Proud-to-be-an-American-farmer-even-if-I-did-grow-up-without-indoor-plumbing

The male animal's genetic code has been ingrained with oddities such as the peacock syndrome, muscle flexing, and the ridiculous theory of two heads being better than one. Just because they were born with the duality, does not make it a logical assumption. Like I heard one woman put it, "With one of these, I can get as many of those as I want!"

I think that geography is a large contributor to the general consensus on virility. In California, men tend to compare the contents of their yuppie garages; In locker rooms, they are exceedingly consumed with physical attributes; in Missouri, it's the I'm a bigger hillbilly than you competition. Never before have I witnessed such absurdities as I have here among the ranks of the proud-to-be-an-American-farmer-even-if-I-did-grow-up-without-indoor-plumbing folk.

These farmers get together and they start spitting and picking and urinating in a no-holds-barred fashion. For instance, my John is not a spitter, but if you put him next to a man that does, the mucus begins to fly.
The concrete pad for my new store was poured the other day by a typically farm-reared pair of men. The young one was quiet and unassuming, the straight man in the unlikely duo. The older one, a genuine corn-pone and damn proud of it. He was a real character right out of Lil' Abner. I wouldn't classify him as being lacking in intelligence, quite the contrary. He had a lot to say about pert near everything. A real well-spring of acquired knowledge. How he acquired it remains a mystery, one I feared tackling for fear of it costing me a few more hours wages, as he's given to gab.

"We had ground hog fer dinner la's-nigh and we didn't even have to watch for buckshot! Man was 'at good! The woman used the right fire arm that time." He patted his belly to punctuate, which I thought was right nice. Given the flow of the conversation I was expecting a gastrointestinal-symphony to drive home the importance of a woman knowing her duties since I had already voiced my displeasure in the stereotypical and all the baggage that goes with it.

A collector of antiquities, he was fascinated with my massive collections of bound redundancies. His cursory regard a red herring that led to a homily on the per pound rate for paper at the local recycling plant ( a guy with a scale, a school bus and two storage sheds).

When his toothpick swung round to the 'tother side `o his mouth I could sense the shift in conversation coming with the next heave of his chest. He asked if I had any shoe buttoners.

"Ya know what a mean don't cha?"
"Of course", I ventured,"I found lots of old shoe leathers from those button top shoes when we cleaned out the barn, but no buttoners. "
"I c'lect `em, the buttonin' wands. I got 'em ferm all over...Missouri, Tennessee, Oklahoma. Never found one ferm Arkansas. Ya know why? They din't wear many shoes in Arkansas. Couldn't 'o, er I would a found least ways one. Mebe, i's got sumpin' ta do with their feets..."

In Missouri, people are merciless with the jokes about Arkansasrins. Apparently, at the southern border of our fair state, there is an invisible line that divides the hominids from the direct descendent's of Neanderthal Man. At least, the way they tell it.

When he stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his over-all's, the toothpick swung back around.

"Ya know this boy here, don't know his mathematician. Yep, I've a taught 'im what a could. He din't even know... hey, ya know what half `o 12 is?"

I knew there had to be a catch, so far he had carefully led us in one direction and then bushwhacked from the rear on every subject.

"Why don't you tell me. Better yet, show me."
"Gots a pen n paper?" He drew out the number 12 in Roman numerals (xii), then asked me what that was. Then he drew a line through it ( xii ). "Nahow, wha's that?".

What a character.
7/29/2005 3:0 AM
word count 719

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Squeezing Water Out Of A Turnip Truck

One mournful sigh left me like air escapes a bellows, only not as constructively. Would I ever get to sleep? Why couldn’t I control my lack-of-sleep habits? I had a bottle of pills for that, only at the late hour, if I were to take one I would sleep clear up until supper the next day, so the only real choice I had was to stretch my cramping fingers in a frantic caressing of my QuikPAD, pumping out words in strangely affectionate strokes.

