This summer has been nothing short of Cambodia hot in the northeast. Steamy, sticky, sweaty days, followed by oppressive nights, full of buzzing, biting insects and the constant whir of the ceiling fan, clicking in an endless circle as it attempts to disperse a feeble breeze over our sweaty foreheads. We've always shunned air conditioning in our house, but I'm beginning to regret my holier than thou attitude towards artificially cooled air.
"No, we don't have an a/c" I've stated with inane pride, to the mortification of my more progressively minded (read: much smarter) friends. "It never really gets that hot in our house."
Well, I'm rueing those words now. There have been some brief reprieves of the steady dose of hot temperatures. Usually, predicated by a biblical thunderstorm that shakes the foundation of the house, lightening bolts criss cross the sky and rain blows sideways, threatening to unmoor my well tended pots of flowers from the front porch. We even had a bout of hail stones this past week. I've become a slave to the radar map on my iPhone.
"Look at all the yellow and red spots coming toward us!" I shout to Jonathan, my voice cracking with excitement as if I'm the Goddess of Thunder storms and have created them with my own callused hands. Jonathan has since banned me from giving reports at any less than a half hour interval. I still check the radar like a woman possessed, but I keep the info to myself and content my nerves by jumping up every five minutes to check the skies for dark clouds approaching.
Due to our day job, which involves riding/training horses, it's just not possible to work them later than noon on these wretched humid days. The horses get ridden early in the morning and spend their afternoons in their stalls munching hay, with their box fans blowing on them. Thus, Jonathan and I have embarked on a new trend, where we head to the movie theatre for a matinee and spend a couple of mindless hours in chilly air, eating popcorn and sipping soda. Last Tues. was absolutely miserable so we cleaned up after a ridiculously sweaty morning and drove to Millerton Moviehouse to watch "To Rome with Love", Woody Allen's latest flick. Since Millerton isn't exactly the hub of the universe the matinees are sparsely attended, and we settled into our seats in the nearly empty theatre. One couple in their sixties sat in front of us, grey haired and somber, no pre-show conversation needed at this stage of their relationship. The movie began and we all settled in for the preamble of character's that only Woody can produce. It required some attention to sort out each set of actors and how they would knit together to form the story. Woody's movies are quirky and delightful, but if you don't pay attention you can easily miss a key line, or well placed innuendo. I was startled to hear the door open about a third of the way thru the movie. Who could be coming in this late in the game? They've missed so much already! How will they possibly catch up with the story? A doddering couple of octogenarian's came into view, hobbled down the aisle and plopped themselves into the second row directly in front of the screen. Oh boy. Now I was worried that they wouldn't be able to enjoy the movie. The characters were all established and the meat of the story was getting underway. Would they enjoy themselves? Would they get it?? Should I scoot down and give them a Cliff Note's version of what had happened till they came in? I hid my anxiety by stuffing mouthfuls of popcorn into my mouth, but I kept half an eye on the elderly latecomers. The movie is set in Rome and some of the characters were Italian, so subtitles were a part of the show. As soon as the words appeared on the screen, the female octogenarian began to read them aloud to her partner...in a very audible voice. The man leaned in to catch every word. I initially bristled, thinking that it was going to be totally annoying to listen to this woman's raspy voice reading along. We all know that it's bad form to talk out loud during a movie. This couple proved to be almost as entertaining as the movie itself. As soon as the woman would read a line, the man would erupt in laughter, then she would laugh. It was like a Woody Allen movie IN a Woody Allen movie! They tittered and carried on like teenagers, especially at the more racy scenes. It was hilarious!! When one of the female character's described her first lesbian encounter and how thunderous her orgasms were with a woman I was tense, wondering how it would be received by this older couple. Would they be prudish? Would they recoil? Ha! They laughed louder than the rest of us! My only wish was that Woody Allen himself could've been present to see how much fun these folks had watching his movie. I truly think he would've gotten as big a kick out of it as Jonathan and I did that afternoon. What a fabulous escape that movie proved to be and it taught me a lesson which was no matter how old we are, no matter how much we can't see, or hear, you never have to lose your sense of humor, or sense of self and just because you're old doesn't mean you don't love a good orgasm joke! As Jonathan and I left the theatre and walked out into the burning summer heat, I smiled and hoped that one day we could be that couple, too. And maybe we'll have a/c in our house by that stage of our lives.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Monday, July 2, 2012
Summer Days on the Farm
"What are you waiting for?" I asked the wee one. "Fly, already!"
