Cathy in the Wright

A.W.O.L Excuse

Sorry, but I've been busy.

Seems like I've been starting quite a few emails with that line lately.

Tuesday was the annual Airing of the Old Folks, in which the local golf course lends several golf carts to the adjacent nursing home, which then recruits staff and volunteers to ferry the geriatrics around the edge of the course to see the fall colors. A good time any day, but drop the temperature into the low 50's and add a stiff breeze and YYYYEEAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!

My favorite rides are those with the disgruntled, crabby elders who are determined not to have a good time. It becomes a challenge to make them crack a smile. This year it was Bertie. Bertie was adamant that this little field trip was going to do her in. It was cold. The quilt was too heavy. Her back hurt. The cart bounced too much. I told her she had to hang in for just a little longer, because when the rest of the carts turned left to head back to the clubhouse...we were going to go straight, cut across the highway, and see if we couldn't score some free samples from the canning factory. Can't you smell the garlic and tomato sauce, Bertie? I bet you skipped breakfast, just like me. Let's go get a little snack. That'll set us to rights, eh? Maybe we can talk the foreman into getting us a couple of sodas from the lunch room vending machine.

Her lips drew into a tight little frown.

No? Not hungry, Bertie? Well, okay. How about we take a right at the highway and head out to the high school? You like kids, don't ya, Bertie? High schoolers are always an interesting bunch. We could bully them for their lunch money.

I didn't think it possible, but I believe the tendons and muscles in her face snapped allowing the frown to deepen.

Don't need any cash, Bertie? Okay. We'll just follow the others back to the first hole. Hang on tight, Bertie. This is where I flipped the cart the last time.

And I'll be darned if Bertie didn't smirk a little. Physical humor...it gets 'em every time. Next time I volunteer at the home, I'm bringing Bertie my 3 Stooges videotape.

What else has kept me away from the computer? Well, in addition to provoking old people, I volunteered in The Governor's preschool classroom on Thursday. I volunteered a few times when The Senator was in preschool, and I always walked away with a glowing admiration for the teachers who don't quit after the first week. I would. I'd quit, or I'd be in jail for shoving some 4-year-old into a locker for the duration of class. And helping out in The Gov's classroom has taught me that nothing has changed.

I don't know how the teachers do it. I looked around at the kids and decided that if you could get rid of the Lucy van Pelt self-absorbed, bossy little girls and the hyperactive, extra-loud, obnoxious little boys...you'd be left with about ten well-behaved children who would be a delight to have in class. Please don't ask if The Gov would make the cut. The jury is still out on that one.

Today The Gov and I are headed over to the lake to watch the brave young men from Anchor Dock and Lift brave the frigid water and winterize our shoreline. Depressing. It forces me to calculate just how long it will be before summer arrives. The answer: way too long.

Have a great weekend.

A Word Of Thanks

A dear friend recently emailed the picture below. Now, I get quite a few dead animal photos sent to me. But this one is a special. Not because roadkill possum is all that unusual or exciting, but the photographer went out of her way to snap the photo. You see, she's a cop. She saw the possum while out on patrol. She pulled over, put on the flashing lights, and grabbed her camera. She risked life and limb and no small amount of ridicule from her co-workers had she been observed...just to contribute some blog fodder.

How I came to be blessed with such great friends...(sniff)...give me a minute here...so unworthy...touched...absolutely touched...

My friend assured me that the photo was undoctored and that it met all the rigorous standards of this blog. The critter was indeed dead, and not merely playing.

Thank you, S.

Breakfast Conversation With The Governor

Well, Gov, Christmas is right around the corner. We should start thinking about what we're going to get everyone.

Like presents?

Yep. What presents are we going to get for other people?

Well I would like a samurai sword and a gun that shoots toilet plungers and a whistle...

No. No. Perhaps you didn't hear me. What are we going to get OTHER people. Like Grandma. What should we get Grandma for Christmas?

I don't know.

Well, what does Grandma like to do?

Knitting!

Yes, she does like knitting. But I'm not buying Grandma yarn for Christmas. What else do Grandma like to do?

Sit in chairs.

(speechless)

Mom! We could get her a new chair!

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So Mom...you're getting a new chair for Christmas. And Dad - since you apparently like to breathe air, you're getting an oxygen tank.

At this rate, I'll be done shopping by October 15th. Should have consulted the boy last year.

Big Game

While dove hunting in an open range state like Arizona, one has to be on the watch for the occasional cow or bull that might cross one's path. Here Jim and Tom, who are completely unaware that Hereford season is over, bag an impressive specimen.

Let's take a closer look at this trophy:

Magnificent, boys! Once the head is mounted, it will look great up on the library wall - right between the squirrel and the neighbor's Pomeranian.

