As reported on Wikipedia:
The Battle of Fredericksburg is remembered as one of the most one-sided battles of the Civil War. The Union army, led by none other than some guy named Burnside, suffered terrible casualties in futile frontal assaults against entrenched Confederate defenders led by Lee.
The casualties sustained by each army showed how disastrous the Union army's tactics were. The Union army suffered some 12, 653 casualties (1,284 killed, 9,600 wounded and 1,769 captured/missing). The Confederate army lost 5,377 (608 killed, 4,116 wounded, 653 captured/missing).
I was reminded of this battle as the Green Mountain Girls also suffered terrible casualties this weekend in the futile frontal assaults against the entrenched B league teams. To put it in simpler terms: we got our asses handed to us. We came under punishing fire from all sides and being only a subordinate, I had little control of the situation, but feel lucky to be alive.
Our battle opened West of the city at 6:30 p.m. on Friday, November 6th. Major General Captain Lori Miller sent two divisions from the Left Grand Division into a previously unseen gap in the Raider's defenses on the right. By 7 p.m., a thick fog began to lift, and the initially sluggish movements began to pick up speed. Major Andi and Major Michelle formed the main attack, supported by Major Tiff and Major Susie. An artillery duel between the Raiders and the Green Mountain Girls lasted for about an hour. General Burnside commented about Major Andi's goal: "It is glorious to see such courage in one so young." However, the Green Mountain Girls were met with such high counter-battery fire that they were bombarded by artillery and suffered great losses.
The Green Mountain Girls tried to switch things on again in the afternoon of November 7th, but they were met with a heavy Confederate counterattack. Because of the foggy conditions, the Green Mountain Girls could not provide much assistance, especially from the subordinate lines. They were driven back and chased by the Warrior infantry, raising concerns that they might be trapped in the league. Eventually, the division of true B leaguers and the subordinates were recommended to strengthen the Union line and the assault brought on by the forces from Connecticut were ground to a halt.
The initial assaults by the Connecticut forces were brought on by 10 p.m. on November 7th, but because of the steep-banked drainage ditch full of vodka that the Connecticut forces were drinking from, the subordinates from the Green Mountain Girls were able to mount an attack that lasted all of 2 goals. The leader of the Connecticut forces, an artillerist by nature and a bitch by birth, was quoted as saying, "A chicken could not live on that field when we open on it." And sure enough, the women of the Green Mountain Girls Brigade, who had to cross a wide open plain, were one massed target. Attempts to shift the attack failed because of swampy ground, and the girls were roasted on the spit, once again.
Despite feeling some hope on the morning of November 8th at the prospect of the Raiders failing to show, or showing up so hungover that they would puke all over the ice, the Six Union divisions that were sent in were met with repeated attacks by players who, despite being hungover and tired, continued to punch and hit and push and hold us until our fearless leader, Captain Major General Michelle folded and landed in the penalty box. Watching the carnage from the center of this line, a position now known as Michelle's Hill, General Michelle was quoted as saying, "It is well that war is so terrible, or we should grow too fond of it."
The falling of darkness and the pleas of the Green Mountain Girl's subordinates were enough to put an end to the attacks. It was later written, "The charges had been desperate and bloody, but utterly hopeless." And it has been reported that after hearing the battle was not a battle after all but more of a butchery, President Lincoln was "heart-broken at the recital, and soon reached a state of nervous excitement bordering on insanity." Lincoln himself wrote, "If there is a worse place than hell, I am in it."
That afternoon the Federal forces retreated across the river and the campaign came to an end. The survivors of the Green Mountain Girls, however, promised each other that they would enter into battle again and that to stand next to each other, despite the carnage, was an honor not to be passed up. We lose one Major General Captain Lori Miller to pregnancy but our spirits are uplifted at the promise of the future generations, who may actually be able to skate with some of these beeatches and kick their asses in future battles. We'll have a team yet girls...just give us 15 years!
Monday, November 9, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Ode to Balls of White Flour Dough
The cold is starting to infiltrate the middle toe of my left foot. It's the toe I let frostbite into one cold night in the depths of hell.
It is officially stick season here in Vermont. The colors have died and they crinkle under foot as we help with the process of their slow decomposition.
The darkness prevails, once again, and seeps into our lives earlier and earlier as we turn our bodies away from the sun.
I am making a pot roast for a friend that just had her uterus removed because she had a fibroid the size of a 14 week old baby in it.
The debt guy just came to unload his liquid dept into our propane tank.
The dryer is broken and so I have sheets and towels drying from the beams in our living room. It's like we live in a tent city. I'm okay with this because it just prolongs the debt guy's inevitable return.
I just hid the letter that Claire wrote to Santa Clause asking him for an American Girl doll. I want to tell her the truth, crush her spirit, break her innocence. Santa only brings one gift to our house. How am I going to explain that Santa ran out of American Girl dolls? That shit isn't entering this house.
