Cathy in the Wright

Ouch

Having made a minor name for myself with my obsession interest in dead animals, I am occasionally sent pictures of facinating kills. I've been saving a fantastic deer/car collision from my pal Dave for a rainy day. And this being a rainy day, I was about to post it.

Until Gary emailed. Now technically, the photos Gary sent fall outside my usual fetish range of interest. These snapshots are of some poor guy whose's fishing buddy must have had one too many Budweisers. I picked out the best of the bunch and I offer it up to you fellow gore-hounds.

Gary said he didn't ever want to see it again, so I'm putting the photo in the extended entry. Peek, but only if you have a strong stomach.

It's Monday Morning

Do you feel like the kid in the middle?

This Morning At Breakfast

The Governor asks me if I have a shaver. Shaver? I'm not sure if he meant a razor or what, but past experience has taught me that it's best to deny the possession or even mere existence of anything sharp.

Shaver? No, I don't have a shaver. What do you need a shaver for?

"So I can shave off a strip of hair down the middle of my head. And leave the sides. It's a reverse mohawk, Mom!"

No, you're not getting a reverse mohawk.

"I'll talk to Dad."

After the urge to dump cereal over his head passes, I think about a reverse mohawk. He starts preschool next month. The teacher's shock...the other parents' faces...it's so deliciously tempting. School photos. Ooh! Christmas cards.

And yet, the hair will remain in place. If I give in on the mohawk, next he'll be demanding a nose ring or tattoo. He'll have nothing to look forward to when he's a discontented teen. Except the fact that I will still be his mother and promise to greet him as "Sweetie Pie" in front of all his friends. He can bank on that.

The Finger

Well this is going better than I expected. Last night I played in net during the first half of my game. I deflected a hard shot that I could just reach with my fingertips and now my index finger on my left hand is swollen, purple, and doesn't want to bend. I was a little worried about typing, but this is okay. Light pressure doesn't bother me, but anything that requires the knuckle to do some serious work is right out.

I'd be more upset about it, but we soundly beat those pushy, whiney losers and I'm still savoring the win.

Today we're hanging around the house waiting for the storms to arrive. Apparently the cities have been getting some severe weather, but so far The Outpost has had a bit of thunder and not enough rain to wet the entire sidewalk. The boys are somewhere in the house doing something far too quiet. I should go check, but I hate to end this little interlude of peace. If I find them, they will undoubtedly want to read a book or put together a puzzle or some other annoying task that will put a dent in my blogging time. How I managed to raise such selfish children...I'll never know.

If I still can't move my finger by Monday, I'll probably head to the doctor. I've been pondering potential outcomes all morning: A) it will heal fine by itself B) splint and/or physical therapy C) surgery. I wonder if they have to put you all the way out for finger surgery. Because if they don't...I'm taking pictures.

Carving Out an Attitude

The Chairman’s slaughter-blogging is in contrast with her young life when the lass thought of farm animals as living out picture-book lives to the natural end of days.

Reality intruded, in several steps.

No. 1, chickens. On my uncle’s farm, the natural end of days for poultry occurred a few hours before Sunday dinner. That’s when my cousin, Lucille, was assigned to fetch a couple of hens from the flock hunting and pecking around the yard—like white leghorn typists—and wring their necks. I explained this to The [Young] Chairman, who had thought that wring was a misspelled noun that meant a telephone sound, finger jewelry or a bathtub watermark. She was aghast to discover that wring was the correct spelling of a verb that described how chickens arrived in a state like that of the horseman who frightened Ichabod Crane and how these headless hens fluttered about until they bled out.

No. 2, cattle. The Chairman became a vegetarian—for about 60 seconds—after learning how steers were butchered. She relented, quickly, upon savoring the taste of hamburger vs. that of Brussels sprouts.

No. 3, pigs. Another of my cousins, Ness, was like St. Francis with the animals. During a thunderstorm, the cows would moo frantically until he walked into the barn. His presence alone would settle them. After moving to his own farm, Ness raised two Hampshire hogs that were like pets—smart pets. They learned how to unlatch the gate to their pen and escape to rub against visitors, begging to have their ears scratched. They’d also flee to the end of the driveway and wait patiently for the school bus to bring home playmates. When it came time to butcher the hogs, neither Ness nor his brother could do the deed. The Chairman asked, “Then you kept them as pets?” “Oh no, Cathy,” Ness replied, “we found a neighbor who was not so emotionally involved.”

