Hey! It's Reality! And It's Punching You In The Face!

So, if you check out my sister's blog, you will see some links to articles and other pertinent reading. Go check them out. That's an order.

I'm having a hard time with this whole hurricane thing right now. And it's hard beyond all of the tragedy. I can't even fathom what is going on down there right now. I check it out on the computer and look at the pictures like the rest of the world. Then I go about my day and listen to all the armchair disaster workers griping about what isn't getting done soon enough, why don't they have everything under control already, why the hell are gas prices so high and hey, by the way, I can bitch and moan just don't ask me to change my lifestyle at all because that's just a little too much trouble.

Sigh.

The real kicker for me is that they KNEW. They knew this was all only a matter of time. No, wait. That's not the real kicker. The REAL kicker for me is that they are talking about rebuilding this area. Hello? It's a bowl, folks. And not just a bowl, but a bowl below sea level that is surrounded by water.

But we all know this.

And, yeah, I know...it's someone's home and we can rebuild and we shall overcome because we're proud and we have sticktoitiveness and, by golly, no one, including Mother Nature, will tell us where we can build our cities.

Yeah well, let's see how far pride pays the bills. It is going to take a hell of a lot more than rebuilding. Global warming, anyone? Just how committed to rebuilding is everyone willing to get?

Why must we continuously look at problems in the face and pretend they aren't there?

Gas prices? You think they're bad now? You think there is chaos now? Do yourself a little favor and go Google "peak oil". There's something to keep you awake for a few nights. And guess what? It's not just going to happen somewhere else. No, my little Pollyannas. It's going to happen to me and you and your kids and your neighbors who you might get along with now but just see how good things go when life as we are so blindly used to living it is changes. For good.

Wake the hell up, America. World. You.


Ok, I'm getting off the soap box now.

For Your Reading and Viewing Pleasure

I'm going to be a bit of a lame poster today and not really post anything of my own. I am, however, going to give you a few blogs to check out that I like to visit regularly. If I can remember how, I am going to link them on my list as well. So, without further ado...

I have no idea about what the author of this blog is saying since it is not in a language I can understand but, for the most part, it mainly seems to be photos anyway. And a picture truly is worth a 1,000 words.
Iranian Photo Blog

This is a blog I like to check out regularly becaue I just never know what I'm going to find here. Sometimes political, sometimes cultural, but always something interesting.
Eyeteeth

This gal is just a hoot to read.
Miss Doxie

This guy is someone I'd like to hang out with.
My Life As A Gas Station Attendant

This is a blog where people write down their secrets on a post card and send it in to this dude who then posts it on this blog. It makes me feel not so strange after all.
Post Secret

This guy has a lot of time on his hands. I wish he'd come stay at our house.
The Forgotten Technology



Ok, that's it for today folks. I realize that I have a rather scant audience as it is and I may be taking a big risk by posting links to much more interesting and well written blogs but oh well. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

Just Some Kooky Stuff

Hi.

I bet you didn't expect to hear from me again so soon.

Nothing exciting but just some silly things I wanted to make note of.

Today, I made my usual stop at the gas station/convenience store for breakfast (coffee and donut, thank you very much). I brought my purchase to the counter for check-out and the clerk rings up my item and then says "Did you have gas today?" To which I was forced to reply "No, I don't usually get that until after lunch."

It went unnoticed. Oh well.

Next item.

An attorney we work with called the office the other day and I answered the phone. During the usual course of small talk, he proceeded to tell me about a certain Jennifer Hyatte who tried to bust her boyfriend out of police custody and wound up killing someone in the process and how much she looked like me. This was all going on in the news a week or so I guess and, not having TV, I had no idea what the story was. After I got off the phone with him, I mentioned this to one of my co-workers and she agreed whole heartedly that, yes indeed, she looked just like me.

Curiosity eventually got the better of me and I decided to go online and try to find a picture of my twin. Now, apparently what happened is she changed her appearance after the incident so I actually found two photos.

So do I look like this?



Or is it perhaps this?



In either case, um, thanks a lot. That really makes a girl's day. My co-worker, after seeing the pictures I found, immediately swore that she saw a much better picture of this gal. Okaaaaayyyyy....... Like I said, thanks a lot.



And the last item for today.



Yesterday, hubby and I had appointments at the eye doctor. Need to be able to see and all that, you know. So while we are sitting in the waiting area, hubby picks up the magazine on the top of the pile and says "Look. We can sit and read Glamour together" knowing full well that I never read these kinds of publications. Anyway, being the good sport I am, I look over as he flips through, scanning articles such as How To Flatten That Problem Tummy, Why And How Often Do Men Masturbate?, Fashion Sense For Those Who Have None Of Their Own, etc. Finally, he stops on a page where the gist of the article is that people - readers supposedly - write in with their problems and some copy editor proposes to solve them in a paragraph or two. He points out one where a woman is so unhappy with her body that she has a problem wearing a bathing suit and is embarrassed to undress in front of her husband. Dr. Whoeveritis gives the advice that we must all learn to be happy with ourselves la dee da.

Then I pointed out the ad on the page facing the the article which is this...







Oh, irony... thy name is Glamour.

Judgemental? Moi'?

Hi there everyone.

Since I don't lead an exciting life, all I have to post on is my rather mundane one.

Here goes...

...

...

.?.

...



Well! There you have it! Just another exciting day in the life of Mz. Quintessence!

Actually there is one weird thing. I had to go to the store for dog food yesterday morning. Since all I was getting was the dog food (and a COKE!) I was able to slip into the 10 Items Or Less line.

Now, being the curious sort that I am, I am usually that annoying person in line behind you - or in front of you - giving a sideways glance to see what you're buying. I think the items we buy in the 10 Items Or Less line tend to be those emergency things that we make a special trip out for and that can tell the world a lot about our lives. What things we so desperately need that we will take the time out of a beautiful sunny Sunday morning and go to the grocery store.

Well, the guy in front of me was buying orange juice and milk. He refused the offer of peaches for 79 cents a pound that I suppose all the clerks have been instructed to push on the patrons. Upon closer inspection, I noticed he was wearing dress pants and a striped dress shirt.

My take on this dude is that he is an attorney who leads a life only slightly more exciting than mine, mainly due to the fact that he is an alcoholic. That makes it more exciting, I mean. Not that it's only slightly more exciting because of him being an alcoholic, as in, if he weren't an alcoholic, his life would be much more exciting. It's just that it's probably as mundane as mine with the slight alteration of alcohol fueled days. Thereby giving it a little bit of variation. Am I getting this across? Is the horse dead yet?

So anyway...

I'm the next one in line. And naturally - or, actually probablly not naturally at all - I have to analyze myslef and what my groceries might be telling the world about me. Dog food and Coke. This tells me that my dogs have a better diet than I do. And, generally, I'm an ok person who is kind to animals.

Now the next guy...

I'm ashamed to admit that even I - the 10 Items Or Less Line Sociologist - troubled over this one for quite some time.

The next guy had a pack of cigars and a container of Metamucil. He was about a week and a half unshaven, wearing a dirty T-shirt and shorts, crazy hair and - as best as I can guess - in his 50's.

This guy vexed me at least until the clerk handed me my change when Ding! that light bulb in my head - which can go from a dull, lifeless glow to a brilliant blinding light with alarming speed - signaled the moment of clarity. All at once it was easily apparent.

This guy is a misunderstood genius, laboring away in his, um, laboratory, living off of beta-carboline loaded fried spam sandwiches because he is too busy devising a way to make a Yuengling powered engine to save his county from the looming peak oil crisis to take time out to have any kind of a healthy diet, resulting in ... well, you know ... the need for the Metamucil.

The cigars? Something to do while on the hopper.

And all of a sudden I kind of liked this guy's thinking. I mean, here he is, stuck what...5-6 hours a day?...in the john, and what does he do? He has a cigar. He relishes every moment of life. Doesn't waste a single minute. Even in such...circumstances...he manages to make it enjoyable and be dignified about it.

You go, Metamucil Guy! You teach us all a lesson about life!

And please, everyone? Don't ruin this for me by bringing up the possiblilty of a Hustler laying on the toilet tank lid, OK?

The Fragility of Life

Or: Don't Put All Your Hopes In One Watermelon


Well, being that it's the height of summer, I suppose everyone's garden is bursting forth with excessive bounty. Right?

I wouldn't know.

Not that I don't have a garden. I do. Well, kind of. Let's put it this way, there's a garden on my property. I don't really consider it "my garden". Here's the story...

After we bought our property, there was kind of a general family consensus - extended family, that is - that our place would be a great spot for a sort of communal garden. Being the hippie sort that I am, I was all up for the idea. At first. Not that I'm against the idea now - that's not it at all. What is it? Well, a combination of things...

First would be paying the mortgage. See, there's this big, fat - really big, fat - mortgage bill that comes due every month. And, unfortunately, someone has to pay it. That someone would be us. I mean, not you and me, hubby and me. So, in order to pay the mortgage, there's this whole messy business of having a job. Strike one against the garden.

Next - I think I may have mentioned this before - but I live in a behemoth of an old farm house. You know, the one with a leaky roof and no heat in the winter? That one. And it would be one thing if I lived in it alone. But no, I share this delightful abode with a husband, two teenagers, two dogs, and three cats. All inside. Like within the walls. With all their assorted stuff, habits and hairballs. So, when the choice of "Shall I go weed that garden for an hour?" or "I have to wash the flippin flappin laundry - that was sitting in a basket waiting to be folded - again because one of the cats decided it would be a better spot to pee than the litter box!" comes up, the garden has to go on hold.