One of the parents swooped in and the lone baby opened its beak. He/She was rewarded with some fresh bugs and no competition from hungry siblings. Aha, smart kid! There is something to be said for being the last child. As the afternoon wore on, one by one the babies returned to the nest, stuffing themselves into position. I congratulated them on their flying skills and they looked at me, with blank, solemn expressions. Baby birds aren't frivolous and goofy like other baby animals. The barn swallow kids are a sober group. They don't cavort, or play with each other. They eat, they flap their wings, then one day...they take off. Still, despite their grave demeanors and lack of humor, I've really enjoyed this group, especially since none of them were nudged, or fell from the nest. Since they were so stuffed in ( the parents really scrimped on the size of this thing, talk about poor planning), I was sure one of them would crash to the concrete floor. Chalk it up to good balance, or teamwork, these babies held fast and now they've graduated. This morning the nest was empty. I'm not sure if they'll be back this afternoon, but if not I'm a little sad the my baby bird reality show is over. There is another nest at the opposing end of the barn, but the parental birds are total assholes. Unlike the first set of parents, who seemed to appreciate my attention to their kids, this set dive bombs anyone who comes near and if you try to look at the kids they buzz your face and give you a sense of what Tippi Hendren went through during the filming of "The Birds". On Saturday afternoon while I was feeding the horses, my worst fears were realized. I could hear intense yelling from the mother swallow, so I peered around the corner of the barn, full of trepidation. There was a small form on the ground directly under the nest and it was moving a little. Without taking any time to think, I upended a muck tub, scooped up the baby and in two seconds he was back in the nest. Yay me!!! I saved a baby bird!! I was rewarded by having the parent bird swoop past my nose, shrieking and flapping her wings like a deranged bat. Staggering off the muck tub, I shook my fist at her and yelled, " You dumb bitch, I just saved your baby! You're not even a good mother, letting it fall out of the nest in the first place! I should report you! The other parents didn't let any of their kids have this kind of an accident! "
She responded by aggressively dive bombing me as I retreated down the barn aisle. Clearly, she has anger management issues and I pity those poor children. If I don't get my eyes pecked out by this set of parents before this group makes their first flight it will be a miracle.
What else have we been up to?
A.) Finishing projects. Jonathan had started 10 projects at once, leaving all of them unfinished and we were feeling defeated. So, we took the bull by the horns, spent a crapload of money at the hardware store and now we're checking them off the list, one by one. Very satisfying and the place is looking nicer by the day. We are sunburnt, covered in paint blotches and have blisters on our hands. It's a small sacrifice.
B.) Mowing and weed whacking. It rains, the grass grows, we mow, it looks nice for three-four days, then...it rains, the grass grows, we mow... You get the cycle.
C.) Riding, teaching and horse showing. Our season is in full swing and our students are all keeping us busy. I find show prize lists in my tack trunk, subtle hints of which shows they'd like to attend. My young horse has been coming along so well. He's only four, so he's not on the fast track, but each day we make more progress and that is far more fun than any competition for me. Yesterday, we went on our first proper trail ride, with a solid trail partner to accompany us. No sooner did we get into the big open field when twin spotted fauns leapt across our path. Whee!!! The mother deer did what mother deer do. She frickin' froze like a dipshit and didn't follow her kids. I've made the mistake of thinking that the deer have brains before, so I knew if we tried to proceed she would wait until we were directly in line with her and then run like a maniac right in front of us. A quick about face and we made a nice loop, sans deer. Dan seemed to enjoy our walkabout, despite the fact that walking downhill required more balancing skills than he originally anticipated. After a few wobbly, sideways steps, he upped his game and figured it out.
D.) Enjoying every day for what it brings! I know thats super cheesy, but it's true. Having a great ride, saying hi to the small bunny who nibbles grass in the lane between the paddocks each day, painting jump poles in the broiling hot sun (sweating off calories is the bonus to that job), admiring Jonathan's carpenter handiwork, watching our pets lounge on our front porch amidst large pots of colorful flowers, all good things. And at the end of the day, a cold martini and a sense that we're doing exactly what we want to each day and we like it, fills my soul with a mid-life kind of mellow happiness. Maybe the booze has something to do with the mellowness, but whatever, I'll take it.