The Chairman’s changed attitude became apparent the day her younger sister called frantically to say that our Cairn Terrier, Sandy, had proudly dropped at her feet a bloody, quivering juvenile rabbit caught in the back yard. “It’s dying,” sister pleaded, to which The Chairman replied, “What do you want me to do … bring home a bitty baby bunny body bag?” When English majors alliterate about the misfortune of Thumper’s kinfolk, hardness of heart toward all edible animals cannot be far distant.

Today The Local PTA - Tomorrow The World

Several months ago I joined the newly-formed PTA for our school district. Last night, nearly five months later, we finally elected the officers. Most of the original steering committee took leadership roles, but the office of Secretary remained open. A few weeks ago, I had been asked to seek the position, but I declined. On Tuesday, with the election only days away, I buckled and allowed my name to be put on the ballot.

In spite of abstaining from the vote and getting my friend Dani to start a smear campaign (She's a lousy note taker! She only got through college by sleeping with her professors!), I won. Running unopposed tends to do that to you. I was crossing my fingers for a write-in, but no such luck.

At the conclusion of the meeting, several people came over and offered their congratulations. Congratulations? For...? For feeling guilty that no one wanted to do the job? For beating a blank line on the ballot? Thank you, thank you.

The local press was present because the meeting also included a Q and A session with the school board about an upcoming levy vote. The reporter was apparently going to take a picture of the newly-elected PTA officers. I declined. I'd like to wait until I hear my opponent's concession speech before I revel in my victory.

Once my legal team has confirmed my win, eliminating the possibility of hanging chads, disenfranchised voters, and global warming...I figure my two-year term should just about be over. That will leave me free to take over control of the township board in '08. Unless, of course, Tancredo taps me for VP beforehand.

I'll keep you posted.

Blogging You Into Vegetarianism One Photo At A Time

As others around the blogosphere wax nostalgic about the arrival of fall and how it elicits fond, back-to-school memories, we here at Little House on the Outpost look forward to the end of summer for a different reason: butchering time.

Our local traveling meat carver arrived this afternoon to dispatch The Outpost pigs to the great smokehouse in the sky. Denny is our butcher, and I owe him a heartfelt thanks for allowing me to pester him with questions while he worked.

Here are the pigs having their final meal while Denny loads the rifle:

Denny went in the pen shortly after this photo and asked for volunteers. I felt a small tinge of sorrow as they ran up to him, looking for food. But after Denny nailed the closest one and slit its throat...the other pigs gathered round their fallen comrade and lapped up blood like Michael Moore in a frosting factory. Sick bastards. Kill 'em, Denny, kill 'em all.

Denny got to work. After dragging the dead hog out of the pen, he cuts the skin away from the rear legs so he can hook the carcass to the truck. And he rapidly goes from this:

to this:

to this:

to this:

to this:

Denny was kind enough to let me try the meat saw. I wasn't very proficient, but he assured me it doesn't take long to get the hang of it. He also has a chainsaw in case his rotator cuff is giving him trouble.

Since this was the last job of the day, Denny also spared a little time to educate me on pig anatomy. I got an up close and personal look at most of the internal organs. The liver and heart he saves, the rest goes into the barrel o' guts that is sent to the rendering plant.

Would you like to see the barrel? Thought you'd never ask.

The barrel also gets the skin, head, and hooves. Like this one:

I never got a decent shot of the head with the hide attached, but I have a cute one where the snout is sticking out from beneath a rumpled pile of skin. Maybe I'll save that one for tomorrow.

And speaking of tomorrow, it's almost here. Time for bed.

One last note for those of you feeling sorry for the pigs. You're probably the same kind of people who believe in karma, so you will feel very self-righteous when you learn I stepped in pig excrement while I was opening and shutting the gate to the pen and didn't realize it until I was on my way to my soccer game. Sixty miles in the car with the windows down and the air-conditioning on full force and I still almost threw my shoes out onto the highway.

The ride home was just as wretched. But when the bacon arrives in a couple of weeks, I'll have forgotten all about it.

Mmmmmm. Bacon.

So Long, It'll Be Good To Eat You

Tomorrow the pigs give me the little beady-eye stare for the last time. Our good friends from the local butcher shop will come out and shoot, draw, and quarter them in short order. And yes, I plan to blog it. You stand warned.

Just to prep you a bit...I give you another dead animal photo. I found this guy on our road. I like the way his arms stiffened in a dramatic pose. I got the picture just in time. My father-in-law drove down by moments later and ruined the shot. Of course, a before and after pictoral would have been neat too.

Unlike the pigs...we have no plans to eat this one.

Max Factor, Max Factor...Why Have You Abandoned Me?