Since I don't see any weapons in the picture, I'll have to assume Tom ran over it with the truck. Or perhpas Jim started singing to the poor thing and it took its own life in desperation. Either way, men, well done!

I've already given Cabela's permission to use the photo on the cover of their fall catalog.

******FOR JIM ONLY******
click on "Continue Reading..."

Jim shows us how ranchers perform a flexible sigmoidoscopy in the field.

(Blame Chris - he sent me the photo and said you were an unparalleled good sport)

Outpost Investigative Report

Chris H., The Outpost's Arizona correspondent and former hometown boy, recently went dove hunting with some friends and sent the following picture:

Chris, can you tell our reading audience...three guys on a hunting trip shoot four doves. Who gets the extra dove-ka-bob?

Well, Cathy, I find that if I start talking about how there are several dove mothers out there weeping uncontrollably, Jim and Tom lose their appetite and I wind up with a substantial meal.

Smooth maneuvering, Chris! Next question: How long were you men out hunting? Four doves doesn't seem like a very big haul.

Oh, geez. We were out there for hours. We could have had tons of birds, but Tom kept shooting off his mouth about how the Cards were going to suck pipe against the 49ers on the opener, so we wasted quite a lot of ammo making Tom dance.

Well, your boys did okay against San Francisco, but what happened in Seattle?

Don't even go there.

Sure, sure. Back to the hunting trip. Tough question here, Chris. I have to ask. Is there any truth to the rumor that a wider camera angle would have shown four blind-folded dove heads lying in the dirt just inches away from their bodies? That these doves lost their lives not in a hunting expedition but in a hushed-up act of domestic terrorism?

Nonsense.

Really? Because there were a few unconfirmed sources claiming the doves would have been released unharmed had they converted to Scientology as their captors demanded.

Absolutely false, Cathy, absolutely false. We're all confirmed Lutherans. Back to you.

Thank you, Chris. We look forward to your mid-October quail jihad hunting report!

The preceding report contains a few liberties. Under the Federal Fake but Accurate Act, the journalist, editor, and publisher are exempt from all responsibility for the content of this post. Thanks Chris, Jim, and Tom.

When Being A Pack Rat Comes In Handy...

Dear Aelfheld sent the following joke a while back. I meant to post it when it first hit my in-basket, but forgot. Good thing I don't clean out my emails very often. I really enjoyed this one. Aelfheld writes, "Thought you might like this (and yes, I'm still an ailurophile)":

A teacher is explaining biology to her 4th grade students.

"Human beings are the only animals that stutter," she says.

A little girl raises her hand. "I had a kitty-cat who stuttered," she volunteered.

The teacher, knowing how precious some of these stories could become, asked the girl to describe the incident.

"Well", she began, "I was in the back yard with my kitty and the Rottweiler who lives next door got a running start and before we knew it, he jumped over the fence into our yard!"

"That must've been scary," said the teacher.

"It sure was," said the little girl, "My kitty went 'Fffff, Fffff, Fffff'... and before he could say 'F***,' the Rottweiler ate him!"

Makes me really miss the Crazyweiler.

No, Natalie...The Finger Bowl Is Not For Your Chewing Tobacco Spit

Entertainment Weekly has an article on the Dixie Chicks' documentary, "Shut Up and Sing." Here's a blurb:

In one memorable scene, Maines watches news footage of the president being interviewed about the furor that followed the singer's on-stage comment that she was ''ashamed the President of the United States is from Texas,'' which resulted in the group being dropped from most radio stations, as well as protests and plummeting sales. ''The Dixie Chicks are free to speak their mind,'' Bush told Tom Brokaw at the time, adding, ''They shouldn't have their feelings hurt just because some people don't want to buy their records when they speak out. You know, freedom is a two-way street.''

After watching this footage, Maines repeats the president's comment about how the group shouldn't have their ''feelings hurt,'' incredulous, and then says, ''What a dumb f---.'' She then looks into the camera, as if addressing Bush, and reiterates, ''You're a dumb f---.''

Class, style, grace, and wit all rolled into one. Natalie Maines - making red necks look sophisticated since 2003.

The Outpost Arcade

A few months back, The VP purchased a pinball machine. I wasn't very happy about it. I said it could stay if we got rid of the television in the basement. There were hand shakes all around. The TV is out in the garage and EarthShaker takes up a corner of our family room. I'm still not happy. It's ugly, it makes a lot of noise, and The Senator consistently beats my high score. But what was I to do? A deal is a deal. Besides, it's hard to be upset with something that brings so much joy to the boys in this house.

