Cranberry Festival- The Sequel

Oh boy, oh boy!  It's time for another review of the Cranberry Festival Parade!  This past weekend the tiny village of Stone Lake, WI held it's annual Cranberry Festival.  It was a brisk autumn day but about 25,000 crowded- and I mean crowded- into all 10 or 12 city blocks of Stone Lake. Why?  Because it is FUN!

Here are Curt and our guest Marina eagerly awaiting the parade.  Some of the parade pics are out of order, but I didn't want to reorder them by cutting and pasting HTML.  And will you know the difference?  Probably not.

 Here is Grand Marshall Tuddie Gillette enthusiastically accepting a pair of crocheted panties from one of her adoring fans.  If you don't know who Tuddie Gillette is and what she has done for the town of Stone Lake, join the club.  She looked like she might still be fun at a party.

 Okay, these are the Senior Center King and Queen.  Anything odd about this picture?  What struck me as odd is that the king and queen hardly look old enough to be committed to a senior center.  Maybe they've reached the end of their usefulness on the family cranberry farm.  Maybe they are loony as all get out.  Maybe their children just didn't want them around to burden them when the actually got old and dumped them at the senior center.  In any case, sad.

 These little tykes must have gotten my notes from last year's critique.  They were smiling and waving a lot compared to last year's little duds who looked utterly miserable.  The little gal in front saw me and was trying to give me a jazz hand.  Needs some work, but she'll get there.

What happened to the little cars?  The Shriners now drive scooters in an exciting choreographed ballet.  I personally liked the little cars.  However, with America's obesity epidemic, I suspect today's Shriners no longer fit in the little cars.  Did I ever tell you that I had a former co-worker who grew up in Hayward, let's call her Pamy Phrancis, who stole a Shriner clown car and crashed it into a tree when she was in high school?  She's a folk hero to me.

 Okay, this queen got her picture in my blog for two reasons.  First, this is just a nice well balanced picture-  great colors, action shot, nice.   Second, she was the ONLY queen in the whole parade in a dress who waved and smiled like a queen should wave and smile.  A+ to her.

 This dude was in marching band and trying to be all bad ass with his mohawk.  You're still in band.  Low rung.  Sorry dude.

 Here are two little campaigners for Sean Duffy for Congress.  He's a Republican.  These little girls were indoctrinated early into the cult.  The one driving wants to grow up to marry a rich attorney with a narcissistic personality disorder in hopes that she will one day be a Senator's wife.  The passenger is just hoping she can repress her lesbian tendencies convincingly enough to rise through Republican pundit ranks to become the next Ann Coulter.  Tragic.

 Look who showed up with The Singing Cranberries- my gal Mary Catherine Gallagher.  I worshipped her.

 Here is that creepy closeted scout master marching behind his little troop of gay haters.  Methinks... blah blah blah.  At least ditch the dusty rose neckerchief.  It gives me the willies.

 Seig Heil!  Seig Heil!  These sad queens were doing the synchronized seig heil wave.  They clearly did not get my notes from last year. STOP THE SYNCHRONIZED WAVING ALREADY!  No one likes it.  I want to know what old 1940's washed up beauty queen is still teaching this shit.  Maybe we should put HER in the Stone Lake Senior Center a bit early.

 I was momentarily distracted by a cute dad across the street.  Okay, if every moment between floats counts as momentarily, then yes, I was momentarily distracted.

 Last year these ladies were dressed up as Pink Ladies.  This year they were cross dressing as Danny Zuko.  I'm still convinced there is a fair amount of weed consumption going on here.

I like the percussion section of marching bands.  We were treated to 5 marching bands- 3 high school and 2 middle school.  One middle school band was from a Catholic school and was playing a hymn.  Disqualified.  Only one of the high school bands was properly dressed.  See above.  This boy is thinking "Could I get laid if I wasn't in band?"  You'll never know, young man.  You'll never know.

 Wrong.  Wrong. Wrong.  Wrong.  Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.  Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.  Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.  Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.  Wrong. Wrong.
No one, especially an emotionally fragile 17 year old boy should EVER be cajoled into wearing a white one piece jumper in public.  I don't care that he gets the great authority that comes with being the drum major.  He will never live this down, at least in my mind.  He may be over it, but I, gentle readers, will never be.

My favorite part of the parade.  I wanted to smooch him.

