odd festival, contact her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian. com or 541-564-4539.

Nighttime chocolate feast leads to salt water assault

01/20/2010

Jeter recuperates in the hallway after being treated for eating chocolate.

Nighttime chocolate feast leads to salt water assault

By TAMMY MALGESINI

East Oregonian

He was sicker than a dog.

It all started when Jeter, my German shepherd, decided to get into my cache of chocolate. It ended with him laying with a forlorn look on his face in the hallway at home. Between those two snapshots in time was an adventure I don't want to repeat any time soon.

After getting off work just in time, John and I went to the Umatilla Vikings basketball game, even though I hadn't eaten dinner yet.

By the time we got home, I was very tired and quite hungry. I had just settled onto my daybed with what apparently was a very tasty Healthy Choice roasted turkey breast dinner. After I had eaten a couple of bites, John came upstairs to ask me something.

As he walked into the doorway, Jeter jumped off our bed from the adjacent room wearing a sheepish look on his face. Jeter sleeps on the bed, so it's not unusual for him to lounge around on the waterbed; however, the look on his face said "I've been a bad dog."

When we discovered he had eaten a bunch of Hershey's Kisses and chocolate Santas, tin foil and all, John and I sprung into action. After calling the after-hours number for Oregon Trail Veterinary Clinic, the doggie doc said we could bring him in or try to induce vomiting ourselves.

I headed to Walmart to find some syrup of ipecac. I figured it would be easier to get a little of that down him, rather than a whole lot of salt water.

I started to panic when I couldn't find the spew syrup - the window of opportunity to get the pooch to puke was closing in and I really didn't want to pony up the extra cash to take him to the vet clinic at that late hour.

While frantically searching the aisles, I called Shawn Carvalho. Since she was asleep, I asked her husband if they had any syrup of ipecac - explaining it's used to make people throw up.

They didn't, however, within moments Shawn called me back. I told her what was going on as I continued to search for the elusive elixir.

Hearing the panic in my voice, she stayed on the phone with me - even as I headed to Fiesta Foods.

When a store employee offered assistance, rather than risking a language barrier or unfamiliarity with ipecac, I asked for Pepto Bismol. I figured if I got to the right aisle, I could find it. When she led me directly to the pink stuff, I told her I didn't need it. I could hear Shawn laughing over the phone as I explained what I really needed.

She said they didn't have it, but rather than giving up, I attempted to read the labels. Meanwhile, Shawn had gone to an English-Spanish translation Web site and helped me decipher items on the shelf. After finally determining my quest for ipecac was fruitless, I bought a large container of salt and drove home.

John mixed some up and I proceeded to suck the solution into a bulb syringe and squeezed it into Jeter's mouth.

After several cups worth he coughed and sputtered and produced a very small amount of vomit.

That would never do.

After adding more salt, I continued to assault my dog with the briney solution. All of a sudden he broke lose from John's grasp, took a few steps and hurled a pile. He took a few more steps and barfed again.

With a headlamp shining from his forehead, John followed the heaving hound around the yard - picking up the puke so Jeter or Lucifer, our German shepherd puppy, wouldn't eat it later.

The salt water was so successful, John couldn't keep up. I followed Jeter around the lawn, tossing a paper towel on each pile. When John started to gag, he reminded me Jeter was my dog, so I took over pick-up duty.

As I continued puke patrol, I soon discovered chunks of turkey, stuffing and carrots intermixed with the chocolate and tin foil wrappers - evidently the chocolate was merely an appetizer.

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Tammy Malgesini is the EO community editor. Her column, Inside my shoes, appears twice a month. You can reach her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539.