We have an alpaca suffering from an ulcer. Things don't look good.
And then I remembered that it was Thursday.
Praise the great spirit that it's Thursday.
Because do you know what Thursday is?
Thursday is bagel day.
Dean Menke of The Backdoor Bakery makes these beauties for me and Paul and the spawn. They are the best bagels I have ever tasted in all my life, and I've tasted a few bagels. I would drive 13 hours and 8 minutes to get these bagels. And you should too. And while you're standing at his backdoor, if you have time before your 13 hour 8 minute drive home, you should try one of his almond croissants.
Whenever the spawn run from my monster mini van to their school's front door, I'm reminded of the story of Brer Rabbit and how he tricked Brer Fox by saying, "Please don't fling me into that briar patch yonder, please...whatever you do, for the Lord's own sake, please don't fling me into that briar patch yonder." And so Brer Fox does just that and then he, "sees he's been had." And Brer Rabbit sits down on a chinkapin log and combs the tar out of his hair with a chip and yells back to Brer Fox, "Bred and born in a briar patch, Brer Fox- Bred and born in a briar patch!"
I just want to yell after them, "bred and born on bagels, bred and born on bagels!"
So, with all the cold and dark and debt that's coming our way these days, I'm very grateful to have a little round ball of white flour dough that I can slather with cream cheese, and slip a fried egg white into, and then all of it seems to go away. So in honor of balls of white flour dough I'd like to play this song...which is a hint at what might happen to me if I eat too many of them.
Baby Got Back - Sir Mix A Lot
It is officially stick season here in Vermont. The colors have died and they crinkle under foot as we help with the process of their slow decomposition.
The darkness prevails, once again, and seeps into our lives earlier and earlier as we turn our bodies away from the sun.
I am making a pot roast for a friend that just had her uterus removed because she had a fibroid the size of a 14 week old baby in it.
The debt guy just came to unload his liquid dept into our propane tank.
The dryer is broken and so I have sheets and towels drying from the beams in our living room. It's like we live in a tent city. I'm okay with this because it just prolongs the debt guy's inevitable return.
I just hid the letter that Claire wrote to Santa Clause asking him for an American Girl doll. I want to tell her the truth, crush her spirit, break her innocence. Santa only brings one gift to our house. How am I going to explain that Santa ran out of American Girl dolls? That shit isn't entering this house.
We have an alpaca suffering from an ulcer. Things don't look good.
And then I remembered that it was Thursday.
Praise the great spirit that it's Thursday.
Because do you know what Thursday is?
Thursday is bagel day.
Dean Menke of The Backdoor Bakery makes these beauties for me and Paul and the spawn. They are the best bagels I have ever tasted in all my life, and I've tasted a few bagels. I would drive 13 hours and 8 minutes to get these bagels. And you should too. And while you're standing at his backdoor, if you have time before your 13 hour 8 minute drive home, you should try one of his almond croissants.
Whenever the spawn run from my monster mini van to their school's front door, I'm reminded of the story of Brer Rabbit and how he tricked Brer Fox by saying, "Please don't fling me into that briar patch yonder, please...whatever you do, for the Lord's own sake, please don't fling me into that briar patch yonder." And so Brer Fox does just that and then he, "sees he's been had." And Brer Rabbit sits down on a chinkapin log and combs the tar out of his hair with a chip and yells back to Brer Fox, "Bred and born in a briar patch, Brer Fox- Bred and born in a briar patch!"
I just want to yell after them, "bred and born on bagels, bred and born on bagels!"
So, with all the cold and dark and debt that's coming our way these days, I'm very grateful to have a little round ball of white flour dough that I can slather with cream cheese, and slip a fried egg white into, and then all of it seems to go away. So in honor of balls of white flour dough I'd like to play this song...which is a hint at what might happen to me if I eat too many of them.
Baby Got Back - Sir Mix A Lot
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Yea, Maybe
Paul Bunyan and I made a mistake. We made a fairly big mistake. We built our dream home next to a shooting range. It was a big mistake. We moved in when Claire was 8 months old. We moved out when she was 2.
This was Claire at 2.
This is Claire now. Well, not right now.
It was a beautiful house. Beautifully designed by HER handsome husband. Beautifully built in a beautiful neighborhood.
And then I said this,"I can't stay here."
And Paul Bunyan said this, "What the hell are you talking about?"
And then I said, "I can't read a book in a hammock without hearing a gun shot."
And Paul Bunyan said, "Why would you want to read a book in a hammock. You have a two year old?"
And I said, "Someday, I want to read a book in a hammock without hearing a gun shot."
And Paul Bunyan said, "You're about to have twins, you'll never read a book in a hammock. Ever."
And I said, "I want to die in the house we find. I don't want to die in this house with gun shots reverberating off of the walls."
And Paul Bunyan (after much pleading and convincing) decided to do this:
I loved this house.
