Foolery

What'll I Do With My GUN RACK?!

This is one of my favorite writings, a mass mailing e-mail I wrote about about three months before I started blogging, in October of 2005. I think of it every October.


 


(Photo stolen from this chica)

It's fall.
 
I know it's fall because of the deluge of clothing catalogs clogging my mail box. All the models in these catalogs are dressed in harvest colors, yet I'm sure few of them have any idea what, exactly, a harvest is.
 
If you live in a rural part of the country, as I do here in California's great north valley, you are acutely aware of the changing of the seasons. Not so much winter, spring, summer and fall -- we've been accused here in California of not having these seasons -- but steelhead, salmon, dove, deer, pheasant, back to dove, wild boar (which is year-round), and so on. But October marks the beginning of my favorite season, one which crosses state lines, requires no badges or special gear, and one for which no skinny models are employed.
 
I'm talking about, of course, Candy Season.
 
 


(Photo stolen from this guy)

Candy season has no fixed start date; it begins as soon as the grape leaves begin to turn colors, and usually while the temperature outside is still hazardous to delicate chocolates. You round the corner with your supermarket shopping cart, and there they are, easy pickin's: row after row of ripe, fat candy morsels, holiday-sized and begging to be bagged.
 
There are several ways to approach Candy Season. Some candy hunters like to hunt weekly, others will wait until peak season and bag 'em all at once, and still others will wait until after peak season and pick over the remainders, taking advantage of clearance prices and fully intending to freeze the candy for next year. Uh-huh. I see a couple of problems with this last tactic.
 
But October is just the start. There's a lull until mid-November, when the season gets rocking and rolling again. After New Years those after-peak hunters really have a field day, but I ask you: how well does the "freeze it for next year" plan jibe with your annual New Year's resolution to lose 147 pounds? And how good are frozen Dum Dums, anyway?

 


(Photo stolen from this site)
 
Candy Season's peaks and following lulls continue through mid-February (a major peak, and an especially good time for top-shelf chocolate hunters), to late March/early April (when the rare Peeps and chocolate rabbits can be found). Sadly, by late spring the season all but peters out, with only a half-hearted rally in early May. May hunters are usually last-minute men in a big hurry on the way to Sunday brunch with Mom.
 
So happy hunting, and remember: plan your attack, pace yourself, and, if you're among the fooling-yourselves-after-peak-bargain-hunter types, first clean out your freezer, make a dentist appointment, and throw away your bathroom scale.  Here's to a six-month season with NO LIMITS!
 
Seasonally Yours,
 
Laurie

 

 
(Photo stolen from this site) 

Fair Warning

This morning we're getting ready to go to the county fair.  We go every year with Grandma and Grandpa.  The following account is from an e-mail I wrote after our first fair visit in 2005, when the girls were 4 and almost 2.  Imagine us this year in 100-degree heat.  Mother.

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(Grandpa and Sparky, Fair 2007)

It's the little things you remember in life, I guess.

If my parents knew some of my most prominent memories from my childhood they'd probably flip.  "WHAT?!"  I can just hear my dad say with incredulity.  "We took you to all those places , and THAT'S what you remember best?!"  But you can't predict, nor can you really shape, what your kids will be most drawn to.  You just do your best to expose them to beauty, history, and high culture -- you know, Benny Hill -- and hope to God they don't form any attachments to country music.

I was reminded of this last weekend more than once.  Grandpa Dave called Saturday morning at 9:00 to ask if he could take Smedley in to the fair, which really meant "to hang out in the chicken exhibit and the dairy barns."  I knew Smedley would love both of those locales, and I was thrilled to have her go with Grandpa (you have to look hard to find bonding rituals with grandfathers that don't involve baseball, football or "Wheel of Fortune").  Still, I could easily imagine her tugging on his hand as he marched her past the kiddie rides, quickly tiring of long conversations with local ag luminaries, and throwing a massive tantrum that would threaten future outings with Grandpa, so I asked if Sparky and I could go, too (I am more equipped to forestall a tantrum than Grandpa).  My mom got in on it, too, and the five of us headed for the Glenn County Fair.

After an eternity in the chicken expo, which, fortunately, both girls loved, we checked out the tractors, the draft horses, and the baby animals on our way to the ultimate destination, the cow barns.  I had several flashbacks to my own childhood, wasting away at the cow barns at the fair.  We were stopped by every guy in a jiffy pop hat and Ben Davis work shirt -- they were all named Manuel or Joe, most had Fair Beers in hand, and they all knew my dad.  When you're 8, 9, 10 years old and within spitting distance of the ferris wheel, the last thing you want to hear is yet another guy say, "Hey, Dave!  They let you off the ranch for the evening?"  Add to that the monotony of row after row of Holstein cows, undistinguishable from the hundreds of Holsteins waiting for us at home, and we failed to see the point.  Where's the novelty?  Show us wombats or three-toed sloths, and we'd be impressed.

