Saturday Bill Murray

Oh Bill, how do you capture these moments so perfectly? This is how my back feels.

Night Driving

My husband is my hero. Not only does he find amazing restaurants everywhere we go, but he drove all night from Hickory, NC to Pownal, VT. (He found a barbecue joint in Statesville, NC that had signed head shots of Ronnie Milsap and James Franco. How about that?)

My tattoo lady is Margaret Moose. I cannot tell you how pleasurable it is to say that I have a tattoo lady. She’s a wee bit older -- maybe in her fifties -- with long salt and pepper hair, glasses that she constantly pushes up, and three lifetimes worth of stories. She has my favorite Hokusai tattooed on her arms. It’s a woodblock print of some octopi lovin’ on a lady, called The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife. I don't know what Hokusai thought women really wanted, but it's the first mass-produced cross-species image of sex that I know of. (Feel free to correct me there.) But going to the Mooser, It’s like getting a tattoo from an aunt who dropped out of polite society and now hangs out with other tattooed, pierced and bodily-decorated folk. Her tattoo space also doubles as a gallery, so she has art hanging in the spacious reception room, in opposition to most tattoo parlors that have framed versions of the tattoos you could get, random drawings, and pictures of large-chested women. When you go in the back room, there are paintings on the wall, Japanese paper screens and noh masks on the wall.  She has a table and chairs so if there is a person waiting for their friend or loved one, they can easily sit and chat. The Mooser is a great talker.

I also like Margaret because she does great Japanese tattoos, but there is more. When we met she asked what all tattoo artists ask: what do you want done? I told her I wasn't sure. I wanted cherry blossoms and koi. But I wanted the most beautiful Japanese tattoo she could do and she had my full back to work on it. It didn't phase her. She asked for some time and then drew it straight on my back. I love that she was inventive and open. That she realized I didn't want to dictate every aspect of the tattoo. I worked hard to find one of the best tattooists on the east coast and I wanted to set her free on my back. She was down with that.

From past experience I’ve learned I can sit for a solid three hours, four if I’m fidgety and have to take lots of breaks. For some reason, having food in your tummy makes it easier. The Mooser finished about most of the tattoo and I have just one sitting left! I'll be glad to have it done, but I will miss the visits to her shop.

Partly because it is the aftermath that is crazy. I don’t know if you’ve been tattooed, but there is an adrenaline rush about fifteen to twenty minutes into the tattoo. It hurts less, you feel more relaxed, kind of happy – all of that. Actually, these brain chemicals can be really addictive and that’s why some people keep going back for another tattoo here, and here and there. The Japanese call those sushi tattoos: lots of little pieces that don’t add up to anything. But back to the aftermath. Immediately after the needle is put down, I always feel like I am floating a bit. But then comes the crash, sleep that will not be put off or denied, followed by general crankiness and confusion.

Anyway, Christian saw that I was in no position to drive, despite being pleasantly stupefied. So he drove. And drove. And drove. He drove through the night. The whole night! And we arrived home the next morning. We’re slowly readjusting. We need some good sleep. When I drive at night my depth perception disappears and for some reason I also had double vision that night. I couldn't focus.

I’m back to gently rubbing in Aquaphor into the parts where the Mooser needled in more detail, which means I have a wardrobe of three shirts since the Aquaphor can get messy and sometimes my back is still inky/bleeding the first day or two. It's usually tender for a week or so. Let's all hope for some quick healing. I'll get pictures up shortly.

You Can Convince Yourself Of Anything

I’ve said it before: getting married is something I almost never do. I mean it. I’ve been married twice. In almost thirty-four years, it’s only happened twice. The first was as big a to-do as I’m ever gonna do; the second was an surprise elopement. God, I love surprises. For some people, it’s once down the aisle and that’s great. For some it’s none, and that fine too: not everybody wants to be married. For me, second time is the charm.

It’s that second point that I wanted to write a little about. My parents have been housing the physical remains of the first wedding: my heavily beaded gown, pictures, my planning files – those sorts of things. Since my sister was in the wedding – and is no longer in this world – my mom pulled all the photos so I could sort through them and take the ones with my sister back home with me.  So the gown has been sold secondhand, the files have all been tossed (who needs a list of caterers from the outer banks, along with notes on their availability from 2004?). But the pictures . . .  damn.

