Cathy in the Wright

Yeah I Want Some More Cheesy Poofs U.S. Territory

Go look at this graphic and see if you don't hear Eric Cartman saying, "Nononono. You here. Me here."

Find The St. Pauli Girl

Why I Love Living In The Country: Reason 310

A headline in our local paper:

Cokato woman writes song about water tower dismantling

There will be a live performance at a local coffee shop, but if you miss it...the song is available on CD.

Viagra Spokesman?

I wasn't sure which party would get the next big political sex scandal. It's a shame it had to happen here in Minnesota.

The 81-year-old father of U.S. Sen. Norm Coleman was cited for lewd conduct and indecent exposure Tuesday for allegedly having sex in a vehicle with a 38-year-old woman, according to police reports.

81 years old...Is there not some very, very small part of you, regardless of political persuasion, that just secretly wants to give the guy a high-five?

The Senator Learns A Lesson, Or Why Are Those Soybeans Turning Yellow So Early In The Season

A couple of wildly busy days around here...the highlight of which was taking a school bus (air-conditioning free!) to Valleyfair amusement park on Monday with The Senator's Cub Scout Pack. The VP, The Governor, and I tagged along to make it a family affair. We had a grand time, although The Governor loudly expressed his disdain on more than one occasion when he failed the height requirement for a few rides. Too short for the go-karts?! "That's a BAD rule!"

He was mollified by repeated trips down the water ride with the 50 foot drop at the end.

Not only was the day lots of fun, but educational as well. For example, The Senator learned that it is a bad idea, no matter how hot you are, to chug down a quart of Gatorade before an hour and a half bus ride home. I won't go into the graphic details. Suffice it to say that The VP had to have the bus driver pull over on some remote county highway so The Senator could hop out and violate some poor farmer's soybeans.

I stayed on the bus because The Gov had fallen asleep in my lap. I have to admit, I was a little surprised by the comments from the rest of the pack. I thought they were going to roast The Senator. Instead I heard

Hey, man. Leave him alone. I had to do that once.

Geez! He's still going!

Quit looking at him.

Remember when Mom had to stop for you, Joe?

Geez! He's still going!

I feel sorry for that farmer.

It was pretty funny. And the sympathy was touching. Of course, his father and I aren't so kind. Now every time we pass a crop field, we stop and ask him if he needs to take a leak.

Warts And All

Yesterday I took The Senator to see the family doctor. He has had some small bumps on his upper lip for years, but lately they seem to have spread to his cheek and arms. Our doctor seemed to think they are warts. She noticed a few larger warts on The Senator's thumb and declared that we needed to treat these as well. She looked at me and at The Governor. "Do you two have any?"

Welllll....yes. I have one on my right hand. The Gov has two on his finger.

"We'll treat you all right now." She leaves and returns with the cannister of doom. She's gonna freeze 'em.

She zapped everyone's warts a couple of times and then coated them with some sort of toxin. "Poison," she said, "Don't put your fingers near your mouth.'

The whole process was uncomfortable, but we got through it. We got our band-aids, our suckers, and left.

In the car, the boys start complaining. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. And being a nurturing mother, I said, "Oh suck it up."

A few hours later, I'm fixing dinner and bumped my covered wart on the edge of the kitchen counter. Oh. Wow. Vision blurred. Eyes watered. Stomach lurched. I dropped to my knees. And I have a high tolerance for pain.

Dinner was a quiet affair. I didn't talk at all. But when the boys didn't want to finish their meal, I said, "Go scrape your plates into the dog dish."

They hung their heads, and The Senator asked in a quivering voice, "Does this mean we don't get any dessert?"

"No. You get dessert."

"We do?!"

"Yes. I owe you one."

And so the night of July 13th will live in infamy here at The Outpost. A pencil eraser-sized wart brought Mom to her knees and a Rule was Broken.

And if this wretched wart grows back, I may be forced to amputate at the wrist. It has to be less painful.