And then there's the whole thing that when I finally decide to break away from all this other crap, do I really want to spend my time bent over, standing out in the hot sun, playing Russian Roulette with the weather? How about I spend precious time that could go to painting the living room - I love to piant - digging around in the dirt, getting sunburned and bitten by mosquitoes so all of my hard work can be wiped out by 8 straight weeks of no rain and tempertaures in the 150's? Or, alternatively, 8 straight weeks of rain and temperatures hovering just above Absolute Zero? Um, no. The answer is no.

And last, but by no means least, there is the power struggle. I have a husband - who would plow the garden with an organically grown, grass fed horse - trying to garden with his brother who would spray Round-Up on all the paths between the plants. To me, this garden is somewhat akin to a small African nation. You never know who is going to be in power and I'm willing to hide in the forest so as not to get my head lopped off with a machete. Or chain saw. Leaking oil.

It is because of all this that I take my delight in my kitchen compost pile.

It doesn't get any easier than this. I put all my scraps in a bucket, and take it to a corner of what I think used to be a little kichen garden at some previous point in the history of our farm, and dump it. That's it. I don't expect anything. The funny thing is, since I don't really compost correctly and turn it ever like a good girl should, there are often things growing out of the pile. For instance, I have seen a healthy crop of garlic, decorative gourds and...

a Watermelon!

Well, the beginnings of a watermelon. It was about as big as a hacky sack. (I'm not too much of a hippie, am I?) So cute! My precious little watermelon.

And that is when I made the mistake I try not to make with growing produce. I got attached to it. I would check on it, making sure it wasn't getting attacked by the bugs that were vexing my husband and brother-in-law in the "real" garden. I would turn it once in a while to make sure the bottom didn't start to rot. I would lovingly caress it and talk about what college it might want to attend. Oh, the dreams we had!

Had.

Then, one fateful night, it all came to an end. I would like to say it came to a juicy, delicious end but that's not the case. Well, as least I wouldn't know if it was.

You see, on that dark and dreary night - I can still barely talk about it - I was finishing up milking the goat and took the milk inside. I came back out to put the goat in her pen and she was on her way to the compost pile. I hightailed it after her. She ran. I ran. She ran faster. I ran faster. She could hear me bearing down on her, my breath hot on her hindquarters. (This all took place over the space of about 20 feet, by the way.) She leaped into the compost pile just as I grabbed her harness. She locked her legs in that stubborn way she does when all she wants to do is wander around and eat instead of going to bed. I locked my legs and heaved with all my might. She budged. I began the step-heave method I've come to know as my routine for putting the goat away.

Step.
Heave.
Step.
Heave.

Through the compost pile.

Step.
Heave.
Step.
Heave.
Step.
Squish.
Gasp!

I knew immediately what the squish was. I couldn't look down for I knew - I knew! - my beloved little watermelon was gone.

And, to add insult to injury, as soon as I stepped off my watermelon - Oh! Little Watermelon! You never even had a chance! - as SOON as I stepped off of it, the goat snatched it up in her evil little head and ate it.

Sigh.

I never had the urge to beat livestock before but I can see how it can happen.

I put the goat in her pen, called her some unflattering names, and went in.

After a while, I began to look at this in a philosophical sort of way. I tried to control the watermelon. I wanted it to be mine. It was taken from me. There you go.

So, instead of trying to control the goat, I am going to practice letting things be. I left her loose on Interstate 81 this morning.

Just kidding.

For Sale: One Identity, Slightly Used

Hi.

It's me.

Remember me?


I figured it was time for an update on my very-oh-so-exciting life because I know you all are waiting with bated breath - or possibly bad breath? - to see what I've been up to lately.

Well...

nothing.

No, really. When I say nothing, I mean nothing. Ok, I guess not really nothing because I am doing those regular things we all must do to get through life day to day. More like nothing really exciting.

At any rate...

You will all be happy to know that it would appear as though my dear hubby's identity is pobably not stolen after all. Because Lo! I have located the insurance and registration cards for my car (which, if you are just joining us for the first time, I thought were stolen when the car was. See below.) Yes, it would seem as though they were under the passenger seat of the car all along. Insert sheepish grin here.

How did I finally find them? Something rolled under there. Something that I apparently needed and could not just let roll into the netherworld of Underthecarseat and, when I reached under to get it, I had to pull out a bunch of stuff first and, well, there they were. Along with an old orange, the deed to my house, the cat that ran away a few years ago and Amelia Earhart. So, it would seem as though my hubby's identity is safe after all. Which leads me to this...

I have decided to sell my identity.

Or try to.

Now, the unfortunate part of this is that I am Catholic. Which, in itself is not the problem because I'm sure there are plenty of folks out there who could work with that particular feature. No, the problem with being Catholic is that I will be guilted into disclosing the truth about it - my identity, that is. This whole Catholic thing also works very much against me as I am in the sales business but what can ya' do?

So here's the pitch...


Looking for a change? Had enough of the normal life? Just can't stand yourself anymore? Why not consider being me? Just consider the benifits of the Ms. Quintessence Identity ...

- You get to be 5'2"! Sick and tired of walking into low hanging pipes in basements? Well, with your new Ms. Quintessence Identity, you don't have to worry about those nasty golf ball lumps on the head. No more conking the ol' melon getting into your car. Usually. And you never have to worry about reaching items on the top shelf at the grocery store again!

- You will get to work in the real estate business! Why go to that same old hum-drum job where you can count on a pay check every week? As the new Ms. Quintessence, you can deal with overly emotional people spending large amounts of money - or not - and never have a stable income again!

- You will be the owner of a big old farm house! Sick and tired of going home to a house where the roof doesn't leak, the basement isn't wet and you have hot water on a regular basis? As the new Ms. Quintessence, you can forget about that! Wake up every morning to the exciting possiblity of your shower being 55 degrees! Listen to the calming sound of trickling water during the rain storms - in your own dining room! Live in a home that would be an entomologist's dream! Milk a goat every freaking night!

- You will have a Victoria's Secret credit card! But your body will be such that the idea of actually purchasing anything from the store will make you laugh until you cry. Unless, of course, you are currently suffering from PMS in which case you will pretty much only cry. And eat. Bad things. Like ice cream and Jolly Ranchers and ice cream. And be very irritable in general. To everybody. Except the women who are the clerks at the grocery store because they understand. And your lovers - Ben and Jerry.

- You will own very desirable cars! See previous posts.

- You will have a very hard time remembering things! Bad memories? Childhood trauma? The grocery list? Your new identity will wipe your brain clear of all that clutter along with other unnecessary minutia such as important phone numbers, your children's doctor appointments, your mother-in-law's birthday and everything before 10:42 this morning. Clean slate!

- You will have very grand ideas! And no finances to see them through. Or the stick-to-it-tive-ness to even figure out the details in the first place. But this won't stop you from delving into home rennovation projects with wild abandon.

- You will have a great love for garlic! And no regard for its effects on your family or friends!

And last but certainly not least...

- You will have flat feet!

Just listen to what other people have said about being Ms. Quintessence...

"I've been Ms. Quintessence for over 35 years and that's a long time!" - Ms. Quintessence

"People think I'm pretty strange sometimes..." - Ms. Quintessence

"I could really use a break." - Ms. Quintessence

"Did anyone see where I put the car keys?" - Ms. Quintessence


That's right! And if you act now, I'll throw in my permission for unlimited use of the phrases "What the crap?" and "Flippin' flappin'" (ie. "I can't get this flippin'flappin' thing to work!")!

DON'T DELAY! This offer won't last long and there is only 1 identity left! It can be yours for the low, low price of ...

um...

well...

make an offer!

The Prodigal Car Returns Home

Hi again.

Ok, so as you may have guessed from the title, we got the Camry back.

My insurance guy called Wednesday morning and said "Good news! They found your car! It turns out that it was just towed after all and you can pick it up at the Navy Yard."

Now, I'm not exactly sure what part of this was supposed to be the good news.

Finding the car? Well, ok, I'll give him that one. But, to be honest, hubby and I were already online picking which car we were going to get as a replacement. I had my eye on a cute little Mazda Millenia for 3,000 clams. Oh well.

They towed it? Is that the good news? Because the last I heard, the towing of a car rarely turns out to be any kind of good news for the owner. As a matter of fact, from my understanding, the towing of one's car is exactly the opposite of good news.

Pick it up in at the Navy Yard? Um, in New York? Is that the good news? Well, after having gone there I can emphatically state that no, it is definitely not good news to hear you are going on a littly tripsy to the Navy Yard to try to recover your car. No siree.

Anyway, I figured I would first call my cousin and let him know the car turned up. It's a good thing I did because he gave me the best advice for dealing with the fiasco that was about to ensue. He told me that New York is basically like a very large Pennsylvania Department of Transportation office and "if it doesn't say it on the paper, you can't do it". As it turns out, that is exactly true. And the funny thing is, to get your car, that is supposedly stolen, you have to coordinate the police department with the Navy Yard with the insurance guy and they all have different pieces of paper and none of them say the same thing. In fact, they all say something different.

I called the Navy Yard first and asked what I needed to do to get my car. The womam I spoke to said to bring $225 and my registration. Then I asked where it was towed from. She told me that it was towed from some location far, far away from where I parked it. Ha! Stolen! I told her my registration was in the car which was stolen. To which she replied "Dat's okay, you can jus come here an' git it outta yo car." I tried to explain that I didn't know if it was in my car because it was stolen. My car. Was stolen, you see. So I don't know if I even have a glove compartment any more let alone the contents that are supposed to be therein. To which she replied "Hmmmmm......" After a while of back and forth with her, she told me to call the police department and get a copy of the report. Ok. I can do that.

Or not.