Falling Farther In

I miss my parents today.  I miss them every day, but the last few weeks have had an unusual amount of longing for them.  It could be that they have appeared in my dreams in various roles, as have other departed friends and family.  It could just be the autumn.  According pagan religious traditions, in the autumn the veil between this world and the after world (death?) becomes thinner.   One might be able to more clearly "hear" the words of departed loved ones, catch glimpses of dear spirits in our periphery, talk to God or the gods, as the case may be. Maybe that is why I am missing them- because I can catch something of their essence near me but can't be with them.
Logically it all makes sense that a religious tradition that is based on the rhythms of the earth would have such beliefs.  Look around.  The bounty of summer is coming to a close.  The killing frost will turn the flowers and leaves of our annual garden plants black. Perennial garden plants die back to the ground saving energy in their roots.  Deciduous trees begin to drop their leaves in preparation for the long sleep.  The veil thins to allow easy passage around the circle into death.  This circle, the cycle in and out of life, into death and back into life, is what I rely on to get me through winter.  Like the trees, my mind sort of goes to sleep in a seasonal depression every year.  I just need to trust that the spring will come.
For a person who is not religious, I spend a fair amount of time pondering religion and the spirit.  I steer clear of religion because of the divisiveness of it all.  My god is better than your god.  My sin is less than your sin. My love is better than your love. My celestial underpants (Mormon- for real) are better than your big granny underpants (Lutheran)... and so on.  So many heinous behaviors are done wrapped in the cloak of religion.  Yet, according to what I understand of religion, the god they claim to follow would/should be horrified by what is done in his/her name.
I think it is fine if people choose to be religious.  Most people long to be a part of a community of like minded people.  We just do.  Social is survival.  Its a part of what makes our species successful.  But I question why these communities have to be separate and superior to one another based on ideology that is often more debatable nuance than actual difference in core belief.  It's that kind of thinking that drives me away, but often leaves me just slightly outside of having a strong sense of community in my life.
That is not to say that I feel alone.  Far from it.  I have family and friends aplenty. I have a strong sense and belief that we are all connected by something.  By what I'm not completely sure, but for me there is an undeniable connection between all living things.  I feel it in my body.  I can stand in a sea of people and feel it- a shared common humanness.  I can look into the eyes of my dogs and see it.  I can nurture a plant from spring to fall and sense that the energy and care I put into helping that plant thrive has bonded me to it in some way based on the exchange of care.  I give the plant care.  It blooms and surrounds me with beauty.  I don't think that connection is god with a capital G necessarily.  I'm not sure.  But, I do think that at the very minimum we are bound together by a collective will to first survive.  Plants that are sick will still shoot up a few leaves in an effort to heal.  The human brain in it's most lizard like simplicity will keep the heart beating and lungs breathing while other failing organs send out poison to bring an end to the body.
At the beginning of last month, a former friend of mine killed herself after struggling many years with depression.  We had a falling out many years ago and I only learned of her death through a mutual but distant friend.  Strangely, even though we hadn't communicated or laid eyes on one another in over 10 years, her suicide has haunted me a bit since then.  I'm sad for her.  I'm angry at her.  I'm have compassion for her. I think what she did was cruel to her partner.  Suicide is just so taboo.  It challenges our sense of the basic level of our connectedness- the instinct to survive.  I think that is part of what makes the act seem so violent, so uncomfortable, so confusing, so infuriating.  I saw my mother fight with all her being to rid her body of leukemia, to extend her life.  I've seen many friends with AIDS fight until their bodies gave out.  So this business of choosing one's out is deeply complex for me-  a moment of grave illness of another sort, another kind of "giving out" perhaps?
Maybe my former friend will come to me in a dream, forgiven and forgiving, and explain this to me.  Maybe she will come and tell me that I have to figure this out myself, or that it is none of my damn business.  Not knowing her, or particularly liking her, for 10+ years sort of puts it in to that realm a bit doesn't it?  In the mean time, I'll accept the slide into darkness that happens every year, experience the comfort of memories of friends that are no longer here, and trust that the sun will come back starting on the winter solstice, that the days will get longer and that I'll get easier to live with starting around March or so.

At the end of a grumpy day..

... I can always find something else to complain about.  Today, it is affected speech carried out by born and bred Midwesterners.  No, not speech impediments - lisps, stutters, or southern drawls.  These are the affectations one adopts into their speech because you think they are nifty and make you sound smart, cool or worldly.  Doing so, however, just makes you annoying to listen to.  It is on par with the college sophomore who comes back from studying in England and asks what the American word for "the tube" is.  Annoying.  So, on with the grumpitude:

Affectation #1:
How do you say the word "false"?  If you tell me it sounds like the word "waltz", you're an affected mess. Someone very high up in the organization I work for uses this one all the time and I want to throw a coffee cup at him every time he says it.  True?  Yes. Faltz?  Not so much.

Affectation #2:
What is something that comes before something else?  Is it a "prelude"? Perhaps, it is if you pronounce it like something in the neighborhood of "prey-lood".  No where in the Midwest do we use the alternate pronunciation of "prell-ewed".  Jesus, make it stop.

Affectation #3:
If you are from Bumfudge, Wisconsin and you pronounce the word rather as "rah-ther" or worse "rahth-er"  I will smack you if you come within arms reach.  Just a warning.  Cut it out now.

Affectation #4:
I know Canadians are cute, but in Iowa there isn't a school teacher in the state that taught you to say the letter Z as "zed."  Just never happened.

Perhaps one day, I'll blog about something important, but I don't see that coming in the next few weeks.  Oh, and one more thing-  the name of the town with the Mayo Clinic it Rochester-  Rah-chester.  Not Rod-chester.  And the name of the suburb east of St. Paul is Woodbury-  Wood-burry.  Not Wood-berry spoken with a sing-song Minnesota accent.  Good god, I need some sleep and an attitude adjustment.  'Night all.

Somewhere in Minnetonka...

...an angry mommy is telling all her friends what an asshole I am. Why? Let me tell you why.

This morning, I'm trying to find a parking spot in the Barnes & Noble / Target parking lot and there were precious few. So, I turned the corner into a new row and see not one but two spots, one each on either side of a mini-van. I see that all four doors are open. On one side is a 12 -13 year old girl assisting a younger sibling in to a car seat. On the other side, the mom is helping another child in to a car seat. No problem, I can wait for that. Shortly, mom is done and hops into the front seat, but doesn't close her door, blocking that side of the van.