I’m stopped in my tracks by these pictures. Because – from these pictures – I  can tell that the man I married was not really happy the day he married me. In picture after picture I am giggling, laughing, posing and he is staring at the ground or into the distance. I am constantly smiling at him while he looks away with what I can only describe as a sort of zoned-out stoicism. In many of the photos he has his sunglasses on. There is one picture of the two of us, alone and standing apart with my arm fully stretched out resting on his shoulder. We are literally an arm’s length apart. I remember the moment well. It was right after the ceremony and he turned and asked something along the lines of What did we just do? And I said It will be alright.

When the Big Bridal Book of Photos came from the photographer in 2004, I convinced myself that the querulous man captured in those photos was really happy. I have some of the excuses right here: you see, the sun was in his eyes which explains the sunglasses. He was overcome with emotion and put on a straight, hard face so no one would see how close to crying he really was. But looking at these photos I see clearly that he wasn’t happy.

So how do you live your life knowing you are convincing yourself of something not quite true? Or do you live your life knowing that some things aren’t true, but don’t get bothered about it? Either way, here is the truth in this case: I convinced myself that he wanted to be married to me. He might have convinced himself too.

The pictures tell another story, one worth a million words, some of which are separation, divorce, remarriage.

Ways To Hide From The Heat In North Carolina

Hack reporters do every summer on the local television news:
"With a heat index of 110, how will you beat the heat?"

It's a stupid question. Either you have air conditioning, in which case you use it. Or you do not have air conditioning and you have to go to places that do have it. Like movie theaters or malls. But there is no beating of the heat: Mother Nature makes it damn clear that she is Boss Lady. It is only with the advent of air conditioning that people have thronged to places that were previously considered uninhabitable by civilized society (like, say, Florida).

So, let me be clear. Humans have no say over the heat, humidity and heat index. There is no fight night, no battle between Heat and Humans.

The question should be "With a heat index of 110, where will you hide?"
Besides the aforementioned movie theater and mall,
A dip in any body of water: ocean or pool.
Vast amounts of frozen custard
Sod houses (my mother swears by a good Soddie)

By all means, leave your hidey holes with me. I will keep them safe.

Recommendations

I recommend everyone watch "The Maria Bamford Show." It is excellent.

Down South By Way Of Rhode Island

         I am not in the habit of revealing promises, but this particular promise was so lovely and so fully realized that I think it has to be talked about. At the beginning of summer proper, I whined – quite incessantly and on a daily basis – that I needed beach time. I meant that I wanted several days of essentially living on the beach from dawn until dusk. We had gone on some lovely beach outings, and I enjoyed them, but I needed more.

                  Before our yearly journey to North Carolina, my husband insisted on leaving a day early. I thought he meant to visit some friends along the way.  But instead, he took me to a beautiful beach near Watch Hill in Rhode Island.  We spent the better part of the afternoon and into the evening there, body-surfing, taking long walks, reading, napping, and then swimming in clear, fresh salt water again. The light got long and golden, reflecting the calming waves in the sea and shining against the lighthouse. For me, a good beach trip requires all this and a little more: I like to find sand in my ears, I like the tiny hairs on my body to be encrusted with salt. I like my hair, which is straight, to be thick with salt and humidity, curling in the heat and resisting attempts to tame it. And on that day, we had beach time. It was a promise fulfilled lovingly, the very best kind in my opinion. We made our way to a fish shack, the sort that seem to be everywhere in New England (and nowhere in North Carolina) for a short season of fried fish and lobster rolls. In the winter they become almost invisible, lacking any traces of their summer life. I had a sandwich that a major men’s magazine, the kind that tells men what suit they must buy for next season and articles of men who had survived horrible encounters with nature, has listed as One Of The Best Sandwiches In America. I quite enjoyed the sandwich: fried cod with lettuce and tomato. Christian had local flounder served up fried. He liked it, but it was not listed as One Of The Best Things In America.