I spend way too many nights just like last night. All the quiet is so deafening I have to put it somewhere, so I feed it to my word processor, then follow it around with a baggie and pooper-scooper for the next three days waiting for the payoff. Kind of like that time I caught a brief glint of gold flash as my ring careened down the throat of my daughters puppy. Messy business. I’d much rather try to squeeze water out of a turnip truck.

I blame my love affair with inanimates on a fear of commitment. That’s right, I have hang-ups just like the next person.

I’ve heard women moan about how their husband is more in love with his car or TV remote, more so than with she, his wife, or how a woman kicked her boyfriend out over a water ring on her beloved Chippendale. If a man is so into his car that he can’t remember his spouses name then let him sleep with it…in the garage. If he’s the kind to stop at nothing to maintain controlling interest in the remote for the sake of dictatorship, toss it to him and tell him to hop on top of it next time he feels frisky.

If your guy gets the boot for leaving his mark on your Chippendale, I’ve got one question for you, “If you’ve got a drop-dead gorgeous male stripper lounging in your living room in nothing but a black bow-tie what are you doing letting the inferior specimen in?“ What are you….nuts? Dump the bum and keep the stripper. You won’t even care where he puts his glass as long as he’s wearing those rip away pants.

Ah…wait a minute, if the stud-muffin just lays there while another man sets his beer on him you lose either way, if you know what I mean…girlfriend.

Let’s get back to my main topic; I’m not the only one that prefers the company of things I own outright over that of the opposite sex. Somehow, that didn’t come out right. What I meant to say was, if a man does not please me, I can’t sell him for a profit, unlike his battery operated competitor. No, that sounded really-really wrong. How about, the only words that come out of my technological companions are the ones I put into them? Now I’m making my techno-toys sound like a bad date. This is where I would usually bow my head back to my work at hand and mumble something barely audible, so that my hard of hearing companion thinks I am actually paying attention to him, so I can continue to ignore him in peace. He hates to admit he can’t hear what I say, for fear of hearing about his lack of hearing and how he should get it fixed, so he just follows my lead and retreats while making an effort to disguise random verbalizations as an answer to the question that he thinks he didn‘t hear.

With men, it all boils down to power. Tim the-tool-man Taylor summed it up in 20 minutes weekly, with common male misinterpretations , splitting hairs like a blow-drier. It just goes to show that high levels of testosterone cannot coexist within the same body mass as philosophical prowess. If anyone can point out a man that possesses both, I’ll trade in my Ken doll in a heart-beat.

My only other quiet-time diversion would be reading, which I did for a couple of hours before stuffing thoughts into my flash card. I made the mistake of choosing an intriguing trade publications to wile away the time and that’s why , at 5 am, I was still awake. I read an article on editing by a successful agent with an amazing track record and I couldn’t wait to pull out my in-progress works and start assaulting adverbs and morphing adjectives.

When the miracle of darkness began to fade, I eventually got to sleep. I was up by noon and eating at my favorite restaurant by 2pm, then wandered the grocers aimlessly, chucking things into my basket at carefully plotted intervals, so it would look like I knew what I was doing. I was freed from the yearly bonding ritual much to my relief, when John hustled off to a local truck and tractor pull with a pal this time. Not that I don’t enjoy his company, it’s just too hot out there at 90, with 80 percent humidity, and besides… I really need to polish my keyboard tonight.
7/16/2005 7:13 PM
word count 846

To Indulge My Wonton Doodling Desires

I was so happy when I won the bid for a new Summa Sketch. It’s been a year or two since I blew up the last one. The best part is, this one is factory sealed, never used. The first one was a used model that was advertised as new-in-box. I was a disappointed Ebayer when it arrived and I found it to be in less than new condition. You could say I was ready for a repeat performance of that purchase. Sometimes it’s great to be wrong, isn’t it? I love my office equipment. Maybe too much so. I come by it honestly…actually…genetically. My Dad loved his techno-toys. I never thought I would inherit that. I never thought I’d inherit a lot of things, like varicose veins, facial hair or organizational skills. I realize the latter is something most would call a learned skill and not genetically coded. I disagree.