Then, 12-13 year old daughter finishes with the car seat business, shuts the back door and proceeds to stand by the front seat where she starts very slowly picking french fries off her seat one by one, and dropping them gingerly into the parking lot. Meanwhile, mom still has her damn door open. So, I make a move to begin pulling in to the parking spot next to the daughter, thinking this might prompt her to pick up the pace or just sweep the fries on to the floor of the van (it was no prize, it could have been done), shut her door and let the nice man in the SUV have his parking spot. Oh no, daughter looks at me, then goes back to slowly picking french fries off her seat.

So, here's where it gets interesting. While the slow french fry picker is trying her damnedest to ignore me, I tap the horn. No, I did not lay on the horn, I tapped it to get the daughter's attention. She looked at me and I gave her a questioning look that communicated nicely "Can I have this spot now?" Well, that didn't go over well with mommy because mommy jumped out of her seat, rushed to my window and screamed "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!!! THERE ARE CHILDREN!!!" I calmly but firmly replied "Well, what is wrong is that you are taking up three parking spots between your van and your open doors and neither you or your daughter appear to be courteous enough to share the two that are not occupied by your van." Mommy then did the dumbest thing I've ever seen. She ran to her daughter's side, put her arm around her and looked at me as if to say "See the injury you've inflicted? Poor child." At this point, I shook my head, rolled my eyes at her and gave a low finger out of her eye sight, and took off to hunt for another parking spot, which I found eventually.

This only fueled my long standing opinion that many parents lose their minds at the first sight of their child wet and squirming from the womb and become over-indulgent nut bags for the next 30 -40 years. This is not all parents, mind you. In fact, most parents that I'm acquainted with would have told the slow french fry plucking daughter to hurry her ass up and get in the car and give the nice man his parking spot.

As someone who has chosen not to have children (it would ruin my hips), I am still able to appreciate and respect the desire of those who want children. I also understand completely that parenting is demanding. And of course I believe the children are our future. La la la. However, there are still a few ground rules for parents to follow around those who are not:
1. Your baby stroller does not have the right of way. It would be nice if you pushed it to the side when you stop to look at something in a store aisle or at the farmer's market.
2. When two mommies meet in an aisle, it is impolite to stop your baby strollers side by side and carry on a conversation lasting more than 4 seconds. You are in the way. Make a play date.
3. If I have covered all your duties at work while you are on maternity leave, you had better consider buying me a big damn gift or, at the VERY least, a nice thank you card with some Dairy Queen gift certificates tucked inside. Don't come back and critique my way of carrying on business in your absence. This makes you an asshole and the object of my scorn.
4. When eating out, don't let your darling little children run all over the restaurant and carry on as if it were your home. I don't care how cute they are. I don't want to see their toys, hear their sing-song rhymes or listen to them fight. I once sat in a restaurant with my friend Ruthie and her then 3 1/2 year old son while we received the most horrible service imaginable. After an hour of waiting for our food, her son was still in his seat, behaving like a gentleman and having a conversation with the adults there. Parents, this should be the standard to which you hold your children.
5. Trying to reason with your darling little one in the throes of a temper tantrum is not going to work and, frankly, looks ridiculous. You would do far better to completely ignore them. It won't make it any easier on me to hear the tantrum, but at least I won't need to listen to the additional nonsense of you reasoning with the unreasonable.
6. My out of work plans are just as important as yours. Don't you dare ever play the parent card when trying to determine who will work late or on a weekend. Your child will have another fecking soccer game. I assure you he will. Just because my plans are "only" dinner with friends I haven't seen is six months, doesn't make your darling child any of my interest or concern. Share the load.
That's enough for now. Can't wait to hear from my mom and dad friends. :O)

There are days...

...that I don't feel much unlike our friend Judy in this clip- little hands, high forehead and just a little slow.

Uh, Can I Get One In XXL?

Follow Me. Click on the 2nd picture. Ask yourself "why?'

State Fair Frolicking

As I was lying in bed last night, I came up with something really interesting and engaging to write about on my blog. It was something that would prove that I really do think about things other than what to eat next and where to go and what fun I want to have. This morning, the thought had vanished. So, instead, I will post pictures of our Minnesota State Fair adventure.

Here is Curt, excited about the prospect of getting hot mini cinnamon rolls with extra cream cheese frosting. They are tasty. Trust me and the twenty pounds of them I have hanging around my waist.

Here is a gratuitous knitting shot for Madame Leiderhosen. This thing was at least 12 feet long. Who has the yarn and the time to do that?

This is a corn beauty contest. It doesn't make much sense to me either. Enough said.

CROP ART!!! We love our crop art in Minnesota. For the uninitiated, we have a whole section devoted to crop art at our state fair. Crop art is images constructed entirely of seeds and grain. To really be good, you need to use only crops that can be grown in a Minnesota growing season. There are other categories, like dyed/painted seeds, but they are less prestigious than the traditional, Minnesota grown seeds. I'm embarrassed to have just written that last sentence.
Crop artists are also known for their sense of humor and/or political (left leaning) politics. The latter might be explained by the fact that most right leaning artists are painting Jesus or sunbeams coming through clouds or other tired images that they've been painting for hundreds of years. Oh, and they have no sense of humor. I said it.
Curt and pal, Marina, in front of the growing crowds. We got to the fair at 8:00 a.m.. By 10:30 it was packed with people grazing from one artery clogging concession stand to the next. Count me in!

Butter heads. This is the under-construction butter head of Princess Kay of the Milky Way. Don't ask, but yes, they are creepy.