Because, as it turns out, the policeman, Officer Oats - McCarthey, NEVER FILED THE REPORT!!!!! That's right. No report. Because he apparently didn't get my message with my license number. Or, maybe he did but he just didn't get around to doing the paperwork. So, now I had a real problem. The piece of paper that the gal at the Yard had said I needed to have one of two other pieces of paper, neither of which I had. And since you cannot reason with a piece of paper at the Navy Yard, you are shit out of luck if you want your car.

In the mean time, I figured I better call my insurance guy and see what I do if I can't drive the car. You know, if they took the engine along with the glove compartment. So I call him and ask and he says since it was towed, they don't cover anything.

?

Um, what?

He explains again that, since my car was just towed and not actually stolen, they don't really cover anyting.

Um, no.

I explain to him that oh yes indeedy my car was so stolen and what do you think I am? Some nincompoop who doesn't know the difference between having a car stolen and having a car towed? What do I look like? Or sound like since you can't see me? Anyway? He wasn't having any of it. He was all Mister No Tow.

I called the Navy Yard. Again. And the woman was "Oh, you're the one with the Camry." And I said "Not really but I'm still working on it" and she thought I was all kinds of funny. Anyway, I asked her to verify where it was towed from and she told me it was picked up in a land far, far away on a street called Eastern Parkway. And I know - even if I don't know my way around Brooklyn - I know it wasn't parked on Eastern Parkway. So I asked her if there was something she could print out because my insurance guy was getting a little bit of an attitude with me. She was very understanding and told me to have him call and talk to her. Directly. Because she is the woman with the paper. Ha!

So, I call the insurance guy and he was all "Sure, I checked and it was towed from a different spot so you just go and look at it and here's my number and you call me if we need to get you a tow truck." That's right, insurance guy! You will tow my car if it doesn' have an engine, glove compartment and registration card.

Crap! I still didn't have the card. And then I remembered that the renewal form was sitting in front of me. Ho, ho! Things were falling into place now. Now all I had to do was get to Pottsville and pay an exorbitant amount of money to get an on-the-spot renewal, drive to New York and get my car! Cake!

However, on the way to the renewal place, the pressure started getting to me. And my hubby. By the time we got to Pottsville I was ready to just take a bus "and take care of everything myself! Harumph!" Fortunately, cooler heads eventually prevailed and we decided to take our aggression out on some snack food instead.

The next part of the story is really boring because it involves driving to Brooklyn. Which takes about 59 hours. And isn't very exciting. Especially when you did it two days before. Then it is anything but exciting. More like excruciating.

Fortunately, my dear cousin set me up with spot-on directions to the Navy Yard and we made it there without incident. They only let one person back to get the car because, I guess, "two people" is not an option on the paper. Since the car is in my hubby's name, he had to go do the claiming. I got to sit on the sidewalk and watch as unfortunate car after unfortunate car was brought in riding the hook of an NYPD tow truck. I gave my hubby strict orders to call me on my cell phone when he got to the car. I anxiously awaited the news.

Tick, tick, tick...

Tick, tick, tick...

Ring.

Me: What? What is it? Is it a wreck?
Him: No. I'm not there yet. I'm still in line.
Me: Oh, ok. How long do you think it will take?
Him: It's a slow process.
Me: Oh. Got ya. Ok, call me when you get there.
Him: Ok


Tick, tick, tick...

Tick, tick, tick...

Ring.

Me: Well? How is it?
Him: I'm not there yet.
Me: Oh, well where are you?
Him: Waiting for the shuttle to take me to the car.
Me: Shuttle?
Him: Apparently there's a lot of cars.
Me: Oh.
Him: Where are you?
Me: Still sitting on the front side walk.
Him: Stand up and turn around
I stand up and turn around.
Him: Do you see me?
Me: Oh, there you are.
Him: Ok, here's the shuttle.
Me: Ok, well have fun. Good luck.

Tick, tick, tick...

Tick, tick, tick...

Tick, tick, tick...

Ring.

Me: What? What's the story?
My son: What?
Me: What?
My son: What are you doing?
Me: I'm waiting for daddy to get to the car.
My son: Is it wrecked?
Me: I don't know yet.
My son: Ok, well call me when you know.
Me: Ok, bye.
My son: Ok.


Tick, tick, tick...

Tick, tick, tick...

Ring.

Me: Well?
My son: Well?
Me: What?
My son: Did he see it yet?
Me: No! I'll call you. Don't call me. I'll call you.
My son: So you don't know anyting?
Me: I will call you. Ok? I promise.
My son: Ok


Tick, tick, tick...

Tick, tick, ti...

Ring.

Me: Who is this?
Hubby: It's me. What do you mean?
Me: Nevermind. What's the story?
Hubby: Flat tire. Dead battery. Looks like they went through the glove compartment.
Me: That's it?
Hubby: Hold on. Let me check. (Opens trunk.) Hmmm...it looks like they ransacked the trunk. Everything is all over the place.
Me: Um...
Hubby: What?
Me: Um...they probably didn't ransack it. That's how I keep it.
Hubby: mumble, mumble, mumble
Me: Anything else?
Hubby: Doesn't look like it. Let me change the tire and get the shuttle people to jump the car and I'll be out.

After a little while, he came out with our little rolling stone and we looked it over again. As it turns out, there was a little dent on the front driver's side, the blown out tire and a very loose ignition. As far as personal belongings, they took the owners manual (what?), the registration and insurance, the change out of the ashtray and a case of water out of the trunk. Apparently none of my other belongings hold much value in the city. Well.

So, folks, there it is. The conclusion to my very exciting tale of Grand Theft Auto. No large loss or damage, hubby got to see the Navy Yard and our little Camry is hopefully over its case of wanderlust. I love a happy ending.

Just A Quick Post

Hey everyone.

Thank you all for the kinds words and encouragement on the whole grand theft auto thing.

I am going away for a few days - nothing to do with the recent episode, although it is going to be a welcome respite from reality right now.

When I come back, I will fill you all in on the Tale Of The Prodigal Camry. My cousin kind of knows where things stand but it is just too involved for me to write at this moment as I am supposed to be on the road in a matter of hours to a music festival in upstate New York. But, I promise that when I get back I will fill you in all the excruciating details.

Take care everyone and have a nice few days!

Apparently, I Have A Reputation

Hi everyone. This is a super crazy long post but it's so kooky I just have to tell the whole story.

Well, as some of you know, my dear little daughter was just off, traipsing about Europe with a bunch of high-school band people, playing concerts and living the high life. She's been gone since July 3rd (well, technically since June 30th to the University but they didn't really fly out until the 3rd) and arrived home today.

You would think that nothing could even compete with the fact that one's daughter is arriving home from Europe let alone eclipse the event. You would think.

But no.

You see, the problem is, that nothing - NOTHING - can ever happen normally for this family. Nothing.

Did I mention nothing?

Here's the story...

Ok, so there's the whole beginning of the going to Europe thing...getting ready, passport, shopping, everything, everything, everything...and our last item in the actual parent part of this was going to the farewell concert and dinner at Millersville University. We drove down, had dinner, saw the concert (which was very, very good) and then went back to my daughter's dorm room for our final goodbyes. After that, we went out to the parking lot, got in the car and...nothing. The battery was dead. Sigh. And since I was silly enough to be lured by low milage rather than a standard transmission when buying the car in the first place, I now had to go find someone with jumper cables. The first guy I ask says "Jumper cables? Oh, no. I don't carry them. Actually, I don't ever anticipate being in the position to need tham." Then he got into his ass-mobile and drove off to Ass-land.

Then I spied the parents of two boys that were kind of from our area that we got to meet before. I asked them and being the good coal region sorts they are, of course they have them and of course they don't make us feel like idiots for needing them. That part was understood. Off we go.

Now, other than phone calls, faxes, emails or adding money to the cash card account, our role was pretty much done until the end of the trip. The tour offered a shuttle bus from the airport, making various stops across the state for those parents who did not want to drive out to JFK to pick up their child. I figured that a kid who just got off a 7 hour flight from a trip where they just did a huge amount of travel on a bus is not going to want to ride yet another bus but, rather, ride in the comfort of her own family car, enjoying the company of no one but her mother. I mean, wouldn't you?

I happen to have a cousin and cousin-in-law who live in Brooklyn. Since my daughter was flying into JFK, I figured I could take this opportunity to drive out a day early, pay a visit, enjoy some fun with the relatives and then be at the airport in plenty of time the next morning to pick up my travel-weary daughter. That's what I figured.

So, I get directions, drive out and meet up with my cousin and his wife. We have a very nice evening, eating some awesome Thai food and then seeing the sights of Brooklyn - at least what you can see at night. And in the haze. Because it was super hazy. And hot. And hazy. Did I mention hazy? How about muggy? Humid? All of those. But despite that, I had a great time.

The plan for the next morning was that my cousin would head out to work, I would hang with his wife until she had to leave (around 10ish) and then I would leave as well and go to a beautiful little beach until it was time to pick up my daughter. We spent the end of the night going over all of the routes from the apartment to the beach, the beach to the airport, the airport to home. And alternate routes just in case. I was so prepared.

Almost.

The next morning - why this very morning it was - my cousin left for work. The plan was set in motion. I had coffee with his wife and we got ourselves ready. I skipped taking a shower because I was going right for the beach, no sense in that. We walked downstairs and said our goodbyes and she headed in one direction and I in the other. I crossed the street and walked a half block. And then I became kind of...confused. Here's a little replay of my thoughts...

"Hmm, hmm, hmm....whew it sure is hot. Can't wait to get to the...
Um....
Uh...
Look left. That looks like the fence I parked next to.
Look right. That is definitely not my car.
Look left. That sure looks like the fence.
Look right. That isn't a Toyota Camry.
Hmm.
Um...
Look back. Ok, cousnin's wife is watching. Maybe I parked in the next block. But I'm sure I was parked in front of their car.
Look back at cars. That sure looks like their car. That definitely isn't my car in front of it.
Um..."