                  The next day held our travel from Connecticut to North Carolina. We had thought and planned a route that we felt would be speedy. It started off that way. We had breakfast at O’Rourke’s Diner in Middletown. To say that this is my husband’s favorite restaurant in the world does not get close to explaining it. He has been eating there for twenty years, charting the progress of Brian, the owner, from simply the proprietor and diner cook to a world-class chef. You can still eat eggs and bacon there, but you can also get zucchini buckwheat pancakes and lobster fritatta. Brian gets lots of his cooks from the down-and-out in Middletown, and there are plenty of them, but he has a way – a touch, if you will – that can straighten people out and help them get their lives in order. It’s something of a life-changing place. So to start the day with a meal there was good fortune. Christian called the lobster fritatta and chicken hash the best meal of his life. My zucchini pancakes were amazing, but I don’t think I can assign superlatives just yet.

                  As we started driving I began to worry about my husband. His meal had struck him speechless and he spent a good while staring out the window. The cord that connects the car stereo to his ipod began its final death throes. I was thinking about how to fix the situation and was not being a good driver. I do maintain, though, that it is hard to be a good driver when navigating places you have never driven. I always chose either the lane that was about to end or exit-only lane and panicked at splits in the highway. Someone should have filmed me to show a driver’s education class what not to do when behind the wheel. However, we remained intact from there to here so even my bad driving was good enough to avoid a wreck.

                  Things came to a head in Bethel, Connecticut. The cord quit just as we hit our first traffic jam of the day. Since my car appears to feast on ipod cords, and since neither of us can drive without an ipod, we pulled off the road and went to Target. We found a new cord immediately and walked enough to stretch our legs. When we left the store there was a small girl singing the syllables “pu – na – ni!” at the top of her lungs. It made me laugh but Christian didn’t hear it.

                  We spent the rest of the fourteen-hour journey rotating between tunes, talkies and reading “Country of the Pointed Firs” by Sarah Orne Jewett to each other. I desperately want to be able to switch between a number of accents: Southern, Down-East Maine and a New York Jewish Grandmother. I can currently do no accents and this bothers me deeply. I feel that it hampers my reading.

                  By the time we rolled into Raleigh around 1 am, we were too tired to be tired. But we are here and there are visits and decisions to be made. The heat of the day is starting to descend around us and the only correct thing to do is hide from it and hope that it does not find you.

                  

Overheard

I am not, by nature, a person who eavesdrops. There are a few reasons for this. First, I almost never know who the person/thing/event that is being gossiped about. Second, if I don't know the person, I find it difficult to listen to two people gossip about an absent third. What if that person is really a good and kind person? That's not so nice, to talk about a good and kind person that way. But what if they are really cruel? Is it any better that they are being gossiped about?

But without being an eavesdropper, I love overhearing things. You may ask "Hannah, what is the difference?" Here's the difference to me: eavesdropping is when you have to concentrate on what's being said. Overhearing something means that even if you are reading a book or filling out a form you cannot help but hear the conversation.

So with that in mind, I'd like to present this overheard moment that happened at the vet's office yesterday:

Small boy in little league uniform: Mom! My coach said baseball is a game of inches. So if I'd swung two inches higher, I would have hit it. So I basically hit it. I was just off by two inches.
Mom: Two inches can make all the difference.

The best part was that she said it in that mysterious adult voice that announced "you'll understand this when you get older." I loved it.

When I dropped Blossom off at the vet (she's fine, just a checkup), there were two women there that I can only describe as hags. One was in her 70's and the other in her 50's, although it is notoriously hard to try to guess the ages of crones. The both had long greasy hair and were balding on top. The older was closer to me and I could see she was missing more than one tooth. She bent down to look in Blossom's carrier and said "Oh My God. That is the fattest cat I ever saw!" She calls the other hag over--the younger one was on crutches -- and they discuss Blossom's enormous blob-like state.

