A Little Tuesday Trip Down Memory Lane

First, I must apologize for the crybaby post yesterday.

It's probably a good thing that Blogger self-edited my post to about one third the original size because the rest of it was just a big whiny rant. The kind I would have re-read today and thought "Oh, just shut up already."

So, anyway, I think my sister caught the not so subtle hint that I was dangling on the rocky cliffs of despair because she sent me a very nice email assuring me that the rescue chopper was on the way and here's a topic that shouldn't require a whole lot of effort.

See how she is all cool like that? That's what I'm talkin' about.

But, today is a newish day and I'm in a little bit of a better mental place, so I am going to attack this post with some gutso! And even gusto!

Question: What was the name of your favorite doll?


Anne.

I didn't have a whole lot of dolls as a little girl but I do remember this one doll that one of my dad's friends gave to me at Christmas when I was about 6 or 7. She was about 10 inches or so and she had blonde hair in a kind of boy-ish cut. She actually looked like me. So I named her Anne. She had a white dress with little flowers on it and she really kind of looked out of her element in it. She always seemed like she would be more comfortable in corduroys and a sweat shirt. Like me.

I always felt a little bit bad for her because, here she was ... a doll ... and she wasn't at all like the other dolls, all frilly and pretty. She was very plain. And I think that's why I liked her so much.

I didn't carry her all around like some girls do with dolls. I took her some places with me but, for the most part, she was a pretty independent doll. We had an understanding, Anne and I. We were content to just let each other be.

I'm pretty sure she's still around somewhere.

Question: Is there a Christmas present, Hanukkah present, or a birthday present that sticks out in your mind? Who gave it to you? Was it a surprise, or something you'd been wanting and wanting?

As a child, one of the things that I wanted most of all, and persistently badgered Santa about, was a burro.

Yes, a burro.

Not a burrito.

A burro.

Like one of these...





In the days leading up to Christmas I would sometimes visit Santa at the mall. I would sit upon his lap and gaze into his face with my suppliant eyes and make my plea: "I would like a burro."

Santa never quite knew what to say.

Poor Santa.

My poor parents.

How many years they were persecuted for their unfortunate decision to live in town! "You can't keep a burro in town!" And they would get it on the other side from my sister - "You can't keep a horse in town!" "We hate living in town!" The horror we poor children had to suffer! Living in toooooowwwwwnnn!

Again, my poor parents.

So, one Christmas Santa mangaged to find - and I still to this day can't imagine where he found it - a stuffed burro.

This burro - Grizzy - went to Christmas Mass that morning. And pretty much everywhere else I went. For years. In fact, Grizzy moved with me to my first house and, again to the house I live in now.

Although, I have outgrown the habit of carrying him around. I don't take him to work.


Most days.



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Monday - The Most Randomest Day...of the Week!

So, here it is...8:28 Monday evening.

It's cold and raining in my little neck of the woods.

It feels cold and rainy. It would have been a nice day to stay home and bake stuff. I like to bake on these kinds of days. These days are best spent with good music in floating through air warm and heavy with baking things.

But, I didn't spend the day like that. I had to go to work. Sometimes - most times - my job really interferes with my life.

*************

I have to get myself to Giant and pick up my free turkey. Just what I'm going to do with that turkey I don't know. Stick it in the freezer I suppose. I guess this year I should be thankful for freezer space. I always have visions of a nice dinner at home with my family but it just never works out.

*************

I just tried to post quite a longer post but, for some reason,the last 2/3 of it wasn't saved and so, now I have lost the ... whatever it is that makes me want to do this.

Besides, winter is coming and I have a lot to do.


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Sunday! Sunday! Sisterly Advice So Fun Day!

Wecome, dear readers!

I trust you all had a grand laugh at the Ugly Sister Smackdown yesterday? The material is just too rich! No chocolate sauce needed.

Anyway, back to the business at hand which is guiding the misdirectable. Or misdirecting the gullible.

Let's see what we have today...

Should you ever Google search people you used to know after getting a mild anxiety attack after writing a blog post? And if you do, and feel slowly but surely a big L popping out on your forehead when you find them, what should you do? Moreover, if your own sister is funny and even started a blog but keeps forgetting to write in it, what do you do? start your own Wyrd Sisters competition?

Dear Wyrd Sister,

Ah...the old Post Traumatic Google Search Post Mild Anxiety Attack Post Blog Post Syndrom, more commonly known as PTGSPMAAPBP. It is referred to as the "Syndrom that is sweeping the nation" in the latest issue of the New England Journal of Medicine and, luckily for you, the article was written by yours truly. So, you have indeed, come to the right place.

We are going to have to approach this like learning to dance to Cajun music and take it one step at a time. Although, unlike Cajun dancing, there are more than just two steps.

Let's first look at the post blogging anxiety attack. I've never had an anxiety attack so I'm going to have to be a bit imaginative here. I am going to assume for the sake of Pete that the anxiety attack was somehow related to the blog post in question. Perhaps you were posting some supersecret information...like...um...your...your, um...your 14 year old fantasy about Scott Baio, with all the cheesey parts. ACK! Enough to give anyone a panic attack! Here are some questions to keep in mind before clicking on that shiny orange "Publish Post" button.

1 - Will this post possibly cause irreparable damage to my reputation/marriage/family/career/brain/etc.?

2 - Will this post cause irreparable damage to someone else's reputation/marriage/family/careet/brain/etc.?

3 - How much money do I stand to make if I do/don't publish this?

4 - On a scale of 1 - 10, how entertaining would the average Joe find this post?

5 - Am I using my blog as a confessional? If so, did I make sure to include all the bad parts?

6 - What would my mom think if she read this post?

7 - More importantly, what would the Ugly Sisters' mom think if she read this post?


Once you have looked deep inside yourself and answered those questions - with a heartfelt and honest answer - once you can say "Oh my God, yes!" or "It can never be!", once you are sure - Sure! - of each and every potential outcome of this post, once you have slowly and deliberately analyzed the crap out of it... yell "Bombs away!" and click on the orange button. Because if your gonna write it, you may as well put it out there damn the torpedoes and full steam ahead. Then drink a big bottle of wine to calm your nerves.

Now, about the Googling part. You should always Google people you used to know right after you have blogged something potentially volatile and drinking a bottle of wine. Always.

The best first place to start is with old boy friends, but first, get another bottle or three of wine to sip on. As you slowly but surely feel the capital L creeping out on your forehead, drink some wine. Nothing dulls an L like a lot of wine.

Then look for guys that you wanted to be your boyfriend. After that you can move on to those people that were always so awesome and popular and you envied so much. Google them. Then Google the guys that you would probably still consider having as a boyfriend if you weren't all growed up and married.

After about the third bottle of wine, you will be ready for step three: try to find phone numbers or email addresses of these people. And when you do? Give them a call! Send them and email! They would probably LOVE to hear from you!

I do this All. The. Time. And I can't tell you how surprized people are to hear from me! They are always like "Who?" and "Why are you calling me?"

Oh, it's boat loads of fun.

The next morning when the wine fog starts to lift and the memories of the previous night come Cajun dancing back into your brain, the anxiety causing blog post will suddenly seem not all that big a deal anymore.


Now, about your sister, by all means use whatever tactics you have at your disposal to get her writing. Maybe you might want to pick themed topics ala the Ugly Sisters' example. Maybe work her into it slowly, say, picking a theme for a week - one post a week. That doesn't seem like too much.

If that doesn't work, guilt and embarrassment are mighty tools as well.

And that, folks, is a wrap.

Good luck, and good luck. Now go get 'em!


Love,

Ugly Sister 2



NEXT!




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Saturday Smackdown!

Mm.

This probably isn't the best effort.

I had every intention of finding a REALLY GOOD PHOTO at my mom's house this week but, with being practially dying and everything...

Well, anyway...


this photo is brought to you from the Longwood Gardens Christmas Extraveganza! About 1997 or so.










Next week I vow to do better!!!!




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Friday! Friday! Geek of the Week Day!

Ain't it just a pickle when you are supposed to pick someone to give a verbal spanking to and you can't come up with anyone?

That's a good thing, yes?