So I decided I better check with my cousin's wife to make sure I was not, in fact lost in one block. Fortunately she saw me standing there bumfuzzled (slipped that on right in, didn't I?) and was headed back my way. I met her back in front of their apartment building and explained that I must be confused as to where I parked the car. She walked back with me and said "It's right up here in front of... Oh my God! WHERE'S YOUR CAR?!!!!"

My thoughts exactly.

So then we both kind of stood there bumfuzzled.

"Um..." I said, "I think...it...might be stolen."

Cousin's wife: "OH MY GOD! YOUR CAR! WHERE IS IT?"

Me:

So then we figured there might have been some small chance that it was towed because it wasn't parked illegally and none of the other cars there were towed and really it didn't seem like it was towed as opposed to robbed but do we really want to even admit that yet. We headed back to the apartment to call the loacl police to see if it was towed and if not, well, it was stolen and could you please find it because I have to pick up my daughter very shortly at the airport.

While she was on the phone trying to convince the police guy that they towed a '91 Camry didn't you please, please, please, I was on the phone to home because, wouldn't you know, I don't even know my licens plate number and what are police going to think of that? I could tell them that it was the '91 Toyota Camry with Pennsylvania plates. Oh yeah, and the bumper sticker that said "Support Your Local Farmer". Oh yeah, and the big sign that said "Steal me please because I belong to an out-of-towner-back-woods-hick who has nothing better to do than pick huckleberries and milk goats." That sign. Ok, it's not an actual sign but you can see it just the same if you're looking through the eyes of a crafty city car thief.

So I call home and get my son. I start walking him through the whole treasure hunt of where to find the insurance policy information, hoping, hoping, hoping that somewhere on it there will be my license plate number. I knew it would eventually happen... and then he asked it.
Son: "What do you need it for?"
Ugh.
Me: "Um...the car? Well... Um. It was um...kind of ... well, it seems to have been stolen."
Son: "What?!"
Me: "The car. Um. Stolen."
Son: "Did you leave the keys in it?"

Alright. I may not be the brightest bulb in the shed but, for cryin' out loud, I know better than that. I mean, really. And I told him so.

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that it wasn't on the insurance information. Anywhere. My son asked if he should wake up my husband (who jsut finished working 3rd shift) and I told him to just let him sleep and we'll check in later.

My next attempt was with the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation. Or, more appropriately the Pennsylvania Department of We Can't Help You With Anything But We Won't Tell You That Until After We've Kept You On Hold For Four Minutes And Then Run You Through A Crazy Goose Chase Of Menu Options Only To Tell You That You Have To Go To A Local Office And Fill Out A Report And Pay Five Dollars And Then We'll Tell You Because We Are Pretty Much Going To Hold Your License Number Hostage Because We All Suffer From Power Issues. That's what they should call it. So when the very nice Officer McCarthey - who looked a little bit like John Oats acting in a police prime time drama - came to fill out the report, he couldn't really do anything. He tried to be hopeful though, when I said "Um, I'm pretty much never going to see my car again, am I?" He assured me that it is very possible it was towed and the paperwork on it didn't reach the central office yet. Then I put it to him this way: The cars in front and in back weren't towed and it wasn't parked illegally in the first place. Then he said "A '91 Camrey, right?" "Yep" says I. And he just hung his head in a moment of silence. For he knew, as well as I, that my car was no longer even a car. It was a mass of parts already making their way around the city. At any rate, he gave me his number and asked me out to dinner. No, not really. He told me to call when I got my license number so he could finish the report. Will do, Officer Oats. I mean, McCarthey.

By the way, this whole trying to track down the license plate number took an obscenely crazy amount of time and involved at least 10 phone calls to my son trying to instruct him to check various parts of the house because maybe, just maybe... In the end, it was all to no avail.

Well, my cousin's wife had a big meeting so she had to head into work. She waited until my cousin came home because now, he had to drive me to the airport - not even the beach - and then we would come back to the apartment and figure out what to do next.

So we get to the airport just as the plane lands but, since my daughter was coming back into the country, we had a good 40 minute wait anyway because of customs and whatnot. We sit down to wait and guess who I see? Go ahead. You'll never. It's the folks who had to jump start our car the night of the dinner. I clued my cousin in on this previous history and he agrees to keep the whole grand theft of my auto on the QT so as to not have me appear as a total freak. The first thing they ask is whether or not we made it home alright the night of the dinner. "Sure" I say, "no problem at all." In all fairness, they didn't ask if I had any problems today. We chat with them a bit until the kids start to come from baggage claim.

I must say, it was wonderful to see my daughter. She was literally beaming. It was so obvious that she had a great time. I couldn't wait to hear all about it. Unfortunately, there were a few...details...to deal with first. She said her goodbyes to her friends - the friends that were riding the shuttle bus home - and we headed out to the parking lot. I told her we were going back to my cousin's apartment and them we were going to figure out how to get home.

Daughter: "What do you mean figure out how to get home?"
Me: "Um...figure out. That what we have to do."
Daughter: "I thought you drove out."
Me: "I did."
Daughter: "So why aren't we driving home?"
Me: "Well...see...it would appear as though...the car? Well, it seems to have been stolen."
Daughter: "WHAT????!!!! Our car??!! STOLEN???!!!
Me: "Um...yep."
Daughter: "Did you leave the keys in it?"
Sigh.

This is not fair. Or necessary. It certainly isn't constructive.

We got back to the apartment and, after some discussion and much soul searching, decided it would be best to take the subway to Port Authority and catch a bus to Somewhereclosetohome. My cousin gave my daughter some duffle bags to transfer her belongings for ease of public transportation navigation and walked us to the subway station. He gave me one last set of directions and we were on our way.

Now, I have to pause here a moment and thank my cousin and his wife - who, by the way, could not apologize enough for the poor behavior of the New York City car thieves - for, first of all, their wonderful hospitality and, second, their patience and help with my dilemma. You two were EXTREMELY helpful and wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. They did everything possible to assure safe passage back to Pennsylvania for me and my daughter. A MILLION BAZILLION thanks!

We made it to Port Authority, had a slice of pizza, bought tickets and were on a bus by 4:30, merrily making our way home. Because, you know, I knew the last thing my daughter would want to do after a 7 hour flight from a trip where they just did a huge amount of travel on a bus, would be to ride another bus home. So, there you go.

But wait. It's not over yet.

I knew my husband had to go into work for 6pm and I still didn't hear from him. I called my son again and told him to go make sure his dad was up for work and maybe tell him to give me a call too. As it turns out, my husband, who rarely sleeps more than 6 hours, picked today to have a sleep-a-thon. Well, good for him because he was in for a bit of a rude awakening.

He finally called me at about 5:35.

Him: "Hey, you wanted me to call. Is something wrong?"
Me: "Um...kind of."
Him: "What is it?"
Me: "We need someone to pick us up at the bus station in Allentown around 7 o'clock."
Him: "Why, what happened? Did the car break down?"
Me: "Not that I know of..."
Him: "Well what is it...I have to get ready to leave for work soon."
Me: "The car? The one we used to have?"
Him: (impatiently)"Yes..."
Me: "It's stolen."
Him:
Me:
Him: (more calmly)"Stolen?"
Me: "Yes."
Him: laughs
Me:
Him: "I'm sorry. I don't mean to laugh but...stolen? Our car? Why would anyone even want it?"
Me: "For parts, I'm guessing."
Him: "Ok, I'll call into work and come get you."
Me: "Ok, bring son. He has the directions to the bus station." (From one of additional 20 phone conversations.)

My hero. What a guy. And so, we would all get to bring my daughter home from Europe after all. They picked us up at the bus station, after a long, hot day - one, I might add, that I did not begin with a shower. They pulled into the bus station and there was joyfull reunion all around. We loaded all the bags in the back, climbed in, and we were on our way - finally - home.

I think it was within the first mile from the bus station when my husband asked, "Did you leave the keys in the car?"

I'm An Oh, So Merry, Chuckleberry, Huckleberry Hound!

First a little caveat to my kin and other children of the coal region: This post contains graphic descriptions of events that you most likely have safely buried deep within your psyche. It is recommended that you have a Xanax at the ready and an appoitment with your therapist within the next two days. Crack a Yuengling and read at your own risk.


It is my fond belief that we, as human beings, all suffer from some level of mental illness. It manifests itself in many different ways - some of us sing Karaoke, some vote Republican, some eat meat with jiggly things still on it - but we all have it to some degree. Mine seems to display itself in a vast array of oddities, one of which is the feature of this post. I bring you...

THE MADNESS

The isn't just some general madness. No, this is a madness very particular to folks living in the coal regions of PA. It is a seasonal display and it revolves around a tiny little thing know as the huckleberry. For those of you not in the know, a huckleberry is very similar to a blueberry except where a blueberry might be like this "O" a huckleberry, in size comparison, is like this ".". And where blueberries are cultivated on bushes this high "-", huckleberries grow on bushes this high "_". They grow wild all over the mountains in this area and have long been a part of the local diet. Many moons ago, when there were still active miners in these parts, they would drag their little children up to the mountain tops and force them to pick, pick, pick for hours and hours and then take the huckleberries to town and sell them for enough money for pop to buy a brewskie on his way home from work the next night.

It's a lovely little tradition that has been slowly dying out with each generation and the more available knowledge of child labor and abuse laws but still, it lingers. I remember going huckleberry picking as a child. Since the berries really come ripe in July, it was usually sweltering hot. And my mom would dress us in the double-knit polyester outfits that were all the rage for the discriminating 70's child. Wicking action? Forget it. We would all hoof it "up da pole line" because the pole line was the easiest way to get "up da mountain".

