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: rural
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:
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:
It’s Just Better ~ Tunbridge World’s Fare Part Deux
This year’s TWF poster, by Wendy Judge of Royalton
When I’m not huffing Vicks VapoRub®, canoodling, or making embarrassing typos like “right up your ally,” I’m culling the herd of Deep Thoughts in my noggin to fill again this humble space for your amusement. This week’s deepest thoughts were memories of when, years ago, a friend and I were seeking a place to live and kept driving across the border between Vermont and New Hampshire looking at towns that came recommended. Every time we crossed into Vermont, we breathed easier. “It’s just better,” she said. Which I propose now, 15 years later, as our new state motto. No disrespect to the Granite State.
One reason Vermont rocks is its annual Tunbridge World’s Fair, or as one fan put it, “Sugar, lights, grease, noisy crowds…wow, an American dream.” We go for the music, the animals, native Vermonters, rides, maple cotton candy, games of “skill”, and that blend of meats you can’t get at home—and wouldn’t want to but somehow crave once a year. It’s a draw, not a drawback.
Happily, this year’s Dairy Costume Class was the best ever. That’s where kids dress up their young cows and selves in sartorial representations of, say, Surgeon and Nurse. The three winners were Cop and Criminal, Burger and Fries, and Milk and Cookies, all brilliantly realized.
Burger and Fries
Cookies and Milk
Cop and Criminal
When the real-life cop manning the Applause-O-Meter pointed to the girl of Cop and Criminal, I yelled, “Lady cop!” and the guy next to me cried, “Conflict of Interest!” It’s that kind of gig and is my favorite, along with the Livestock Cavalcade (Supreme Dairy Cow, crazy goats, crazier humans in goat carts), which is second only in audience participation to the Coin Drop Cavalcade motorists enjoy on the way in.
The Livestock Cavalcade
I also like to vote on the Art and view the dioramas comprising the Children’s Decorated Vegetables. This year’s eyecatchers were the quilts, and a child’s ridged, skinny squash painted like a blue whale. Remarkable! Outside, my dad ran into an acquaintance in the know. This man said there used to be a Dance Hall where the maple hut now is, and the point was “to go in with your wife, and leave with somebody else’s,” (hey, it was the 60s) and that one year there was “mud wrestling.” Here’s the convo:
Upper Valley Girl: Mud wrestling?! In the Beer Hall?
Knowledgeable Man: No, in the field behind the barns.
UVG: Oh, some kind of impromptu free-for-all after a rainstorm?
KM: Let’s just say this was not a fair-sanctioned event.
UVG: It was ad hoc?
KM: It was more than that.
Sorry I missed it! Thank you, Knowledgeable Man. We didn’t get into the Girlie Tent years. Way my mom tells it, my great-grandfather was kicked out of the house in Barnard for having come home with lipstick on his collar from that particular “attraction.” As my Dad tells it, it was something to do with a Girlie woman named “Sally.” What I wouldn’t give to have seen any of it, them in a lather in their old-tymey garb and pre-deodorant BO.
Children’s Decorated Vegetables
This, the 139th year, was the Year of the Chicken and Rabbit. I personally didn’t see much of either except in the overpriced box of greasy popcorn chicken I hauled around for 2 hours before chucking. You can only eat so many of those babies—unless you’re one of the Harringtons of Pomfret, in which case you can eat a whole bucket while watching the Larkin Contra Dancersfor hours on end.
Swine Show
Ah, the TWF. Well, another reason Vermont is so cool is the community vibe. I’ve been lonely in big cities but, upon achieving the Green Mountain State, never so. The laffs are early and often even at choir rehearsal, where everyone reverts to high school chorus behavior and a mosquito laden with EEE, West Nile Virus, and malaria can put the fear of God where it belongs—into the tenors.
So if you’re looking to relocate and you want nutty events and community—and hairy people in pilly sweaters with animal fur on them who don’t dye their hair or shave properly (Green Mountain casual) —it could be for you. It’s also a good place to get zuked. That’s when you leave your car unlocked and someone puts a giant, unwanted zucchini in your back seat. Lock your doors. Good day.
Giantest Squash competition.
Share this:
How Many Barbies is Enough Barbies?
They’re so…Barbie.
~ To form a kick line?
~ To constitute a quorum?
~ To populate a viable sweat shop?
~ To unionize?
~ To be just one too many stinkin’ Barbies?
In college, with the help of the drunken tarts I called friends, I created a prototype for Party Barbie®. She had one broken high heel, chipped nail polish, bruises, Walk of Shame hair, torn clothing, a cigarette glued to her hand (or was it a fatty?), a black eye ~ you get the picture. Mattel wasn’t interested. Bunch of stiffs.
Share this:
Just Google It
In high school, a classmate’s grandfather would say, “Now we’re cooking with gas!” to mean, I think, “Now we’re rolling along, getting things done with modern rapidity.” The comedy being it wasn’t even electricity yet; gas was just a step above wood. I’ve repeated this for 35 years and no one got it until recently when a woman replied, “My mother used to say that.” If you’ve read this humble column, you may think I don’t care whether people know what I’m talking about. But it is rewarding when they do.
In college, a friend would sigh, “We live and learn,” when something went amiss. I dug it, but we were only 18. How much wisdom were we really nailing down at that point?
When asked for their most and least favorite expressions, people respond with an alarming if thrilling vigor. I offer you my favorites plus a random sampling from the nutters I call friends. Some were unprintable. Some made the cut. Let’s start with modern expressions.