Monday, June 18, 2012
The Pigeon Chronicles Part Two
Jonathan walked into the house with the sleek, black Remington air rifle casually resting on his right shoulder. My first question was presented in a panicky, shaky voice, "Is it loaded?"
"Of course, not", my husband aka Clint replied. He proceeded to show me the pellets, how to cock the barrel and how to load it. We put the rifle in a corner for a while as we went about our evening routine, which is sip cocktails, prepare dinner and if you're me, chat on the phone. At some point Jonathan asked me if I wanted to fire the gun, just to see what its like, he added. Being the fools that we are, on the very first day of being gun owners we broke the first rule of gun use: Do not drink and use firearms. But don't worry, the only thing we shot was a plastic bottle that we set in a tree for target practice. I guess I shouldn't say we shot it, because my shots never even came close to the damn thing. I tried to blame my lack of ability to connect with the target on my bad eyesight, or the fact that I'm left handed, but the real truth is that I just suck at shooting stuff. It's okay, I'm fine with that role. That being said Jonathan became the designated pigeon assassin for JEM Stables. Game on!
The next morning dawned brightly, with joyous, June sunshine and alabaster clouds pasted against a sky so blue it looked artificial. After feeding the horses I headed down to the indoor ring to move the jumps, because we were borrowing our landlords tractor so we could drag the ring. The pigeons were perched on the roof, cocking their heads back and forth as I walked down the hill.
"Prepare to die, mofo's!" I said in a cheerful tone. "There's a new sheriff in town and your days are numbered!"
I whistled as I heaved the rails into the middle of the ring, pausing only when I heard the tractor approaching. There was Jonathan, driving the glossy, orange Kubota, with the rifle at rest on his shoulder. Wow. I never thought I'd see Jonathan driving a tractor, with a rifle in his hands. The whole picture provided amusing appeal, but there wasn't time to take his photo. His steely gaze showed me that he meant business this morning. There was killing to do and he was the man who had to do it. Once the jumps were piled high in the middle of the ring, I excused myself to go find other chores to do. I admit that I wanted the pigeon problem to end, but I didn't need to witness the end with my own eyes.
Jonathan returned from the ring roughly 45 min. later and here is his brief account of what ensued after I left:
"I shot one dead from the rafters. And I nicked the other one, but it flew off and won't let me get a good shot at it again."
"You GOT one!!" I gushed. Holy crap, he GOT one!! I was so proud of Jonathan's new found skill, but then at the same time I was sad for the remaining bird. It was now a widow, or a widower. I saw it fly off, soaring high over the trees, heading away from the farm, presumably to prepare some sort of memorial service for its mate. Our hope was the it would stay away from the scene of the crime, but two days later we had another sighting of the pigeon on the roof. That afternoon two of our boarders told us the bird was in the ring and up to its old tricks of fluttering around, flying from perch to perch and generally behaving like an asshole.
{Here's where I'd cue the Good, the Bad and the Ugly whistle sequence}
With the rifle at his side, Jonathan walked down the dirt driveway toward the ring, his footsteps causing small clouds of dust to trail his lone figure in the early, dusky light. Again, I stayed up at the house, anxiously awaiting his return, full of hope that this miserable saga of carnage would be over this night.
When he arrived back in the kitchen, his face was grim. He nodded slowly and I knew he'd done the dirty deed. Apparently, the bird had flown towards him and hit him in the head after he shot it. Vindictive s.o.b. It was like the Jason of pigeons, minus a tiny hockey mask. Relief flooded through me that the pigeon punks were gone. We had our ring back from those feathered menaces. Our kingdom was once again safe for all horses and riders. And my man looks totally badass with a rifle.
"Of course, not", my husband aka Clint replied. He proceeded to show me the pellets, how to cock the barrel and how to load it. We put the rifle in a corner for a while as we went about our evening routine, which is sip cocktails, prepare dinner and if you're me, chat on the phone. At some point Jonathan asked me if I wanted to fire the gun, just to see what its like, he added. Being the fools that we are, on the very first day of being gun owners we broke the first rule of gun use: Do not drink and use firearms. But don't worry, the only thing we shot was a plastic bottle that we set in a tree for target practice. I guess I shouldn't say we shot it, because my shots never even came close to the damn thing. I tried to blame my lack of ability to connect with the target on my bad eyesight, or the fact that I'm left handed, but the real truth is that I just suck at shooting stuff. It's okay, I'm fine with that role. That being said Jonathan became the designated pigeon assassin for JEM Stables. Game on!