Be-Cud He's The Best

I must have got up too early. I just read The Bleat. This passage stuck out for some reason:

My friend in the hooch business slipped me a bottle of Xcellent, the new Swiss vodka, which goes for $31 a bottle. I almost poured it out after one sip. And by “it” I mean the entire bottle. It tasted like rotten grass clippings.

Now I can't clear the image of James Lileks feverishly rooting through the Jasperwood compost pile with a fork.

The temptation to gently point out that perhaps he meant the vodka tasted like what he imagines rotten grass clippings must taste like fades when you realize that the author's life experiences so far outstrip your own that it is quite likely he has eaten decomposing lawn at one point or another. After all, the man lives in Minneapolis. They take their recycling very seriously over there. One day you get some sort of Living Green brochure touting "If it's not turning to dirt fast enough, try a little ranch dressing..." and the next day you're comparing your eco-salad to bad vodka with unimpeachable authority.

You know what? I just re-read everything written so far and I'd delete it, but I've got nothing else until I work up that post about the family trip to the clinic yesterday to have warts burned and poisoned.

You wish I was kidding. Happy Friday.

Pinch Me, I Think I'm Dreaming

I was already bouncing off the walls when I figured out how to fix my PC and get files uploaded. Now, my comments are fixed and I am so manic I may not sleep again until Thursday.

Kevin, you are my HERO!

So feel free to say hi, leave a joke, or say something really, really nice about Kevin.

Happy Day

My soccer match this evening yielded some unexpected benefits. Turns out one of the guys on my team is a computer science professor. I've played with him for years and never knew exactly what he did. So I asked him about my uploading problems. And voila! I am back to uploading pictures. Of course, the fix was remarkably simple. Roomfuls of typing monkeys were scoffing at my ignorance. And Kev, thank you for determining that the problem was with my computer; otherwise I never would have bothered asking this guy about my problem.

And now that I'm able to post photos once again, I leave you with a picture of The VP. Here he was marching in the Waverly Days parade this afternoon. Nana, you would have been very proud.

Great Weekend

Friday night we invited the cream of the township society over to the cabin for some fun. We took the pontoon out to the middle of the lake, dropped anchor, and went swimming. Well, swimming is perhaps misleading. Our neighbor, Tiffany, introduced us to the new sport of beer bobbing. Take a life jacket, flip it upside down, stick your legs through the arm holes, pull it up as far as you can, fasten a buckle or two, and you’ve got a flotation device that allows you to sit up comfortably in the water so you can hold your beer with ease.

Picture wearing a thick, foam Depends with a little back support and you’ve got the idea.

Getting the life jacket on was not as easy as it sounds, especially if you’re already in the water and waves are lapping at your neck. That beer tastes especially good after you’ve been struggling for fifteen minutes trying to keep your head above water while at the same time trying to submerge a life jacket that doesn’t want to cooperate.

But it’s all worth the effort. Floating in the middle of a lake on a warm summer evening with a cold beer and your friends making you laugh to the point of tears…could it get better? Why, yes it could. Leave the men up on deck to catch the empties and toss fresh cold ones down.

The men did eventually join us. They had to; they couldn’t hold it until we got back to the cabin. (We made them swim a respectable distance away from the boat.) Once in the water, they put their life jackets on upside down and joined us for a beer.

We were singing, laughing, yelling, and drinking with gusto. No wonder the other boats gave us a wide berth. I’m sure the other cabin owners were out with binoculars and have already started to trace the boat’s registration number. I expect a letter from the lake association next week.

We eventually made it back to the cabin for a late dinner. And here, dear readers, is where you are missing out because my computer is busted and I can no longer upload photos. After dinner, Tiffany and Andy gave us a housewarming gift. And by Jove if it isn’t the gaudiest piece of crap I have ever seen. Seashells and a pink flamingo all combined into one hideous knick-knack. Words cannot do it justice. It went up on the mantle. And it shall stay there forever.

Or until neighbor Kirk gets married.

Fingers Crossed

In the interests of re-gaining comments and pictures, I have given out sensitive information to a fellow blogger who was kind enough to offer his aid in fixing my site problems.