I felt protective. I wanted to say "hey, that is my cat! Leave her alone!" Instead I looked at the women. they had pale, loose skin. Not the kind that gets like crepe paper, but flabby and decorated with red sores. They had unfortunate noses that protruded too far from their faces and hairy moles on their faces. As the leaned into the carrier the older woman said "I ain't never seen a cat that fat. She's beautiful." It made me feel a little better that they equated fatness with beauty, but the women themselves were quite gross. But here is the thing that I did that I am feeling a bit of shame over. When they leaned over, I looked down their bosoms. I do know that it was hard not to look down their bosoms, because they took up all of my available eyeline. But I looked at crone hag boobs and I don't think I should have done that. No, I don't think I should have done that because it has already become seared into my brain.

Later in the day when I was getting my hair cut, I went to the salon's bathroom and opened the door on a lady on the toilet. It's the sort of thing I fear happening to me, and now that I have done it, I know that it will happen to me.

mmmmmmm. That is all for now.
As you were.

What The . . . ?

Just the thing for a cozy night in!? If you also enjoy blacking out on the sofa. I think this innovation of glass technology is so that when someone confronts you of being an alcoholic you can just say "But I only had two glasses!" Good lord. I knew the US has portion-control problems, but this is ridiculous. Re Dic U Lus. Also, the lady in the ad looks a little pregnant. That's not good.

Effects Of A Sleepless Night, Part Two

Aside from being tired, it really wasn't that bad today: no close calls while driving, or anything like that. I think I am a fine driver but on reflection I suppose everyone thinks they are a good driver.

There were some raspberries ready, but lots of them need more time to ripen. I picked about twenty raspberries and three blueberries.

I did get up to North Bennington, to Whitman's Feed because they have fantastic plants there. I bought the following:
five small round containers of leggy silver verbena
four purple heliotrope
eight creamy yellow snapdragons.

I've always loved snapdragons and the danger in the name; the promise that something will come to get you so quickly you won't even have a chance of escape. Whoever named that flower did a fantastic job. I planted all the new flowers in the front garden, despite the heat and the prep work. I was done in ninety minutes, but it was a hot ninety minutes. I went for a dip in the pool -- dirty hands, feet and all to cool off.

The skunk did not come back today, thank goodness. But the woodchuck is still evasive. I hope that none of the nocturnal creatures dig up the newly planted flowers looking for grubs. It seems to be a favorite past-time for one of the creatures, It waits until the flowers are settled in the bed and then comes out to dig them up. I take it as a personal affront and I assume the flowers do as well.

That is how I am without sleep: somehow the small slights of the day seem personal, and that makes me cranky. That's it. But I do not wish to push this experiment further to see how I will be with minimal sleep over several days. There might be a time when that is reality -- why try it now? Oh sleep, will you come tonight, please?

The Effects Of A Sleepless Night, Part One

The rumbling did indeed come through -- and again and again and again. The power went out early and after I gammoned Christian in a candlelight backgammon match we went to bed. (To be clear, he beat me in the following match, but I really have to insist we all just focus on my gammoning him. A first for me! And about the third time I've beat him in two years of play.)

So all is well on our quiet Vermont farm. We are all tucked away by ten thirty, the heat of the day blown away by the cool storm winds.

Until 2. I woke up and could not get back to sleep. Soon Christian woke up. The power was back on, so that was good. We heard heavy footfalls downstairs and the rattle of the clothes dryer. Christian looked at me and said
"is my dad wearing shoes?"
and I looked at him and said
"is he doing laundry?"

Sal does not have a soft walk. He could never, ever sneak up on someone. But he almost never walks around in shoes at night. Well, he almost never walks around at night.

Then we heard the front door open, followed by steady foot falls. The outdoor lights were on, triggered by action (Christian hates them so, they make it seem like a compound). We crept to the window and saw my father in law walking lengths of the porch, carrying a flashlight. We looked at each other.

"is he sleepwalking?"
"nuts to that, is he doing laps?"

Christian went down to make sure he was okay. I went to check on the cats because that is the sort of thing that I do. On sleepless nights it becomes very important to me that they have fresh water. Sal was also having a sleepless night, I was told, and was hoping that some walking on the porch would help. We wished him well and went back to our room.