My high school reunion is tonight, and this afternoon I am once again reminded of what a bad idea it is to start experimenting with make-up on the day of a big event.

I don't wear makeup primarily because the few times I've tried, the results have been pitiful. I try to apply a thin trace of eyeliner -- I look like I'm auditioning for the part of Hamburgler. Foundation? One application and you can't see any difference. Second application looks like I spackled my face with tile grout. When it comes to looking pretty, I go from zero to overdone in less than two minutes.

And yet, the pressure (or vanity, take your pick) to look good for a bunch of people I haven't seen in xx years and will probably never see again has driven me to purchase just this morning: eye liner, foundation, and lip gloss. And the only reason I bought the lip gloss is because the label seemed to imply that no one would be able to tell I had it on at all. Six bucks for an invisible product. Those who are furiously peddling bridges and swampland be alert: here's an even easier path to riches.

So for the next hour or so, I'll be in the bathroom playing around like a little girl who is trying on Mommy's high heels and opening all those exciting little bottles on Mommy's dresser.

And then I'll get frustrated, wipe it all off, and shove it all in a drawer where it will sit untouched for three years, or whenever the next big event comes along. At that point, I will toss it out and go buy some more.

Or perhaps I'll just mail thirty bucks straight to Revlon and stay home.

Look For The Boys At GladWare To Follow Suit

So I read over on Sondra K:

The BBC reports that the Department for Transport has set strict security measures at UK airports.

Passengers would not be allowed to take any hand luggage on to any flights in the UK, the department said.

Only the barest essentials - including passports and wallets - would be allowed on board in transparent plastic bags.

Ziplocks: now available in Snack, Sandwich, Quart, Carry-on, and Gallon sizes.

Cool Or Gross?

Mother Dearest

There are certain members of my family who believe I am an overly strict disciplinarian. I have heard, on more than one occasion, "Oh, you're being too hard on those boys!"

Ponder this: yesterday I took the boys swimming. We were out in the middle of the lake horsing around when I grabbed The Governor and brought him close for a hug. We were nose to nose, bobbing in the water and smiling at each other when he said, "Hey Mom! I'm peeing on ya! I unleashed my ultimate weapon!"

My response was swift and severe. And yet, the child still lives. A real hard-nose would have been justified drowning him on the spot.

You may call me "Pushover" from now on.

Why I Love Living In The Country: Reason 312

In the country...whenever you see "DU" printed on anything...it stands for Ducks Unlimited. It never, ever stands for anything else.

Why I Love Living In The Country: Reason 311

A little bit of local real estate wheeling and dealing necessitated my first appearance at the local township board meeting last Tuesday. Having never been to a township meeting before, I wasn't sure what to expect. I had visions of imposing board members glaring from behind a polished magohany table while humble petitioners sat mutely waiting to be allowed to raise our eyes to see a row of thumbs-down fists denying our motions.

I should have known better.

The board meeting kicked off right at 7:30p.m. I learned that while one board member was on vacation, that still left a quorum of two members to conduct official business, so let's get going. Everyone stand for the Pledge of Allegiance. Seed caps came off, hearts were covered, and everyone said the Pledge. I don't believe I heard anyone omit "under God" - we're not a big bunch of church/state separationists out here. By God.

And then Mike and Dan, our two present board members, got down to business. There is nothing funnier than watching two people run a meeting by Robert's Rules of Order.

Any other questions on last month's minutes, Dan?

Nope. Looks good to me, Mike.

Okay. All in favor to approve the minutes?

Aye

Aye. All those against?

(respectable 2 second pause...just in case)

Approved. Next item.

And so township business was quickly and efficiently handled. Mike and Dan didn't look like board members; they looked like a couple of farmers having coffee and talking about the weather and, oh yeah, should that Camp woman be able to sell off ten acres of swamp to her neighbor? Sure, sure, you bet. Hope we get some more rain. All in favor say Aye.

I was enthralled. I wanted to hear more. Unfortunately, we left after our petition had been granted. But I may go back next month just to listen. Will Paul be back from vacation and throw a Nay in just to keep things lively? Will the hot button issue of paving the gravel roads rear its head once again? Will somebody make a motion to tell Shawn and Heather that the next time they want to publically declare their love, they should take out an ad in the paper instead of using the Crow River bridge and a can of spray paint? Stay tuned.

And some day, I could see myself sitting behind the old wooden table with the drawers that stick in the air-conditioning free township hall and asking my neighbor, "Well, Tiff, any questions on last month's minutes?"

Now where is my seed cap?