Like my daughter, Destiny, I fought the urge to create a file system for such nonsensicals as used batteries with yet a breath or two of life left in them, enough to jump start a thread-bare Barney in a pinch. I’m constantly re-systematizing, unscrambling the organized jumble of my entire catalog of used and discarded genius. Like myself, she rebelled against the swelling yen of domesticity only to fold under the pressure of obsessive compulsion.

My purchase now sits before me all shiny and new whispering sweet nothings, pleading me to pick up the stylus and create, in remonstration of the clickety-clunking of my fingers in their intimate dance with it’s adversary, the keyboard.

Like the color-coding fanatic that I am, I have stuck to my horse-feathers and poppycock list of prerequisite to-do’s that rated a scratch or two higher than playing with my new toy. Hopefully, tomorrow I will free up enough guilt-free time to indulge my wonton doodling desires. In the mean time I’ll post my ramblings and hustle off to bed in my dutifully meandering manner, before drifting into la-la land. Most importantly, I’ll be sure and not blow up this one. There’s no way I can possibly cross up any wires this time; I spray painted the Summa Sketch cords red from plug to jack!
7/14/2005 2:10 AM
word count 396

My Rosy Revlon Pie Whole

Have you ever been in such a good mood that everything that comes out of your mouth is silly? I'm having one of those days...or, I was. My whole world has been a natural high lately. I started to feel like Superman, I could do no wrong. The euphoria lowered my defenses, which turned this cancerian into a soft shell crab. I get goofy when I'm happy. Unfortunately, exuberance comes at a cost.

I have a bad habit of verbally jousting everybody. I'm just funnin' with people and those who know me are aware of that and participate in the ritualistic game of clever conversational exchanges, but the occasional individual is taken off guard when the witty rejoinders begin to flow freely from my rosy Revlon pie whole. I begin the lively exchange and get stonewalled. That can bring me down quicker than an explosive toting terrorist. That was my experience today. Someone called today that hasn't seen me in years, asking for a phone number. While I was fumbling for the information I tried to break the ice with one of my moronic responses I'm so famous for when giddy. I then realized he was in no mood for humor and I was met curtly then disengaged. Ouch.

While it laid me out for a moment or two, I quickly recuperated and went about my nonsense toying with my chair adjustments and spinning in circles. I don't like to dwell in the cesspool of negative emotions. I'm sorry someone out there finds my humor hostile, but I know me, I won't give up hope that the next time we speak I won't have to pretend I'm a dry, unresponsive curmudgeon for fear of retribution. Fear is another one of those emotions I give little time to.

Who knows, maybe he'll have a good day and feel silly, and enjoy the repartee.
7/3/2005 7:4 PM
word count 331

Ontogeny Recapitulating Philogeny, Susie Style

A husband who is a real diplomat
always remembers her birthday,
but forgets what her age is.


It crept up on me like a blind turtle. The year moved slower than usual, plodding in a confused weaving pattern, bashing into deadlines and bonking into resistances of all kinds. I retreated further into my shell after each collision. We cancerians are like that. No matter who you are or what your sign is, some years are just harder to get through. By that I don't mean unpleasant, just hard. There were so many large projects to tie up, huge decisions to make on short notice, and critical mistakes to repair. There were trips to far away exotic places like L.A., and visitors from the cheese state. Then there's the rash thing. Every once in a while I am plagued with allergic reactions consecutively, this was one of those years. I’m still fighting the itch.

Even though being the birthday girl has many perks, I suppose I wasn't in any hurry to leap into another age group. I will now fall into the 46-50 box. If I apply the cup is half full attitude, I could say I look young for a 46-50 year old; employing the half empty mindset, I'm worried that those numbers will turn into my measurements, or worse yet, my pant size. I knew July was coming. Duh. There were fireworks stands springing forth in every parking lot. Everywhere I went I was assaulted with the red, white and blue machinations of the merchandising monsters. I think what I was wishing for was to be able to get through the year without anyone asking how old I was, especially the month of July.