The next morning dawned brightly, with joyous, June sunshine and alabaster clouds pasted against a sky so blue it looked artificial. After feeding the horses I headed down to the indoor ring to move the jumps, because we were borrowing our landlords tractor so we could drag the ring. The pigeons were perched on the roof, cocking their heads back and forth as I walked down the hill.
"Prepare to die, mofo's!" I said in a cheerful tone. "There's a new sheriff in town and your days are numbered!"
I whistled as I heaved the rails into the middle of the ring, pausing only when I heard the tractor approaching. There was Jonathan, driving the glossy, orange Kubota, with the rifle at rest on his shoulder. Wow. I never thought I'd see Jonathan driving a tractor, with a rifle in his hands. The whole picture provided amusing appeal, but there wasn't time to take his photo. His steely gaze showed me that he meant business this morning. There was killing to do and he was the man who had to do it. Once the jumps were piled high in the middle of the ring, I excused myself to go find other chores to do. I admit that I wanted the pigeon problem to end, but I didn't need to witness the end with my own eyes.
Jonathan returned from the ring roughly 45 min. later and here is his brief account of what ensued after I left:
"I shot one dead from the rafters. And I nicked the other one, but it flew off and won't let me get a good shot at it again."
"You GOT one!!" I gushed. Holy crap, he GOT one!! I was so proud of Jonathan's new found skill, but then at the same time I was sad for the remaining bird. It was now a widow, or a widower. I saw it fly off, soaring high over the trees, heading away from the farm, presumably to prepare some sort of memorial service for its mate. Our hope was the it would stay away from the scene of the crime, but two days later we had another sighting of the pigeon on the roof. That afternoon two of our boarders told us the bird was in the ring and up to its old tricks of fluttering around, flying from perch to perch and generally behaving like an asshole.
{Here's where I'd cue the Good, the Bad and the Ugly whistle sequence}
With the rifle at his side, Jonathan walked down the dirt driveway toward the ring, his footsteps causing small clouds of dust to trail his lone figure in the early, dusky light. Again, I stayed up at the house, anxiously awaiting his return, full of hope that this miserable saga of carnage would be over this night.
When he arrived back in the kitchen, his face was grim. He nodded slowly and I knew he'd done the dirty deed. Apparently, the bird had flown towards him and hit him in the head after he shot it. Vindictive s.o.b. It was like the Jason of pigeons, minus a tiny hockey mask. Relief flooded through me that the pigeon punks were gone. We had our ring back from those feathered menaces. Our kingdom was once again safe for all horses and riders. And my man looks totally badass with a rifle.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
The Pigeon Chronicles Part One
Last week two very stubborn pigeons embarked on a quest to set up their home in our indoor arena. Whenever they were locked out of the ring, they would perch on the roof, waiting patiently for someone to open the doors so they could fly back in and roost. If they had just sat quietly in the eaves, we might have been inclined to ignore them, but these two didn't want to share the space with horses and riders. They flew through the air, dive bombed the horses, and moaned excessively while up in the rafters. It was obnoxious,unacceptable behavior and despite our persistent efforts to shoo them out with longe whips the two birds kept coming back. We resorted to consulting several parties on the best method to remove them from the property.
The first and easiest option was to buy a plastic bird of prey to "scare" the pigeons. Our local Tractor Supply had a rather handsome hawk, who struck my fancy, so $10 later I was a plastic hawk owner. Remy, our blue merle Aussie, really freaked when he saw the hawk.
"Look," I said to Jonathan. "Remy wants to get it!"
I took that as an encouraging sign that this was a realistic replica and we might have a chance at scaring the pigeons off with his presence. I perched him strategically on top of a jump standard in the middle of the doorway and walked back to the barn to watch the show. The show consisted of the two f'ing pigeons flying off the roof and zooming in directly over the hawk's enemy position. WTF? I went down and moved the hawk to another threatening perch, but it was futile. The pigeons and the hawk were becoming friends, so we had to face plan b, which was; buy an air rifle.