We tried every trick in the book:
I drank some warm milk
we watched an episode of nip/tuck on netflix
we closed our eyes for ten minutes, focusing on being relaxed
he read to me, something that usually puts me to sleep. (But I'd like to say here that I love being read to. Not children's books, obviously, but books we are interested in and are easy to read. Currently we are reading "A Death In Belmont" by Sebastian Junger.)
I read to him.

This last one put him to sleep. I stayed awake up 5 or so. I know that when you have sleeplessness you should not allow yourself to nap so your body will sleep at night and not in the middle of the afternoon. That's going to be a tough one today.

I'm sure I will have some moments of empty-headedness today. I will report back on them.

Vermont Farm On A Saturday Night

It's really quiet, except for the birdsong and grasshopper song. I wonder if the coyotes will come out tonight. Their baying and barking scares me. I always turn to Christian and ask if we will be safe.

I saved two animals today:
1 frog
1 fire salamander
They had both fallen into the pool and I got them out in time before the chlorine killed them. I hope no more fire salamanders fall in. They are so small and delicate, I'd hate to be their agent of death.

The animal that keeps eating my sunflowers is evading me. There is, however, a gullible skunk that seems to find its way into my havaheart trap. Yesterday was its second trapping. You might be wondering if the skunk is eating the sunflowers, and its possible, but there are woodchuck sightings. I think its the same woodchuck that ate my sunflowers last year. I opened the trap door for the skunk and put a big rock there to prop it open. I hope he decides to stay away tonight.

I cut down the delphinium and foxglove today and sprinkled the seed pods on the ground. There are some new leaves there already. I also replanted the butterfly bush so it will have more room to grow and I weeded. I love telling Christian that I'm going to go weed because it sounds like I'm saying "read" but with a lisp.

The light is fading, almost gone -- I can just make out the treeline now.

There is a white cat that comes around here. Most likely a neighbor's cat, but sometimes I think it is Billy prowling around the farm, weaving through the stands of wild catnip. Right now the white tomcat is on the biggest rock in the rock garden, standing tall and smelling the air.

What will I do tomorrow?
The raspberries need picking. I'll plant some arugula and prep the soil for some carrots. I might go to my favorite nursery and get some late-summer plants for color to replace the foxglove and delphs.

It's all dark now, but there is lightning and rumbling coming in hard from the west. The birds stopped singing and so did the grasshoppers. I think they know more than I know. I will take a cue from them and close the windows.

Places Where Stuff Gets Weird

Okay, I don't really know where these places are. But it seems like if you went there, things would get double-weird in double-quick time.

 Scottish gulls going nuts on a climber.

Somehow oddly similar, right?

You Don't Have To Choose, You Can Love Us Both

My beloved husband started his own blog on film, music and the like.

It's called The Commonplace Book and you should really go take a look at it.

Friday Bill Murray

Oh Bill. God love ya.

This Gave Me A Headache From Laughing So Hard

'm not saying it's sophisticated or anything.

Neil, Don't Read This

Killer robots have been unleashed upon the earth (well, North Korea anyway).

But maybe they'll just hold up a mirror to society and we'll all learn something about ourselves.

Shaved Kitties? Yay or Nay?

Let me be clear. (By all means, I really want to be clear.) This is not either of my cats. But upon seeing this picture in my evening's internet travels, I really had to stop and think.

Maybe I should shave my cats.

Something in me is saying this is a bad idea, but something else in me says that this is genius. I can't tell which side is winning yet. I mean, I live in Vermont, we get heat wavelets, but nothing like back in NC. On the other hand, we have no AC, which is in every house down southway. So an eighty-degree day here feels like eighty, where in NC it feels like whatever you set the AC to.

So maybe shaving them is good: their shedding wouldn't be so bad, they'd deal with the hot days a bit better. But then also, they would look ridiculous, and maybe their fur growing back would make them itchy.

But let me be clear: the main reason for doing it would be for giggles. The other stuff is just icing on the cake.

Thoughts? Yay? Nay? Has anyone shaved their cat before?