I've been getting cards and gifts all week which made me feel special. I even felt pretty when the long stem roses arrived, even if I was in my ugly clothes with my hair pulled up in the most unattractive bun that just screamed Nazi Germany . I'd been fricassee frantic all day Thursday, and cleaning like an indentured servant , so I wouldn't have to on my birthday. Cooking on my special day would be like…ironing on my honey moon! I don't think so! I'll never do that again.
If you're wondering to which I am referring, the answer is...both.

If a person slaves for a week so that one day could be bondage-free, does that make them an optimist, masochist, or just stupid? How about a stupid masochistic optimist? My week long servitude was exhausting; It left me battered (I'm a klutz ), beaten ( I just couldn't get ahead), and bruised (More clumsiness ) and most importantly, too worn to enjoy much. Good thing it was a safe bet I wouldn't be dancing on my day because my feet hurt! Don't get me wrong, I love to dance...er...I did...when I could. If I could have today, I couldn't have, on account of my self-inflicted enslavement leaving my legs in the state of Jello, so good thing I couldn't anyways.

The last two days were worth it all in th end . I don't remember ever having such an eventful, me centered week in my life. It was great. I will always remember it as being a strangely comforting euphemism. Hopefully, I'll live long enough to savor the memories throughout my golden years, thus completing the metaphorical circle of life-- ontogeny recapitulating phylogeny, Susie Style.
7/3/2005 11:47 AM
word count 572

It's Not Everyday People Are Willing To Blow Shit Up For Me

It was my birthday an hour and fifty-six minutes ago and it was all good, except for me being that much closer to...old. Even though it's officially over, it doesn't really end until the last fireworks fizzle out over our west field tonight at my official birthday shindig, complete with fireworks, which is to me, since I haven't gone to bed yet, actually...tomorrow.

It's cool having a surprise party! It would have been RE-ALL-Y cool if it could have stayed a surprise since I haven't had one in a coons....no wait...make that two coons ages. John just knows me too well though. Since he's going to be replacing a floor for a neighboring farm in the morning/afternoon he just knew I'd get bored and disappear while he was gone. That's true, I would have...maybe. It has been pretty hot around these here parts as of late and that makes for a torturous day in a 1964 Ford Fairlane with no factory installed air conditioning unit. Did they even have those in '64? Apparently not in the linear world of it's previous owner. Sucks to be me on a hot day, and it's been pretty darn hot. It was so hot today that a black cat laid sprawled across an old rusty harness, limbs a danglin', all day long.

Today I was able to go to dinner with friends, watch my niece on the silver screen at the local multiplex and the topper...I finally got a new desk chair. I know I've had other chairs and each one was better than the last, but they were all broken in one way or t'other and this is my first really new one, fresh out of the box. The leather still smells like plastic wrap. When I was told I was going to be picking out a new desk chair see'in's how I live at my desk, I jumped for joy, which isn't easy while leaning on a walking stick.

I sucked in a lot of air in my exclamation, "Thank you!...and my butt thanks you! If I can ever do anything for you, ...or your butt, think it over before asking, okay?"
Then I plopped into the cushy cradle and began playing with the hydraulic seat adjustments like the easily entertained idiot that I am.

Normally I'd remain hard at work through all the witching hours and on into the wow-your-up-early hours thinking up reasons not to go to bed for fear of missing out on something cool, but I won't tonight. I'd hate to take a nose dive into my big fat birthday cake on account of exhaustion. No sir-ee, I'm gonna be jacked up on adrenalin and mocha-chino-foo-foo-java so I don't miss an ooh or awe opportunity. After all, it's not everyday that people are willing to blow shit up for me.
7/2/2005 1:56 AM
word count 481