I mean, ok there are all the monsters in the national news and all but I have to admit that I haven't been keeping tabs on them this week. I honestly have to say...I wasn't paying attention.

Not much.

Not enough, anyway.

No one is sticking out.

So, for lack of an obvious choice, I will have to go with the default Geek of the Week...

George W. Bush.

No, I'm kidding. I don't want to pick him just because he's easy fodder.


This is terrible. But good. You know, this means that nobody has managed to ruffle my feathers.

Although, now that I just typed that, I have decided that I will pick for this week's geek, Killer - our terrible, rotten rooster.

Because he chases me daily to and from my car. And he's a sneaky bastard, too. He won't actually start to chase me until I am pretty far on my way down the sidewalk -having already nervously glanced over my shoulder several times, thus falling into the false sense of security that he is somewhere else. When, in fact, he is hiding behind a bush or a plastic pumpkin or something, biding his time until the perfect moment to strike.

Usually, if I hear him in time, I can turn around and stop him in his tracks by staring him down and continuously yelling "Knock it off!" or "Not today!" And then he'll stop...until I start walking again and then he'll begin the chase again. Until I stop. And yell at him.

The other day, however, I was in too much of a hurry to play his little game and I just jogged right to my car without stopping...or even looking. I got in the driver's side and, shortly after I closed the door, I heard a "Womp!" on the side of the car. He ATTACKED MY CAR. A CAR. This rooster weighs all of about 6 pounds and he attacked a freaking Toyota Camry.

He is so notorious that my mother carries a stick in her car to beat him off when she comes to visit. Nothing says "Idyllic farm" like a psychotic rooster.

Maybe it's just a desperate cry for attention.

Well, he got it. He's Geek of the Week.






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Thursday! Thursday! Question From My Sistersday!

Hello, dear readers.

Welcome back.

Have a sit down.

Have a cupa.

Have some Airborne.


Things are gonna be ooooooookay.



So, how was your day? Mine? Oh, it was alright. It's the first day I've felt human since The Illness set in. I actually made it to work today - which is niether cause for celebration or mourning but, at the same time, both. You know how it is.

And how it is right now is a bit strange. I am sitting here at my computer desk, my fingers tap-tap-tapping away like so many little Jack Frostcicles, and I look as though I am about to give birth to a 12 pound gray cat. Because our 12 pound gray cat? Has climbed INTO my shirt. From the bottom. So he's on my lap, in my shirt.

And quite warm, too. So I'll let him stay. For now.


Back on task!


So, if you all remember, Thursday is when I get to answer a question(s) from my sister. Since I didn't really even make a dent in the list she sent last week, I am going to steal another one from there. Here we go...


Question: If you could tell your 13 year-old self anything, what would it be?

Wow. What a question. Most of you know me long enough to also know the 13 year old me but, for those of you who don't, Welcome to the Dollhouse might be a good jumping off point.

Let's see what magic we can work with this...


Dear 13 Year Old Me,

I know it must be strange getting a letter from yourself from the future. I just want you to know up front that I am going to do my best not to make any big revelations about our life because I don't want to take the excitement out of it for you. Us. I mainly want to point out a few things that might be nice to know along the way.

Regarding your sister. Hang in there for a little while longer. In a short while you won't have the challenge of cohabitation to deal with and a whole new sisterly world is going to open up to you. Your relationship will be ramped up to a new level, better than ever before. Most of what you argue about is petty nonsense. You are on the brink of forming deep, strong bonds - the beginnings of which you experienced when chasing down Brian K. from Spencer St. and giving him the Double-Crosby Whallop for having the lack of sense for messing with one of the sisters.
Make the most of the last days you will all be together under one roof as The Crosby family because, once your sister leaves for college, those days are gone forever.

Your mom and dad are two of the finest people you will ever have the privilege of knowing. You will never know all the sacrifices they made for you but one day you will begin to understand. Be patient with them, because as much as you don't want to believe it, they aren't always right. They are always guided by love but they are only human. Take time to learn about the people they are, the people they were, the people they want to be. Take time, take time.
You are about to run headlong into Life and they are scared and excited for you - probably mostly scared. They want you to be happy and safe and won't realize that sometimes the two are, in fact, mutually exclusive. Don't misinterpret their fear.

Talk to them. Tell them you love them - they really want to hear it.

Ditto all of that for your extended family as well. These "crazy old folks" are going to be a lot more interesting as you get older so try to spend some time and pay attention to what they have to say. This is your heritage. All of that wacky screwball power has been honed and funnelled into the person that is you. Learn about it and use it wisely.

You are pretty smart about your friends. Trust your judgement - it will rarely mislead you. But try to pay more attention to the ones cast off by society - even by you. You never know if a kind word or a smile will make a difference in someone's life. The world can be a cruel and ugly place - don't contribute to that. A lot of times, people are just looking for someone to listen. Look for them - you never know if you are the last person they will reach out to. It doesn't hurt to be kind. Take time, take time.

The things that seem important to you now will be small potatoes in the future and that will hold true for every single stage of your life. But you are smart and resourceful and you will manage.

You have an exciting and wonderful life in store. You will be terrified, thrilled, elated, miserable, stressed, depressed, anxious, exhausted, challenged, victorious, defeated, and so many other things, over and over again. But that is what life is all about! Enjoy every bit of it!

You will be surrounded by people who love you and you, in turn, will love them more than you ever thought possible.

The most important thing to remember is that you are the master of your own life. Your success lies in your hands. There is nothing to stop you from achieving whatever it is that you want - you just have to decide what that is.

There will come a day when you don't have to wear plastic frame glasses.

And just because we share a twisted sense of humor, one of the following things will come to pass by the time you are 37:
- You will have a job in a foreign country.
- You will win the lottery in a big way.
- You will have a farm.
- You will hold a relatively high political office.

Good luck figuring that one out. Pretty exciting, whatever the case.

Finally, I just want to tell you that are a good kid. A little kooky but that's ok. Everyone is a little kooky in their own way. Stick by what you believe. I like who you are and, even though there's always room for improvement, I think you'll be pretty happy with who we become.

I'll let you know if I hear from the 61 year old us.

Love,
The Older You



That was a bit harder than I expected. It was hard not to put spoilers in the letter. Like, at 13, being the...less...ok, fine... least experienced when it came to boys, it would probably be nice to hear that in the future it all pans out and we get to be married to a wonderful, wacky, loving, crazy, HOTTIE! and we are absolutely mad about each other. Because it would make the next 4 year so much more bearable. But, alas! What fun would that be?

So, there you have it. Yet another post.



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Day Six - One day late; Day Seven - Back on Schedule

I AM A FAILURE!

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!



Ok. I'm over it.


I totally missed yesterday. Totally. The last time I made it out of bed was around 11am - yesterday - for a quick trip in the interest of...well, we don't need to get into it.

Then, I remember my sister calling, I think around 4 or 5. I remember talking about Thanksgiving, Jordan crackers and what question to write about on the blog later. Because I was sure - SURE! - that I would be able to write a post later on. No problem!

12 hours later I woke up again and realized I blew it. So I went back to sleep. What's a girl to do?

So I am going to try to address both yesterday's and today's topics in this post. Because I'm not too delusional.

I already read my sister's post about her bedroom and it brought back all kinds of warm fuzzy feelings about being warm and fuzzy. Which, I think, is probably what my life is lacking right now - feelings of warmth and fuzz. Because, you know, they just don't make footie one-piece pajamas with a snap at the collar for adults. And if they did, I think the world would be a whole lot better place than it is now a days. I mean, how can you scuff scuffle to you bathroom in the morning, look at your self in the mirror in your fuzzy pj's and think "I will cut my competitor DOWN today! No holds barred!" You would be much more inclined, I think, to play fair and nice.

I'm sorry...am I digressing? No, really, because it's probably going to happen a lot. I just can't get over the crazy head things a fever can do you. I mean, if they could bottle it, they would make a killing on the streets.

Here's a little for instance...today I rolled myself out of bed and thought, "Hey, I'm feeling pretty good. I'll surprize hubby and feed the animals so he doesn't have to do it and then I'll get ready for work."

