Cathy in the Wright

I Can't Help You, But I Can Refer You To Others

No posting for me today. My in-laws, punishment gluttons that they are, have offered to take The Governor off my hands after lunch. They're going to keep The Senator as well when he gets home from school. I'm outta here and won't be back until after my game tonight.

I was planning a trip to Target, but I may spend my afternoon in the woods behind our house looking for the raccoon that tore open the bag of trash I left on the deck last night. I could shoot it, but I'm thinking more along the lines of "eye for an eye." I'll just rip a hole in his bottom and strew his innards all over his front porch. I think that'll get my indictment overturned.

If you're a follower of the evolution v. creationism debate, don't miss this post over at Hog on Ice. He's got it up twice, so if I've linked to the one he eventually deletes, look for the post called Competing Religions. Anyone who can write about thermodynamics and not put his audience to sleep should win one of those nerd awards the Swedes distribute.

I think Chris should have a side-bar poll going: Sam - pregnant or not pregnant?

Finally, get over to this site. I'm not recommending any particular post; I just think it's wise to stay on their good side.

Bang, bang ... got you!

The neighbor’s van looked like she parked it downrange in a shooting gallery. Four bullet holes in the right side, one in back and three on the left side. The Green Goddess called to find out if the woman and her three kids were okay. The family was just fine, but our expression of concern made her son’s day. He played “got cha” effectively with a truly realistic array of bullet-hole appliqués. Lordy, they were convincing, with just the right amount of dimpled bare metal and the appearance of depth. I was faked out from 10 feet away. Next time, kid, I’m going to put my finger into those punctures. Meantime, Ms. Chairman, I believe the lad would be willing to provide personal training to The Governor, should you want to advance the learning curve. Hey, he owes us; we bought magazine subscriptions.

Today's Outing

As I mentioned yesterday, I went to the nursing home this morning and spent a couple of hours ferrying old-timers around the local golf course. The Cokato Town and Country Club should be thanked for its kindness in providing ten carts and some beautiful grounds to peruse at our leisure. And while one hates to nit-pick in the face of such generosity...I couldn't help but notice the glaring lack of beer carts the entire time we were there. A survivable oversight, but not something your top-notch country clubs would have let happen. Still, we had a pleasant morning.

Beautiful course with scenic Brooks Lake in the background.

Large stretches of well-manicured, rain-sodden lawn. Or as Mr. E. and I liked to call it: Tabula Rasa

Mr. E. I cropped myself out of the picture because I looked ridiculous. The wind had blown my hair across my face, my eyes were all scrunched up, and frankly, you would have been hard pressed to tell who was the volunteer and who was the inmate.

Mr. E. and I had a good time. We didn't leave our initials in the grass anywhere as planned; the groundskeeper was out mowing and seemed to right behind us the whole time. I guess there's always the next outing and a can of spray paint.

Scraping The Bottom Of The Blog Material Barrel

When my sister-in-law (firey, red-headed sheriff's deputy) starts to threaten me about my lack of posting...I take it very seriously. I make it a policy to never, ever deliberately provoke Aunt S.

With that preamble, I dedicate the next three or four balsa-weight paragraphs to her.

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Sunday was all soccer, all day. My first game I played goalie the first half. No one ever likes to play in net, but given the condition of the field after an all-morning soaking rain...my little world behind the 18-yard line was prime real estate. I didn't see a lot of action, but I also emerged the cleanest player of the game.

Game Two: Outdoor, but artificial turf, so no mud. The rain set in again, soaking us all to the bone. No one seemed to mind. Even the folks from the wedding reception at the attached city center braved the drizzle to come outside and watch during the slow dances.

After the game, a handful of us went out to eat. I had some clean clothes in the car and I changed in the restaurant bathroom. While the others had at most a spare t-shirt, I was completely comfy and warm. Nothing like a dry pair of undies to make all right in the world.

During the meal, Dwight mentioned he needed a couple of subs for his men's league that evening, so I wound up playing Game Three: indoor, artificial turf against an over-35 men's team. Dwight assured me no one would care about me playing in a men's league. I think the other team was a little miffed at first; I could sense the "we're going to have to take it easy on the chick" mentality. So I checked their best forward into the boards early on and that did away with any gender sensitivity. We won handily. League fee: $50. Team jersey: $30. Beaten by a girl in your men's league: priceless.

The highlight of the game wasn't a girl on the field however. Towards the end of the game, one of our defenders got shoved in the back by the same forward I checked into the boards earlier. This forward had been hacking and shoving people the entire game. Ray, our man, got so fed up that he rounded on the guy, grabbed him by the throat, shoved him backwards several feet into the goal post and screamed at him. I thought we had seen the last of Ray, but the ref must have had it with their guy as well, because he only made both men go sit off for five minutes. The other team was hoping to see Ray crucified. Beaten by a girl and victimized by an unjust referee. Not a good night for our opponents.