The Squid And The Zombie

NPR is saying this is the summer where giant squid and (I'm guessing normal-sized) zombies are dominating all reading. I'm actually excited to get into China Mieville's Kraken. But I'm hoping that at some point, octopi will get center stage. Squid don't have tentacles or suckers, which makes octopi superior beings. But I will accept squid being in the spotlight for the moment. At least it is a cephalopod, right?

But the zombies, I dunno. I think their golden age has passed and people have moved on to vampires as the ghoul de jour.

Shhhhh.

Cybelle and Gabriel fell asleep together on a chair and they are so peaceful -- mother and child -- curled up together.
Normally I would get my camera, but I don't want to rouse them.

Perfect. Moment. Right Now.

You Want It To Be One Way. But It's The Other Way.

The 100 Greatest Quotes from The Wire. (Spoilers and lots of damn profanity.)
Thank you AJ.

Sorry For The Time Lapse, Y'all

I would have posted earlier but about twenty minutes into the match Christian asked "Do you want to go to New London and see Simon and Cybelle?" There is only one answer to a question like that. There is only one answer for that question, and that answer is YES.

So we packed a bag and came down to New London, the city where you can smell the Long Island Sound in your nostrils, the city that is home to Groton and the Thames River is pronounced "Thames" as in rhymes with "James."

Sal is holding down the fort with the kitties, and we are here.

Speaking of time lapses, I'd like to know something. I started knitting a baby blanket for Baby Gabriel back in October. In December I realized I was doing the pattern all wrong and started over with a crochet pattern I was steaming through easily. I'm possibly 1/4 of the way through but it's too hot to crochet. Can someone pump me up on this project? At this rate I will have the blanket done when he is in junior high. Should I wait until inspiration hits me? Even though inspiration someones hits me about the face? Is it normal to stop being excited about a pattern?

Paul The Octo Is Right!!!!!!!!

Spain won!

This is truly a moment for Octo Rights, I'm sure. Paul is an inspiration to us all. Especially the ones who want octopi as pets, friends and companions.

Oooh, Very Special Evening

We are going to Mass Moca to see Dave Hill (comedian) tonight.
Hurrah!

EDIT:

We had a really good time. The opening act was kind of a bummer, but opening acts often are. It's kind of what they are there for. But Dave was really funny. He had a bit on the control panel on Japanese toilet seats that hurt my tummy I was laughing so hard. Also, I found out there is a comedy night in North Adams. So I will start going to that to learn my comedy ways.

Lazy Saturday Links: Leave Lindsay Alone! Edition

So first, because I love my husband, I am putting this link up: Lindsay's prison sentence is not justice, it is revenge. Personally, I think that if I had the rap sheet Miss Lohan has, I probably would not have gotten off so easy. But he thinks she is the actress of the generation, tackling roles like playing her own twin, both in "The Parent Trap" and "I Know Who Killed Me." ("Who else could possibly do that?" he asks.) Also, he is hoping Britney will step in to help get her back on track with her career.

Lindsay has supposedly been cut out of the new "Machete" trailer, the Quentin Tarantino flick coming out in the autumn

But Lindsay will always have her mama's support. Dina Lohan's "my child" campaign starts here.

And finally, at Cracked, Five Ridiculous Myths About Guns (that we all believe).

The Worst Tattoo

I'm so glad I won't end up on this blog. But you have to look. These are really bad tattoos. Really bad.

But I still maintain the worst tattoo ever would be a full-back tattoo of Dilbert.

Just Checking In With String of Birds

While at dinner a while back I learned about this band. Their music is almost ethereal (except its not) and their harmonies are so heart-achingly lovely I listen to their songs over and over. Take a listen to Mountain Range and see what you think. I think that you will think that they are great. Also, I love the bird drawings. Shirts, are shirts coming anytime soon? I would wear one. I would even wear two.

Friday Bill Murray

Sometimes you're just taller. Sometimes you're freakishly tall. Am I right? Huh? Am I right or what?

Paul Says Spain Will Win. I Believe Him.

(Getty Images)

So today Paul The Genius Octopus has predicted that Spain will win the World Cup. Germans might be threatening to eat him, but Spain is taking all octos off the menu in honor of Paul's prediction. 