Yeah.

Well it went alright for a bit - up until the part where I put the leads on the horses and walked them up the hill to the little temporary pasture we have set up in the back field. I had to take two breaks on my way up the hill. By the time I was at the top of the hill, I had that...you know the opening scene of "The Sound of Music" where Maria is twirling about on a hilltop while the helicopter with the camera flies all around? Remember? Ok, so I had that effect but I wasn't in a helicopter. Or musical. But everything was spinning. And I could hear Julie Andrews singing. I managed to get the horses into the fence and then took an apparent mandatory nap on the ground.

Suffice to say, I didn't make it into work today.

So, yeah, fuzzy pajamas. I'm there.



Good luck following me today, folks.



So, in the interest of writing about a topic that I can keep straight in my head, I will tackle my childhood bedroom.

There are two words to describe my bedroom. The first would be "pink".

It's somewhat odd that I would have ended up with a pink bedroom because I don't think you could find much less of a girly-type daughter than I was. The room used to be my grandmother's so it might have been a hold over from her. Every once in a while it griped me that I had to suffer through child hood with this insufferable pink on the walls of my bedroom but, really, it wasn't that bad. Although it was that bad. The shade of pink was like...like...Hot Island Mambo. I'm sorry...I can't do any better than that. The last time I had cause to read the shade of a pink was probably on the bottom of a tube of lipstick. Which, thankfully, I had sense enough not to buy.

I think there was a pink-ish type rug too. And the shade on the ceiling light was pink.

The second word to describe my bedroom would also be "pink".

I remember that I had wanted a canopy bed for the longest time. Finally, my parents broke down and granted my wish - which they pretty much did with everything but the horse, pony and burro. When I had mentioned "canopy bed", I kind of had in mind the type that Ebeneezer Scrooge took shelter in when the various Christmas ghosts came to visit. You know, squarish, dark, lots of big, heavy curtains for hiding. From what? I don't know. Kid things. Monsters, liver, etc. The bed that arrived was a charming double (so I could fit my sister) in maple with a full set of pink sheets, shams, bedcover, canopy and curtains.

Oh well.

The other thing about my room was that the closet door never stayed shut. Probably because the zombies inside were always trying to get out. After a while it didn't bother me but it did always bother a certain cousin of mine. And we always shamelessly exploited that bother.

Even for all the pink, there was nothing like my childhood bedroom. I remember once, after smashing my head on a coffee table...not many good memory stories probably start out that way...laying in my bed, surrounded in pink, and Dr. Hale COMING TO OUR HOUSE AT NIGHT in his houndstooth coat, with his black doctor bag and smelling like alcohol, rubbing alcohol, and I guess recommending stitches. But, oddly enough, it's not a bad memory. I think because of my room. I bet if I had been at Dr. Hale's office, in the Sea Foam room, it would have been scads worse.

Can I have some more Ny-Quil now?

No?

Another question?


Oh...ok.


Wednesday Best Of.

I'm feeling generous today so I might just give out two awards.

The first is for Best Portrayal of an Asthmatic in a Movie

The award goes to the asthmatic criminal guy in The Lookout. Which I have only made it through 38 minutes of so far. But! I grant this award based on the asthmatic character not being the typical fat, dorky bubblehead that is always trailing around after the other criminals, puffing on his inhaler.

It's about time.

Now, this award may be a bit premature based on the fact that I am currently only 38 minutes into the movie, but I've seen enough of the typical Hollywood asthmatics to say "Here ya go, The Lookout! You earned it!"

My second best of is for Best Meat Type Thing to Eat That Isn't A Regular Hunk of Meat.

That would go to Kowalonek's Kielbasy Shop in Shenandoah, PA for their hot kielbasy sticks. Mmm, mmm, good. And a little spicey too. You go git you some now!

Scrambled Eggs - A Love Story

No. Not really.

So...Monday. This is supposed to be random thoughts and whathaveyou. Which, oddly enough, is going to be a bit diffucult for me. My thoughts are verily Un-random today as I am having trouble focusing on anything but the 50,000 p.s.i. head full of snot that I have right now.

Thaaaaat's right. I'm sick.

Sick, sick, sick.

Pressure head. Fever. Chills. Aches. Coughing. Congestion.

And it was all of a sudden like. I was walking out to feed the animals yesterday and it was like someone jumped out from behind the bushes and whacked me with the Snot Stick.

Have I mentioned snot enough yet?

Snot, snot, snot.

How about now?

That snot enough?


A-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

He! He...he..h..h..h..

Cough, cough, cough.


Ok, I'll move along.


So...let's see...random. Random, random, random...

Here's something random for you!

A hugerific box appeared on my porch the other day. I mean big. Not refrigerator big but definitely bigger-than-a-breadbox big. It showed up the morning I was on my way out the door to a class so all I had time to do was almost trip over it and then marvel on my way out to the car.

As it turns out, my mother - Miss Randomness, herself - ordered and had delivered to our doorstep a Pilates machine.

I didn't know these things existed.

I heard of Pilates before but I thought it was more of a solo kind of venture - woman (or man) against gravity. Like baking bread the old-fashioned way.

Here, it turns out, there is a whole other dimension to this Pilates business and not unlike baking bread, they have now come up with a machine to make it much easier for today's homemaker. I didn't take it out of the box yet but I am hoping I can just put my body in the machine, turn it on for a little while and, Voila'! I'm a well toned, delicious loaf of bread. Whole wheat bread because I'm going to be all kinds of healthy too.

And I hope the machine is warm.

Because as it turns out, I have only been able to drag it into the sun room and glance in on it every so often, checking to see if the Pilates Elves came to put it together yet. It's been just waaaaaay to cold in the evening to tackle that project.

So, yeah, Pilates machine.


*****


What else?

My daughter is working on a project for her language class in which she has to make a classic-type comic of Oedipus Rex. She has decided to use stuffed animals to portray the going's on, digitally photograph them, and then work them into a comic in some computer program or other that I guess we have.

We were discussing it a bit over dinner and kicking around some ideas on other ways to do it. One was using photos of big-hair band guys from the 80's. The other was to use photos of the Bush family. Another was Barbie.


*****


Saturday I am picking up six chickens which are coming fome some farm in the Long Island area. They are heritage breed chickens - old and kind of rare. I found them on a website for rare and endangered breeds. As it turns out, the people that raise these chickens have another farm in the Berks County area of PA and are going to be in the area this weekend. They graciously offered to meet me in the parking lot of Cabela's - a big outdoor sports store that, even though I haven't been there yet, gives me the Shrine to Conspicuous Consumption heebie-jeebies - where we will make the "exchange".

"Hey, Lady. Wanna buy a chicken?"

So, that seems to fit the random category.


*****


Does the size of one's eyeballs fluctuate with the severity of a fever? I think mine do.


*****


How 'bout a picture?






I took it at the mall when I went to pick up my contact lenses. I actually had a different photo that I wanted to post but, in my sickened delirium, I loaded it onto the computer at work and then erased it from my camera.

I'm so stupid.


*****


If I have a fever and a cold, and I am supposed to starve one and feed the other, am I at risk of Bulimia?

Actually, I think the old adage is: If you're sick, drink Boilo.

Which I shall do momentarily.

But before I go, I would like to wish you all a Happy Guy Fawkes Day and, for God's sake, be carefull with those bonfires!


"We've come a cob coaling for bonfire night
Your coal or your money we hope you'll provide.
If you give us nowt we'll steal nowt, farewell and goodbye,
We won't come again till next bonfire time.

Fol a dee fol a die fol a diddle aye die day

Now down in yon cellar there's nobbut but bugs
They've etten me stockings and half o mi clogs.
We'll get a sharp knife and cut their yeads off
And have a good supper of bugs' yeads and broth.

Fol a dee fol a die fol a diddle aye die day.
Up a ladder down a wall, will you give us a cob o coal!"
- The Greenfield, Saddleworth



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Well, If I Were You, I'd...

It's NaBloPoMo Sunday and you know what that means.

Advice Day - where The Ugly Sisters - wizened oracles that we are - sit upon our cyberspace hill dolling out instructions to the soon-to-be misguided.