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Apologies to Gary. I know how much you love soccer-blogging. Thanks for keeping me on your distribution list; I love getting all that stuff.

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That's it for now. Tomorrow I may have some better material. I'm heading to the nursing home as usual, but this time without the dog. In the morning, the residents have their annual fall field trip to the golf course next door, and I've been recruited to chauffeur an old-timer around in an EZ-Go. If I'm lucky, I'll get Mr. E. He's a big guy, and with that extra weight, we could really leave some cool marks in the rain-soaked fairways.

My Resume Is Ten Miles Long

Loooooong day at The Outpost. I was fired no less than six times today. The first time he let me go, The Governor was upset by my insisting that he wear something other than just his underpants to the grocery store.

"That's it! You're fired!"

I was eventually re-hired, but sacked again when I wouldn't stop at McDonald's for lunch. When we got home and I wouldn't help him with a puzzle, I was reinstated with full pay. Didn't last long. I was claiming unemployment fifteen minutes later after some other unpopular decision. I'm not sure I was officially back on the payroll by dinner, but when he saw what we were having he pointed his finger at me across the table and told me, "You're really fired now!"

Yeah, right. Just wait until he sees how much unemployment tax the state is going to tag his little ass with. I'll be back on the job by breakfast.

And now...just because he's a good dog and I haven't posted a picture in a while, here is Hoocher. He was watching the school bus come down the road; I'm pretty sure he was thinking, "Big, yellow deer. I can take it."

A flight of fancy

When I was in the Army, circa 1959-1961, I spent a lot of time riding as right-seat ballast while H-13 helicopter pilots practiced for VIP runs during firepower demonstrations. Their idea was to scare the hell out of visiting colonels and generals by flying a shoot-em-up run down a rocky crevice that ended with an elevator-like rise a hundred feet from tall pine trees at the end of Mattson Range at Ft. Rucker, Ala. To do this without crashing required practice, and that’s how come I got involved as a dead-weight substitute for senior-grade brass. Damn, it was exciting and, for years, I’ve longed for just one more ride in a military helicopter. Well, I got that wish Sunday, thanks to my daughter-in-law, Auntie S. She knows a crop-duster, “Crazy Eddie,” who has a Korean-War-vintage H-13 (the bug-like chopper on M.A.S.H.) as his toy. Eddie took me for a ride that was thrilling—although it was too high for me to make toothpicks out of pine needles and he wasn’t packing two .30-caliber machineguns. Darn; but a guy can’t have everything. The grandsons, M and J, were there to watch—green-eyed with envy—until Eddie motioned them aboard, too, one with each parent. We all got the full Monty of helicopter flying—hover close to the ground, back up, make a 360-degree turn and shoot upward to about 500 feet and around the corn and sugar-beet fields near Hector, Minn. By the way, Eddie wasn’t crazy; he’s an excellent pilot. The H-13 was meticulously maintained, which was a comfort, since a copter that loses a rotor blade in flight has a glide angle of 180 degrees. He reputedly got the nickname of Crazy by occasionally flying his fixed-wing crop duster UNDER telephone wires. The airport at Hector also housed a number of ultralight craft, and M and J, got to sit at the controls of one. Talk about primitive! The gas gauge consisted of crayon markings at “2-gal" and "4-gal" on a pellucid plastic tank. The air-speed indicator looked like a test tube with a pipe sticking forward, out of the bottom. Air rushing in the pipe raised a red plastic disc inside the tube to indicate approximate speed. Two ultralights took off while we watched, and that certainly looked like fun. Since I’m forbidden to buy a motorcycle, I suppose there’s no use asking about this equally economical substitute, even if highway traffic is not an issue.

He Goes To Eleven

The Governor and I spent the day running tedious errands. As a perk for behaving so well the entire time, I took him to the McDonalds with the Playland for lunch.

It was late in the afternoon, so the place wasn't too crowded. We headed for the bathrooms first, but we held at bay by the official McDonald's Centurion - an employee on her lunch break. She had her mouth full of salad, but she made the most of her plastic fork - slashing it wildly in the air. We stopped. She started talking through the croutons but I couldn't understand her. Another employee came up from behind us and declared, "Those bathrooms are closed! You'll have to use the one in the Playland area!"

I thanked them both. After the initial fork thrust, I did notice a mass of yellow caution tape and printed signs warning me away, but that's the kind of thing a person is liable to overlook. Good thing they had a back-up system in place.

The Playland had a single, uni-sex bathroom. It wasn't occupied, so in we went. Now I hate using the bathroom with my 3-year old. The Governor is too observant, too curious, and too loud. The minute the door locked, he went into full declarative mode...at top volume:

Mom! I want to do the flushing!

