I mean DO LAR RAL. By not replacing light bulbs, they pass the savings on to you, the valued customer. Or did someone just walk off with the ladder (for a dollar)?
Who cares? Red sky at night, holiday bargain hunter’s delight!
Learn it. Love it. Live it.
There is no greater fun than the 5th annual Tweed River Music Festival, happening this weekend in the middle of Vermont.
Here is a schedule/overview of the artists. Stick around for musical wizard and host Bow Thayer, whose great new line-up is on at 9 pm on Friday; his other rockin’ outfit, Perfect Trainwreck, will perform Eden in its entirety on Saturday night (a spectacle!) Ask me now and I’ll give you particulars. Find me there, and I’ll tell you what to buy at the merch tent. We’ll dance.
Come! Camp or stay at an inn, swim & fish in Silver Lake or the Tweed & White River swimming holes…skinny-dip, tube, kayak, vegetate, and ~ oh yeah ~ listen to kicka** music outdoors in gorgeous Vermont.
Kudos to Tweed River Productions for scheduling PERFECT weather: hot enough to swim by day, cool enough for jackets by night. Hey music fans, Tweet this Tweed!
Photo by Thomas O’Brien
Got yer meteor shower info right here. Park your lawn chair (paper toweling?) after 11 pm (pref. after midnight) or right before dawn.
Maybe you’ll see a fireball. As luck would have it, the Perseid meteor shower is the “Fireball Champion.” Jupiter, Venus, and the Moon will show up together just as the meteor shower reaches its peak. A dim Mars and bright Jupiter will be visible right before the sun rises, above the eastern horizon.
Best viewing spot? Rural America, of course!
With steaming temps and standing pools of fetid water and everything dripping always, the New Bayou that is Vermont has done a number on our hair. Forced to pull mine back in a frizzy bun, I look like “Mother” in Pyscho. Not sure what the Tunbridge World’s Fair theme is for 2013, but it could be The Year of the Insect…featuring slugs, skeeters, silverfish, giant ants, leggy fliers, and those mini-snails that destroy irises. Spiders are building webs double-time. Even the moths seem diabolical—lurking doorside, waiting for a shot to jet in and eat your best fabric. It’s like some TV movie from the 70s. Slug Slime Saboteur. Revenge Of The Various Classes Of Insects. Don’t Go In The Basement.
When I’m not obsessively checking my phone for storm updates or competing in catch-and-release firefly programs, I’m lying around lifeless, thinking deep thots to share with Dear Reader. Thus was born Aggravation Theory.
Sure, nature occasionally goes nuts. Only, weather-wise, it does it all the time now. I don’t believe nature is retaliating for petroleum use; it’s just aggravated. Aggravation Theory, a correlate of String Theory, says this: all matter is energetically connected and reactive to other matter. In this paradigm, violent weather is basically collateral damage; that is, when humans are constantly stressed—panicking about hiring freezes and elastic IRAs and tech menaces and global contagion and will we lose the house and can I work 24 hours a day to get the kids through college and and and and—we are vibrating at strung out, inharmonious rates. Through no fault of our own, really; anxiety is a logical place to go when overwhelmed by burdens and fears. In Aggravation Theory, anxiety makes for bad weather. Bad weather makes humans…even worse.
It reminds me of when in New York it was hot for so long that cockroaches crawled up to my 6th floor apartment. I asked the exterminator why, since I’d never seen one in five years. He replied, “It’s their nervous systems. They’re aggravated. Doesn’t hot weather make you aggravated, Sweetheart?” Modern tymes are hard tymes. They rattle our nervous systems. As do strangers using the denigrating “Sweetheart” versus the loving one, but I digress. We’re aggravated, and I think our unchecked anxiety is making the whole planet aggravated (which, to be clear, is not proper use of the word; to “aggravate” means “to make worse.” Really, we’re all irritated. Or exasperated. Or probably losing it.)
Seeing people on Facebook scaling mountains, giving their antique roadsters a spin, and laughing broadly on power yachts isn’t helping any. I say get the heck out of there. Avert your eyes. Hide the people with the full and easy lives. I don’t know how to, but I’m gonna learn.
Meanwhile, grab onto what little you have control over. Court sanity. When my house is a mess, I wig. Quit walking around piles! Take 10 minutes a week to relocate crap. Chuck it! Also, as adults, we have control over what we eat. If eating a greazy burger and a bucket of macaroni salad makes me happy, that’s exactly what I’m having.
Also worth considering: Luck Theory, which states that people are at birth assigned different kinds of luck. I have bar stool luck. Denise has parking luck. Ochre has baby luck. Jose has first tennis serve luck plus checkout aisle luck. Other lucks reported: celebrity sighting luck, husband luck, sea shell finding luck, hand-me-down luck (clothing), lucky timing (general), dental scheduling luck, and spider avoidance luck. What’s yours? Use it.