Sheep judging. I was assured by Marina and Curt that they weren't being judged on the size of their balls. There were some big ones that could have one a ribbon if I had been judging. How-dee boy. Click on the picture to enlarge and see what I'm talking about.

So what did I eat, you ask?

1. Big Fat Bacon with a chipotle orange sauce.

2. Cinni-Minis with extra cream cheese frosting

3. A huge peach (my favorite)

4. Several bites of Curt's raspberry shake from the dairy building

5. Pork chop on a stick

6. Cotton candy

I could have sworn I showed some restraint this year, but I guess not. Better luck next year.

Friends And A Fair

This weekend, our lovely friends Carolyn and Jeff ventured north to the cabin from Rochester, MN. They arrived on Thursday evening with a cooler full of goodies- always a plus when the goodies are good. When these two visit, you can always expect some lively conversation and great times.
This weekend, Carolyn and Jeff, conversions-in-progress to Judaism, subjected Curt and I to RITUAL ABUSE!!! Friday night, they got out a polyester table cloth in the same pattern that Dwight and Mamie Eisenhower had in the White House- instant abuse if you ask me- and a nifty little folding candle holder in which they lit two little Sabbath candles that were to remain burning until they disappeared. Then, while I fidgeted uncomfortably and looked longingly at the meal, they proceeded to say their blessings and prayers in a language I didn't understand. I assume it was Hebrew, but it could have been Klingon. When the blessings were FINALLY over- a whole 30 seconds later- we ate a wonderful meal, followed by games. All the while, Curt and I were afraid those little candles- still burning two hours later- would take our house down.
So, here are my suggestions to improve Judaism:
1. Outlaw polyester table cloths. Curt's elbows had floral indents in them after resting his arms on the table cloth during dinner. Gays in particular are sensitive creatures to things like unnatural fibers.
2. Sabbath sparklers. Can the candles. Light sparklers and run around the room while saying your blessings. We could all use a little excitement an distraction, especially when those non-Jews in the room don't know what the hell you're chanting on about.

Just my thoughts. Take them or leave them.

The Sawyer County Fair
Saturday, we ventured to Hayward for the Sawyer County Fair. This is a small fair, befitting of a county that has about 17,000 permanent residents. Visitors to the many lakes in the area during summer probably quadruple the population, but they don't get the federal dollars after the census. So this was it- a midway with about 5 rides, some buildings, a horse ring and an ATV pull track. You heard it right, not a tractor pull, but an ATV pull. I hope that was fun. I didn't see it.

First we stopped at the horse ring, where sensible young girls in helmets (safety first, ladies) rode their horses around traffic cones. This is clearly intended to prepare the pair for construction season in Wisconsin, which seems to be never fecking ending. I'm telling you, it's true.

Next, we ventured to the animal barns. Now, we're getting into my fun zone. I love the animal barns. I like to compliment the animals on their appearance and good behavior. If I'm lucky I can touch the cows and sheep and other little critters. Take a close look at this turkey. I think he is giving me his best bedroom eyes. Misdirected, but thanks, Tom. Your pink and blue ensemble is quite flattering as well.

Next we wandered out to the PETTING ZOO!! OMG! OMG! That's how excited I was about the petting zoo. This one was outstanding. Not only did it have baby farm animals, it had some baby exotic animals like a little zebra, baby antelopes and a lemur. They didn't let you touch the lemur because I suspect there is some risk of them getting a little pissed off and ripping off the eyelids of ill behaved children. So, prepare yourself for an onslaught of cute.

This little fellow is showing me the trick he can do with his tongue. Who needs fingers and the privacy of a car at a stoplight? By the way, I can touch my nose with my tongue, too.

This little fellow was a Brahma calf. His ears were like silky bunny ears. I loved him.

This is a little Scottish Highland calf. His mother was nearby and she was a bit unpleasant. I deduced this from the sign on the pen that said "New Mother: Stay Back 5 Feet." This is really good advice when interacting with new human mothers as well. They can be a little, well, hormonal crazy, if you know what I mean.

This is a baby llama. He was darling. When he gets big, I will ride him around the horse ring through traffic cones. I swear I will.

After two trips to the petting zoo, we wandered through the craft building. Mostly it was crayon drawings by first and second graders, but there were a few quilts, crocheted afghans and flowers. Now, I know there are only 17,000 people in Sawyer County, but, folks, step it up a bit please. The grand prize winner in floral arranging was 6 marigolds stuck in florists foam. Really? Aren't there any gays around to perhaps raise the bar a bit?

Finally, Curt and Jeff went on some rides. Here is one. Look for Curt. He's the one waving at me.

I Love a Small Town Festival

You know I do.

I also like to add my commentary to the goings-on in hopes that an event organizer will take notes and include a few gays in the planning next year, just to spruce things up a bit. You know how that is. Everything can benefit from a few gays in the planning process.

This weekend's festival was Minong Summer Days in the bustling village of Minong, WI, population 552.

The day started with a $5 pancake and sausage breakfast at the village hall that was to benefit the Northwoods High class of 2011. Wouldn't you know it though that there were only 2 high school students in sight? Instead the class of 2011 let their mothers do all the work. My message to the class of 2011: Get your lazy asses out of bed on a Saturday morning and come to your own damn benefit! Sheesh!
Breakfast was followed by watching the softball and volleyball tournaments until the parade began. I believe all day there were more people leaning over the back of the bleachers than sitting on them. It was odd. Is sitting too much of a commitment?
We also observed several varieties of wildlife. Let me show you:

This coyote puppy was really cute. Okay, he's a 10 week old Pomeranian, but who's paying attention?