Let me repeat: I loved this house. I will always associate this house with Claire's toddlerhood, new puppy Liebe, big snowfalls, the beginning of Paul's woodworking fetish, many a miscarriage and the conception of the twins. I loved the blissful newness of everything, especially our walk-in shower, and the curtains I sewed for Claire's nursery.
But it was a mistake. However, when we look back on the experience we walk away with this:
Our savior. The man we turn to when we need something done. He is Paul's man crush. But we won't go there. Here's my point. Are you ready? When I was stuck in traffic here in the house 6 months after the boys were born and Paul Bunyan comes home to tell me he is starting an alpaca farm, I pretty much said, "I'm staying out of this." I didn't want the weight of that mistake on my shoulders. I was still sore from the hefty error of judgment from the years before. I stayed out of it. But Paul Bunyan powered through. He scooped poop, he buried dead babies. He built and fixed fences, he built and filled the hay loft. He clipped toe nails, gave shots, and once a year sheared those suckers. He showed animals at Alpaca Shows only to be ushered out of the show ring, and practically laughed at. I know he felt defeated. I know he has felt doubt. I know he has wondered why he did it. I know he has felt regret. Well, this weekend. This weekend he felt something for the first time:
Pride. At 2nd place.
Maybe this whole alpaca thing hasn't been a mistake after all Paul Bunyan. I'm very proud of you.
This was Claire at 2.
This is Claire now. Well, not right now.
It was a beautiful house. Beautifully designed by HER handsome husband. Beautifully built in a beautiful neighborhood.
And then I said this,"I can't stay here."
And Paul Bunyan said this, "What the hell are you talking about?"
And then I said, "I can't read a book in a hammock without hearing a gun shot."
And Paul Bunyan said, "Why would you want to read a book in a hammock. You have a two year old?"
And I said, "Someday, I want to read a book in a hammock without hearing a gun shot."
And Paul Bunyan said, "You're about to have twins, you'll never read a book in a hammock. Ever."
And I said, "I want to die in the house we find. I don't want to die in this house with gun shots reverberating off of the walls."
And Paul Bunyan (after much pleading and convincing) decided to do this:
I loved this house.
Let me repeat: I loved this house. I will always associate this house with Claire's toddlerhood, new puppy Liebe, big snowfalls, the beginning of Paul's woodworking fetish, many a miscarriage and the conception of the twins. I loved the blissful newness of everything, especially our walk-in shower, and the curtains I sewed for Claire's nursery.
But it was a mistake. However, when we look back on the experience we walk away with this:
Our savior. The man we turn to when we need something done. He is Paul's man crush. But we won't go there. Here's my point. Are you ready? When I was stuck in traffic here in the house 6 months after the boys were born and Paul Bunyan comes home to tell me he is starting an alpaca farm, I pretty much said, "I'm staying out of this." I didn't want the weight of that mistake on my shoulders. I was still sore from the hefty error of judgment from the years before. I stayed out of it. But Paul Bunyan powered through. He scooped poop, he buried dead babies. He built and fixed fences, he built and filled the hay loft. He clipped toe nails, gave shots, and once a year sheared those suckers. He showed animals at Alpaca Shows only to be ushered out of the show ring, and practically laughed at. I know he felt defeated. I know he has felt doubt. I know he has wondered why he did it. I know he has felt regret. Well, this weekend. This weekend he felt something for the first time:
Pride. At 2nd place.
Maybe this whole alpaca thing hasn't been a mistake after all Paul Bunyan. I'm very proud of you.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Yo Momma Mia!!
We're makin' meatballs...PW style. I'm not afraid to steal. It's called plagiarism in writing. But in blogging, I don't think they've come up with a name for it, so it must not really exist. And anyway, I'm not stealing her recipes, I'm just stealing her format. And she didn't patent it, so I don't think she'll mind. And hell, it got her on the Bonnie Hunt show, so if it works for her, maybe it'll work for me. Whatever, we're makin' meatballs.
She calls her ingredients her "Cast of Characters". I think I'll go for more of a sports theme here, since I'm a professional hussy and all. We'll call our ingredients "The Starting Line Up". Creative, huh?
LOCAL ground beef. My butcher grinds it RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY EYES. Well, not exactly. I have to look through the eggs to see into the big refrigerator. BUT I see him do it.
Local sweet Italian sausage. HOMEMADE by the same old butcher who grinds my ground beef. He whistles while he works. It's the cutest thing. I LOVE VERMONT! Have I mentioned that? Everything tastes better homemade. These sausages are no exception. GO MEAT! (sorry to all you vegetarians, but isn't it good I know where my meat comes from?)
Squeeze those suckers out of their sacs. (Again, sorry vegetarians)
Two farm fresh eggs. Okay, they don't have to be farm fresh but in Vermont, it's easy to find. I LOVE Vermont!
Bread crumbs. I would have made my own, but who has the time?
Chopped onion. I try to chop it as tiny as I can because my spawn don't like onions. You make the pieces as big or as small as you like.