I have no idea how many questions ended up in the mailbag, but this is the one my sister sent to me.

dear ugly sisters,
i have two friends whom i believe to be on a bit of a self destructive path. i'm worried they may not be able to live up to all of their personal goals and expectations, and their possible failure may adversely affect their relationship, or some innocent person who doesn't know that this month is not a normal everymonth-month. i hope you can advise me as to how to stop these friends from hurting themselves or someone they may love, before november is over.
signed: concerned in schuylkill county

Hmmm...a conundrum indeed.

Dear Concerned,

I am going on somewhat limited information here, but I will do the best I can.

There seem to be several issues on the table; the self destructive path, personal goals and expectations, and the relationship they have with each other. I will address each one forthwith.


The Self Destructive Path

Oh, that old thing.

Most of us have been on it at one time or another. The funny thing about self destructive paths is that we can easily see when someone else is traipsing along one but seldom notice the “You Are Now Entering Self Destructive Boulevard” sign as we drive under it ourselves.

But what of the whole idea of self destruction to begin with? I think it can be paralleled with the notion of success. Who is to say what success is or isn’t? Who is to say what self destruction is or isn’t? Who is the Holder of The Magic Yardstick of Life? For instance, a career woman might pity the woman who marries young and starts a family. The young mother might look askance at the woman devoting her life to following Phish. She, in turn, might look down on the woman “trapped” by her career. And so on goes the merry-go-round. That’s the beautiful thing about life: we can look at everyone else and think about how badly they are screwing up, and say to ourselves “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

And really, this applies to pretty much any type of self destruction, whether it is mental, physical, financial or whatever. As long as someone’s behavior doesn’t conform to what we think is “the way it should be”, it’s obviously wrong. Each and every one of us is trying to make the big ol’ world fit into the crazy personal baggage we carry around. It doesn’t. At some point you’re going to have to realize that your little Vera Bradley bag just doesn’t have enough organizational pockets to make sense of everything.

So, in conclusion, self destruction – unless it is your own – is nothing you can stop. That’s why it is SELF destruction.

Personal Goals and Expectations

Yes, yes. Personal goals. Expectations.

Here is my take on personal goals and expectations: Hope for the best, but make the best of what happens. Because, really, the ONLY thing we have control over in this life is how we choose to deal with what’s thrown at us.

You can try your damnedest for this or that but, guess what? You may not get it. So now what? What if, just what if I don’t get what I want? Well, I can boo-hoo-hoo like so many “victims” of this cruel world.

Or.

Or I can take what is given to me and deal. And try, try again.

Face it, sometimes life just craps on you. But, ultimately, it’s the only life you’ve got so you can either cry through it, laugh through it, or maybe a little of both.

It is just as hard to watch someone you care about not reach their goals or meet their expectations. But, again, you don’t have much control over it. Not unless you are directly responsible for choosing to give them the First Place ribbon or hire them for the job or whatever. Really, all you can do is give your support when you can, your advice when it might help, and a shoulder to cry on if things don’t work out and they want to cry a little bit. But not too much. Because nobody likes a crybaby.

The Relationship They Have With Each Other

Hoo, boy.

How do you feel about walking into ring with two boxers? Or, probably more appropriately, joining two partners in their high wire act?

With any relationship between two people, you have a pair of folks who have an agreed upon set way – no matter how kooky it may seem to you – of handling the world. It is like an intricate dance involving love, fear, anger, joy, frustration, bewilderment, compromise and quite often, the Fox Trot.

Trying to change the relationship that two people have with each other would be akin to handing the high wire people a Border collie and taking away the net. Maybe, just maybe, they are used to Border collies and will be able to incorporate it into the act, making it even better.

Or perhaps not.

Again, you are on the outside looking in and things aren’t always what they seem. By the same token, you might have a strikingly clear view of what they aren’t even aware is going on. But be careful - a third party may be a wedge that drives them apart or the threat that rallies the troops together.

They make just take that Border collie and teach it to recite poetry in a German accent and slip it into your tent the next time you are camping. And I’m sure we call all agree that that is a pretty scary thing.

So, relationships? Don’t meddle. It rarely ever pays unless, of course, you are a counselor. But make sure you get paid up front.


In conclusion, Concerned, you sound like a lovely, caring person. And I know I’ve been throwing some blunt commentary out there. But I don't want to send you away with nothing. So, this is what I suggest. Just sit your friends down for an honest chat. Tell them what you perceive to be going on and why you are concerned. Ask if there is any way you can help them reach their goals and let them know you will be there for them if they don’t.

For instance, I’ll give you a little hypothetical monologue, pretending The Ugly Sisters are the two friends in question:

“Hi, Ugly Sisters.

You both look awesome today!

The reason I asked you over for a delicious dinner of garlic pasta is because I also wanted to talk to you about something that has me concerned.

You see, I realize you are both making your best effort to post on your blogs every day this month, what with it being NaBloPoMo and everything. I…I’m just worried that you might be putting too much pressure on yourselves. I mean, Ugly Sister 1, you have young children and…oh, let me get you another glass of wine… And Ugly Sister 2, I know how busy your farm keeps you… more grated cheese?

And you are both SUCH talented writers! Every single post shows how much you strive for perfection…

Can I rub your feet?

The thing is…what if you get sick and miss a day? I mean, I’m not trying to push you…it’s really quite the opposite. I want you to know that it’s ok if you don’t post every single day. Scalp massage?

I know you are working together on this project, trying to keep each other going…here’s the fresh bread I made…and, consequently turning it into a bit of…oh, of course, here’s the other bottle of wine…into a bit of competition…

Your shoulders? Sure, I’ll rub your shoulders.

I’m just afraid if one of you misses…oh, your back too? Ok..

I just don’t want to see you hurt if it doesn't work out. You know, if there is anything I can do...

What? More wine? Well, sure I have more wine...but...but that's not what I meant. What I mean is, if there is anything I can do, you know, to help out during November so you can concentrate on your writing...

...um...what?

Goats?

Twice a day?

Oh.

Oh.

...uh...ok"



See? It's simple.

Good luck and good luck. Now go get 'em!


Love,

Ugly Sister 2




NEXT!




This post was brought to you by NaBloPoMo and Perrier.

Day Three: Ugly Sister Smackdown

Sooooo...

do you all remember when my sister did this?

and the subsequent firestorm it set off?


Well, for those of you who enjoy bull fights and Jerry Springer and the like, you will be happy to know that Saturdays during NaBloPoMo will be Ugly Sister Smackdown where we post photos of the two of us from days gone by. The idea is to find the most ridiculous, awful and embarrassing photos - hopefully where the other sister is looking a bit more ridiculous and awful thereby leading to a little more embarrassment on her end - and post them.

For the world to see.


Because that's how sisters love each other.



So, in the spirit of good old fashioned competition, I bring you...


...


...you're gonna love this...







THE KISS ARMY - circa 1978





You keep on saying you'll be mine for a while
You're lookin' fancy and I like your style
You drive us wild, we'll drive you crazy



You know, there is something disarming about Gene Simmons clad in a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt. And the stylin' Ace Frehley is sporting a Corvette sweatshirt in case you are wondering. I'm sure my mom still has both of those shirts.



The two gals in the background are our cousins to the second power (our dads are brothers and our moms are sisters). But since this one-upmanship is between me and my sister, we'll just leave Bridget and Linda out of this. No need to have innocent casualties in this war. So pretend they aren't there. Or that I mentioned their names.



Stay tuned tomorrow when The Ugly Sisters give advice to our readers! If you want to get in on the fun, you can email your questions to TheUglySister@yahoo.com.



This post was brought to you by NaBloPoMo and Perrier.

I'm On A Roll!

Two days. Two posts.

Look at me go.


Ok, so I believe that the Friday theme is Geek of the Week.

I was a bit concerned about this one because I was making it through the week relatively unscathed by the rest of the human race.

That is until this afternoon.

I had a class today which wrapped up arount 4pm. I had just enough time to make a very quick stop at the local mall before I had to high tail it home and get ready for senior appreciation night at the football game. Yes, my beautiful, lovely daughter is a senior. And running back.