Sometimes, as a special treat, my grandmother would come along. She ran a bar and was a real pistol. I remember how she used to call us "Goddam sons-of-bitches". Golly, those were the days.

Anyway, when we found the right spot, everyone was put to work picking berries. We would pick and pick and pick for hours in the sweltering heat on the mountaintop. If you were lucky, after about 3 hours of picking, you had enough huckleberries to cover the bottom of a plastic yogurt cup. It's not that you weren't working hard. It's just that it's so freaking hot, and you're just a kid, and your other friends don't have to pick huckleberries because they have a pool, and you didn't mean to spill them but you just set the cup down for a minute to scratch you leg and you accidentally knocked it over, and you only ate a couple, and you don't even like pie anyway! So when the grown-ups were done picking and they called all the children in from the bushes, and it was time to settle accounts with the Lord, and you produced your yogurt cup with about 37 huckleberries which isn't even enough to put on your cereal everyone knows that, you knew you were going to hear it from Grandmother. "What the hell were you doing the whole time? Scratchin' yer ass?" And you hung your head in shame and lagged at the end of the line back "down da mountain".


And every person you talk to in this area can tell you that exact same story.

So this is THE MADNESS and, unfortunately, I had a flare up today. Because, you know, I have nothing better to do with my time. So I grabbed a 2 quart pitcher and a 2 quart Coleman cooler - hey, I was feeling lucky - and headed "up da pole line".

There are several symptoms you can look for to determine if a body is suffering from THE MADNESS as opposed to a less bizarre malady. I will explain some of them forthwith.

The Glow
The Glow is a symptom displayed by that picker that thinks to herself "I could use a little color to my skin. Maybe I'll go pick some huckleberries and get a little sun." The picker, clad in shorts and a tanktop, then spends the better part of a day that would kill a camel, on a sunny montain top. Closer to the sun. Out of the shade. With little or no sunscreen. And while fuschia is not the color she intended to don, it is, in fact, the color she got.

Picker's Leg
This is the dead legs sensation that the picker will have after squatting for hours on end. First, you loose circulation, and feeling, below the knee. Next, it's below the hip. Before you know it, you've got two dead legs that you can't feel or walk on. All you can do is wait it out until that old familiar pain begins, signaling the return of the blood to your long forgotten limbs. If you're lucky, there's no permanent damage.

The Picker's Two Step
Also know as Ants in the Pants. Inevitably, all pickers will succumb to this unfortunate fate sooner or later. It is the nature of the beast. Or beasts. Beasties, more appropraitely. The picker is in a really good patch of berries which, coincidentally, would also happen to be a really good patch of red ants if that's what one was picking. The problem is, because the picker is suffering from Picker's Leg (see above) s/he does not notice the red ants until they are, in fact, in the pants. It's a drag to have happen to you but really funny to watch happen to someone else. One caution here, no matter how much they bite you, no matter how bad it itches, don't take your mace - which you brought along to ward off any curious bears or curious men - and spray your hiney. It might seem like a good idea when you are in the throes of Ants in the Pants but you do not want to do this. I once had the opportunity to be on the outskirts of a mace cloud and, trust me, if yo spray your hiney with that, it will have you crying for your mother.

Pickin' on Negro Spritiuals
This symptom mainly shows up in folks who are picking solo and actually comes in two forms, the first simply being talking to one's self. The other, more dangerous form , is making up songs - specifically negro spirituals. Now, I don't want to offend anybody so I hope I'm not being politically incorrect by calling them "negro spirituals". I only refer to them this way because that's what they call some of the songs in our church hymnal and, really, the church wouldn't say it if it was offensive, right? Anyway, when a body is out in the wilderness alone, picking little berries for an extended period of time, the mind often wanders south and begins to draw similarites with the pickers of cotton. So, you see, it's not that far of a leap to then break into spontaneous song about the ordeal. It really is a strange little occurance but, to be sure, the source of some real gems. As a matter of fact, during the course of my picking today, I made up such hits as "Huckleberry Pickin' For The Lord", "Swing Low, Sweet Coleman Cooler", "Hallelujia, Ah Gost A Quart!" and "I Found The Lord At The Psycho Ward." On that last one I was moving a little more to the blues genre. Still, my favorite had to be "Send Down Your Angels With A Big Fat Mortgage Payoff". It staggers the mind just to think of all the good songs lost up in those hills. Maybe someone could get a grant to go record them on site like that project they did in Appalachia.

Picker's Walk
The huckleberry picker that has spent hours on the mountain will have a distinct...gait. Part of this comes from Picker's Leg - some people will just not wait for circulation to start up again. The other part of this particular phenomenon is due to the fact that the person just spent several hours alternating between a very, very deep squat and then bending over at the waist while the legs are straight. Neither position, by the way, is recommended for anyone, ever. The very, very deep squat resultes in very, very overstretched Achillies tendons which lets the feet kind of flop about at whim. The other more unfortunate part of the very, very deep squat it that the pickers internal organs have all slowly seeped out the butt and are now in the seat of the picker's pants, causing the picker to walk in the manner of a toddler with a very full diaper.

Picker's Grin
Not to be confused with Pickin' And A-Grinnin' which is a different disorder entirely. Picker's Grin is the look on the picker's face after having come down from "da mountain". It's a goofy, weary smile and the eyes are glossed over with a far away look in them. It is often accompanied with the repeated phrase 'I got enough for a pie. I got enough for a pie."


Well, I have to say that I am showing all of these symptoms in varying degrees (I think all the ants may finally be gone) after my little foary into the berry patch today. The circulation had finally returned to my extremeties however, I think my back isn't going to be the same for days, years even. I'm still working my internal organs back through...um, nevermind.

At least I have a happy little 2 quart Coleman cooler full to the frim with fresh huckleberries. Enough for two pies!

If only I liked pie.

A Very Hot Tip

So anyway, I'm guessing with all my posts about farm life and whatnot you are all kind of thinking to yourselves "Man, how do I get me a little piece of Eden like that?" Well, I'm here to tell you, Wonder No More! For I, being both farm owner and real estate person, will impart upon you the ultimate secret for purchasing you pastoral paradise!

Listen closely, people.

First, you must find the farm you want to buy. Don't limit yourself to farms that are actively marketed for sale because, really, everything is for sale. You just have to bide your time and strike when the soft underbelly is exposed - which I will explain momentarily. Now, whilst you are out looking for your farm, pay particular attention to whether or not there is currently any livestock because, the more livestock, the better. It doesn't matter that you don't want livestock on your farm because that has nothing to do with it. Trust me, the more livestock, the better.

Once you've found the farm of your dreams, your next step is to befriend the current owner(s). I don't care how you start - maybe plan a flat tire in front of their house or something - but you need to get to know your sellers. I mean really get to know your sellers. After that initial meeting, you must make reasons to stop by frequently and visit, talk and socialize.

Now the very important thing to remember at this stage is DON'T TELL THEM YOU ARE PLANNING TO BUY THEIR FARM!!! No, no, my little prospectors. This is a secret. What you msut do instead, is compliment the owner(s) on the property, including things like "You really have a nice place here. I would love to have something like this someday. Blah, blah, blah, blabbity blah..." What you are doing is making the owners proud of their property (don't worry, this will not affect you adversely) but also giving them something to talk about around the dinner table. For instance, your sellers' dinner conversation will go something like, "Yeah, Elvis was by today. I get a kick out of how he says he'd like to own a farm. Do you remember how he couldn't even change his tire that one time? And he wants to own a farm. Yeah, right..." And so on. See, this also gives your sellers a feeling of superiority. Again, not to worry, this will not work against you. Just remember, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. This especially applies to heads.

Ok, so now you picked your farm and you've befriended the owners. What next? Get closer. No, no, not physically. Emotionally. You need to really get to know your sellers now. The main things you want to learn about are 1.) likes and dislikes, 2.) their social schedule and 3.) what kind and the amount of live stock. Let's look at these items one by one.

Like and Dislikes. This is the Getting to Know You stage. Here you want to really get to know your sellers' personalities. What would they enjoy doing if they had free time (which, by the way, they have very little of). Do they like NASCAR races? Do they like bluegrass festivals? Chances are it's one or the other. Why do you want to know this? Well, you are going to start breaking the foundation of their resolve with this information. You are going to start saying things like "My brother called yesterday and asked if I want to go to the Pocono race this weekend. I can't wait. We even have infield tickets. We'll probably go up a few days early to get a good spot and party a bit." While you are saying this, the farmer is examining his/her own schedule and thinking "Man, I'll never get to a race with all this work..." You can see where this is going to go. The farmer starts to look at his/her own life and question all the things they are giving up in order to have the farm. Cruel? Maybe. Effective? Definitely. Similarly, if you find certain things that they don't like, use it to your advantage in a similar manner. For example, your farmer doesn't like the fact that their house is hot in the summer. Work things into your conversation such as "Man, my boss keeps the air in the office so cold I can barely concentrate on work..."

Social Schedule. Now, again, farmers don't have much of a social schedule because they always have a bunch of stuff to do. But even farmers have things like weddings, class reunions, etc., that they will try to make an exception for. What you need to learn is when these things are going on because you are going to use one of these events to plan your attack. You need to know what day the event is on, where it will be held, and, approximately when the farmers expect to return home. On this last item, the later the hour of return, the better for you.

