Fat and fearless.
We’re not the only ones undaunted by a meal bigger than ourselves. This little fatty couldn’t bother to clean up after himself. I consider him a role model.
Why stop eating?
Leave a reply
Category Archives: humor
It’s Snowing!
In a parking lot today under a miserably cold rain that turned briefly to snow, a country woman walking into the Dollar Store alongside her teenage son observed, “Oh great. It’s snowing.”
Amused, I offered, “I’m wearing sandals!” She replied that she didn’t even have a coat on. I said she was like the Vermonty schoolchildren that wear no coat all winter, or don’t zip it up.
She responded over her shoulder with: “I tell my son before he gets on the school bus, ‘At least wear your boots so I don’t look like an ass.'”
Share this:
Share this:
What the HECK is this thing?
Living Low on the Hog in Rural America
The PBR tall-boy. Good enough for Clint Eastwood.
When a friend moved from New York to Connecticut decades ago, she railed about how everything was marketed there as country. Country crockery. Country blue. Country curtains. CT was a lot of things, including the Nutmeg State, but it was not the country.
Their rural (scenis?) envy was understandable.These days, I wouldn’t mind their (sub)urban salaries. While we country folk were either born here or else traded income for an idyllic locale and are used to counting our farthings—so the New Austerity seems to us hardly new—things have definitely gotten harder. Since when is canned tuna “on sale” at $1.49? Wasn’t it 89 cents a can for, like, 15 years?
It’s gotten so tough here in paradise to pay for essentials while squirreling something away for old age that I, for one, have given up trying. I resort to a Ramen Pride lifestyle so I have enough to tithe and buy modest holiday gifts and send the occasional kid to summer camp. Financial advisor/retirement savings advocate Suze Orman would give me a spanking. But really, in the event of a global contagion or nuclear Armageddon, Suze, what good will our savings do us? I prefer games where you try to get rid of all your cards; he who has the least at the end wins. My retirement plan is to have spent it all by my death date, give or take fifty bucks. But I digress.
One of our maple-cured survival tricks for country living: we know how to have fun at little expense. While we didn’t invent pot luck— 16th century Brits did—we have taken that baby and run with it. We romp freely in our woods, lakes, and rivers and scamper about in snowy fields, leaving pricey divertissements like downhill skiing to strung-out city slickers (read: valued tourists) who, quite frankly, need ski outings to keep from going off the rails entirely. We save the craft beers for our guests and drink PBR in cans. The Genesee Cream Ale trucked here is allocated to killin’ slugs as firm evidence of our Yankee frugality threshold.
We get together and knit at the library. We form book clubs. We contradance. We pick up used instruments at yard sales and teach ourselves how to play. We may not be power yachting or padding our IRAs, but we can all hammer out Turkey in the Straw. And hey, if you haven’t taken up a musical instrument due to time constraints, my former mandolin teacher once had this to say, regarding the extra instrument (violin?) he had to learn to get a music degree: “It’s amazing how little you can practice and still get better.”
My trick is to spend on fun and cut back on food spending. Often I see my meals as meager and pathetic. But then I think on college, when one can of corn plus one of stewed tomatoes equaled a “stew”; a friend ate Ragu Bread, a dish of low-end bread topped sadly with spaghetti sauce. By those standards, Lord knows, I eat like a king. Though sometimes I do eat questionably old foods. It’s amazing what you can eat and not get sick. I save so much coin I can afford decent wine to share with nutter friends. (You know who you are. You are loved. But for God’s sake clean up the language next time.)
Yes, we dine cheaply, socialize cheaply, and amuse ourselves for next to nothing. Might I also suggest free classes at the hospital or affordable ones at RTCC or VTC? I’ve taken tai chi, Excel, gardening, kayaking, nonviolent communication, water aerobics, classes on how to take classes, you name it. Teach a class yourself. Or start a blog. Share your f-a-c-t-s or heart or wit. It’s amazing how little you can know and still have something to teach. Good (country) livin’, and good day.
Share this:
Looking For Work?
No, really, what is this?
Sounds dangerous. But then, one way or another, all good-paying jobs are.
Share this:
We Don’t Talk Politics Much in Rural America
Michael Reynolds/AP
It’s not proper. But can I say that both parties in the veep debate last were mesmerizing?
Joe Biden came on like a fisher cat but with enough spazzy nutter facial expressions to round out his performance. I felt an almost maternal pride towards Paul Ryan for not soiling himself when it seemed as if every Biden statement ended with “…Son.”
[Coming to Vermont? The nasty, weasel-like fisher cat will run into your camper, steal your miniature doberman, take it, and eat it. BYO dingo.]
Share this:
The Russians Are Strumming, The Russians Are Strumming!
And sister could pick!
While many celebrate one man’s questionable achievements, including the accidental discovery of land leading, arguably, to genocide, on Columbus Day (one of the more shocking Sopranos episodes, btw), some turned instead this weekend to the 9th Annual Russian and Slavic Cultural Festival in Howell, NJ.
Folk dancers from Troika dance troupe
If you haven’t heard a balalaika contrabass–or eaten those savory dumplings I won’t attempt to spell–you haven’t lived. I love how every culture seems to have its dumpling. Meat wrapped in dough… a tidy, giftwrapped present of meat. Fabulous!