Fresh parmesan cheese. There's nothing better.
Golden raisins. The recipe calls for "snipped" golden raisins, but I chopped mine because I frankly don't know what "snipped" means? Do I use my kitchen shears for that? Don't know, don't care.
Italian Seasoning. Salt. Pepper. Red Pepper flakes (you decide how many).
Glorious Big Bowl of Love.
Okay, don't make fun of my hickville shirt. I'm still a hussy inside, even though I like to mash my meatballs with my hands.
Glorious balls of love.
Cook for 20 minutes in a 350 degree oven.
I'm going to start posting some of my favorite recipes here because I'm all like "let's change the world one home cooked meal at a time". So I better pony up. BUT here's the deal. I'm a recipe follower, so I've decided to add my own ingredient to the recipes, you know, to make them mine. However, I might warn you that the recipe probably would be A LOT better WITHOUT this added ingredient. BUT it's your choice. I think you'll know the added ingredient; it will be the same in all the recipes posted here (the stolen recipes from magazines and famous stars, of which I don't want any of them coming after me with their meat cleavers).
The Hussy's Hussifying Meatballs
2 eggs, slightly beaten
1 1/3 cups of bread crumbs
3/4 cup finely chopped onion
1/2 cup grated parmesan cheese
1/4 cup finely snipped golden raisins
1 TBSP. dried Italian seasoning
3/4 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. crushed red pepper
1/4 tsp. ground black pepper
1 1/2 lbs. sweet or hot Italian sausage
1 1/2 lbs. ground beef, veal, or pork
1 CUP strong coffee (he he he)
In a very large bowl combine EVERYTHING with your hussy hands. Make big (or small) balls and place them in baking pans (with a rim). Cook for 20 minutes at 350 degrees.
Enjoy!
She calls her ingredients her "Cast of Characters". I think I'll go for more of a sports theme here, since I'm a professional hussy and all. We'll call our ingredients "The Starting Line Up". Creative, huh?
LOCAL ground beef. My butcher grinds it RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY EYES. Well, not exactly. I have to look through the eggs to see into the big refrigerator. BUT I see him do it.
Local sweet Italian sausage. HOMEMADE by the same old butcher who grinds my ground beef. He whistles while he works. It's the cutest thing. I LOVE VERMONT! Have I mentioned that? Everything tastes better homemade. These sausages are no exception. GO MEAT! (sorry to all you vegetarians, but isn't it good I know where my meat comes from?)
Squeeze those suckers out of their sacs. (Again, sorry vegetarians)
Two farm fresh eggs. Okay, they don't have to be farm fresh but in Vermont, it's easy to find. I LOVE Vermont!
Bread crumbs. I would have made my own, but who has the time?
Chopped onion. I try to chop it as tiny as I can because my spawn don't like onions. You make the pieces as big or as small as you like.
Fresh parmesan cheese. There's nothing better.
Golden raisins. The recipe calls for "snipped" golden raisins, but I chopped mine because I frankly don't know what "snipped" means? Do I use my kitchen shears for that? Don't know, don't care.
Italian Seasoning. Salt. Pepper. Red Pepper flakes (you decide how many).
Glorious Big Bowl of Love.
Okay, don't make fun of my hickville shirt. I'm still a hussy inside, even though I like to mash my meatballs with my hands.
Glorious balls of love.
Cook for 20 minutes in a 350 degree oven.
I'm going to start posting some of my favorite recipes here because I'm all like "let's change the world one home cooked meal at a time". So I better pony up. BUT here's the deal. I'm a recipe follower, so I've decided to add my own ingredient to the recipes, you know, to make them mine. However, I might warn you that the recipe probably would be A LOT better WITHOUT this added ingredient. BUT it's your choice. I think you'll know the added ingredient; it will be the same in all the recipes posted here (the stolen recipes from magazines and famous stars, of which I don't want any of them coming after me with their meat cleavers).
The Hussy's Hussifying Meatballs
2 eggs, slightly beaten
1 1/3 cups of bread crumbs
3/4 cup finely chopped onion
1/2 cup grated parmesan cheese
1/4 cup finely snipped golden raisins
1 TBSP. dried Italian seasoning
3/4 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. crushed red pepper
1/4 tsp. ground black pepper
1 1/2 lbs. sweet or hot Italian sausage
1 1/2 lbs. ground beef, veal, or pork
1 CUP strong coffee (he he he)
In a very large bowl combine EVERYTHING with your hussy hands. Make big (or small) balls and place them in baking pans (with a rim). Cook for 20 minutes at 350 degrees.
Enjoy!
Monday, October 26, 2009
Ima Bushwhacker
I'm really a trail follower is what I discovered this weekend. We went over to Uncle Jon's for a warming of the spirit. Uncle Jon lives next to the Saco River at the base of the White Mountains. The Saco was booming on Saturday, after a day long drenching. Its roaring waters kept me awake most of the night.