To be clear, I am really only interested in the cephalopod angle of this story rather than the soccer match (that's right, I called it soccer. Send me an email if you have anything to say about it). So yes. I like octopi.

NOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!

The Germans seriously want to eat Paul The Octopus because his prediction that Germany would lose to Spain was right!

I was kidding when I said the Germans wanted to eat him. But they really do. Oh Paul! Hold on with all eight tentacles!

Paul is revealing his choice tomorrow, and he's been six for six so far this year -- which can't be chance. Man, I wish I had an octo.

Spain Wins!

Paul the Octo was right! I believe in the brain power of the octopus. And you should too. Magnificent creatures, them octos.

Now it's on to Spain vs Holland for the World Cup Final.

Live Blogging The Germany-Spain Game

It's almost 0-0 going into halftime (amazing score!)

The thing is, I NEED Spain to win to validate Paul, the uber-intelligent Octo. If Spain would just score I'd be happier. Soorrrry (typo, but it stays)  Espana needs to score.

That last sentence sounds dirtier than I meant it.

Brendan Visits!

Christian's old friend and my new friend Brendan came for a visit before he heads back down to South America. We took an eating tour of southern Vermont. First to Manchester for Up For Breakfast, The Dorset Inn for lunch and down to Williamstown and Mezze for dinner. There was lots of talking and laughing, but I realized that pictures of people talking are generally unflattering. So I got photos of listening. But then they are all listening photos. I should have mixed it up, huh? Yeah, I should have. We went for a walk in Merck Forest in between all the eating. Hopefully we'll see our friend again soon.

Cute sign. But there are eight signmakers in Manchester, so there should be excellent signs.

Christian, listening

Brendan, listening.

Me, listening, but mostly goofing.

Christian's Birthday: Pie Edition

Christian's birthday peach pie. 

Blossom was so excited she started licking the flowers. But, really, to be clear, she licks almost everything: shoes, chairs, blankets, hands, flowers, etc. 

We Took A Birthday Walk In The Meadow

C and Sal as we set out. 

It's hard to show in pictures, because the meadow is just so lovely and the views are 360 of blue mountains. It really feels like you're in The Sound of Music.

See? This is another view. Gorgeous.

More Birthday Photos!

We saw no Bobolinks.

A really rare photo of both of us smiling. We laugh all the time, but it's rare that it gets photographed. Right, Ruthie?

Oh Lindsay

She got sentenced. Some people are saying the 90 days in the pokey will do her good. But I loved the detail that her lawyer asked that the SCRAM alcohol-monitoring anklet be removed immediately and the judge refused. Poor Lindz had to take the news and not even get wasted afterwards! She'll probably be out in thirty days or less, but then she's supposed to go straight to rehab.

Christian, it goes without saying, is devastated. He'll probably watch "I Know Who Killed Me" again tonight in Lindz's honor.

I'm Leaving This For Last

For a reason. Canada and its mediocrity problem. Apparently there was a bombing of a Quebec military recruitment center on Canada Day by a group that calls itself Resistance Internationale. (You are forgiven for not knowing Canada Day is July 1, when Canadians celebrate that England allowed them to become a nation in 1867, though the British Parliament kept political control of Canada.) Apparently this group is protesting Canada's "military colonialism," occupation of Afghanistan, as well as the corporate oligarchy ruling Canada.

Oh Canada. Really?
Seriously?

Even your anarchist groups are yawnable. And they have to reach pretty far to say that Canada is occupying Afghanistan. Everyone knows that Canada has to check with the Queen before they are allowed to do anything.

I mean, I'm glad no one was hurt or worse.
But Canada, really, this is pretty boring.

In Octo News . . .

(Read this out loud in a 1920's newsradio announcer voice)

In Octo News today, the profoundly gifted German octopus Paul has chosen Spain to win the World Cup over Germany. Germans demand he be fried. More news at 11.