Someone left the chickens out and they went wild apparently- wearing pants and drinking beer at 10 a.m.
This young buck was seen wandering through downtown Minong throughout the day. He was being stalked by some old cougars, if you know what I mean.

The Parade
The parade was, well, a bit disappointing. On the plus side, it was short, there were few politicians, there was LOTS of candy throwing and Sasquatch made an appearance. No really, he did. On the down side, there were no marching bands, no "royalty" and festooned ATVs substituted as floats. Again, they need a few gays to encourage the right behavior and to get a few waving queens in the mix. Here are some "high"lights:

You have to have your firefighters and you have to applaud when they go by. Otherwise, they will let your house burn to the ground. It's true. They take names.

There were lots of little twirlers in this group who were headed in the right direction. They wore sequins, smiled a little and actually had some rhythm. This little girl will probably be naturally skinny all her life. Is it wrong to resent such a person? No. I don't think so.
I said Sasquatch was there and I meant it. Minong is home to Jack Link's Beef Jerky enterprises. So naturally (?) Sasquatch was throwing out beef jerky and t-shirts. He's scary enough looking that many children cried. I will advise Jack Link NOT to create a Disneyfied Sasquatch for next years parade. There is NOTHING wrong with exposing children to terrifying things that throw beef treats at them. If anything, it sharpens their fight or flight response, which when faced with a real Sasquatch will benefit them, don't you think?

'T'ain't a Wisconsin parade without a whole mess of ATVs. These took the place of horses at this parade. And while they didn't poop and pee on the street, they did emit fumes that are toxic for those of us who breathe and harmful to the environment. So, I guess they are about even with horses then.
These little future gay haters of America were allowed a spot in the parade despite my vocal protests and spitting. Okay, I didn't do that. But, you know the damn boy scouts are virtually owned by the fecking Mormons, who, by the way are apparently the new keepers of family values in this great nation of ours (hey thanks for Prop 8, bitches) as they sit in their celestial underpants and feel accepted by Focus on the Family. Well, get real, Brigham Young, they are only in bed with you for your money. Only believing in James Dobson as your personal savior will get you saved.
Okay, I'll stop holding up this float and let the little bastards pass.

You all know there is a load of bat shit crazy riding around on this ATV. Angel collector, really? Are those the missing children she has limed and rotting under her floorboards? I wish I had a big gong, because I would have gonged her right out of the parade.

In Wisconsin, there are machines for which the purpose is unknown to normal people.

There is nothing like crazy old women to lighten the mood. Now THIS is a float. Take notes everyone. All you need is a hay wagon or a modified pontoon trailer, some shiny stuff, a little crazy and some big bags of candy to toss and you have a float.

Hula bears also create a nice sense of wonder and humor. The people sitting in lawn chairs in front of the bear without much to do, not so much.

Okay. Click on this one to blow it up. This is the fabled "Beauty by Trudee" float. There is not a good haircut on the damn thing and there is an ape on top, among other strange contradictions. So confusing. So confusing.

The parade was followed by a short trip home to play in the water, then BINGO! Curt won the first round and Marina won in the third. We left shortly thereafter because we feared the crowd would turn on us.

And that, my friends is Minong Summer Days.

I Return With Pointless Rambling

After much whining and carrying on by MNMom, I am going to try to blog a little more than I have been. That is, if I can get out of work before 7:00 at night, which has been a problem lately. The other "problem" is that my old college chum Paul is such a f*cking amazing writer/blogger that I feel shame at my poorly constructed sentences and limited vocabulary. Okay, that last part was just a poor excuse that I'm guessing made Paul momentarily place blame upon himself, which is in his nature and that I have fun exploiting since we have reconnected after 25+ years. I bet he regrets that decision about now.

So, here's a little list of three things I want to go away just to get things rolling:

1. Flip flops: These are the lowest form of shoe. I am not a connoisseur of fine footwear. No. But, I'll be damned if these shoes don't stick in my craw every time I see them. The only good thing about them is that some people from my generation and slightly older still call them thongs and you know my affection for all things thong. I think the thing is that everyone wearing them looks like they are heading in to the shower and nobody wants to imagine that, unless it is Hugh Jackman. They might just as well wear a towel with those sloppy looking shoes. Feh. Oh, and pay attention to the number of people that trip over those god awful things in front of you while simply walking in a straight line. Which leads me to my second list item...

2. Drunk girls: Drunk girls are the ones that fall all over their damn thongs in front of me and they seem to be everywhere. Take for instance, the 4th of July fireworks in Gordon, WI. On the way, slightly drunk girls were everywhere tripping over the toes of their flip flops right in front of me. On the way back, the same now drunker girls, hopped up on patriotism as well, are weaving around, being loud and tripping on eachothers flip flops and laughing and falling and generally snarling up foot traffic. I made the mistake once of asking a fallen drunk girl if she was okay and she said the one thing that leads me to my third list item...

3. The sound "WOOOOOO": Me: Can I help you up? Are you okay? Drunk girl: (pause) WOOOOOO!! My question is, when did "WOOOOOO" become the international noise of fun? Point a camera at a group of two or more people at a party, on the Great Wall or helping at an accident site and what do they all say? Of course, "WOOOOOOO!" Drunk girls are the masters of this sound and substitute it for reasonable conversation at every turn. Ask them their name. "WOOOOOO!" Ask them how they've been. "WOOOOOO!" Inquire about their dying grandmother. "WOOOOO!" After which they will pause, cry, make a pass at you and throw up on your shoes.