No, just kidding. She's a baritone. Actually, she's an alto but she plays a baritone in the marcing band. So, onnacounna all her years of dedicated service to the band, we got to walk right down the 50 yard line with her and be at least 10 kinds of proud. We were going to do the Monkeys walk but decided to be grown up about it. AND I got a flower.

The game, unfortunately, was a heartbreaker because we lost. But, on the bright side, at least we scored.


Anyway...


As I was saying, I made a quick stop at the mall with one goal in mind: to find a nice, plain white dress shirt. Fitted. And, hopefully with French Cuffs. Although I was willing to forego the French Cuffs in the interest of just finding a plain fitted shirt.

"Why fitted?" you ask.

Well, here's the problem. I'm a little short in the torso - and everything else, except for sarcasm - so if I wear regular cut women's pants, they ride a little too high. And while I can see the benefit of being able to put one's boobs in one's pants pockets, it's just not the style I am looking for. As a result, I have to buy low rider type pants.

Now if I try to tuck a regular cut dress shirt into these pants, I end up with a bit of a ... puff effect. Not unlike this:



Without the benefit of the air conditioning.

So, fitted.

I got to the mall and made it to the women's department in Anchor Store #1. This is a pretty decent sized store with quite a selection of clothing. Why, they had the white dress shirt with the ruffled front, the pleated front, the empire waist...you name it, they had it. Unless, of course, you name "Plain, fitted dress shirt". Because that? That's a big NO.

Running out of time and options, I made a last ditch effort in the men's department.

Here are two things you need to know about buying a white, fitted dress shirt if you are a man:

1. You will not be allowed to have French Cuffs on a fitted shirt. It's one or the other, baby,

and

2. Men who wear size Small, under no circumstances, are allowed to dress up.

At least those are the two rules I was able to deduce based on the stock available.


So, Fashion Industry, you are my GEEK OF THE WEEK. Because you make it impossible for me to buy a seemingly simple wardrobe staple, you can just hang your collective head in shame.

I curse you. May you all spend eternity in puffy shouldered sweaters purchased at DEB in the 80's. And peg leg jeans. That are acid washed.

Jerks.



Yes.

Two days. Two posts.

Slippin' it in under the wire.



Stay tuned for tomorrow's post: Ugly Sister Smackdown.

Ooh. Ooh, hoo, hoo.


This post was brought to you by NaBloPoMo and Perrier.

Well, Hello November!

Aaaaand NaBloPoMo.

So, here it is. The first of thirty.

Thirty in a row, that is.

So, most of you who read this blog also read my sister's blog. In this post you can read where she strong arms me into participating in this post-every-day-of-the-month-or-else thing. Also, you can read where she gives you the run down on how things are going to operate for the month, at least on our two blogs. We're going to have a daily theme, if you will.

Thursday's theme is: Question From My Sister

In anticipation of today's posts, we emailed each other a few questions. Actually, she emailed me quite a few. Like more than the FBI even asked me that one time. But these are much more interesting. Depending on your perspective.

Let me reach into my mailbag and pull one out.

Grrrrrrraaaaaah! (That't the sound of me reaching into my mailbag.)

Question: What, in your opinion, is the best invention of all time? The worst?

Answer: In my opinion, I personally believe, that the best invention ever, is the Iraq. And South Africa. And such as and so forth.

Ok. Really. That joke is just way too old. But I didn't get to blog about it yet so, Miss Teen South Carolina, your 15 minutes of fame live on!

And now, back to our regularly scheduled post.

I really believe that the best invention of all time is, in fact, the wheel.

I know, I know. The wheel is so yesterday, so been-there-invented-that in fact re-invented that several times. But really, think for a minute where you would be without the wheel.Walking, that's where. And still lowering a bucket on a rope into the well.

You sure as heck wouldn't be roller-skating around your modular home while your Kitchen-Aid mixes bread dough. Not without the wheel you wouldn't.

You also wouldn't be snug and warm in your pop-up-camper, deep in the woods of Potter County, turning your hand crank radio so you could listen to The Willis Brothers' rendition of Give Me 40 Acres to Turn This Rig Around*. No, sir. Not without the wheel.

Now, having given The Best Invention Ever Award to Wheel, I want to call attention to another wonderful invention which, I hope, doesn't feel slighted - Lever.

Lever, you are a wonderful invention in your own right and I know, I know, we wouldn't have see-saws or scissors or claw hammers or wheelbarrows - and probably Stonehenge - without you. But, being put in a position of having to choose ONE, I do have to go with Wheel. But, Lever, you get Grand Champion Reserve Invention. And, as my dear hubby says, "Always remember: Archimedes is your friend."

And now for The Worst.

The worst invention ever, without a doubt, is the Epilady Hair Wrenching Appliance.

Seriously.

Ladies, how does this sound? Let your hair grow about a quarter inch or so. Plug in the Epilady Hair Wrench and run the hair wrenching coil over your legs. Scream in pain as each hair is ripped from its follicle. Then move to your more tender lady parts - IF YOU DARE!!!!!

I don't think we need to go any further with that one.


Ok...so how about another queston? Like I said, she sent a bunch.

Grrrrrrrraaaaahhhh!

Question: Let's say that you're trapped on a deserted island with no food. Trapped with you just happen to be a bunch of lovable little creatures. Which do you eat; the bunny rabbit, the tabby cat, the puppy basset hound, or the baby deer that reminds you strikingly of Bambi? Why did you make that heinous choice? (And, ONLY if you eat one of the critters will you be saved. Just deal with the circumstances.)


This is an easy one.

Bambi goes.

Ideally, here is how this would play out.

Bambi gets it first because he would most likely have the most meat and help me hold out the longest.

Next would either be the rabbit or the cat, depending on which one I could catch first. I am hoping the basset hound will help me out with this. The next one would be the other one.

Last would be the basset hound. Partly because I am hoping it would help me catch the other ones, partly because it would probably provide the best companionship and partly because it's too darn cute! How could I eat a basset hound?!!

Look...




Aaaahhhh!!! Too cute!!!! Make it stop!!!!





Nooooo!!!! I can't take it!!!!!!

And not only are they good companions and unbearably cute, they make a lovely wrist corsage as well.




Ok, one more...


Grrrrraaaaahhhh!

Question: If you had $1,000 and had to spend it on yourself, what would you buy?

Easy. A Canon EOS Digital Rebel XTi along with whatever other accessories I could afford. (Um, Hi Santa!)


Ok. So I'm off to a good start. One day, one post. Now be sure to check out Halushki for my sister's answers to a completely different set of questions.

Theme, baby. Theme.

Stay tuned for tomorrow's post where I make my choce for Geek of the Week! Hope it's not you! Or you!

It'll probably by you.




This post was brought to you by NaBloPoMo and Perrier.


*I forgot to mention that this is my dear hubby's theme song for when I try to drive the riding lawn mower with the yard cart attached. He's very ha, ha, ha, isn't he?

On Your Mark... Get Set...

Ok, so tomorrow begins NaBloPoMo. Most of you people know what that means. For those of you who don't, it means I (because my sister is making me) am going to attempt to post every day in November.

That's Every. Day.

For a month.

Every.

That's 30 all total.

In a row.

Once a day.



All because of Perrier.

Don't ask.



I think at some point I am supposed to put some kind of thing in my sidebar but I don't know if I remember how to do that. We'll see how that goes.



But anyway...


there's your fair warning.

Here I Come...Kicking and Screaming...

So, a while back, my sister tagged me for a meme. A while back = September 18.

That's a long time. This post has been on the back burner for so long that the words are stuck to the bottom of the pan and any hint of moisture is long gone.

So, in an effort to drag my butt back to the keyboard, I am going to attempt this meme.

Here are the questions:
Your mission: Give one or more these questions a stab in a post (or series of posts), and then tag three more writers.

1. Go back to first or early post. How would you describe your voice back in those early days? Who were you writing to? What was your sense of audience (if any) back then?

2. Do you remember when you received your first comment? What was it like?

3. Can you point to a stage where you began to feel that your blog might be part of a conversation? Where you might be part of a larger community of interacting writers?