And because we couldn't cross the river right outside his backdoor, we had to go on a bushwhack to find his little cabin in the woods.
His little cabin in the woods is also known as his big man cabin, where no girls are allowed. Whatever. So sophomoric, isn't it? Well, it's not quite done yet, as you can see. But it was an adventure getting there. We traveled by boat through a sea of yellow, or so it felt.
We stopped to sleep on fluorescent green mossy beds.
And we tickled our fancies on feathery ground coverings.
We ate wintergreen leaves and threw them like confetti to the sun.
And we danced around mushrooms and wrote our initials on the underbellies of fungi.
We learned the Latin names for certain trees.
And collected the biggest and smallest leaves we could find.
And we soaked up...
the sun...
And each other.
And the whole time I was floating in that sea of yellow, I was wondering about if I was a bushwhacker or a trail follower at heart. The bushwhacker gets a choice- around that tree or over the rock? Let's go over this ridge and then down into the ravine. Let's cross the river here...the rocks are less slippery. And the trail follower?? She gets to just walk, sometimes hand and hand with the one she loves. There are rarely choices, and she may not see the unexpected shelf mushroom or hairy mossy rock, but she is content in knowing that she'll end up where she intended to go and not so far away that she doesn't recognize her surroundings when she gets there.
On July 21, 1992 I went to the boardwalk at Seaside Heights, N.J. with my parents. I just finished my freshman year at Iowa. My father grew up in Asbury Park, N.J. and summered, his whole life, on the Jersey shore. It is his heaven. We walked up and down the boardwalk that summer day- exhausted with the sensory overload. I ducked into a palm reader's tiny cave. It was dark. She grabbed my left hand and said this to me:
I am stubborn and don't like to be told what to do.
I have a soft heart and can easily be hurt by this.
I will live a long life.
I will marry at the age of 23 the man I love at 19.
I will have 2 sons that are twins and 1 daughter.
My marriage will not lead to divorce.
I will be successful.
I will be healthy.
My lucky day is Saturday.
My lucky numbers are 7 and 19.
+++
Now, I met Paul Bunyan when I was 22 and we married when I was 25...but that's the only thing (so far) this palm reader got messed up. I wrote all of this down when we got back to our condo in N.J. so I wouldn't forget it. And I forgot about it for awhile. But while I was pregnant with the twins, I remembered what this woman told me. And I checked through my journals from that year. And sure enough, I found this list. And sure enough, I have been really flabbergasted by it. And sure enough, I've been comforted by it. Why? Because I'm a trail follower. I am on the trail that has been marked for me. And I am happy to know that I will end up in the place that I intended to go when I started my life, a life that is obviously mapped on my hand.
I know that many of you disagree with this and that we all have, in some way, control over our destiny. I believe that too, but my experience with my left palm tells me that there is a greater plan for us. Your choice to either bushwhack through life, or follow the trail, doesn't really matter in the end. You end up where you're meant to be.
What are you? A Bushwhacker?? cuz Ima Trailblazer.
And because we couldn't cross the river right outside his backdoor, we had to go on a bushwhack to find his little cabin in the woods.
His little cabin in the woods is also known as his big man cabin, where no girls are allowed. Whatever. So sophomoric, isn't it? Well, it's not quite done yet, as you can see. But it was an adventure getting there. We traveled by boat through a sea of yellow, or so it felt.
We stopped to sleep on fluorescent green mossy beds.
And we tickled our fancies on feathery ground coverings.
We ate wintergreen leaves and threw them like confetti to the sun.
And we danced around mushrooms and wrote our initials on the underbellies of fungi.
We learned the Latin names for certain trees.
And collected the biggest and smallest leaves we could find.
And we soaked up...
the sun...
And each other.
And the whole time I was floating in that sea of yellow, I was wondering about if I was a bushwhacker or a trail follower at heart. The bushwhacker gets a choice- around that tree or over the rock? Let's go over this ridge and then down into the ravine. Let's cross the river here...the rocks are less slippery. And the trail follower?? She gets to just walk, sometimes hand and hand with the one she loves. There are rarely choices, and she may not see the unexpected shelf mushroom or hairy mossy rock, but she is content in knowing that she'll end up where she intended to go and not so far away that she doesn't recognize her surroundings when she gets there.
On July 21, 1992 I went to the boardwalk at Seaside Heights, N.J. with my parents. I just finished my freshman year at Iowa. My father grew up in Asbury Park, N.J. and summered, his whole life, on the Jersey shore. It is his heaven. We walked up and down the boardwalk that summer day- exhausted with the sensory overload. I ducked into a palm reader's tiny cave. It was dark. She grabbed my left hand and said this to me:
I am stubborn and don't like to be told what to do.
I have a soft heart and can easily be hurt by this.
I will live a long life.
I will marry at the age of 23 the man I love at 19.
I will have 2 sons that are twins and 1 daughter.