I have bad travel weather luck, but I do have a built-in Nutter Locator I make good use of. If I’m lost and need directions, my Nutter Locator leads me to the craziest loon in town. I don’t get the best directions that way, but I do get the best experience. So try, much as you can, to live right in your wheelhouse. Good parking luck? Drive people places. Bad travel weather luck? Stay home. It makes other things go smoothly when you are unaggravated. And, right now, the entire planet could use your good mood. I know I could.
Your monthly good news is a laundry invention: Shout Advanced, a reported action gel…formulated for set-in stains. You’ll weep when the load is done, “It’s a miracle, Betty. It’s a miracle.”
Good luck in the swamp, Sweethearts. Remain calm. Stay right in your wheelhouse. Catch fireflies. Spread action gel over your entire life. Good day.
Wicker and mayo. Bon ete!
It’s time. Fishing. Golf. Swimming holes. Mayonnaise.
Black flies comin’. But mercifully along with rain. It’s been so dry the liquid manure spread over the Land baked, stank, and dried up into individual molecules blowing into our cars, homes, and nostrils. While the recent re-wetting served to reconstitute (read: re-aromatize) this fertilizer, at least it is no longer visible as a wind-borne dust. Not good for tourism (You can’t be 20…on Manure Dust Mountain. Ride our Dust Chute!)
Another month, another holiday. As complements to Mother’s and Father’s Days, I have repeatedly proposed both Maiden Aunts Day and Perpetual Bachelor’s Day (Crack open a PBR…on PBD!) So far no takers, including those behind the Hallmark and Mayan calendars but, as always, I remain hopeful. The month of May also means American Idol is over so we can stop Talking like Aussie Keith Urban—every bit as addictive as talking like a pirate on Talk Like A pirate Day (Arrrrrrrr, avast, me hearties: a Thursday this year!) The difference is Idol spans many months and causes more permanent damage in friendships.
I can’t decide if the live voting that goes with TV shows these days is fun or saddening (How are the judges doing? Are they moronic? What about their hair? Yes or no?) Between that and young computer hackers sending viruses with creepy names and Trojan horses that “drop” malicious “payloads,” we oldsters are at a total loss. Maybe psychiatrists can tell us why these kids are so bloody angry. We know why we’re so bloody baffled. The world has become odd in our lifetime. Things are just…boggling. Tech confusion! Voter fraud! Bio-terrorism! Climate havoc! Calf implants! Oceans full of garbage! Economic pandemonium! Geez, it makes you long for a kilt and a good old-fashioned plague. With some Crusades thrown in. Wait—maybe things weren’t so great in the past. But at least we know all about them; our new horrors we don’t understand yet. If youth is wasted on the young, history is wasted on the living. We don’t learn Jack from history, seems like. We just keep piling new horrors on the old.
In a world teetering on the brink of disaster, it is more pressing than ever to think on happy things. In this unimportant column, after some head shaking at the neo-Biblical mayhem of modern tymes, we strive for laffs, lemonade from lemons, and lerv. People want good news, like how the re-opening of the Barnard General Store has proven the existence of a benevolent God, or when NPR news informs us that the honey bees’ Spontaneous Hive Collapse (a.k.a. “Colony Collapse Disorder” or “May Disease”) suddenly dropped by 50% this year. That means more bees generating warmth in the hive, giving them the energy they require to fly (they need to be warm to fly—don’t you?), so that they can pollinate the crops that feed this crazy planet.
Let’s hope all the flora—including trees flowering madly this year due to a legit winter without last year’s weirdly hot spring—will provide our busy fuzzy friends with the pollen and nectar they so richly deserve. Worth considering from the NPR report: a woman suggested that humans (1) plant flowers and (2) be less fussy and let some weeds grow, as bees like ‘em. Thanks, NPR lady! Givin’ us advice we dig, makin’ our lives better. Less weeding = one item crossed off the To Do list = another perfect day in paradise. And thanks, European Union, for passing legislation (for two years, anyway) banning pesticides that might be behind the bees’ demise. Good work, EU.
Scientists are talking of bringing the dinosaurs back from extinction. While they’re an old horror we know something about, we also know they’ll just walk all over the hives and everything else, breaking stuff, setting off nukes, and who knows what with their giant feet and pea-brains. But maybe we’ll domesticate them (humanely!) as forms of mass transit (pterodactyl plane; brontosaurus bus; sea monster water taxi) or (lovingly!) make them walk (lumber?) on giant treadmills connected to power generators. I remain hopeful. As, I am certain, do you. Good holiday, extra mayo, and good day.
Hover over photos for secret commentary.
… like garbage. 
Green Up Day in Vermont is a day when the people of the Land take to the roadsides, woods, and riversides to pick up all the crap left behind — or thrown from cars — by careless losers. (No photo available.)
People of all ages out with their special green bags (and latex gloves) stumble upon points of interest as a reward. Today I saw I giant marshmallow, a tricked out tree, and a [Northern?] Magnolia. I learned that beef from grass-fed cows contains the recommended ratio of omega 6s to omega 3s (3:1), and that cows fed hay cut from the flood zone after Hurricane Irene had guts blackened by snails in the grass. Sooper ick
.
We’re all just daffy.