Okay, enough for now. Feel better, Margaret?

Kiss this, Miley Cyrus!

Last week, the buck-toothed, marginal talent known as Miley Cyrus made "news" by kissing one of her female backup dancers during a performance on Britain's Got Talent. To that I say two things:

1. Who the hell cares?
2. Is this supposed to be shocking?

In truth, famous women kissing women hasn't been really shocking for about 20 years since Madonna kissed that androgynous babe in the Justify My Love video- which, by the way, was BANNED from MTV at the time. Can you believe that considering all the skank that has since followed? Since then many pop tartlets have kissed women and, much to my surprise and dismay, continue to get attention for it. I don't understand it. Why is gay still an attention getter in 2010? Frankly, it is becoming offensive to forever play the gay card as provocative or even interesting. You're no lesbian, Miley. Don't even try it.

The other thing that really bugs me about this is that, like many pop tarts before her, Miley Cyrus is attempting to use sexuality to prove her relevance, maturity, and edginess. First you had Britney Spears doing a suggestive school girl in the "Hit Me Baby One More Time" video followed by a deep descent into talentless skankitude. Then Christina Aguilera hopped aboard the whore train and basically wore nothing for years. And so on and so on until Nelly Furtado comes out with a song years after the whore train has come and gone with the completely desperate title of "Promiscuous" off a CD titled in equally bad taste "Loose." Good god. Why do famous young women feel the need to prove themselves through sexual suggestiveness and clothing choices that make them look like mindless, manufactured hormone-driven morons?

So, back to Miley. Here is my advice to her:

1. If you're wearing a beautiful dress, STAND UP STRAIGHT. (See illustration above.) Are you having an abdominal cramp? Shoulders back! Now!

2. Try becoming famous for your talent, which takes real work, not your antics.

3. Little girls still look up to you. I know you're trying to break with your Disney image, but don't think that looking cheap and behaving like dumbass are the paths to maturity. You're 17. Let maturity come to you. You have time.

4. Don't let videos of you giving a lap dance to your 44 year old manager surface on the internet.

5. And finally, your relationship with your father gives just about everyone on earth the creeps. Don't hang on him or let him hang on you any more. Ever. There's just something wrong there that no one wants to put their finger on.

Big Mouth Part ? (oh hell, I've lost count)

Today at work I described one of my projects to a co-worker like this: The right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing and I suspect the left hand is flipping us off.
Boy, will I be glad when this one is over. Sheesh.

To Tell The Truth

Six years ago when I was a newbie at my current employer, a co-worker showed me photos of his two children. They were doe eyed little angels with olive skin and dark brown hair and marvelous to behold. I told him, and it was the truth, that they were two of the most adorable children I had ever seen. They were.
In the mean time, he moved on to another area and we really haven't had much of an opportunity to connect. So, the other day I happened to wander by his office and thought I would stop in. He wasn't there, but front and center on his desk was a big photo of his two children- now around 10 and 12 years old. Each had a nearly complete uni-brow, teeth bigger than their face and a serious case of awkward preteen-ness that rivaled the ugly duckling phase I went through as a kid. And, horrible me, all I could think was "Oh my god, I am so glad he's not here." Considering how beautiful he and his wife both are, I am certain that given 5 or 6 more years these two will be the radiant head cheerleader and strapping captain of every sport in school. Until then, I will pretend I never saw this picture until he shows it to me himself and I can say, truthfully, "Oh they've grown so much" without being specific about what it is they've grown.

Two Completely Unrelated Things

1. So, do you want to hear my big news from the cabin this weekend? Here it is. Curt and I were leaving for a walk and we saw an Eastern Towhee in a pine tree near the detached garage. That isn't my picture above, but that is what we saw. Very exciting for me. For you? Maybe not so much.

Lately, I imagine it is a little challenging to have a reasonable conversation with me outdoors. I'm forever distracted by each movement in the trees and my head flops from side to side just to catch sight of whatever little critter is making the branches move. Our poor neighbor Dino and the story he was in the middle of were victims of a Baltimore Oriole on Saturday. My undivided attention to Curt fell victim several times to two Chipping Sparrows and lots of Tree Swallows. Curt is even getting in to the act and interrupted me to point out a male Bluebird this weekend.

No matter how often I see these birds or other wildlife, I never get tired of them and am continually amazed to have the opportunity to view them. I have seen thousands of deer in my life and still slow down to observe each of them as I pass in my car and think to myself how incredible it is that something so big and elegant lives wild all around us. Curt is pretty much the same way. We're both pretty fascinated by virtually every wild animal we see and rarely fail to point them out and call them by name. "Black squirrel!" "Wild Turkey!" "Coyote!" "Woodpecker!"

This little identification game doesn't stop at living animals either. Oh no. If it isn't flattened beyond recognition, one or the other of us will typically call out the roadkill by name and, being the softies that we are, will feel a little sad. Depending on the weekend, a trip up to the cabin can feel like a long funeral. So, anyway, to all my furry and feathered friends, I appreciate you, enjoy your squeaks, squeals and songs and advise you all to look both ways before crossing the street. Enough on that topic.