So I was relieved that the girls were charmed by the cows, and the pigs, sheep, and goats.  They both love farm animals; must be genetic.  And they couldn't have had a better tour guide than Grandpa Dave, who obviously feels more at home in a cow barn than almost anywhere on Earth, and who sees fences and barriers as mere suggestions.  Dad had no problem leading us through the manure (not much, but kids always step in it) to the on-site milking parlor to explain to Smedley how cows are milked.  Then he opened the door to the tank room and opened the tank lid to show Smedley the huge vat of milk (quite small compared to what I grew up with, but impressive just the same).  I noticed that no other grandpas were giving tours like this, but after almost 40 years, I'm used to my dad's aggressive curiosity.

Smedley did get to go on some rides, so she had no complaints.  She waved to the carnies as if they were her adoring fans.  Even Sparky went on two rides, and grimly enjoyed herself, too.


(Smedley and Sparky, Fair 1986)

Before leaving the fair we went to the exhibit building.  Apparently half of the people from my childhood were encamped there, waiting for us to walk in.  It was actually nice, but a word of warning to those who might not enjoy encountering their old bus driver, third grade teacher, Sunday school teacher, 4-H poultry leader, etc.:  avoid the exhibit halls at the fair.

So, after all of this agricultural exposure and careful grooming by Grandpa, what did Smedley like best about the fair?  The rides, of course, but something unexpected, too:  she got to meet the Fair Princess, who stopped and talked to her.  Wow, a real princess -- crown and everything.  Smedley's been bitten by the royalty bug.  Sorry, Grandpa; sorry, cows.

The Butt of My Own Jokes This Week

From time to time in my post-college life I have waitressed at The Berry Patch to make ends meet.  For those who don't know, my parents are partners in that restaurant, and have been since it began in about 1990 or so.

The following is an e-mail I sent out in August of 2002, after the first baby and just before getting pregnant the second time.  I wish I could blame the incident on being pregnant, but I can't.  It's all me.  As for the title, well, I see a trend here, and since I do humiliating things on a regular basis with great gusto, there will likely be more where this came from.  Enjoy.



My Latest Humiliation, Or, An Argument Against Thong Underwear

Well hello again.

Been a while since I publicly humiliated myself (at least, any more than I do every waking day of my life just by showing up), and I'm facing my fear head-on to reduce The Cringe Factor.  I'm telling y'all about it, whether you like it or not.  So there.

In an effort to reduce ironing (have you ever tried to iron clothes with a toddler hanging on you?) I devised an ingenious plan:  Wear clothes that are WAY too tight.  Those wrinkles don't know what hit 'em.

So Friday night, an hour before heading in to town to pour coffee and schlep burgers at The Berry Patch, I crammed my Nutty Professor-sized hiney into a size 12 black skirt I've had for years but never worn.  "Honey, be honest," I pleaded.  "Are people gonna point and stare at the human sausage?"  I'm sure this sentence has been asked before, and it makes even the most macho man run screaming into the night.  But I had to be sure.

"Why, no, dear,"  replied Good Ol' Chas.  "You look great."  Brownie points.  Hubby treats.  Gold stars.

"Well, just in case I turn blue from sucking in my stomach, I'm bringing a pair of pants to change into."  I wasn't really too worried, because my apron covers my stomach nicely.  My stomach . . .

About an hour into my shift, my co-worker, Gale, commented that I looked nice that night.  I told her about making Chas evaluate my ensemble, we both laughed about it, and I turned and walked away.  "Wait!" hissed Gale.  "You've got a problem..."

Have you ever noticed how flimsy the stitching can be in rayon clothes?  I don't recommend testing its tensile strength the way I did.  Imagine Anna-Nicole Smith* in Kate Moss's skirt; not a pretty picture.  But, as I hurriedly took off my apron and wrapped it around my posterior for the trip out to the car to fetch my "just-in-case" pants, I realized with horror that I was wearing -- you guessed it -- a thong.  As in undies.  For those of you
unfamiliar with this garment, see "The Big Fat Book of Girlie Stuff," Chapter 37, "Why Thongs?" pages 345-353.

So I am left to wonder, which of my customers saw more of me than I ever intended?  When someone says, "You have a nice smile," do I say thank you or clobber him?  Was that coin innocently dropped at my feet, or was the cook playing quarters with me?