My marriage will not lead to divorce.
I will be successful.
I will be healthy.
My lucky day is Saturday.
My lucky numbers are 7 and 19.
+++
Now, I met Paul Bunyan when I was 22 and we married when I was 25...but that's the only thing (so far) this palm reader got messed up. I wrote all of this down when we got back to our condo in N.J. so I wouldn't forget it. And I forgot about it for awhile. But while I was pregnant with the twins, I remembered what this woman told me. And I checked through my journals from that year. And sure enough, I found this list. And sure enough, I have been really flabbergasted by it. And sure enough, I've been comforted by it. Why? Because I'm a trail follower. I am on the trail that has been marked for me. And I am happy to know that I will end up in the place that I intended to go when I started my life, a life that is obviously mapped on my hand.
I know that many of you disagree with this and that we all have, in some way, control over our destiny. I believe that too, but my experience with my left palm tells me that there is a greater plan for us. Your choice to either bushwhack through life, or follow the trail, doesn't really matter in the end. You end up where you're meant to be.
What are you? A Bushwhacker?? cuz Ima Trailblazer.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Ode to Supa Cath
Look at this spring chicken.
She turns 35 today. But we celebrated last night.
With her. The Goddess Who is Gone.
She came back. I'm only mildly pissed that it's just for the weekend.
And she showed up.
And new momma- exhibit A
And new momma- Exhibit B
And MUD.
And the Dr. was in the house too.
And we did a little of this.
And we did a little of that.
And then we read some poetry. We read Whitman and Longfellow and Poe. No joke. No, we really read our own creations, created especially for Cath.
This was fun.
And I think Cath liked it.
And she liked the tickies too.
And everyone, including Cath, was happy.
The End.
p.s. E and Katy, you were sorely missed.
Here is my contribution to the poetry collection for Cath; however, mine is in dream form:
I was traveling on a fast moving train headed west. I walked drunkenly through the cars to find an empty room, all to myself. I remember I was carrying a big box. It was very light, the box was, but big. I finally found a room with only one other passenger and so struggling to enter through the condensed door, I said, "Mam, would you mind if I share this room with you?" She looked up from her knitting, which she had strewn about her lap and in the seat next to her, and smiled nicely, "Of course not." I threw the box in the cargo carrier above our heads and took a seat across from this young looking woman.
"What are you knitting?" I asked.
"Oh, just a baby blanket," she answered simply.
"Wow," I shot back, impressed. "It's beautiful. Who are you knitting it for? Is someone you know having a baby?" She half laughed. "No," she said, "I knit shit for babies I haven't met yet. I just keep knitting baby blankets and hats. It's kinda my thing. I don't really know why."
"Oh," is all I had for a reply and I think she could tell I wasn't really impressed.
"What do you have in your box?" she asked me.
"Hmm, I don't know. Some guy gave it to me before I got on the train. I don't really even know where we're heading. Do you?" Her fingers were still moving ferociously and she didn't bother to look up when she answered my question with a mumble, "heaven".
"I'm sorry I couldn't hear you. What did you say?" She stopped her knitting and looked directly in my eyes and then she turned to look out the window, which was okay with me because her intense brown eyes were starting to scare me. I looked outside too. The train was moving way too fast for us to make out any definite objects, so I looked back at her, hoping my movement would get her to repeat her answer. "Heaven," she said louder.
"Well, I'll be," I said, "then we just came from hell." I offered a little giggle but she didn't take it.
"Yea," (and here's where things started to get cloudy and confusing) she mumbled something about, "wearing a gold dress in front of a classroom and doing a pole dance in front of the students and then falling down onto a table and puking into the toilet." I couldn't really understand her but I was really intrigued and so I pressed her to talk more, "I'm sorry. I couldn't understand you." And sure enough she started to knit again and kept on with the babbling, "someone made me go camping and then I was riding for hours and hours and hours and then my dad, who was dressed as a woman, was waiting for me at the finish line with a beer and then he rubbed my webbed toe." Hmm, weird, I thought. But then she dug into her super cool knitting bag and pulled out a bag of m&m's, which I was psyched about. She looked at me again with those intense brown eyes and asked me, "Would you like some?"
"Sure." So I dug into the pink bag and pulled out a handful and before throwing them into the back of my mouth I noticed that they were custom m&m's with the words, SUPA CATH written on them. I thought, 'that's cool', I wonder what I would put on my m&m's if I had my own personalized candies. "So why did you put SUPA CATH on your m&m's?"
"Oh, I didn't. My WOMBATS did." Again, 'weird', I thought. Why does this woman have wombats? Just plain weird. I looked out the window again and noticed that we were heading into the setting sun. "Hey, what are you expecting to find in heaven when we get there?" I asked, since this whole thing was very confusing to me.