2. Really unrelated to the first topic is my recent awareness of a new country singing sensation who calls herself Lady Antebellum. Huh. Does this sort of piss anyone else off? I'm guessing she's not referring to the time before the Gulf War is she? No. She is pandering to the redneck, confederate flag waving, racist Bubbas and trying to cash in on that lingering sentiment in the deep south that things were somehow better before the Civil War- like when you could OWN SLAVES!! What the hell is that about? Her stage name should be offensive enough for clearly ripping off Lady Gaga, but becomes truly revolting for carrying on the mindset that things were better when black folks "knew their place." Yuck. The puzzling thing is that I have yet to see her perform in a plantation style hoop skirt, although that would probably cover up her tattoo that reads "Bring me my grits, Prissy." I'm just speculating on the tattoo, but nothing would surprise me from this moron.

Another Fascinating Day

Okay, that title was just meant to get you here. My day actually couldn't have been more ordinary. Here's some of what happened.

So, this morning I'm in line at the coffee bar in the employee cafeteria behind some unknown co-worker who is putting her cream and sugar in her coffee. I had finished filling my cup and was waiting for her to wrap things up when she does the strangest thing. Well, it wasn't the strangest thing because that might have been something like pulling miniature horse in a tutu out of her bag, kissing it on the rump and trotting it around in a figure 8 while singing 'Love To Love You Baby.' Perhaps what she did was better described as just odd. What she did is she grabbed a coffee lid and set it down in front of me while I'm waiting there. I don't take it for two reasons. One, I'm not ready to lid my coffee just yet. I've got some goodies to put in there before I do that. And, two, yuck. Big effing yuck. I don't want some stranger who's hands may have just come from caressing some hobo's genitals touching something that I am going to be putting to my lips in a few moments. That's disgusting. Anyway, she finishes her business and looks at the lid, looks at me and says "Fine. You don't want it. That's great," grabs the lid and PUTS IT BACK IN THE STACK OF LIDS. Ugh. Now she's touched it twice and had I had a blow torch to sanitize the stack of lids I would have used it and maybe taken her out in the process. So, as I am envisioning her doing a stop, drop and roll to extinguish herself, all I could say was "But I have things to put in my coffee." Lame.

This afternoon I was waiting in a meeting room for my boss to arrive when I see her standing outside the room chatting rather intensely with a V.P. She's facing me and the V.P. has his back to me. So, I take the opportunity to try to break her composure by leaning back in my chair and raising my eyebrows at her. I can tell she sees me in her peripheral vision, so I proceed. I lean back a little further in my chair, bug my eyes out and lift my eyebrows up and down. At this point, she is doing everything in her power not to be distracted by me. So, I lean even further back in my chair, make a face and the damn chair's tilt mechanism comes undone sending me falling backwards. I catch my fall and pull upright in my chair, but not before another co-worker has entered the meeting to witness my fall and graceful recovery. Both he and my boss were quite amused. Instant karma. It's a bitch.

Enough for now. Kirelimel, can you still see the lips?

She Calls 'Em Like She Sees 'Em

Recently in our employee cafeteria they replaced the open garbage can at the coffee bar- intended to hold cream & sugar empties and stir sticks- with a foot operated, lidded garbage can about three steps away from the coffee bar. Kind of a pain in the butt, really. So, today, I grab my second cup of coffee, mix in my goodies, walk the three steps, press down with my foot, deposit my Splenda empties, go back three steps, put on my lid and go to the check out.

Here's how it went from there:

Me: Have I told you that I don't really care for the new foot operated garbage can over there?

Checkout Gal: Why? Because you have to use your foot on it?

Me: Well, yes, and it is three steps away from the coffee bar.

Checkout Gal: You're pathetic.

This is not...

... a triumphant return to blogging. Oh no. I just wanted to say a few things too lengthy for FB, which, by the way, has ruined the blogging lives of many.

1. A couple of weeks back, a Dead or Alive song came on the radio during which Curt and I pondered what ever became of the lead singer. He was sort of freaky sexy and a little androgynous in way that made us both kind of curious about him.

Here he was then:

Well, folks, brace yourselves. Here he is now:

I guess we can't really call him androgynous any more, can we? I wonder if he can still sing.

2. So, Republicans are going after President Obama for appearing not to respond to the BP sponsored oil disaster quickly enough. This is their version of payback for the criticism of the Bush administration for shopping for shoes during Hurricane Katrina. Well, let's be clear about something shall we? Hurricane Katrina was a devastating natural disaster for which the ONLY response was to begin mobilizing relief and rescue when you could see the damn thing bearing down on New Orleans on radar for several days prior to the actual event. The BP oil spill is a BUSINESS DISASTER that is quickly becoming an environmental and economic disaster. The correct response on the part of BP is first to tell the truth about the severity of the spill, second to be really, really, really contrite about having NO acceptable level of preparation for an event of this kind and third quit sending around your flunkies with offers of checks for $5000 to fishing boat owners if they sign away their right to sue. Now Republicans think the government should bear the responsibility for this business disaster? Are you fecking kidding me?

3. One word to the guy in the 5th floor men's room (the most disgusting place on earth next to the restroom at Godfather's Pizza in Golden Valley) who was making some serious grunting noise today: FIBER.

4. To the woman who stopped the salad bar line twice today to hold impromptu meeting scheduling sessions with your sycophantic interns who just don't know better: Next time, lady, you get whacked with the tongs. I mean it.

5. The amazing Mr. John is mid-stream on the cabin remodeling and I can barely contain my excitement. We're going up this weekend to paint the kitchen and fill up the new cabinets. Our first guest of honor this year will be..... Ruthie! Hooray. (No making that face, Ruth.) Make your reservations now.

Say what?