Note 1: Amid much conflicting Internet info, it seems Columbus day wasn’t made a federal holiday until 1937, under FDR.
Note 2: Don’t get me wrong. Some of my best friends are Italians. A vivacious and lusty people. You always know where you stand with an Italian. Happy Columbus Day.
Share this:
For All You Obstreperous Recalcitrants
You can be a success!
One of the best presents I ever got was this box of vocabulary flashcards. No idea if the young people use flashcards any more, but I took to them like [plural noun] to a [singular noun]. I recommend the foreign language ones, too.
If you ever have to give a speech, here’s what some male friends used to do: stick a word in there that the audience probably won’t understand but will be afraid to ask the meaning of. Great good fun, like an inside joke.
I gave a speech yesterday and did my own version. I dressed like my 7th grade French teacher. She wore velvety pants and flowing shirts and when she wrote on the board her keister jiggled. As did mine, friends, as did mine.
keis·ter/ˈkēstər/
| Noun: |
|
Share this:
The People’s Forum
Stick a fork in it, my people!
Because I encourage it, I get a fair amount of feedback, grievances, and downright weird commentary about this humble column. I devote today’s piece to my people and their rantings. And away we go.
Mt. Kisco, NY: “How about someone gets a snake tattoo when young and then adds a few dozen pounds. By the time they’re done, the snake looks like it swallowed a goat.” (Or the tramp stamp, located on a particularly spreadable area, the Saddlebag.)
Westport, CT: “I am ruffled by the way corporate and utility bills that come in the mail keep urging us to Go Green—not because they give a flying burrito about the planet, but so they can save on payroll and postage, which is to say naked greed. Automate the heck out of everything. And bury your customer service number deep within your website. Have just two employees with minimal benefits and no customer service beyond recorded loop nonsense. All in the name of Going Green. Yeah, okay.”
Randolph, VT: From a friend in her 80s, “At my age, Honey, a nose job means melanoma removal.”
New York, NY: “This from my 11-year old niece: ‘Boys are nothing but problems.’ Wise beyond her years.”
Washington, DC: “As film studios and advertising agencies throw bizarre apocalyptic movies and disturbing television commercials at us, we urge: ‘We’re banged-up creatures in a post-9.11 world suffering from global disaster burnout, not heartless rocks impervious to your scenes of contagion, explosions, and angels crashing on city pavement.’ What the heck are they thinking? Were the people who cooked this violence up born after 9.11? Possible. Employers like to hire people who’ll work for nothing because they’re still living with their parents—even after college.”
Hanover, NH: A friend e-mailed and I saved, “My new mantra so I don’t crack: No one escapes.” I wrote her back to ask what word I had mistakenly cut off at the end. No one escapes what? Her reply: “Nothing. That was it. ‘No one escapes.’”
Somewhere in the Heartland: “I, too, eschew the news. It’s what drove me out of my parents’ house when they generously let us, our birds, and our rescue cat stay there. The TV was always on, tuned in to bad news followed by court TV followed by more news! Waaaaait a minnnnute….”
Los Angeles, CA: “It’s weird is how, almost instantly, you can tell how old basketball footage is from the shorts. Long shorts have been in so long it’s time for them to go out. Which is bad for those of us entering the Long Shorts—and Big Jewelry—years.” (Also the Big Glasses years. They were in a season ago and you can still find monster ones that cover half your face. As for the short shorts, well, giant hair from the 80s never came back. So there’s hope.)
New Chappaqua, New York: “My harp teacher sent me the Top Ten Tips To Remember About Playing In Public” (thematically abridged by UVG):
1. It’s a harp. They’re gonna love it.
3. Even if you do make a mistake and do telegraph it, they won’t care. It’s a harp. They’re gonna love it.
6. Noodling in the middle is perfectly acceptable until you can find your way back to the tune. It’s called improvising. They’ll think you did it on purpose, and since it’s a harp, they’re gonna love it.
8. People aren’t as tired of the old standards as you are. Go on, play Greensleeves. On a harp, they’ll love it.
10. You are sharing yourself in a way few people do, and you have a right to be proud of that. And since you are doing it with a HARP…They’re gonna love it.
Westchester, PA: “On an Islamic holy day, my teenage son’s friends were all hanging out in town and one kid’s mother called him to reprimand him about praying, so he went into the Dunkin’ Donuts bathroom and said his prayers. I couldn’t help myself; I asked my son, ‘How did he know to face east in a room with no windows?’ The answer, ‘Duh, his cell phone, Mom.’” (Try the Compass app, you’ll lerv it!)
My doctor’s favorite bumper sticker: Reality Is Not What You Think.
My suggested bumper sticker: Just a minute, Officer. I’m texting.
Vanity Plate Spotted on Route 4: PUZZLES
My next Vanity Plate: PUZZLED
Feel free to send your deepest thoughts. For inspiration, play Deepest Purple, Deep Purple’s best of album (think: Space Truckin’). Good day.
Ann Aikens can be reached via Facebook (ann.aikens.7), e-mail at uppervalleygirl@gmail.com, and Twitter at @uvgvt (http://twitter.com/uvgvt)
uppervalleygirl 