4. Do you think that this sense of audience or community might have affected the way you began to write?

So, without further ado...

Answer #1.
My first post, sadly, seems a whole lot like my more recent posts. I say sadly because I would think that over the course of 2+ years, I would have...progressed?

Ok, I'm kidding. I'm not all that sad about it. What's progress anyway? Pfft. It seemed like - and still does - that my blog posts were/are very much like conversations with myself. I guess that's the nice thing of having the whole world as your audience - it makes it easier to not gear it toward anyone in particular.

Answer #2.
Oddly enough, the first comment I ever received was on a post about whether or not I would know if my blog was being read by anyone. And, the comment was from my dear seestor. I'm not sure how she even found my blog. I can't remember if I told her or if I gave myself away by commenting on her blog. In any event, it seems appropriate seeing as how she was the one who encouraged me to start a blog to begin with.

Aaaaaannnnd I guess things haven't change much there either, have they?

Answer #3.
I would have to say that about 2 months into my blog, I started to see comments from more readers. As a result, I would visit their blogs and comment and sometimes drop by with a pound cake and stuff.

Or...

When I finally learned how to add links to other people's blogs in that side bar thing. Which I really should do more of but I think I forgot how to do it.

Pardon me while I enroll in Remedial Blogger 101.

Answer #4.
I would like to think no. I mean, the whole reason I started this was so I could entertain my desire to ramble in a way that would not get me locked up in a padded room. I suppose sometimes I might tweak things one way or another but, when I read over my posts, they happily read as though I were having a conversation with a friend.

Except for curse words. Because I know my daughter reads this. And she doesn't know that sometimes I say damn and hell.



So, there it is. I am going to do an open tagging on this. If this is something you think would be cool to address, then by all means, do it.

10 Signs You Have Neglected Your Blog for Too Long

1. You forget you log-in information. Um...password?

2. When you are at a party and a friend/reader of your blog asks when you are going to write another post you say "Hey, how about we debate religion or politics? Doesn't that sound like fun?"

3. You can't remember the "Home Keys" on the keyboard.

4. When you type the word "keyboard" your first thoughts are of Middle C.

5. When you roll your mouse to wake up your monitor, a moth flies out.

6. Your internet provider calls you to ask if you just want to go ahead and cancel the service.

7. You forget what room the computer is in.

8. You forget if you even have a computer.

9. What's a computer anyway?

and

10. The post that you were going to write about your husband and daughter having to stick a long tube down the throat of one of the goats and then squeeze her like a big bagpipe just seems so old-news. Why bother at this point.


So there. That's what summer has done to my blog. But here are some quick titles for the posts I would have written, had I been keeping up.

-My Son's First Ride Home in a Police Car (the day before he became an Eagle Scout)
-Girl Power! My Temp Job Filling Dump Trucks. With tires bigger than me.
-Two More Goats. One Looooooong Ride Home in the Station Wagon
-Attack of the Zucchini
-Revenge of the Zucchini
-Son of Zucchini: Yellow Squash
-Little Cabin in the Woods. With mosquitos.
-The Graduation Party
-The Roofing Job (that never happened)

Well, that about sapped me for now.

Be back soon.

Heh, heh, heh.

Blue Saturday

Last night my dear daughter went to a viewing for a classmate who was killed in a car accident.

He was 18.

He would have been a senior this fall.

His obituary mentions that he worked for an auto shop and an ice cream shop and that he liked listening to music.

He was 18.

He was driving too fast.

He wasn't wearing his seatbelt.

He was on his way home from working at the ice cream shop.

He was just 18.



Today, I looked out at the beautiful sunny day on my way home from work and thought "What are his parents doing now? Now that he is burried and everyone else has gone home? What do you do then?"



He was only 18.

Goodbye, Earth Shoes...

...parting is such stinky sorrow.


Right.

So.

I know I have been kind of MIA for a bit. It's just been a bit crazy, what with sonny boy graduating, a second job, a bunch of animals, etc., etc., etc.

However, I am taking a quick break from the madness that is my life to relate an odd little event.

Of course odd. You know, it sometimes seems that there is no other kind.

So I was getting changed from my "professional" work clothes into my "amateur/non-profit farmer" work clothes the other day. I sat down and grabbed my pair of Earth Shoes hiking sneakers.

I bought this particular pair of sneakers about a year ago at the Goodwill. It was a really great buy - $4 and hardly any miles at all. Sweet deal. Unfortunately, the toe of one of the sneakers was promptly chewed off by a mischievous beagle who shall remain nameless. But it did not daunt my enthusiasm for my new footwear - I just figured I wouldn't wear them on rainy days.

Anyway, I sat down and pulled one sneaker on, tied it and grabbed the other sneaker. I started to put my foot in and felt something in the toe of the shoe (this was not the shoe with the chewed out toe, otherwise I might have been spared).

"Hmmm..." I thought to myself, "I guess I stuffed some socks in here the last time I wore these." Which I have been known to do.

I reached my hand into the sneaker and felt...not socks. Definitely not socks. It felt...silky.

I lifted the sneaker up and peered into it and saw...fur.

"GAH!!!" I ran into the bathroom and threw the shoe out the window.

I peered out to where it fell - 2 stories below into the tall grass - and waited to see what, hopefully, would crawl out and scamper away.

Nothing.

Drat.

I washed my hands, got new socks and a different pair of sneakers, regained my composure and walked out into the yard. Cautiously, I approached the jilted singleton. I picked it up by the egde of the sole and bopped it off the ground.

And out popped a dead squirrel.

Not a full grown squirrel and not a baby squirrel. More of a teenage squirrel. But dead as a doornail nonethelss.

Now, as you might well imagine, this perplexity leaves one with a few questions to ponder:

-Why was there a dead squirrel in my shoe?
-Where exactly (not "How" for I know my hole-ridden house well enough to know "How") did the poor unfortunate gain entry?
-Are there more squirrels where this one came from?
-Are Earth Shoes really that much more comfortable than say, fleece lined slippers, that a squirrel would choose one as it's final resting place?

and last but certainly not of least importance...

-Do my feet really stink bad enough to kill a squirrel?


I posed the last question to my dear hubby and he assured me that my feet, do not in fact, stink. At least not most of the time.


So, it is with great regret that I must send my Earth Shoes to the great beyond. That big trail in the sky. Because, even I, even I with my...odd...sense of style, cannot bring myself to wear a sneaker that smells like a dead squirrel. Just the thought of traipsing around with a deathbed as a shoe would make me feel less fleet of foot.


So, that's the kind of stuff going on in my life. And you?


Edited to add the following:

You know, it just occurred to me that my dear hubby and I have this ongoing practical joke. It started about 2 years ago when we were at my mom's cabin in New York.

For some reason that only God knows, I put some acorns in his shoes one night. The next morning I found them in my shoes. That was our last day at the cabin and I'm sure he thought that was that.

But no. I brought more acorns home with me and for the past two years they have been passed back and forth between various sets of our shoes.

I asked him if perchance he happened to put an acorn in my Earth Shoe, thus luring the squirrel into the lightweight yet rugged trap. He said that it was entirely possible.

You see, the ideal is to put the acorn into a pair of shoes that the other person doesn't wear on a regular basis so, by the time they do go to put them on, they forget all about the joke and then "Ha! Ha! Acorn in your shoe!"

Um...yeah. So that's the kind of stuff we do for fun.

And now look. It's all fun and games until someone winds up with a dead squirrel in their shoe.

Big Long Redneck Rant

I am not one who debates. At one time I could argue with the gusto of a teenager full of righteous anger. Probably when I was a teenager. But no more. Now a days, I have more of a "live and let live" kind of philosophy.

Also, I am not one to use my blog to nanny-nanny-nanner other blogs. It's just not my cupa.

Having said that, and not having an english nor a law degree, it is with great trepidation that I attempt to comment, inspired by this post. Or, at least part of this post, because I know it was about much more than what I am going to discuss. For me to get into gun control, I would also have to get into things like Rope Control (BTK killer killed at least 10 with rope!) and
Baseball Bat control (Ted Bundy, anyone?) and the options of keeping wooden bats legal but having very strict regulations on aluminum baseball bats.