(First of all, I hope none of you got too attached to listening to the same music over and over again while reading my blog. I had to delete it. It was making me crazy.)

This post is dedicated to once lovely words and phrases that are now virtually meaningless through misuse or abuse. I have a lot and will stop when I get bored, which shouldn't be too long. Let's begin. Shall we?

Artisan: How many products do we see every day in every venue that someone has conveniently labeled "artisan" or "artisanal"? Lots, I tell you. When I used to hear that term, I envisioned something created by someone who has spent many years, perhaps in an apprenticeship to a master artisan, honing their craft until they can go forth and deliver to the world their finely crafted delights. Not so much any more. When Walmart and Cub now has an entire wall of "artisan" breads for which you can occasionally find coupons, you know the word is toast. No pun intended, but it worked out nicely. These Walmartisans no doubt trained for at least 30 minutes on pouring ingredients into a giant mixer and watching the dough get kneaded. Boo Walmartisans.

Cage Free: Last summer, many of you learned of my complete horror at learning of the practice for culling male chicks by sorting them and throwing them into a grinder while still alive. This led me to attempt to find more humanely produced eggs. Thinking I was doing some chickens a favor, I now opt for cage free eggs from chickens fed an organic (more on that later) diet. Cage free, ah. Chickens out in the sun and fresh air, pecking at the ground for insects, grubs and seed. Lovely. WRONG! Cage free now means giant warehouses with chickens pecking at the seed scattered on the cement floor of a warehouse- only marginally less cruel than cages. I'm told I need to find a local grower who raises chickens from eggs- no commercially produced pullets- and pastures the chickens. Instead of $3.49 a dozen for my cage free organic eggs, I can now expect to pay "slightly" more than that and feel better about myself and the chickens.

Hand Crafted: Slightly less skilled than artisans, in my mind, are hand crafters. Hand crafters have honed their skill at producing lovely items but are not professional artisans. Or whatever. This is my thought process we're visiting here. So, bear with me please. You can have delightful hand crafted scarves and sweaters, quilts and blankets. You get the drift. So, imagine my horror when I walk by Caribou Coffee to see a sign announcing the sale of hand crafted oatmeal. Yes. Oatmeal. If by hand crafted they mean tearing open a packet of instant oats, stirring in hot water, adding dried fruit and a little brown sugar, then I guess that redefines hand crafted and I am hand crafting my own breakfast about 2 days a week on oatmeal days. Pathetic.

Organic: I know there are standards set forth by the FDA on what defines organic, but do they need to allow giant corporations to ruin my idyllic vision of what organic farming is? I picture organic farmers like our friend Nancy, who bought some land in a mountain valley in Colorado, lived in a yurt, and slowly built up a thriving, but smallish, sustainable farm. These farmers, not necessarily Nancy, wake up at the shriek of dawn, slap some patchouli under their arms, throw on a tunic and some sandals and go work the earth until dusk, at which time they heat water on the wood burning stove, dump it into a tub and wash off the dirt with a sustainably harvested loofah. There are no suits involved, no marketing meetings, no quarterly profit reports. Yet, sadly the majority of organic produce comes from large, but chemical free, farms. Bummer.

Hand dyed: So, this one is specific to my life as a quilter. When I'm too lazy (or forbidden from- another story) to dye my own fabrics, I want to buy hand dyed fabrics from a hand crafter or even an artisan (but they better be that much better from an artisan). There is a lot of this stuff to be found. However, visit most quilt stores and they will tell you that the perfectly pressed, flawless 15 yard bolts of pretty fabrics lining the walls are hand dyed. To that I say "Rubbish!" When 10,000+ yards of identical fabrics are produced in a single color, that is not hand dyed. Perhaps a hand touched the fabric during the dying process in the textile mill and that qualifies it as hand dyed. However, not one of these manufacturers will show you images of the hand crafters and artisans trying to work 10,000 yards of pristine cotton through a dye bath. Why? Because they are big stinky liars, that's why.

Whole grain: Look at a loaf of good Walmartisan Seven Grain Bread. You can see probably 3 or 4 different actual grains- millet, wheat berry, oats, etc. You just have trust that the other 3 or 4 are in there, and probably are safe in doing so. It also isn't worth worrying about if there are 6 or 7 grains. Just eat it. It's good for you. However, look at a box of Multi-Grain Cheerios, made with "whole grain" and you'll see something else completely. There is not a shred of recognizable whole grain in that box. And, to make matters worse, the little puffed starch rings are created in different shades of beige to fool you into thinking that each one is made from a different whole grain. Don't be fooled. The dark brown one tastes just like the white one. Trust me. Now, don't get me wrong. They are tasty. They just aren't whole grain anything.

Natural: When I think of "natural" I envision eating vegetables fresh from the garden and wearing cotton clothing that I have sewn myself, from cotton I have grown and harvested in a sustainable fashion and spun into thread which I have woven into cloth. I envision my all natural face catching every sunrise and sunset at just the right angle each day in a way that could be captured in a photo that would say "this man is a wholesome, earth respecter whose rugged good looks are enhanced by the good food he takes in for nourishment, sunbeams and optimism." That is what natural meant. Now it is found on every processed food container and loudly proclaims "I was made from what was once a plant, a now unrecognizable plant, but a plant, nonetheless." There are even "all natural" labels on those little prepackaged meals that are not in the freezer section and not in a can. You know the ones. They sit suspiciously on the shelves near the soups and we wonder how they can stay fresh without refrigeration. All natural radiation, that's how. Sad.