Mom! Do you think someone pooped in here?

Mom! Don't forget to wash your hands!

Mom! I wish I was a chicken nugget!

Mom! You rock! Way to wash your hands!

Hey! I RULE the world!

He thoroughly enjoyed himself. The only thing that dampened his spirits was finding out that once you push the button on the hand dryer, you can't turn it off by pushing it again.

Mom! This thing is SOOOO busted!

We unlocked the door and walked out into a small group of patrons who had formed a queue for the rest room.

Judging from the smirks, I don't think they missed anything.

Next time I think we'll go for the less attention-drawing method of relieving ourselves by just going out behind the restaurant dumpster.

To Margaret: The Rest Of The Story...

Mom and I waited in the parking lot for about another 15 minutes after you left. A large, flat-bed tow truck pulled into the lot, and a good-looking young man got out, hung up his cell phone, and took out his tools. He had the door open in about a minute and a half.

The minute the door was open, the alarm went off. No way to stop it except with the alarm button on the remote. And that's still in the trunk. No problem. Hit the Trunk button and...nothing. Didn't work. I had a whole string of brand new profanities for the Chevy engineeers at this point. But hey! I'll just pop the hatch where the roof folds when you put it down and reach the trunk through there.

Foiled again. More profanities. The tow truck guy tells me these switches are probably electronic and I'll need a lock smith. The hell I will. I can't figure out how to get seats to fold forward (The VP later explained about a lever behind the headrest - again *&$%# you, Chevy engineers - you wouldn't want to put it around the base of the seat like every other car) but there was enough of a gap that I could reach my hand into the front of the trunk. I couldn't see the keys, but I knew they were towards the back corner. I asked Mr. Tow Truck Guy for his long metal bar with the hooked ends and started fishing. Dragged a bunch of stuff out of the way, saw the keys, and finessed them to within arm's reach.

Voila! The alarm had gone off by this point so I'm sure everyone in Plymouth could hear me yell when I finally snagged the keychain. I told Mr. TTG that I'd give him a hug if I wasn't so dirty and sweaty. He said, "Well, I"m kinda sweaty myself after riding in the truck all day." We settled on a handshake and some profuse thanks on my part.

I made it home without further incident.

And yes, I did call The VP and confess before the tow truck got there. Fortunately for me, the boys were yelling and hollering in the background, and he was too distracted to pay much attention to my dilemma. Good job, guys! He simply said, "Okay. Call me when you're on the road." When I got home, he added that he might just pin the keys to my shirt next week.

Thanks again for giving me a ride to Joe and Susan's house and for bringing me back to the car and waiting with me. I owe you big time. Dave - you are NOT to be upset with her for forgetting her cell phone. Mom, thanks for driving out to keep me company in the parking lot. And Joe and Susan...thanks for letting me barge in and use your phone.

By the way...no one else at soccer needs to know about this next Sunday. M'kay? Especially those pesky Germans.

Black Saturday

I ask you to excuse the somber tone of today’s post. We are in mourning here at The Outpost. Yesterday we took the jet ski out for the final ride of the season. There has been much wailing and grinding of teeth since the trailer came out of storage. We may have to hire a grief counselor for The Governor.

The boys and I took the SeaDoo out for her final trip. I wish I could say it was a great day for a ride, but I can’t. The wind was creating some small white-capped waves and the water temperature never recovered from an earlier cold spell. We enjoyed ourselves for a time, bouncing off waves and “getting some big air” as The Governor would say. There was a lot of yee-ha-ing and whoopee-ing. Next season I’m going to install an air horn that bleats out “Dixie.”

But the fun was short-lived. When I slowed down at an inopportune time, we were broadsided by a big wave and got drenched. And while we were wiping our eyes so we could see where we were going…bam! Hit by another big wave. The boys changed their minds about the level of fun involved and I turned us back to the dock amid cries of “I’m cold!” and “Hurry up!”

Once on dry land, both boys started talking about going out again once the wind died down. Sorry, punks, I said, but this is it until next summer. The General Lee is up on blocks until then.

The following scene is too touching to put down in words. I will only say that my children were inconsolable. The ice cream and DVD of their choice lessened the anguish, but it may be months before they fully recover.

In lieu of flowers, the family prefers memorials be donated to the Hurricane Katrina charity of your choice.