Here's The Thing

I take the pictures. I mean to post them immediately, and then something happens that distracts me -- I have the attention span of a hummingbird -- and then, boom! I'm all ready to blog and no photos. And a blog without photos ain't really a blog, is it? So I wait a day or so, and then it becomes a few days and then a week. Eek. So that's the thing. I'll work on my attention span because it's good to be able to focus. And I'll also work on getting more pictures posted sooner. I'll work on that. Pinky promise.

Oh My Word.

Some magical beings on a magical night with magical sparklers. It was beautiful.

Oh, I Was There Too

I'm Still Here

Hi All,

With the heat and everything, I've sweated out my ability to blog. Yowzers, it's hot. But I'm going to get a full update in a minute. I gotta go take a swim.

Jeez. Is it supposed to get this hot in Vermont? And I am a poet without the knowit?

Film: Southern Comfort

Okay, full disclosure: I fell asleep twenty minutes into this film and I need to finish watching it. But there are a couple of things I already find interesting. First, Powers Boothe AND Keith Carradine? That power duo already makes this required viewing. It's a film about the national guard, the Louisiana national guard at that, so these guys are just out doing a mission for their training. But the way that it is written it sounds like there is combat: one guard tells another that they go out to break up anti-war rallies and throw n*****s in jail. So as they go on their training mission -- which is to hump 38 kilometers out in the Louisiana bayou -- it starts to look an awful lot like Vietnam. When the leader of the unit realizes his map is unusable because the water table has risen, the soldier/guards are stuck.

Then they make the choice to "borrow" a couple of canoes to row across the bayou, leaving one so that the absent occupants of the camp-cum-slaughter house (dead animals are strung up and scattered around the site). When the occupants return to find the soldiers halfway across the bayou in their canoes, they open fire on them. What's surprising is how easily the setting gets transferred to Vietnam: the jungle, the inability to pinpoint their whereabouts and understand the rules governing behavior of the natives. Further, the natives (ostensibly American) should respond with frustration, but not with violence. It's America turning on itself and it's scary.

One bone to pick though. This film, like Deliverance, chooses to make backwoods people the villians. I suppose there is an argument that could somehow make sense of that. But having people who are dirty, uneducated, violent and vile attack the white, educated, urban Americans draw such a nasty line between city and country, as though we should be afraid of the country and flock to the city to be safe. Alternatively, you can look at it as old America attacking new America and forcing the viewer to side with new America and disavowing the roots of America.

That's a lot for twenty minutes, huh?

July The Third

I love that it gets so green and lush here. This is our little number post from the street. You can barely even see it now because of the vines and growing things. July 1st was actually really cool, but it's getting warmer every day, and will be up to 90F on Wednesday, so I've got to scoot and do the pool maintenance so that we have something nice and refreshing to jump into. I've also got some baking to do for Christian's birthday tomorrow.

Why Is It

That when you fall asleep during a movie or something, and then someone wakes you up, you invariably protest that no, you are awake.

Why?

We all know how good sleep is. Why be ashamed of it?

For a while I was really good about it. I'd be like "yeah, I was just super-relaxed there. It's cool." But lately I feel like Im sliding backwards into protesting my sleepiness instead of accepting it.

Friday Bill Murray

Sometimes you need a little Bill, sometimes you need a lot.

Huh, Funny

I thought on Canada Day I'd have more time to think about Canada, its mediocrity and the sad Canadian addiction to Tim Horton's, and it's general pathetic-ness. Although Canada is stunningly mediocre by most metrics, it does produce two things that consistently amaze the world: hockey players and serial killers. Robert Pickton, the name alone is frightening.

Anyway, I thought I'd get around to investigating that, but I didn't.

Instead, I had a round of neuro-muscular therapy, ran some errands, worked in all of the gardens, ate the first raspberries of the year, made a strawberry-rhubarb pie and had a nice long chat with my mama. In the end, better than thinking about mediocrity of any sort.

Film: Iron Man

There are only two things that can be said about this film:

1. Jeff Bridges reminds me of a dearly departed person.

2. I'm developing a stupid crush on Robert Downey Jr.

Nah, I'm kidding. There's more. But more to say when I have more time. Right now I have

to shakedown a woodchuck.