Livestock. This last item is crucial. Remember, it doesn't matter whether you plan to keep livestock. For purposes of buying a farm, you shouldn't even think of animals as livestock. You must now change your perception and begin to think of animals as BLU's, or Bargaining Leverage Units. It is a little known phenomenon in the whole farm sale scheme but I am here to impart this wisdom to you. Here's how it works: Each dependent mouth is worth 3 BLU's. Now, when I say dependent mouth, do not think children. Children are not dependent mouths on a farm. (They are cheap labor. They are terribly resourceful in fending for themselves. As a matter of fact, if I was on a plane full of people that went down in the wilderness, and the Airborne Ranger wanted to go east, and the 6 year old farm child wanted to go west, I'd be heading west, thank you very much.) Anyway, now you must take a closer look at the animals. Some people don't consider dogs and cats livestock but, for our purposes, you can. If it is an inside cat, you can count the full 3 BLUs. If they are outside cats, deduct 2 BLU's per cat because outside cats can pretty much fend for themselves. Now look at the large animals. If they are regular livstock, fine - 3 BLU's. However, if they are dairy animals, add 2 BLU's per each milking animal. Got that? Good. Basically, the Bargaining Leverage Units are an indication of the amount of work and responsibility tying your sellers to the farm.

Now, how does it all work? Well, I'm going to run you through a little scenario.

Suppose you find a farm in, um..., let's say the Pennsylvania coal region. You befriend the owners and get to know them a little bit. During the course of getting to know them, you find out that their house is very, very ice cold during the winter. You can say things like "Hoo boy, we turned up the heat today and now my house is roasting!" Or similarly, "Our heating bill was high this month. Well, I guess that's what we get if we're going to keep it at 75 degrees..."

Now, you also happen to notice that these folks have, say, 3 inside cats, 6 outside cats, two dogs and a goat that is milking. This calculates out to 9 BLU's for the indisde cats, 6 BLU's for the oustide cats, 6 BLU's for the dogs and 5 BLU's for the milking goat for a whopping total of 26 Bargaining Leverage Units.

Finally, you keep track of their social schedule. You find out that the owners are going to attend...let's see...how about a picnic with lots of bluegrass music, food and drink hosted by friends they hardly ever get to see. You talk to the sellers a bit about the picnic, not trying to score an invitation mind you, but to find out their plan. Of course, they can't stay over night like everyone else because they have to come home and milk the goat. But, you also know that they will try to stay as late as they possibly can because they want to squeeze every bit of enjoyment out of this little shindig. They figure they won't get home before 11pm or so.

Good. Now you put you plan in motion.

The morning after the picnic, stop by your future farm as early as is acceptable in your little corner of the world. Make sure you got a good night's rest the night before and be sure to be freshly showered with at least one good cup of coffee under you belt. Better yet, bring a large travel mug of coffee with you. Stop by to visit your sellers while they are dragging their tired, hungover, sorry asses about the property and remark on what a lovely day it is and your thinking of going for a swim or something. Then ask about the picnic. At this point, the sellers will tell you how they had such a nice time and it was great to see everyone but, unfortunatly, they had to leave right when everything was really getting going to come home to milk the damn goat. Just stand there and say something like, "Man, that sucks" and let them continue rambling. Just agree with them on whatever they say until they talk themselves into a subdued silence.

Now is the time to strike!

Say to your sellers, "Did you ever think of selling and enjoying life a little bit?" At which point they will shamefully admit that sometimes, sometimes when no one else is around, they dream of selling everything and living out of a Honda Civic parked in a grocery store lot.

Then you say, "Well, I'm not sure if I'm doing the right thing or if I'm ready for this but...I'd be willing to buy your place for eighty two dollars, lock stock and milking goat." It helps if you have the eighty two dollars on you at this point because they will be on that little wad of cash like a senior citizen on the Atlantic City bus on check day, thanks a lot and so long sucker!

Congratulations! You are now the proud owner of a farm. Good luck and God be with you.

Getting One's Goat

So...yeah. I'm neglecting my blog. But really, it's summer. Who isn't? And besides, I have been very distracted with important things like working at work, working on houses, sending my youngest child off to Europe and milking the goat.

That's right. I said milking the goat.

Backup.

About a week ago I came home from a particularly bedraggling day at work. I had to go to a lot of properties that ... how shall I say ... have a snowball's chance in Hell of gracing the covers of Better Homes & Gardens. I spent so much time walking through knee-high grass, poison ivy and little snakey playgrounds that, when I finally came home to my own little snakey playground full of knee-high grass and poison ivy, I dedided something drastic would have to be done. I just couldn't take it any more. I got out the weed wacker.

DUM DUM DUMMMMMMM!!!!!!

You don't know my history with lawn equipment. It's not pretty. I have what is kind of like the Midas touch but instead of everything I touch turning to gold, it pretty much truns to crap. At least as far as lawn euipment goes.

No, really. There isn't a piece of lawn euipment we own that I didn't break. The one item that I was doing really well with - a string trimmer on wheels - I finally ran over with the car. And not on purpose, either. So, you kind of see what I mean.

Anyway, I got the weed wacker out and basically drove myself batty for 3 hours until I finally got tired of taking it apart and putting it back together. In that time, I managed to clear about a 5 x 6 foot area.

It was then that I made the fateful proclamation to my hubby. "We're getting a goat."

He was pretty amused by all of this because he's been trying to get me to agree to the whole goat thing for about two years now. All of these tales of "eating the poison ivy" and "clearing the brush" and whatnot won him over quite a while ago. I, on the other hand, never had any desire to get a goat. They always looked a little bit just this side of evil to me. I don't know exactly what it is - probably because, of all the livestock animals, they would be the ones to most remind me of monkeys with their lower lip all sticking out and everything. And I hate monkeys. I hate monkey because they remind me of people and, well, I can't even tell you how much people freak me out.

But I digress.

I don't think my hubby really took me seriously until I piled him, my daughter and her friend into the station wagon and headed off to the farm market. When we got there, we sent the girls on their merry way and went to look at the available goats. It was very disappointing because there were only two there and, wouldn't you know, they were L Mancha goats which have the distinction of not really growing ear flaps. You wanna talk about weird, take a look at this...



See what I mean? There is no way I wanted to look out my window and see an earless goat grazing around my lawn. No siree. We dicided to go walk about the farm market awhile and check back later. As luck would have it, shortly before the auction started, more goats arrived. Goats that had ears. Woopee!

Now, let me pause here a minute and tell you, if you are a meat eater, and you want to remain a meat eater, don't ever go to a livestock auction. At one point, the girls, both vegetarians (before the auction, even) came in to have a look. Unfortunately for them, they happened to come in during the veal calf acution.

I'm not a veal eater to begin with. After this, I will never be a veal eater. Here is a basic summary of the veal calf's thoughts throughout it's little life span...

"Oh, look at me! I'm born! What is this big, wet tongue? Oh, you must be my mother. Hey, wait a minute. Where did my mother go? Oh, look. A truck. I'm going for a ride, I'm going for a ride. Oooh! A big pen full of other little guys just like me! Hey guys, what's up? Hey, wait a minute. They keep taking them out one by one and no one's coming back. Oh boy! My turn! Wow, a whole bunch of people staring at me and one guy talking really fast. Oh! Another ride on a truck! I'm going for a ride, I'm going for a ride! Hey! A big creature in bibs! You must be my new mother. Um...someone forgot me in this shoe box here... Um, hello? Anyone? Oohh...food. Oohh...more food. And more food. Yay! I finally get to come out of the shoe box and..."

And that's pretty much it. Now you are veal.

But the problem here is that they are SO DAMN CUTE with their little cow faces and big, black eyes. The girls eventually left, more committed than ever to remaining vegetarian. And so it goes.

Eventually it was time for the goats. Luckily, we had a wise old farmer dude sitting next to us to clue us in on the finer points of livestock auction bidding. Goats by the head, sheep by the pound.

It was very exciting because it all goes so fast and you really have no idea what is happening until the auctioneer says "Lady, you just bought yourslef that goat" in a tone of voice that may as well have been saying "Lady, do you have any idea what the hell you are doing buying a goat" and all the time you're thinking to yourslef "I think I just bought that goat and what the hell am I doing buying a goat?" And that fast, we had a goat. Now all we had to do was get the goat home. In a station wagon. With two girls. The old farmer dude's last words to me were "Good luck." He had no idea.

I figured we needed something to help in restraining the goat for when she busts through the back window of the car as we wait in traffic so we set about finding a dog collar. Out of the 80 bazillion vendors at this farm market, exactly none sell dog collars. Go figure. So instead, we bought her a sassy little purple bandanna.

We took our receipt and drove around to the back of the auction building to pick up our goat. Very much like a lumber yard or something. All of the loading docks were full so hubby waited in the car while I tried to go score us a pick-up spot. As I waited, I watched a family load a sizeable calf into the back of a blazer. The side window was busted out and repaired with plastic and duct tape. I looked at our little station wagon with all of its windows still intact and wondered to myself if I really gave the weed wacker enough of a chance. Before I could get into the car and tell my hubby to just drive away, the dock guy asked me for my slip.

"One goat" I said, and motioned to my hubby to bring the car over.

I can only imagine what the man was thinking when he came back with our goat to find the back hatch of the wagon open with two teenage girls looking back at him, giddily screaming "A goat! A goat! A goat!", eagerly waiting to tie the little purple bandanna around its neck. I supposed he didn't think too much about it because he uncerimoniously deposited the goat into the wagon and wished me luck.

What do I look like? Some kind of greenhorn? I've dealt with animals. I own a farm for cryin' out loud. Just not one with traditional livestock as of yet. I wanted to tell him "Look, buddy. I've got a farm with 8 head of cats!" Instead, I just got in the car and told my husband "Let's get this goat home before it smashes a window.

Well, we made it home with all windows intact. As a matter of fact, the goat seemed to be quite comfortable in the car. And why not? I'm sure she didn't go cruising around in air-conditioning at her former home.