I feel better already.  Now it's YOUR nightmare.  Peace.

*She was alive and hefty at the time of this original writing.

Chicken Little Has a New Song

We got back from our trip Friday night, but I've been cleaning, doing laundry, obsessing, zoning out, and going a hundred miles an hour at work, playing catch-up.  Until . . .

 

Until something stops me, like an e-mail from my friend Anthony, and then all my pent-up brainstorms come rushing out.  That very thing happened yesterday, when Anthony e-mailed me a skeptical, sarcastic and funny comment about the whole global warming industry.  Just for something different, this is my e-mail response, written in about four minutes (and feel free to pelt me with tomatoes if you don't agree):

 

. . . the shrill "it is because it is" circular reasoning has hit a fever pitch and is just getting louder. Radio ads and PSAs and event promos cite global warming as a confirmed reality, a given not worthy of questioning. Here's our premise, THEREFORE here's what MUST be done.

I'm not denying global warming, I just question the validity of the thinking that humans are having much (or even anything) to do with it. Hey, all the steps individuals may take to reduce their "carbon footprints" (groan -- it's the newest PC speak and it makes my head hurt) are probably good ideas, and I'm not against most of them (except those stupid light bulbs). But I think the mass hysteria we're experiencing is akin to Chicken Little and The Sky Is Falling Band.

My prediction is that Al Gore peaked too early, however, given our culture's notoriously short attention span for anything that isn't sparkly and shiny. They'll soon tire of his drone and we can get back to our enormous fossil fuel consumption without so much as a pang of guilt.

HA!

Bet you didn't see THIS rant coming. I'm enormously busy and mentally wiped out, so this rushed out of me like a dam breaking. Sorry.

What were we talking about?

I'm Starting to See the Humor in the Situation

Sometimes out of pure laziness I like to pull out and post an old e-mail from the days before I became a blogger.   I was reminded of this one (from April 11, 2005) today as I cleaned the bathroom faucet that is at the center of this tale.

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Happy Monday, everybody.

Each Monday I am asked by well-meaning friends at work, "How was your weekend?"  The answer they expect, and usually get, is, "Fine."  In order to save those unsuspecting souls from an agonizing hour-and-a-half while they steal glances at their watches and try desperately to get away, I have decided instead to unload on you guys.  After all, you can just hit "delete" and be done with me.

Friday work days end as early as 4:00 around here, though lately I've been staying late to try to catch up.  This past Friday was no exception, and I didn't leave until 5:45.  Ran a couple of errands and picked up dinner (Friday night treat) on my way home.

When I drove up, Handyman Dan's pickup was in the driveway.  Hmm, the new bathroom sink faucet -- the old one disintegrated about two weeks ago -- must have taken longer to install than he planned.  Walked in to the house and at first all seemed normal, but then Chas said that the electricity had been out since around four o'clock.  Not surprising when you live in the country and a violent spring storm descends, as it did that afternoon.

"Oh, well, good thing I picked up dinner, then, right?"

Before I went into the bathroom to check on Handyman Dan, Chas casually mentioned that we'd had a flood when a pipe broke.  Ahh, my calm husband.  Into the bathroom I scurried.  Hmmm, bathtub full of sopping wet towels, big garden watering can inexplicably waiting by the door, butt crack smiling up at me from under the sink cabinet -- yup, broken pipe.

As Handyman Dan explained everything to me and we worked out The Plan, the electricity suddenly came back on.  "Whew!  That's a relief," thought I.

Wrong.

Maybe the phrase "farm plumbing" would be the best explanation, as in jerry-rigged: adj. see also "farm plumbing."  Our house on the dairy gets water from the dairy well, but also draws water from my parents' well across the street.  Why?  See also "farm plumbing."  So when the electricity came back on, the well pumps kicked on, and soon a nice fat stream of water was again pouring into the soggy bathroom cabinet.  Turning off my parents' water was not an option, because of the many livestock water troughs (and tenants) on the system that had been without water for 3 or 4 hours.  So I manned a bucket, dumping it out in the toilet when it got full, which it did about every five minutes.  Other than the several times I got distracted and rushed back to find water spilling out onto the bathroom floor, I was on constant Bucket Watch for about 3 hours.

Handyman Dan came back from a trip to Lowes in Chico (easily a 30-minute trip one way) and began fixing the pipe.  Another big oops -- I'll spare you the details -- and by 10:30 p.m. he determined he'd have to finish in the morning, after an early-morning trip to Orland Hardware.  I imagined myself on Bucket Watch all night and just about cried, but my dad came over and saved the day, cutting up his too-small garden hose (again, see "farm plumbing") but managing to make it work.  So the tap drained through the hose into the bathtub all night.