Girls make this charming new sound when they see something cute, akin to the “Cha!?” of indignation from the 90s. I can’t get the sound into print without using a musical scale, so if you see me at the bar at Harrington House I’ll do it for you. I also like when, say, a guy going on a date comes down the stairs dressed like a loser or weirdo, and his friends greet him with, “Seriously?” Seriously? is akin to Really?, which a New York friend detests: “Really? has freaking taken over. To express irate incredulity…” [The rest is unprintable; basically, she’s mad but using it herself uncontrollably.]
I myself loathe the modern Just Google it. Oh? You mean there’s a place I can go besides you for information? Something called the I-n-t-e-r-n-e-t where one can learn f-a-c-t-s? Oklahoma, OK! Why would I expect you to explain what you’re talking about when I can just go “look it up?” Are you my parent and I’m in sixth grade? But onto the real winners.
UVG Lervs: A snowball’s chance in Hell; Hell’s bells; Like watching paint dry; The inmates are running the prison; Every which way from Sunday; She’s a real ticket/pistol; rough sledding; My money’s on (whomever is more likely to win the improbable competition just suggested); No walk in the park; Let the fur fly; barnburner; sandbagger; I could care less (false positive); She’s got a bee in her bonnet; I don’t want to throw ants on your picnic but; As crazy as the day is long; Geez Louise; While we’re young! (said angrily to person in charge by people on a long line going nowhere); Box your own weight (dating); He caught the bullet; Driving the porcelain bus/Talking to Ralph on the big white phone (hurling); I’ve got to see a man about a horse.
Contributors Lerv: Your barn door is open; I’m not dead yet; All Hell broke loose; Going to Hell in a hand basket; Put the pedal to the metal; MacGyver it; He’s a friend of Dorothy; As welcome as a skunk at a lawn party; It’s colder than a witch’s [cold part]; Not for nothing; In a New York minute; Having one’s knickers in a twist; You’re the bomb; She has a face that could stop a clock; I need an adult (film industry-ese for: “I need a higher-up/decision maker.”); To a man with a hammer, every problem is a nail to pound; hot mess; Older than dirt; Having more money than God; Paying through the nose; He could talk a dog off a meat wagon; Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas; Catch more flies with honey than vinegar; and, of course, That’s what s/he said.
Crazy: A couple cards short of a full deck; A few sandwiches shy of a picnic; She doesn’t have all her cups in the cupboard; One bubble off plumb.
Vermonty: Wicked (as adverb); Yeah it does; Clear as mud; The illogical but addictive So don’t I when one is actually in agreement.
Military: SOL; Loose cannon; Whisky Tango Foxtrot.
Tree surgery: Mind the angle of the dangle.
Southern: There’s still a little chicken left on that bone (when someone misses a putt); Wanna come with?; He’s just as smart as he can be (i.e. not that smart).
Contributors Hate: It is what it is; Bring your A game; The Grass is always greener; Nudge, nudge, wink, wink; That’s the ticket; Get used to it; Don’t go there.
Confusing to me or others: Sleeping like a baby (did ya sleep well or not?); No skin off my teeth; This fish is either real smart or real dumb (Quint in Jaws – suggested by krazy friend, am unsure of its applications); I can’t afford spats for a hummingbird (Robert Blake in an interview, among other oddities).
What do these mean? Hey, what am I, some kind of source of information? For the love of [deity], just Google it. Good day.
***
Unprintable submissions, more or less in order of ascending foulness
Mother of God; holy mother of God; holy balls (Catholic grandma’s—I can only hope it was the “great balls of fire” type of balls); holy Hell; Jesus, Mary and Joseph; that really chaps my ass/burns my fanny; as welcome as a turd in a punch bowl; as useful as tits on a bull; as tight as a hawk’s ass in a power dive; busier than a one-armed paperhanger with crabs; he’s got a bug up his ass; they’re blowing smoke up your ass; Christ on a cracker; shit on a shingle; when the shit hits the fan; shit for brains; shitting like a goose; built like a brick shit house; shit sandwich; [Doing something for] shits and giggles; Are you shitting me? — and it’s Elizabethan cousin, “I shit you not.” (Which, according to my Shakespeare expert, should really be, “I shit thee not.” ); I’d tap that.
I leave you with a friend’s gorgeous rant on a hated expression
The most inane and therefore the most popular is “It is what it is.” Not only is this expression redundant – -“It is” would do the trick — it is entirely unhelpful as an observation when your initial question was “What the fuck is it?” I think the expression gained popularity after Bill Clinton proposed in his Lewinsky scandal defense “that depends on what the meaning of ‘is’ is,” and totally blew our minds. “Is” was debatable then. Now it’s not, and neither is “it.”
Ann Aikens can be reached via Facebook (ann.aikens.7), e-mail at uppervalleygirl@gmail.com, Twitter at @uvgvt (http://twitter.com/uvgvt), or her blog at www.uppervalleygirl.wordpress.com. Comments welcome.
Share this:
And the Livin’ is Easy
And don’t forget to play.
I found this list in a used book I bought this summer. Don’t think I didn’t consider executing it.
Hey RB, if you call me, I’ll drop by. Don’t let your parents’ concern throw you~we’ll have fun!
The only RB i can think of offhand is Roberto Benigni. We’d hoot so loud we’d have to close his parents’ windows. [Rent Night on Earth and watch the Italy segment. I’ll give you a dollar if you don’t laff so hard your pants break.]
uppervalleygirl 