"Ohhhh," she groaned orgasmically. Now I was really excited to hear her answer, but it (too) didn't make much sense to me. "There is a chiropractic table set up and I've got both legs wide open, someone is waxing me, rubbing my head, and feeding me the Glory Bowl." This image kind of scared me, but I went with it anyway without asking for further clarification. "I make people happy," she continued without prompting, "I make them super happy with my skillz. And I have a pink seat." Okay, whatever. I think I need to get off this train.
"I think this is my stop," I said, standing up. She looked out the window.
"Yea, maybe. This train's not for everyone. Actually," she continued, "it's hard to actually get on this train. Who let you on anyway?"
"Well, it was the same tall handsome guy who gave me the box. I think I'm supposed to give it to you, but I don't really know."
"Well, are you going to give it to me?" I lept up onto the seat to get the box down from the cargo carrier.
"Dood," she said, "I think it's time for some new jeans." I hopped down with the box in my hands and gave it to her. I looked down at my jeans and noticed that the spandex was stretched out in spots and made puffy polka dots all over them.
"Yea, whatever. I hope you like what's in the box and I hope you like what you get in heaven and thanks for the m&m's." I turned to leave through the condensed door; I didn't really want to stay to see what was in the box. But as I exited the room, I heard her mumble under her breath, "Oh man, not again. Another shriveled penis. I hope there's a hard one waiting for me in heaven cause I didn't get on this train for nothing."
She turns 35 today. But we celebrated last night.
With her. The Goddess Who is Gone.
She came back. I'm only mildly pissed that it's just for the weekend.
And she showed up.
And new momma- exhibit A
And new momma- Exhibit B
And MUD.
And the Dr. was in the house too.
And we did a little of this.
And we did a little of that.
And then we read some poetry. We read Whitman and Longfellow and Poe. No joke. No, we really read our own creations, created especially for Cath.
This was fun.
And I think Cath liked it.
And she liked the tickies too.
And everyone, including Cath, was happy.
The End.
p.s. E and Katy, you were sorely missed.
Here is my contribution to the poetry collection for Cath; however, mine is in dream form:
I was traveling on a fast moving train headed west. I walked drunkenly through the cars to find an empty room, all to myself. I remember I was carrying a big box. It was very light, the box was, but big. I finally found a room with only one other passenger and so struggling to enter through the condensed door, I said, "Mam, would you mind if I share this room with you?" She looked up from her knitting, which she had strewn about her lap and in the seat next to her, and smiled nicely, "Of course not." I threw the box in the cargo carrier above our heads and took a seat across from this young looking woman.
"What are you knitting?" I asked.
"Oh, just a baby blanket," she answered simply.
"Wow," I shot back, impressed. "It's beautiful. Who are you knitting it for? Is someone you know having a baby?" She half laughed. "No," she said, "I knit shit for babies I haven't met yet. I just keep knitting baby blankets and hats. It's kinda my thing. I don't really know why."
"Oh," is all I had for a reply and I think she could tell I wasn't really impressed.
"What do you have in your box?" she asked me.
"Hmm, I don't know. Some guy gave it to me before I got on the train. I don't really even know where we're heading. Do you?" Her fingers were still moving ferociously and she didn't bother to look up when she answered my question with a mumble, "heaven".
"I'm sorry I couldn't hear you. What did you say?" She stopped her knitting and looked directly in my eyes and then she turned to look out the window, which was okay with me because her intense brown eyes were starting to scare me. I looked outside too. The train was moving way too fast for us to make out any definite objects, so I looked back at her, hoping my movement would get her to repeat her answer. "Heaven," she said louder.
"Well, I'll be," I said, "then we just came from hell." I offered a little giggle but she didn't take it.
"Yea," (and here's where things started to get cloudy and confusing) she mumbled something about, "wearing a gold dress in front of a classroom and doing a pole dance in front of the students and then falling down onto a table and puking into the toilet." I couldn't really understand her but I was really intrigued and so I pressed her to talk more, "I'm sorry. I couldn't understand you." And sure enough she started to knit again and kept on with the babbling, "someone made me go camping and then I was riding for hours and hours and hours and then my dad, who was dressed as a woman, was waiting for me at the finish line with a beer and then he rubbed my webbed toe." Hmm, weird, I thought. But then she dug into her super cool knitting bag and pulled out a bag of m&m's, which I was psyched about. She looked at me again with those intense brown eyes and asked me, "Would you like some?"
"Sure." So I dug into the pink bag and pulled out a handful and before throwing them into the back of my mouth I noticed that they were custom m&m's with the words, SUPA CATH written on them. I thought, 'that's cool', I wonder what I would put on my m&m's if I had my own personalized candies. "So why did you put SUPA CATH on your m&m's?"
"Oh, I didn't. My WOMBATS did." Again, 'weird', I thought. Why does this woman have wombats? Just plain weird. I looked out the window again and noticed that we were heading into the setting sun. "Hey, what are you expecting to find in heaven when we get there?" I asked, since this whole thing was very confusing to me.