True to his word, Handyman Dan came back the next morning (I was holding my breath).  By 11:30 the next morning we again had water, and could finally use the shiny new faucet in the bathroom.  Oh, to be able to wash my hands again!  But each time I got near a faucet I cringed, expecting it to explode any second.  As Dan said, once you mess with antique plumbing, it all falls apart.  It's just hanging out in the walls waiting to betray us.  A rust-water shower was the only consequence, however, and I relished it after slopping around in the bathroom for hours.  Chas and I even managed to make it to a 3:30 wedding Saturday afternoon -- in Woodland, which is almost a 1 1/2-hour drive.

Just talked to Chas on the phone, and Handyman Dan is back to finish the job.  Wish me luck that I won't have to wade into the house tonight.  At least it's a glorious sunny day today and I won't have to worry about any tornados -- oh yeah, did I forget to mention that the reason the electricity was out in the first place Friday was the huge super cell thunderstorm RIGHT OVER OUR HOUSE?  The tornado warnings that afternoon -- both of them -- could have been a lot more concise if they'd just said "watch for tornados at Chas and Laurie's house."

Still haven't figured out what Chas and Dan were doing with that watering can.

Soggily yours,

Laurie

*     *     *     *     *

To follow up, Handyman Dan proved to be a train wreck, leaving a gaping hole in the wall under the sink.  He also installed a new back door, but did such a crappy job that there's a half-inch gap between the door and the lower doorframe, through which ants, rain, spiders, sunlight, and extreme temperatures freely migrate.  When it rains we break out a stack of old towels to mop up the standing water just inside the porch door.  In the summer the door barely closes, and we often find it standing wide open, to the joy of the wild outside cats.  In the winter the door hardly opens.  Thanks, Handyman Dan!

My Day Off Revisited

I'm going to cheat and post something I wrote about five years ago.  It's a true story.  I really did prune the snot out of a fig tree to enable my chickens to get into their coop to roost, but I wouldn't expect you to be able to understand that after reading this.  Just pretend your name is Bathshethusabub or something Biblical, and you'll pick up the rhythm.

(Oh, and coyotes and dogs picked off the chickens one by one, and we didn't replace the birds.  The fig tree eventually won.) 

My Day Off

And The Father Said, "Manage Thy Chickens, Daughter,
For They Runneth Amok!

Come, Take My Hand Saw
And Cut Down The Fig Tree
(Which You Failed To Conquer
Lo These Many Months Ago
When Thou Wert Pregnant)
Which Groweth Over The Hen-House Door.
Then May Your Chickens Roost,
And Lay,
And Doeth All Manner Of Chicken Things
In the Hen House
Instead Of Runneth-ing Amok!"

And The Woman His Daughter Saw That It Was So,
And Argued Not,
For Well Would It Have Been Pointless So To Do.

And The Woman His Daughter Went Forth
To Borrow The Favored Hand Saw Of Home Depot
And Gathered Up She-Who-Would-Not-Nap
And Various Chew Toys
And Water-From-A-Store
And A Couple Of Cats
And Made Ready To Cut Down The Fig Tree
Which So Inhibiteth The Chickens.

And The Father Saw That It Was So
And Smil-ed He,
For It Was Good,
And The Giants Were On.

Now Flay, Flay, O Daughter,
Flay The Evil Fig Tree
Which Beareth Not Figs
But Only Sticky Sap
And Apparently Mosquitos By The Cubit

And Cutteth Not The Hose
Which Leadeth To The Water Dish
For The Aforementioned Chicken...eths.

And Feareth Not The Black Widow
Which Thou Have Not Seen,
But Only Imagined,
Though The Little Bastards Hideth Everywhere.

Saw, Woman, Saw
Even As She-Who-Must-Be-Hungry-By-Now
Fusseth
In Her Conveyance From Costco.

Yea, Verily, It Was So,
And The Woman Did Saw,
And The Fig Tree Did Begin To Yield,
Though Not Without A Lot Of Complaining From
Both-eth.

Until She-Who-Also-Smells
Had Had-eth Enougheth
And The Mosquitos Did Land
And The Fig Tree Did Win For Another Year.

But Now The Hen House Door Openeth
And So The Chickens Will Now Cease To Run Amok
And Will Beareth Eggs A-Plenty
We Hopeth.

Here Endeth The Lesson.

Shopping With Children

Yeah, I'm rather lazy lately.  It's another e-mail pulled from the archives.  But my schedule has been pretty full, and vacuuming seemed a bigger priority tonight after work than writing.  I think my choice was justified.  Especially since vacuuming resulted in a different color carpet than I was expecting.
 