Until last night. Right after this post, I'm setting up an eBay account. First item up for bid: two pinball machines. Yes, two. Introduce one bad element into your house, and the next thing you know, he's invited his reprobate friend to crash as well.

As it turns out, The VP purchased two pinball machines a couple of months ago. One was ready to go; the other needed to be refurbished. So my spouse, the person whom I trust above all others, led me to believe that he only purchased one. He figured he'd just deal with the wrath when the second machine arrived. I went to play soccer last night and came home to find WhirlWind already ensconced in the basement.

The real kicker? Everyone knew. The Senator knew. The Governor knew. My in-laws knew. My neighbors knew. Everyone knew we were getting another pinball machine. I expect this was a strategic maneuver on The VP's part. If his body disappeared, there would be several witnesses who could attest to a motive.

Whether or not WhirlWind stays is still up for debate. The boys have not fulfilled their end of the bargin. If a pinball machine comes into the house, something else has to go. The Senator did offer to get rid of his bed. He said he could sleep on the machine, but I imagine the county's Child Welfare Officer might have a word or two against that plan.

If anyone is interested in obtainly a newly refurbished arcade game...feel free to leave an offer in the comments.

Dear Neighbors...

I revoke my curse.

As it turns out, I'm not feeling all that bad this morning afternoon. Some extra sleep and a strict diet of Tylenol and water has left me feeling not as devastated as I had anticipated. My pride is still wounded. When your host takes away your wine goblet and pours your drink into a yellow, plastic, child's cup, it's hard not to be offended. Sure, the straw softened the blow, but still...

Just a little house-warming party, you said. No big deal, you said. As if I'll ever trust you two again.

I suppose I could shoulder a little of the blame. I knew what was coming. These river people - it's hard to escape them. The first time you look at your wrist watch and make motions to leave, someone is shoving a beer or wine glass, or in my case, a Sippy Cup in your hand and crying out, "C'mon...just one more. You've got time for one more!" And before you know it, you and your hostess are giggling out of control at the bottom of the staircase, clinking your pastel-colored cups together (she lost glass privileges as well), and making jokes that would offend everyone.

I made my escape around 2 a.m., when my hostess went upstairs to fix her contact lens. I waited for about five minutes, and when she still hadn't returned, I guessed she either went to bed, or was trying to throw up in the privacy of the master bath instead of the more public powder room just off the kitchen.

I got in my car and went home, avoiding the shortcut through the bean field. Can't say I wasn't tempted though.

I awoke feeling thirsty and sore. Enter water and Tylenol and shazam - I'm feeling a lot better. And The VP just took off with the boys to go swimming so I've got no one around to make me feel guilty for taking a nap. I'm not sure what more I could want - except perhaps a recording of my conversation with my hostess from last night. I think we came up with a great idea for a television series - something along the lines of Monty Python meets Brokeback Mountain. I'm not positive...the details are a little fuzzy.

Well, it's off to my nap and then my soccer game, where I'm confident I can hold off feeling nauseous until at least half time.

Thanks for a lovely evening, neighbors.

Curse You, Tiffany & Andy. Curse You.

That is all for now.

To My Favorite Democrat: Did You Like The George Bush Birthday Card??

Happy birthday, Mom! While I still buy into the story that you're 29...some annoying people have started to question the veracity of your claim seeing as that would make me almost a decade older than my mother.

Insufferable bores. Pay them no heed.

Hope you have had a wonderful day!

I'm Not Sure Why The Church Doesn't Count This As A Holy Day

This is the view up our dirt road...just moments before the bus came to haul my second-grader off to his first day of class:

Seeing that bus come over the horizon...well, I can almost imagine how Dachau inmates felt seeing American tanks roll towards the front gate.

Hoocher and I walked The Senator down to the bus stop, hung around until he was well on his way up the road, and headed back to The Outpost. Hoocher chased a rabbit and played Hide-and-Seek with a chipmunk. I had an hour to myself before The Governor awoke. Life is good.

Well, life is pretty good. I was looking in the PTA by-laws last night. Apparently I enlisted for a three-year term when I signed up for Secretary. I was hoping to discover my office was up for bids on an annual basis. I guess I'll be submitting a proposed by-law change at one of our next meetings. Or faking my own death...whichever is easier.

Still - I have no great reason to complain. My schedule has been vastly liberated with the onset of school. In addition to recovering the precious hour of morning solitude, I'll be gaining further me time when The Gov starts preschool in a week. Sure, I'll only net about three extra hours a week, but that's enough time to go grocery shopping without children.

Yes, fellow mothers, weep with jealousy. I fully expect to receive hate mail when I confess I just might indulge in an occasional nap.

Taunting aside, it is time for me to nag The Governor to go get dressed. We're headed *sob* to the grocery store.