"Ohhhh," she groaned orgasmically. Now I was really excited to hear her answer, but it (too) didn't make much sense to me. "There is a chiropractic table set up and I've got both legs wide open, someone is waxing me, rubbing my head, and feeding me the Glory Bowl." This image kind of scared me, but I went with it anyway without asking for further clarification. "I make people happy," she continued without prompting, "I make them super happy with my skillz. And I have a pink seat." Okay, whatever. I think I need to get off this train.
"I think this is my stop," I said, standing up. She looked out the window.
"Yea, maybe. This train's not for everyone. Actually," she continued, "it's hard to actually get on this train. Who let you on anyway?"
"Well, it was the same tall handsome guy who gave me the box. I think I'm supposed to give it to you, but I don't really know."
"Well, are you going to give it to me?" I lept up onto the seat to get the box down from the cargo carrier.
"Dood," she said, "I think it's time for some new jeans." I hopped down with the box in my hands and gave it to her. I looked down at my jeans and noticed that the spandex was stretched out in spots and made puffy polka dots all over them.
"Yea, whatever. I hope you like what's in the box and I hope you like what you get in heaven and thanks for the m&m's." I turned to leave through the condensed door; I didn't really want to stay to see what was in the box. But as I exited the room, I heard her mumble under her breath, "Oh man, not again. Another shriveled penis. I hope there's a hard one waiting for me in heaven cause I didn't get on this train for nothing."
Monday, October 19, 2009
The Bidding Will Start at 59
Today's bidding will start at 59. Can I have a 58? 58? 58?
Yes! To the silver alpaca pasture!
How about a 57? 57? 57? I see the horses raise a cold hoof!
Let's keep going down? Is there a 52? 52? 52? Yes! The mailboxes take a 52!!
What do we think kids? Will we get to freezing? Claire is in the way back of momma's monster mini van- Can we have a 44 folks? Who wants a 44? YES! We've got a 44? Timmy thinks it said 66, "Timmy, you've got to read the numbers!!"
How bouta, how bouta, how bouta 42?? Anyone, Anyone?? The frozen Christmas trees take a 42! Oooh, we're droppin' now. Let's go to 38? 38? 38? C'mon folks? 38? 38 goes to the ducks.
Oh folks- I think the steamy Huntington River has got its hand up. She's goin for 33!! Can we have a 32 folks? A thirty-two? 32? 32? 32? YES! We've got a freezing point!! Here we go- will we go under 32?
C'mon people. We can do this! 31 to the Huntington Garage! Let's keep going!! Are we going to go under 30?? 29? 29? 29? Anyone out there want a 29? Raise those hands folks!! 29? 29? 29? YES! To the cows on the right!! We see your steam!
Okay, how low can we go?? I see a 28!! 27? 27? 27? The Chickens on the left want 27... How bouta, how bouta, how bouta 25!! I see hands up at Camel's Hump, holding tight in the Valley at 25. Going once, going twice- SOLD to the Valley for 25! OH, but WAIT! We've got a 24 pulling into Brewster Pierce Memorial School! 24 degrees folks. Sold to the smiling faces at BPMS, who will hopefully help my children put on their winter clothes this morning because it's farkin' cold.
And icey.
And dark.
And dead.
And dying.
And beautiful too.
Yes! To the silver alpaca pasture!
How about a 57? 57? 57? I see the horses raise a cold hoof!
Let's keep going down? Is there a 52? 52? 52? Yes! The mailboxes take a 52!!
What do we think kids? Will we get to freezing? Claire is in the way back of momma's monster mini van- Can we have a 44 folks? Who wants a 44? YES! We've got a 44? Timmy thinks it said 66, "Timmy, you've got to read the numbers!!"
How bouta, how bouta, how bouta 42?? Anyone, Anyone?? The frozen Christmas trees take a 42! Oooh, we're droppin' now. Let's go to 38? 38? 38? C'mon folks? 38? 38 goes to the ducks.
Oh folks- I think the steamy Huntington River has got its hand up. She's goin for 33!! Can we have a 32 folks? A thirty-two? 32? 32? 32? YES! We've got a freezing point!! Here we go- will we go under 32?
C'mon people. We can do this! 31 to the Huntington Garage! Let's keep going!! Are we going to go under 30?? 29? 29? 29? Anyone out there want a 29? Raise those hands folks!! 29? 29? 29? YES! To the cows on the right!! We see your steam!
Okay, how low can we go?? I see a 28!! 27? 27? 27? The Chickens on the left want 27... How bouta, how bouta, how bouta 25!! I see hands up at Camel's Hump, holding tight in the Valley at 25. Going once, going twice- SOLD to the Valley for 25! OH, but WAIT! We've got a 24 pulling into Brewster Pierce Memorial School! 24 degrees folks. Sold to the smiling faces at BPMS, who will hopefully help my children put on their winter clothes this morning because it's farkin' cold.
And icey.
And dark.
And dead.
And dying.
And beautiful too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