While I have no doubts about the purity of his intentions, I would not put it past him to change my font color to pink or add pictures of cigar-smoking nuns in the header. I just wanted to warn you in case odd things start happening around here.

That said, my gratitude for his offer of help will remain unbounded, regardless of the outcome.

An Outpost Tale In Which The Governor Pleads For A Grandparent To Come Rescue Him From His Evil Mom

After what seems like a month spent at our cabin, I made the executive decision to stay home today and clean here at The Outpost. Neglect had taken its toll. Spiders were no longer hiding in the corners and behind furniture; I found webs trailing from the refridgerator door to the sink. Apparently, they didn't think we were coming back.

While I was cleaning, The Governor amused himself by throwing his green, suction-cup ball at every glass surface he could find. Just avoid the big window over the stairs with the light fixture hanging in front of it, I told him.

He took one look at the aforementioned window and fired. The ball barely missed the light fixture, bounced off the window, and fell down the stairs.

I closed my eyes and indulged in a brief daydream about sending The Gov along the same trajectory path.

Okay, I said, go get the ball and bring back up here. I think he knew the axe was about to fall, but he wasn't sure if it was going to be a nick or the full beheading. He took his time. He finally got back to the top of the stairs and I motioned for him to follow me into the kitchen. I stopped and pointed into the trash can.

"What?! In the garbage?!"

I nodded. He dropped it in the trash bin and collapsed on the floor, sobbing.

And as any good parent knows, you can't just stop there. Kick 'em while they're down. I stood over him and harped, Maybe next time you'll listen when I tell you not to do something.

He sat up and turned around to look at me with red, teary eyes. He raised one finger in the air and asked, "Can't you give me just one more chance?"

No. Now go find something to do.

Mom and Dad - if you're thinking of calling me and telling me how hard I'm being about this, don't bother. I won't be able to hear the phone ringing over all the wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Calling Dr. Kevorkian

My comments have been broken for quite some time. This morning, Moveable Type or my computer (I'm not sure which one) is blocking the pop-up window I need to upload files.

Is it really worth blogging if I can't post photos of decaying animal carcasses?

I'm afraid my lack of technical skills has not only caught up to but overtaken me. My options appear to be: a) quit; b) fasten myself, remora-like, on some other blogger who has more amps flowing between his/her ears and can keep a site going and post on his/her blog; or c)see if anyone out there who still reads knows how to fix things on this end.

If this is the end, I'll let you know where to send the floral arrangements.

Danger Seeker Harvey Mansfield

Our Imprimis ("The national speech digest of Hillsdale College") arrived in the mail today. Harvard professor Harvey C. Mansfield's commencement address, delivered at Hillsdale College, was the featured speech this issue. His topic? A New Feminism.

Wow. If Harvard's feminist crowd was having the vapors over Larry Summer's comments, they better not read this without the defib paddles. A couple of my favorite excerpts:

Manly men reproach unmanly men, but merely look down on women, who are excused from manliness. After all, they are women.

and

Human beings need to feel important so that they believe that what they do for good or ill matters in the grand scheme of things. Manly men who stand up for a country, a cause, or a principle help all of us to feel important. Women want to feel important as well, but usually in a different way; they want to be important to someone--to their children, to their man.

and

To be the manager of a home is the moderate and attainable ambition of most women; it is the place where they find honor and joy. It is where they most readily find "recognition," if we must use that word. The husband must make a contribution to the home, and there are tasks which by nature and convention are his; to these we may add, from them we may subtract, in particular cases after negotiation by the parties. The result is that each home will be its own. Yet the woman should want to be in charge and take responsibility for the home, for to give her husband an equal responsibility would be to lose her sovereignty over the whole. Does a prudent woman want to let her husband decide when the house is clean?

Has this snuck under the radar of collegiate feminists? No outrage? No lynch mobs? Not even one good fainting spell? Wonder if Prof. Mansfield feels cheated?

I read the entire piece to The VP. Now he's swaggering around the house pointing out where my cleaning efforts have been substandard.