So the part in question begins "With all due respect to certain members of my extended family, hunting is stoopid."

Ok. Let's get one thing out of the way right off the bat. ALL sports are stoopid. Whether you are whacking, dribbling or kicking a ball, casting, climbing or landing a triple lutz, posting, flipping or freefalling, they are all stoopid. (And watching someone other than an immidiate family member play sports? Stoopid to the Nth power.)

Now that we've cleared that up, I will address one of my particular stoopid choices - the one referenced in the aboved referenced post. (How's that for double talk.) And, for the record, this isn't intended to be aimed at anyone in general. Just thought I might possibly explain hunting in a way that anti-hunters haven't considered it.

It seems to be the natural course of events when an incident such as the shooting spree at the school in Virginia is in the news, gun control will again be a hot topic. And it is also the natural course of events that when gun control is a hot topic, hunting is pulled into the fray.

And so, by virtue of being a hunter,I have unwittingly become an accomplice to a massacre.

And further so, if Seung-Hui Cho can have a manifesto, so can I.

I bring you...



Inside the Mind of a Killa'

Yes, it's true. I own guns. Plural. And I have been known, on occasion, to kill with them.

"Why????? Why would someone doooooooo such a thing???" I hear you cry.

Well, I'll tell you.

Is it perhaps about preserving cultural heritage as the referenced post might suggest? Let's see.

It is true that I grew up in a family of hunters. I can vividly remember my father, grandfathers, uncles, cousins and various family friends sitting in my parents' dining room on the night before deer season, discussing the next day's hunt as well as those of years gone by. To me, the smell of Hoppes #9 is as much a part of the Thanksgiving season as turkey and pumpkin pie are. (Deer season, for those of us not honorable enough to hunt in archery season, begins the Monday after Thanksgiving in PA.) It was as much about gathering together as it was about the actual hunting.

So that must be it, right?

Well, no.

There are some folks that feel if a person still carries on in a certain tradition, that person is nothing more than an unfortunate lemming, doomed to repeat the actions of others with no understanding as to why. So called "recovering Catholics" are great ones for this. (I have rejected the church but you have not. You must not know any better.) The idea that "one has not rejected, therefore it has never been questioned" is ridiculous.

I can't say for sure that had I not grown up in the environment I did, I would be a hunter today. All I can say for sure is that it is where I got my start but, to quote the old ad, I've come a long way. Baby.

So it isn't about preserving cultural heritage.

It is, however, very much about culture.

Or a reaction to culture.

It is very much a reaction to a culture of not having to be responsible for one's own decisions or actions. The culture that leaves the lights on at night to enhance the landscaping. The culture that tosses the aluminum can in the garbage instead of the recycling bin. The culture that complains of rasing taxes to better support schools but will buy every damn DVD/CD/MP3/concert ticket/sporting event ticket/new technological gadget/whatever the latest craze/ latest product currently touted by the sports(or music) star with the multi million dollar contract.

Ahem.

That one.

(See, this is why I don't debate.)

Let me try to explain.

When I put the sights of my gun on an animal, I know that in an instant I, personally, will be responsible for taking its life.


Have you ever looked into the eye of the animal you ate tonight? Did you ever stroke its fur? Did you even bother to thank somebody - the animal, especially - for what you have?


I am also responsible for dealing with the messiness of gutting and cleaning the animal. It's up to me to make sure that I make as much use as possible of the animal so there is minimal waste.


When you pick up the shrink-wrapped slab of choice cut meat from the grocery store, do you ever wonder about the person who's job it is to spend their entire day butchering carcasses? So YOU don't have to? Did you ever wonder about the person at the slaughterhouse who spends the entire day killing animal after animal? So you can claim to be oh so "civilized"?


I know the animals I hunt have lived as animals should. For the most part, they were bred and born wild (although I'm sure a "stocked" pheasant or two have already been victims of my bloody rampage).


Do you have any idea where your meat comes from? Is is a feedlot? A factory farm? Was it kept confined to a small space? Was it force fed? Was it hauled hundreds of miles in a trailer packed to the brim with other animals, wild-eyed with fear? Was it sick? What did it eat? Was it injected with hormones?


When I pull the trigger, it is me and the animal. I can't ignore it, I can't pass the job to someone else, I am responsible. I must be as humane as I possibly can or else I must live with the consequenses. If I am not able to kill the animal right away, it suffers at my hands until I can do so.


What about your dinner? Did the bolt gun stun it enough? Was it still conscious of anything when the butchering began (as does happen)? Do you even care?



Not many people look at thier hamburger and think "What have I done?" They don't have to. Our culture makes sure they pretty much never will.

I wish I could remember just how many times I had to hear about "killing Bambi". Just once, I would like to see...let's say Charlotte's Web where the ending is a little more like real life. In the altermate ending of Charlotte's Web as told by Ms. Quintessence, Wilbur is not saved. No, Wilbur is kept in a pen where he can pretty much to nothing but eat and poop. Then, one fine sunny day, Wilbur and all his other pig buddies on the farm, are crammed into a double level trailer. Wilbur, unfortunately, is on the bottom so he gets pooped on all the way to the slaughter house. And for once, it won't be the hunter who is villified. No, in this movie it will be some mom or dad who is demanding "More Country Style Ribs, Pronto! Little Suzie's soccer team is coming over for a cookout and I need those ribs!"


Now, don't get me wrong. I don't survive on the animals I kill by hunting. Not by any means. I too, must purchase meat. And regrettably, it is often times at the grocery store. I don't want to give any false impressions here. Hopefully, as things get rolling with our farm, it will one day be completely avoidable.

But it the mean time...

I hunt because there is a connection that I don't want to lose. I do it to remind myslef that I do not exist alone in a vacuum. My choices affect others - other people and other creatures. Some day it will be animals that I raised. If I am going to eat meat, what is so wrong with wanting the animals to lead a good life and die a humane death? It is one job I place enough importance on to be done right that I am willing to do it myself.




So, there you have it. Why I kill things. My manifesto. You can comment if you want to. But don't expect a debate - there won't be one.

Hopefully, it will give some insight into the minds of killers for those of you who are grappling with it.

And if it puts me in with the likes of Seung-Hui Cho, so be it.

At least I'm trying to get out of company with the other mass murderer that's been in the news lately. You know, the one who dosn't have to take responsiblilty because the blood isn't physically on his hands?

I guess we are all barbarians in our own way.


Edited to add: On the off chance that this post is inspirational enough to make someone want to exlpore options other than grocery store meat, Eat Wild is a great resource for getting started. Click on the "Shop for Meat, Eggs & Dairy" button and you can can search your state for farms that are committed to the well being of the animals they raise. Often times you can even visit the farm you are interested in. Please, please, please consider supporting these people.

Nerves of GAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!

Sooooo...you're all caught up on the situation with the animals, right? If not, you might want to skip down to the previos post because it will make this one oh-so-much-more-meaningful.

The new goat - goat/dog. He seems to be settling in alright. Hubby and I did manage to get to the store for another 300 feet of fence which we hope to put up this weekend. Because you know, nothing says "The Lord Is Risen!" like installing fence.

In the mean time, he is still in the kennel. Which is holding him just fine.

Sort of.

He has actually warmed up to the dogs and is pretty happy when they are in the kennel with him. However, as goats are herd animals, he's not too crazy about being alone when we bring the dogs in. Not a happy goat. At all.

At first he would just kind of trot around doing the "Baaaa-aaa" thing.

Back and forth, back and forth.

"Baaaaa-aaaaa!"

Back and forth...

"BAAAAAA-AAAAA!!!"


When we built the kennel, we put it right off the back of the house so we could just open the back door and the dogs could run right in. It's great on those bitter cold winter nights - not having to actually walk the dogs out to a kennel. Just open the door and boot them out.

The downside of this, of course, is that, when you have a lonely goat in the kennel, sooner or later he is bound to realize that he can stand up and look through the window of the door. It's an old door and has four big panes in the top half - just perfect for lonely goats who want to peek in on the family.