Witness to a Reunion

I was privileged—and I mean that—to take my father-in-law, Frank, to a reunion of his WWII unit, the 437th Troop Carrier Group, in Phoenix. Now well into their 80s, these are the guys who took the 82nd Airborne Division to Normandy on D-Day in gliders and C-47 transports and were at Bastgone when clearing weather allowed critically important resupply from the air during the Battle of the Bulge. They also participated in Operation Market Garden (A Bridge Too Far) as well as other airborne/glider operations in France and Germany. Frank was a witness to the invasion buildup from the ground. He had been named a paymaster of the unit—because he was an anomaly—a guy, 20, who could type. I talked to a number of air crew, including Charles, 91, who piloted one of the first gliders to land in France, but was more interested in telling about an escapade in Paris. He and a friend took a small observation plane on a joyride, circling the Eiffel Tower several times and landed on a tennis court to meet some girls who waved at them. After an enjoyable afternoon, including lots of wine, “I got sober enough to remember we had to take off.” They did so, with the girls helping take down some tennis nets to gain takeoff space and holding the small plane’s tail off the ground, which helped gain just enough momentum for the plane to bounce into the air off some bushes. Then, a crew chief on a C-47 returning to England told of flying over one of the invasion beaches, where a shot-up C-47 had crash landed in the surf, leaving only the top above water. The crew of four was sitting in a circle atop the plane, playing cards, while the invasion progressed around them, and they waited for pickup by a landing craft heading seaward. Next year, the 437th is meeting in Washington, D.C., because “it could be the last chance some of us have to see the World War II Memorial.”

Why I Was A No-Show...

Last spring when I sat in the title company office signing away for this new cabin of ours, no one showed me the fine print whereby Labor Day Weekend is declared Cabin Owners' Mandatory 3-Day Get Ready For Winter Toil Fest. All my plans for the weekend were shot, largely in part because The VP did read the fine print, and worse, refused to violate the terms of the deed.

I really felt the pain on Sunday, which was perhaps the most beautiful day of the weekend. I missed my soccer game and the bloggers' get-together at Town Hall Brewery. Instead I was dismantling the water trampoline and scrubbing the scum off the underside of the damn thing.

The VP knew I was displeased. He had pretty much resigned himself to spending a quiet evening at home after the work was done. I crushed any lingering hopes with my frosty, one-word sentences. And just to make it hurt, I slaved over that trampoline in my tight, low-cut swimsuit and did a lot of bending and stooping. I'm guessing next year, we'll be hiring someone to do all the winterizing.

Fortunately for The VP, my neighbors invited us over for "a few appetizers and drinks" later that evening. Inside was enough food to tide over New Orleans for a couple of days and the best margaritas I've ever had. A few of the other neighbors stopped by as well and their festive company completely saved the weekend for me. Saved The VP's weekend too.

So, that's why I missed seeing all my favorite bloggers on Sunday. I'm already looking forward to the next meeting, and to make amends, I'll even wear my swimsuit. And I would take it kindly if the next get-together is not watching the Fraters guys play hockey at an outdoor rink in January.

September: Off To A Good Start

Well this isn't working out how I planned. The Senator started school yesterday and I was hoping that between the time the bus left and the time The Governor woke up, I'd have a good hour and a half to myself. Posts were going to be flying out of me faster than blood out of Anne Boleyn's aorta.

The Governor must have sensed my impending free time because after sleeping in all summer, he now decides to rise before the school bus has hit the end of the dirt road.

I'll fix his wagon. Starting Tuesday, I'm setting the alarm for 5 a.m. He wants early, I'll give him early.

If only his brother had the same problem. The Senator informed me that "first graders DON'T have their mothers wake them up. They use alarm clocks." So we bought an alarm clock and gave it a test run a few days before school started.

Day One: We set the alarm for 7 a.m. He was awake at 6:50. He waited for the buzzer, turned off the alarm, and jumped out of bed ready to go. Yes!

Day Two: We set the alarm for 6:30 a.m. I was waiting outside his bedroom door when the buzzer sounded. It continued buzzing for about a minute before The Senator groggily crawled over to the nightstand, turned off the alarm, and flopped back on his pillow and went back to sleep. Not good.

Day Three: First day of school. The alarm was set for 6:20 a.m. I listened from the top of the stairs as the buzzer started. I went into the kitchen and began fixing breakfast. At 6:23 a.m., I went back to the top of the stairs. Buzz...buzz...buzz. At 6:26 a.m., I went for another listen: buzz...buzz...buzz. I went down to his room and looked inside. He was out cold. No more relying on the alarm clock.

This morning I had to wake him again, in spite of the annoying drone from the alarm clock. But last night I might have figured out part of the problem. Bed time is 8 o'clock, but at 9:30 I went down to finish some laundry and from his room I heard the unmistakable sounds of pretend gun fire. So he got a little lecture on why it's hard to drag our heinies out of bed in the morning when we stay up to late emptying our clips into deserving bad guys.

I guess I'll have to monitor his bedroom a little more closely. Either that or up the dosage on his allergy medication.

As for The Governor...mandatory nap times have been re-instated at The Outpost.