Vermonters are duped by none of spring’s standard heralds: the calendar, the lusty hammering of the male woodpecker, or flower bulbs emerging. The 2013 groundhog’s malfeasance in violation of the public trust was widely rebuked, his handlers penalized, justice served—and Vermont stood solidly behind that decision—but we know better. We don’t shelve our snow tires ’til deep into the month even when it’s 75 degrees mid-month.
It’s not just us enduring global weirding. Motorists in MA were doing 360s on I-91 in many inches of ice balls pouring from the sky last week, and in NY there were tree-felling microbursts. In two recent trips to the Carolinas, I failed to witness the Carolina blue skies. They were more like Carolina Pre-owned Off-White Skies, from Sears.
Carolina Off-white.
Yet the return of spring is promised by the reappearance of air freshener (canned fresh air!) named Spring Breeze. They must be canning it elsewhere because the spring breezes in my area smell exactly like the tons of fertilizer trucked into a nearby corn field. Brings tears to your eyes, and not in the puppy-sleeping-in-a-meatloaf-pan kind of way, more in the my-eyeballs-are-boinin’-up way. I hope the canned Spring Breeze smell better than ours, and than Yankee Candle’s “Country Linens,” which smells like you hosed the place down with bleach. They should call it “Country Clorox.” If there’s anything more fun than naming candle scents, nail polish colors, or ski trails, I don’t know what that is.
Tappin’ it old school.
Due to travel screwed up by the [nice people] at Expedia.com, I am behind in local news. I’m guessing mud season was a banner year for sap, and for the sapsuckers far and wide who guzzle the glorious maple nectar of the Land. It’s nice when nature smiles on you for a change, along with the elusive orb that had Vermonters asking all winter, “Where’s that big yellow thing usta be in the sky?”
Well, Spring Fever is definitely in the air. It’s pretty much Antics City as cloudy skies haven’t stopped woodpeckers from advertising for dates, squirrels from chasing each other around their condos, and children’s eyes from swapping out the blackboard for the window. Reminds me of when the Lorris twins moved to town in the 70s. The girl was a law- (and Safety Patrol-) abiding citizen; her brother anything but. On a spring day, we had for 8th grade English one of education’s most sad combinations: a timid substitute teacher. Naturally, we seized our advantage. Someone’s bright idea was to jump out the windows and make a run for it. They should call it Spring Idiocy.
To facilitate our escape, one Lorris twin graciously offered to “create a diversion.” We weren’t sure what that meant, but it became evident when, five minutes into class while Miz Timorous struggled through roll call, said twin suddenly howled, waved his arms wildly, then sprinted out of the room. Miz Tim, terrified, sprang after him while the rest of us made a break for it out the windows. We made the two-foot drop to the grass and ran full-throttle to the tennis courts where we shrugged. “OK, we’re sprung. What now?” We had no plan, you see. We ended up back in the classroom with no authority the wiser (it was the 70s) and a nice little shenanigan under our belt.
In closing, to put a spring in my girlfriends’ steps, a longtime male friend had this to say just last week: “What’s the appeal of 35 year-olds? To me, there is nothing sexier than a woman our age that looks good.” I adore him because, I assure you, “our age” is more than a couple years above 35. They should call it “old.” Oh wait, they do.
You don’t have to take my advice—you rarely do—but consider this: roll around half-naked in the sun, huff spring breezes, feel good about your age, get the fever, have a plan, execute it, do a shenanigan, and call it a (good) day.
Vermont Spring Bumper Stickers:
Gone Muddin’
Got Mud?
My Dog for Mayor
If We Ignore The Environment, It Just May Go Away.
This Land is Your Land, This Land is My Land. Now Stay on Your Land.
McLoving rural America
When a place is known for something, people name their businesses after it. So everything in town is called the [What This Place Is Known For] Laundromat, the [What This Place Is Known For] Grill, the [What This Place Is Known For] Shoe Repair. The confusion — and occasional beauty — of that is you say to your husband, “Honey, I’m going down to the White Squirrel,” and he thinks you mean the dry cleaners, when in fact you’re meeting Sheila at the bar for a quick pop.
Brevard, NC, is known for its white squirrels, reportedly escaped from a carnival in the 1940s.
Catch you at the White Squirrel.
Regardless of what part he’s nipping, nibbling, or gnawing at, we’ve had just about enough of it. Enter cabin fever.
Disclaimer: The above link will not take you to a Wikipedia discourse on the history of cabin fever, a term first recorded in 1918, but to the IMDb coverage of a 2002 movie by this name about five 20-somethings in a cabin in the woods who “fall victim to a horrifying flesh-eating virus, which attracts the unwanted attention of the homicidal locals.”
Given a choice, I’d go virus. But I just don’t think I’m going to see this fine work, much as I like the poster.
Look at that little face.
Sometimes you come across something so interesting you want to stick around just to see how it turns out. This can be true of children.
Not everyone agrees, of course. A friend once said: “I’m not really interested in children I’m not related to.”
Pretty sure I’m related to Spike here. He crawled many feet to see me. That’s family! I wish I could see how he turns out.
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