In the morning at breakfast...
"BAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAA!!!!"

Sitting at the kitchen table trying to pay bills...
"BAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAA!!!!!"

In the evening, having a nice family dinner...
"BAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!"

We would all try to ignore the cacophony and carry on a fractured conversation.

Me: So, Daughter, what did y-
Lonely Goat: BAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Me: What did you d-
Lonely Goat: BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Me: What di-
Lonely Goat: BAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Me:...
Lonely Goat:...
Me:...
Lonely Goat:...
Me: Wha-
Lonely Goat: BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!
Me: WHATDIDYOUDOATSCHOOLTODAY???!!!!
Lonely Goat: BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!


And so on.


It is hard enough ignoring him but he stands up and looks right in the windows at us.


"BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"


I finally told hubby we need to get the fence up and get another goat to keep him company before I lose what little bit is left of my mind.

Because just when you think it can't get any worse...

The other night - the night when the temperature dropped from the lovely mid 60's to something like 20 below - I reached my breaking point.

I had an unusually long day at work and didn't get home until around 7:00 or so. Just enough time to feed all of the animals before darkness really settled in. I had been in a real hurry that morning and ran out the door without my lunch so, by the time I got home and fed everyone else, I was really ravenous. I foraged around in the freezer to try to find something quick and easy.

Aha! Pierogies and Sprouts de Brussels in butter sauce. Perfect.

I put some water on the stove to boil...

"BAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAA!"

...sliced up an onion and put it in a pan with butter...

"BAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

...cut a small slit in the bag of Sprouts de Brussels in butter sauce and popped it in the microwave...

"BAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!"

...checked the water - it's boiling - time to put the pierogies in...

...

...stir the onions and butter, careful not to burn them...

...

...check on the Sprouts de Brussels, oh good, the goat finally settled down...

...

...stir the onions and butter again...

...

...check the pierogies, uh oh, looks like one popped open, better get -


SMAAAAAAAASH!!!!!!

BAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!

"WHA-? HOLY CRAP!!!"


Pierogie flying through the air.



It's funny how, in life, your priorities can shift in an instant. One minute you are happily stirring your pierogies, the next minute you have a goat smashing through your window in a hail of flying glass and, out of some sort of primitive fight or flight reflex, one of your precious little potato pockets is sailing through the air to land Splat! on the floor where it is promplty gobbled up by a beagle.

It's funny how that can happen.

All of a sudden like that.

And those tender little Sprouts de Brussels in buttery sauce, cooked to steamy perfection, now sit in your microwave, slowly giving in to the Canadian cold front that is now blowing around your kitchen as you plod around out in the garage, looking for a drill with a fresh battery and some screws and a piece of plywood and the circular saw because God forbid you find a piece of plywood that is remotely near the size you need to cover the now missing window of your door through which first came a goat and now a Canadian cold front, congealing to a gross yellow mass what was once a warm buttery sauce on your now pitiful Sprouts de Brussels.


Funny how those things happen.


The goat, you will be happy to know, is no worse for the wear.

I, on the other hand...

Welcome to Identity Crisis Acres!

Where our motto is "Ummm...what am I again?"

So, I think you are familiar with the chicken. If not, you can read a bit about her arrival here. When she first arrived, she was pretty sure she was a cat. She ate cat food, she hung out with the cats. Now, however, she is a goat. At some point after we got
Rhubarb, she decided she was no longer a cat but, in fact, a goat. She now eats the goat food, grazes with them when they are out of the pen, and sleeps with them and night. The only essential difference between her and the goats is that, when they all come out of the goat house in the morning, there is sometimes an egg in her spot.




Here at Identity Crisis Acres, we feel it is important that each creature explore all the possibilities of livestock lifestyles. Take time to explore you!



I also think I might have mentioned that we are in the process of getting two more goats.

I'm having a little trouble on the angora end but we did have success with the boer - or beer! - goat. Hubby and I went to the farm last Saturday and picked him out. The only problem with that was that they have an awful lot of goats right now. Like hundreds. And they need to move them out. So they could only hold ours for us for a week.

This would be the week hubby worked every day. It would also be the very same week that I took son to look at a college. The long and short of it is that we didn't really have a place to put him.

Now, you might say "Well, just put him in with the other goats." And that, eventually is what will happen. However, we aren't quite ready to breed just yet so we need to keep him away from the girls. Or, probably more appropriately, keep the girls away from him.

I had to work on goat pick-up day so the task was left to hubby. We decided that the new goat could just go in the garden for now since it is a nice, big, fenced in area. Hubby went to the farm to pick him up - in the station wagon, hee hee - and deposited him in the garden. All was well.

Was being the key word.

At about 3 o'clock, I finally wrapped things up at work and I was on my way to see my children in their first track meet of the year. As I was putting the last of my items in the car, my cell phone rang. It was hubby.

Hubby: Hey.
Me: Hi. What's up?
Hubby: Our new goat?
Me: Yeah...?
Hubby: It's done gone and runned off.
Me: CRAP!


So, instead of seeing my children in their first track meet of the year, I was instead canvassing the neighborhood for the errant goat. We both drove around for a while with no luck, checking back at the house every once in a while. Eventually, I passed hubby on my way out of the driveway as he was on his way in. I told him I let the girls out in hopes the new goat will see them and just hang out with them.

Then I headed down the road and made a turn on to a small road with a few houses. The last house on the road is the one that borders our property to the east. It was sold about 1 1/2 years ago to a youngish couple but I never really met them as of yet. Not because I didn't want to be social or anything - it's more a case of just not having, or making, the time. I was just going to go past this house and continue on to the dirt road that goes on to our property when I spied one of the neighbors in front of the garage. I stopped, sighed, and turned the car toward the garage.

I could tell he was on his cell phone. He hung up as I got out of the car.

Me: Hi! I'm your neighbor. Did you...
Neighbor: Hey! Hi! Are you missing a goat?
Me:...yes.

And that is how I finally got to talk to my new neighbor. And then hubby showed up and we really had a grand ol' time chasing the goat around his yard.

We still weren't having any luck so I went back to the house to get one of the girls in hopes of luring new goat home. While I was away, the goat trotted off through the woods towards the highway.

Now, imagine yourself and your spouse (who happen to be other neighbors of ours who live a little bit further down the road) driving along, minding your own business when, from out of seemingly nowhere, you see my husband leap off a cliff from the woods onto the road below on the heels of a goat.

I wish I could have seen it. Hubby said he was running kind of sideways and backwards trying to hold up his hands to stop traffic when he realized the people in the one car were our neighbors laughing hysterically.

He eventually was able to run down the goat, catch it, and carry it up through the woods where I met him with the car.

We brought the runaway home and, having nowhere else, put him in the kennel.




At Identity Crisis Acres, we offer a wide variety of living arrangement to suit your individual needs. Not happy with your current roommate? We'll find a perfect match for you.



So, you see, things are a bit odd here. Now, you might be thinking "Well, at least things worked out ok with your horse." And, for the most part, you would be right.

Remember the horse? How's about a little picture to refresh your memory?



Isn't he getting big? Isn't he cute? Doesn't he have a lot of legs?


...


So, as always, here's the story.

When we initially picked out the horse, it was pretty much by a photo on-line. Fine. The horse shows up and all is good. I was so happy with him, I put his baby picture - the very first one I ever saw of him - on my computer as the desktop background.

Then, I took some more photos. I would open up the photos on the computer and compare them to the baby picture, oohing and aahhing at how big he was getting.

And then...

Once in a while I would wonder "Gee, he has a bigger white sock now than he did when he was a baby. Unless..... Nah." That little feeling was always there but, really, what were the odds that I wouldn't have the right horse?

Then, about a month ago, I got a call from the rescue coordinator.

Me: Hey! How are you? We LOVE our horse!
RC: Oh. I have to talk to you. I don't know how to say this...
Me: What?
RC: You have the wrong horse.


So, apparently the odds are pretty good.

As it turned out, there were three colts that were almost identical. The one we got had the right ID tag but it was the wrong horse.

So, what other choice did we have?

Identity Crisis Acres

Where you never quite know who you are or what the hell you should be doing.