When we got her home, she set right about the business of eating the weeds. Good goat.

We decided to name her Gyra because we figured - however incorrect we may be- that Gyra is the feminine of Gyro and a goat is pretty close to lamb and Gyra sounds nicer than Mutton. Not that we're going to eat her. I'll eat her right after I eat my lawn mower.

After about 2 days, we noticed she was getting a little big in the udder and hubby said "Maybe she was milking. We're going to have to decide whether we want to milk her or let her dry up."

We. We are, he says.

I don't know about him, but I've never had to milk the lawn mower.

We decide to let him give it a try while I hold her and whaddayaknow we got a bowl full of goat milk. And another one the next day. And the next day. And then all of a sudden, his work schedule shifted and "Anne, you're going to have to milk Gyra today." And the rest, as they say, is how she bacame a goat milker.

You may wonder what we're doing with all of this goat milk. Well, you're not alone there. I'm wondering what we're doing with it all as well because we really don't have the equipment to do this in a very sanitary manner so we could use it for drinking or cheese or something. The only alternative I've found so far is to make soap with it. So, when Christmas time comes around, guess what's going to be under everyone's tree...

Anyway, now she's all settled in and, I have to admit, I've grown pretty fond of her. She's not really all that evil looking and she is very friendly. Very friendly. Like she wants to be around us all the time. So much so that when we go into the house, she walks around looking in the windows until she finds which room we are in and then watches us. Because, you know, goats are herding animals. I did not intend to be part of the herd. I do not like looking over my bowl of Rice Krispies and seeing a goat staring back at me. I do not like walking out on to my front porch to find a goat lazing on my picnic table waiting for someone to follow around the yard. So, you might guess where this is going. And you might guess where we're going. In our station wagon. Because we are farmers, dammit.

Fitting In

Hi.

Remember me?

Anyway.

Here's a little post to keep you interested. Nothing exciting, mind you. Just a maintenance dose.

Over the weekend, I decided to go visit my friend. The friend - and the visit - have nothing really to do with the story. But that's where I was headed when I looked at my gas gauge and realized I wouldn't be going much of anywhere if I didn't stop and pay my resects to the Bush cartel. Bitter much? Moi? Noooooo.

So I pull into this gas station/convenience store which was recently bought out by some East Indian folks. Now, I only mention this because it is very pertinent to what happened.

I'm standing pumping my gas, draining my wallet, whatever, when I notice a car pull into a parking spot. I watch as an East Indian woman gets out and walks into the store. I didn't really notice anything else about her and just figured she might be a member of the family that now owns the store.

When I am done, I hang the nozzle back on the pump, curse George Bush and his tyrannical ways, and head into the store to get a drink and make payment. As I walk in, I notice the woman is chatting with the lad behind the counter. I get a coke out of the cooler - yes, I'm back on, have been for a while - and go back to the front to pay. As I come around the counter, I get a better view of the gal. She's on the youngish side, pretty and I notice she's slightly pregnant. Ok, not really sightly but more like volleyball than basketball. I hand the guy my money and, as I'm waiting for my change, I glance one more time at the woman and that is when I notice it. Her T-shirt.

Now there are plenty of T-shirts I own for painting, garden work and what-not that I would only wear out in public if I happened to quickly run out for a drink, supplies, whatever. You know the kind. They were either given to you by a misguided relative (ie. "Pray For Me - My Husband Is Italian") or they are hold overs that you bought when you were either young, stupid or drunk or all three (ie. "The Difference Between Men And Boys Is Cubic Inches" tastefully displayed inside the Chevy logo, of course).

These are the shirts that linger and linger then rise to the surface of the shirt drawer every once in a while like a pond turning. They show up during that time period when you are PMSed to the hilt and cannot look at a washing machine without wanting to murder someone dear to you. It usually coincides with the diminution of the pants and underwear drawer which is why you will often see angry, bloated women, buying bread, milk and other items of such necessity, at the grocery store clad in neon green stretch pants that highlight the lines of the giant briefs beneath them, yellow socks, all topped off with a pink T-shirt sporting a giant Minnie Mouse face or, perhaps, a large white T-shirt with the words "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go!" in big, block letters. Don't look at her. Don't judge her. Just give her your silent prayers.

Anyway.

I don't know if this was one of those T-shirts or not. But I couldn't get over it. It was so good I wanted to take her picture. It was a gray shirt with a picture of a screaming eagle, wings and talons outstretched. Over the eagle, in big block letters colored in the pattern of the Rebel Flag, were the words "The South Will Rise Again!"

On an East Indian gal.

Now that's assimilation.

The Ugly, The Bad and The Good

Hi folks.

I know the title is a little backwards but I figure most people like to get the good news last. Also it will keep you on your toes.

So, first The Ugly...

Most of you who read this know my dear seestor and you can pretty much figure on how the genetic chips fell. For those of you who don't, I will give a quick summation. My dear older sister got the looks, the body, the brains, the wit, the talent, etc.

I got...um...well...I got my grandmother's really big arms which would probably be good for working the fields of Poland. And...I got...um...a pretty good tolerance for heat and loud noises...which would be good for...um...working the fields of Poland during a war in the summer. And I got...um...well...I suppose that's it.

So anyway, it is only when the planets align perfectly perfect that I can look at myself in the mirror, smile and say "Well...that'll have to do." And that, my friends, is a good day.

It just so happened that I was on my way to one of those good days recently. For some strange reason my hormones, which have waged a continuouse battle on my face since age 11, decided to have a cease fire. One day of no zits, blotches or blemishes. One good day out of my entire life. It was nothing short of a miracle, my friends. I went into the bathroom to get ready for work, looked in the mirror and realized this, this is the day I have been waiting for all my life. I could cast aside the concealer saying "Not today, Covergirl. I don't need you!"

And then...

Who knew? I mean, really. I was just getting a shower. And I don't even really have nails! Whhaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!

I was washing my face, for cryin' out loud! I just went to splash some water on my soapy face, misjudged and OW! I gouged a rather large chunk of skin right out of my chin. A gouge! Out of my chin! What the crap??!! That is so unfair!

So, instead of having a small little red spot on my face that I could hide with make-up, I had a huge wound pulsing deep, red blood.

Sigh.

When I got into the office my co-worker told me I looked like I fell off my bike.

No sympathy.

And now...The Bad...

So, if any of you read the last post, you know my teenage son now has his driver's permit. And I was worried about it. Silly me. How misguided was my concern.

For, lo! He bought himself a dirt bike. Not just a dirt bike like BMX bicycle. No, no. This is a motorcycle dirt bike ala Evil Knievel. Hello, it's a freaking RACING BIKE. Like FAST. Sigh, again.

You know, it didn't really bother me too much because he's been riding since he was 6. It's not like this is anything new. And, to be honest, I'm kind of proud of him. He worked at odd jobs and saved up the money himself. He found the bike himself and now it's in our garage.

The clever among you may say "Why is it in the garage? Why isn't he out riding it?"

Yeah, well...



That would be his tooth. Or, more appropriately, the lack of his tooth.

You see, he did go out riding. And jumping. And crashing. And then for an emergency root canal. And then for x-rays on his face. Did I mention that he hasn't even been out of school for a full week yet?

So, next week we get to go see the orthodontist about a new tooth.

As for me, I'm pushing for a gold cap. You know, for that gangsta look.

And by now, we're all about ready for...The Good

Well, I'm a proud new mother. I've waited for months and now, my little one has arrived.

Not a BABY for Pete's sake! What the heck it the matter with you?!!

Of this...



Yes...it's a Martin. A beautiful, baby Martin.

My dear hubby - did I mention how much I love him? - got it for me as a birthday present.

The story is, I found the guitar I wanted and decided I would save up, little by little, to buy it. I printed out the information on it, drew a little "This-Is-How-Much-I-Raised" thermometer next to the picture, and stuck it on the refrigerator. My plan was that, by looking at the guitar every day, I would be motivated not to spend my money on anything frivolus like food and, instead, save my money for the guitar. I suppose my hubby figure I'd be long ago starved to death by the time the guitar actually arrived so he went and ordered it for me.

What a guy!

Did I mention how much I love him? And really, it's not just because he got me a Martin. Really, it's not.

No, really.

So, there you have it, The Ugly, The Bad and The Good. Just another day in the life...

Oh, Adrenaline! At Long Last, We Are Together Forever!

So, I took my son to get his driving permit yesterday.

My heart rate is starting to come down, thank you very much.

It's not that he's a bad driver...it's just that there are so many other drivers out there, and he's my son, and very inexperienced, and did I mention he's my son and there are so many other people on the road and he's my son?

I can't explain it but those of you who have kids know exactly what I mean.

It was great and terrifying. Greatly terrifyig.

He wanted to drive home from the driver's center but I wouldn't let him.

"Not on this road" said I. "We're going to start out on some small back roads at home and then we can work up to this."

As luck would have it, we couldn't have made it 100 feet down the road from the driver's center parking lot when a guy backed right out of his driveway in front of me. This is a 4 lane highway we're on folks. There shouldn't even be driveways on 4 lane highways but, as the story goes, the houses were there first and progress and planning came along at a much later date. So now, you have these little houses with little driveways - not big enough to turn a car around in - on this 4 lane highway where the speed limit is 55. So, if one is not coming from the driver's center parking lot a mere 100 feet away, but rather tooling along doing the speed limit, you can have one of these folks - the "Teachable Moment Folks" I like to call them - back out in front of you. And, you know, it's not some youngish aggressive driver in a 5 speed BMW backing out in front of you. No, no my dear readers. It's a rather aged person is a big-ass automatic Buick that would only see any kind of quick and immediate acceleration if it was strapped to an ICBM.