Shopping With Children.

That phrase is enough to strike fear into the hearts of the boldest, manliest people on Earth.  We have been lucky -- so far -- Shopping With Children.  I'm waiting for the other Keds to fall.

Usually, the worst I have to deal with is The Late Afternoon Crabbies or The Monkey Factor.

The Late Afternoon Crabbies is easy to explain:  not long before dinner, a little tired, a little hungry, kids annoyed at being strapped into car seats too long or yanked from the park too soon.  You've seen kids with this syndrome many times.  Some hang on their parents' legs, some sit in the cart and cry, most are whining for every bright shiny object they see on the shelves, not unlike crows.  The Crabbies can be handled with patience, firmness, and speed-shopping -- and a free shopper cookie from the bakery doesn't hurt, either.

You can spot The Monkey Factor at work a mile away.  Kids can turn ANYTHING into a jungle gym, and grocery store fixtures are primo.  Shopping carts are obvious monkey bars, and so are check stands.  Less obvious are freezer door handles and canned goods displays which, fortunately, my girls have yet to try to swing from or climb.  Yet.

A new challenge has arisen the last couple of times I took the girls to the grocery store.  I should have seen it coming, but I didn't.  It's the dreaded I Have to Go Potty Syndrome.  This strikes without warning, usually three items from the finish line, and AFTER you've stocked up in the Meltables aisle.  This doesn't have to be a disaster, but with more than one child, it usually is.  "Sparky, don't touch that.  Smedley, are you finished?  Okay, now -- Sparky, stop touching that, it's dirty -- Smedley, it's time to pull up your pants.  SPARKY!  NOT IN YOUR MOUTH!  EWW!"  The store has unknowingly compounded my problem, by just trying to be thoughtful.  Our store has those cute magic faucets which turn on by waving your hands under them.  Helpful, right?  You don't need to touch anything.  Well, how fun do you suppose that is to someone under five?  "No, you just washed your hands; they're clean enough.  SPARKY!  DON'T TOUCH THAT!"

But by far the scariest thing a parent faces in a grocery store is OTHER PEOPLE.  I'm not worried about someone grabbing my child, because the girls never leave my side (yet).  No, I'm currently terrified by the thought of Kids Speaking The Truth.  (This phenomenon goes hand-in-hand with the rule that Children Mumble Only At Home.)  For instance, Monday we encountered a very elderly man in one of those electric scooters.  I thought sure Smedley was going to comment on that, so I was all ready to say, "Because it helps him get around easier," or something like that.  But no-o-o-o-o.  Smedley outsmarted me.

"Mama, why is that man wearing two different shoes?"

Wow.  Didn't see that one coming.

Then down the next aisle we met a nice-looking fortyish lady who smiled at the girls.  I smiled back, and was just past her, when Smedley addressed her directly.  Pointing her finger at her.

"Do you know you have a big dot on your forehead?"

"Yes, I know, and every child notices that," she said sweetly.  As I flipped around I reflexively looked at the lady's face, and she did indeed have a mole the size of an M&M between her eyebrows.  Never would've noticed it myself, of course.  Always keep a preschooler on hand for the fine details.

I've learned so many great tricks from friends and family who have gone before me about how to handle kids in the store, and I'm practicing some of these tricks.  But so far, no one has told me how to deal with Kids Speaking The Truth.  If anyone has any idea, please let me know.

Gender Role Identification Starts Early

Another lazy night, after a long day, so I'm pulling an e-mail from last year out of retirement.  I'll get more creative in a few days.

Smedley, dictating what to name her computer drawing:

"Call it 'Frosty and His Wife.'"

"Honey, you already have a drawing saved called 'Frosty and His Wife.'  The computer won't let you have two with that name.  Why don't we call it 'Mr. and Mrs. Snowman'?"

"No, just 'Frosty the Snowman.'  His honey just stands there and says nothing."

So much for the feminist movement.

Family Portrait

I originally wrote this two months ago, as an e-mail to family and friends.  I found it and liked it, so I'm making you suffer through it again.  This is called laziness, or Premature Hall of Fame.

Smedley drew this this morning.  She covered up the belly button, unfortunately -- it still shows a little.

Apparently this is me when I was five, and Uncle Bocci as an infant.  At first the story was, "Their mommy and daddy are not awake yet."  Then it became, "They're trying to get ready for Halloween."  Finally, after she named names, she announced that "Laurie dropped her baby brother on the floor," and "I put the silliest looking clothes on her that I could."

I'm pretty sure she reels me in like that on purpose.