"Whoa there, Buddy! What the heck are you doing? Can't you see cars are coming?" I rattle at the unknowing driver. "There. There you go" I said to my son. "The perfect reason you can't drive home today." Luckily, I managed to scoot around him unscathed but not unseethed. "Idiot."

Son, of course, was confident in his abilities to avoid the lumbering Buick. I, on the other hand, am slightly more skeptical.

We spent the rest of the trip home with me prattling on about "tips for dirving" and grilling him on road signs.
Me: What does that sign mean?
Him: Merging traffic from the right.
Me: Good. What does that sign mean?
Him: Caution, hard right turn ahead. Slow to 35 miles per hour.
Me: Good. What does that sign mean?
Him: Um...Interstate 81 is that way?
Me: Good. What does that sign mean?
Him: Uh...McAdoo is getting public sewer. That has nothing to to with driving...
Me: Never you mind. What does that sign mean?

And so on.

He did eventually get to drive. We all went out after hubby got home for work for a celebratory dinner of diner food with deep fried appetizers, complete with soft ice cream for desert. Of course, it was dark by the time we left.

"You know" I ventured, "It's ok if you had enough for today. I can drive home."

He was having none of it.

So, there you have it folks. My kid is out and about on the Pennsylvania roadways. It's amazing to me how many parents are going through this every day, knowing their child is now out among the driving population. It has really opened my eyes at my own driving habits, encouraging me to be a little extra careful. So, if you don't mind me asking a favor...BE CAREFUL!!! THAT'S MY KID OUT THERE!!!!!

What the...She Got Me!

Well.

It appears that a sniper blogger - my sister no less - has nailed me with a...Meme? What? Hello? Meme?

What it this? I am not sure I can explain it. It seems the gist of it is to answer questions about one's self and then pass said questions on to some other unsuspecting blogger who is merely sitting in her own little world, picking at her toes, thereby forcing her to actually think about something.

A cruel sport indeed.

So here are the questions and, with much anguish, my answers.

1. Estimate the total number of books you've owned in your life.

In my life? Are you kidding me? I have enough trouble remembering how many children I've had in my life and so far it's only two. As best I can tell.

Holy crap. Books? In my life? I know it's more than 22 because I own a full set of encyclopedias and I know I at least have another book besides that.

So, answer to question #1 is >22.


2. What's the last book you bought?

Hmmm... This one I'm not sure of. Do I count the one I might as well have bought because the library fine was equal to or greater than the purchase price? I suppose bought presumes keeping so we'll just rule that one out.

Let's see...bought...

I guess it would have to be The Dione Lucas Book of Natural French Cooking.

As opposed to The Dione Lucas Book of Unnatural French Cooking.

Why did I buy this? Well, you're guess is as good as mine. Ok, not really. I have the inside scoop on this one. I happened upon a set of 8 of those little soup crocks in a second hand store and I thought it would be a good idea to have them for when I make French onion soup because I did make it once before in my 35 years on this planet. And why buy the crocks without digging through the cookbooks because, even though I have no less than a bazillion cookbooks already...er...um...I guess I better go back and change my answer to question number one. See, this is why these kinds of things drive me crazy. I already got one wrong. Anyway, even though I have no less than >22 cookbooks and encyclopedias already - that I really don't use anyway, mind you, because when you get down to it aren't recipes really just a suggestion and not really meant to be taken as an actual course of action? - even though all of that, there might just be a better recipe for French onion soup in The Dione Lucas Book of Natural French Cooking.

Whew. Two down, three to go.


3. What's the last book you read?

Now this is a tricky one. I'm going to assume, for the sake of ease, that it means what was the last book you actually read from start to finish. I have a terrible habit of starting many, many books. Or sometimes not necessarily starting them at the start but just opening them up somewhere in the middle and reading it. Sometimes I even read the last page first. So, I guess you can really say I have a terrible habit of starting, middling and even ending books.

But, again, we'll just assume it means read all the way.

So, I guess the answer to that one would have to be Tangerine. It was one that my son was reading for school and I happened to pick it up while eating a bowl of cereal one morning. The rest, as they say, is history.


4. List 5 books that mean a lot to you.

Oh brother. Here we go...

First, I suppose would have to be The Bible for obvious reasons. I still never managed to read my way through the whole thing. I rarely read it at all actually - unless you count by proxy when I go to church. At any rate, a lot of what I follow in my day to day dealings comes from there. Also, a lot of good bluegrass music.

Second...a tie between Webster's Encyclopedic Unabridged Dictionary of the English Language and The Merriam Webster Thesaurus. I cannot function without them. I love, adore and delight in my engaging little thesaurus for one can have lashings of jocundity attempting to mizzle one's cater-cousin with curious vocalbes. The Dictionary, of course, helps one determine whether it is more appropriate to "mizzle one's cater-cousin" as opposed to "bumfuzzle one's cully". It also comes in real handy when I have to drive the big truck with t he seat that doesn't move.

Third...The Hitchiker's Guide to the Universe et al. The funniest damn books.

Fourth...The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. You know, I've never been into the whole self-help thing because, hey, why mess with perfection, right? But really, this book is pretty darn good.

And, finally...A Visit From St. Nick. It's not so much the story itself as the traditions tied to it. We still read it to our kids on Christmas Eve. Awwwwwww...


One more to go!


5. Tag 5 people!

What?!! Wait a minute... 5 people?! I only know 4 other people that do this and my sister - who is one of them - already tagged two of the others! Crap!
Ok, so I only have one other reader out there who actually comments here so...
d.b.echo...get hoppin' on this...

And, um... if there's anyone else out there other than my sister and cousins...tag on you as well. Report back here when you are done.


Whew. It is finished.

Judging Books By Covers

This past Monday, Memorial Day, I spent pretty much the first half of the day attending parades. That's right, I said parades. As in more than one. Two to be exact. And, while I enjoy a good small town parade just as much as the next one, it was only by association with a certain high school marching band that I came to find myself watching two that day.

I only bring this up as a segue into the real meat of the story.

After parade number one finished, the certain high school marching band was supposed to play a number or two at a memorial service at the cemetary in small town number one and then board the school busses to small town numbered two for parade number two. Not wanting to get caught in traffic, I high-tailed it out of small town number one and headed directly to small town number two to find a parking space reasonably close to the end of the parade route. My goal was to pick up my marchers and make it back home in time to have a beer at an early enough hour to feel as though I celebrated Memorial Day in true coal region style. Too late in the day, you see, and you are not really celebrating the holiday - you are just another pitiful drinker. And we don't want that tag now, do we?

So I make it into small town number two, find a good parking spot and set out to find out how long I have to wait before the parade starts. It was the first time I was in this particular town for this particular parade so I also had to find out the route it was going to take. My guess was that it would be coming down the street lined with folding lawn chairs and a sofa or two but you just never know...

I found a kind looking older man and queried as to the start time. "11:00 is what I'm told" he says. I look at my watch. 10:10. Hopefully he wasn't lied to. I had about 50 minutes to kill in a town that has exactly one store which is a small time grocery store/sandwich shop. I briefly thought about perusing the aisles of the store but figured they would have the same canned peas and jet-puffed marshmallows every other store in Schuylkill County has. Instead, I bought a hot dog from the woman with the gas grill in front of the store and decided to wander about looking at the houses and mingling with the people.

Again, with small town being so small, there isn't exactly a vast array of architecture to look at. As I wandered, I found myslef paying more attention to the 2 liter soda bottles that were fashioned into decorative spinning things and the people already enjoying their Memorial Day beers. There was a staggering amount of both.

I was keeping my eye out for the 6 school bus caravan that would signal the arrival of our marching band. It was about 10 minutes before the start time of the parade and I didn't catch a glimpse of any busses. Right about then, my daughter called me to say they were on their way. "Cutting it a little bit close, aren't they?" I asked her. She then explained how they were delayed at the memorial service and, had I not been in such a rush to find a good parking spot in small town number two, I would have witnessed one of the memorial service attenders passing out and konking his punkin head on a tombstone on his way to taking a face-down nap in the cemetery grass. Damn...I always miss the action.

Eventually, I found myself on a corner that, judging by the crowd gathering there, seemed to be the hub of the hubbub. I figured this would be a good place to stand and take it all in and, with hot dog in hand, I looked every bit the local parade goer.

I noticed an older woman slowly making her way toward the corner. As I watched her approach, I took in the whole picture: festive patriotic sweatshirt, maroon pants, jacket carried ever-so-gently over arm from which dangled one of the largest pocket-books I've every seen (old ladies here don't have purses, they have pocket-books), and sensible running shoes - probably cross trainers. I thought about how she's probably lived here all her life, marking the years with each passing parade. Someone's grandmother, who will probably have family meeting her or stopping by her house later to take her out to visit graves. She probably worked in one of the local garment factories before they closed down, one by one, leaving the women to return to nests either long empty or still brimming with mouths to feed. She probably has little doilies on the arms of her sofa and plastic grapes in a bowl on the window sill. Maybe she has a little dog that runs and barks around the peonies growing in her meticulous yard. Her husband probably was in the service and this parade most likely means more to her than I can ever know. She was amost to the spot where I was standing and I had conjured such an existence for her that I could have thrown my arms arond her in a big hug just because.

She started to rummage around in her purse and stopped right next to me. I was expecting a "Oh, I can't seem to find my watch...do you know if the parade will start soon?" Or perhaps, "My heavens. What on earth did I do with my hankie?" At which point I would graciously offer one of my clean napkins.

What I got was..."Goddammit...I can't find my son-of-a-bitchen lighter! Where the frick did I put it? I can't find anything in this goddamned bag it's so friggin' big!"

I did not have a light to offer. Only conversation. Which I did. Then I finished my hot dog, watched the parade and enjoyed the wonder of it all.