We'd seen some rifles at Tractor Supply so off we went again. Having zero experience with bb guns, pellet guns, real guns, etc. we really didn't know what we needed strength wise to knock off these birds. I picked up a Red Ryder model and some pellets and headed off to find a knowledgable employee who might be able to help. After a lengthy search, I found a female employee, with a full on mustache (she obviously shaved it, but had a five o'clock shadow and it was revolting and fascinating all at once) and when I told her of our pigeon plight she looked pensive for a moment, then regaled me with a totally nonsensical pigeon story of her own. I had a gentle smile affixed to my face while I pretended to listen to her, contemplating if she and her husband shared shaving products when suddenly a voice piped up from the neighboring aisle. Glancing over, I saw a slight, grubby man with a thick, bristly stubble over most of his face, wearing a dirty"Coors Light" baseball hat and he was missing his top front teeth and eye teeth, leaving him with a grungy jack o'lantern-esque expression.
"I kin tell you right now, that ain't a powerful enough gun to kill them pigeons, " he stated with the wise knowledge of a professional redneck.
I shifted away from the useless mustachioed lady and walked over to 'ol Gappy, who seemed all too willing to weigh his opinion in our problem.
"What size gun to you think we need?"
He rattled off a bunch of numbers, psi, blah, blah, blah. I was more focused on his missing teeth and how it affected his speech than I was on the information, but the one thing I got from him was that the gun we needed wasn't available at Tractor Supply.
"You're gonna hafta go to Wal-Mart and they'll git you fixed up there," ol' Gappy said.
I thanked him profusely and as I was walking away thought to myself, well, buying a gun at Wal-Mart certainly hasn't been an item on my bucket list. Jonathan digested the information I'd gotten from my new friend and consulted his iPhone for information. He found the gun we needed was available at Dick's Sporting Goods, so after dropping me off at home he headed to Poughkeepsie, with one thing on his mind: the pigeons must die.
The first and easiest option was to buy a plastic bird of prey to "scare" the pigeons. Our local Tractor Supply had a rather handsome hawk, who struck my fancy, so $10 later I was a plastic hawk owner. Remy, our blue merle Aussie, really freaked when he saw the hawk.
"Look," I said to Jonathan. "Remy wants to get it!"
I took that as an encouraging sign that this was a realistic replica and we might have a chance at scaring the pigeons off with his presence. I perched him strategically on top of a jump standard in the middle of the doorway and walked back to the barn to watch the show. The show consisted of the two f'ing pigeons flying off the roof and zooming in directly over the hawk's enemy position. WTF? I went down and moved the hawk to another threatening perch, but it was futile. The pigeons and the hawk were becoming friends, so we had to face plan b, which was; buy an air rifle.
We'd seen some rifles at Tractor Supply so off we went again. Having zero experience with bb guns, pellet guns, real guns, etc. we really didn't know what we needed strength wise to knock off these birds. I picked up a Red Ryder model and some pellets and headed off to find a knowledgable employee who might be able to help. After a lengthy search, I found a female employee, with a full on mustache (she obviously shaved it, but had a five o'clock shadow and it was revolting and fascinating all at once) and when I told her of our pigeon plight she looked pensive for a moment, then regaled me with a totally nonsensical pigeon story of her own. I had a gentle smile affixed to my face while I pretended to listen to her, contemplating if she and her husband shared shaving products when suddenly a voice piped up from the neighboring aisle. Glancing over, I saw a slight, grubby man with a thick, bristly stubble over most of his face, wearing a dirty"Coors Light" baseball hat and he was missing his top front teeth and eye teeth, leaving him with a grungy jack o'lantern-esque expression.
"I kin tell you right now, that ain't a powerful enough gun to kill them pigeons, " he stated with the wise knowledge of a professional redneck.
I shifted away from the useless mustachioed lady and walked over to 'ol Gappy, who seemed all too willing to weigh his opinion in our problem.
"What size gun to you think we need?"
He rattled off a bunch of numbers, psi, blah, blah, blah. I was more focused on his missing teeth and how it affected his speech than I was on the information, but the one thing I got from him was that the gun we needed wasn't available at Tractor Supply.
"You're gonna hafta go to Wal-Mart and they'll git you fixed up there," ol' Gappy said.
I thanked him profusely and as I was walking away thought to myself, well, buying a gun at Wal-Mart certainly hasn't been an item on my bucket list. Jonathan digested the information I'd gotten from my new friend and consulted his iPhone for information. He found the gun we needed was available at Dick's Sporting Goods, so after dropping me off at home he headed to Poughkeepsie, with one thing on his mind: the pigeons must die.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
My Fifteen Minutes of Fame
Three weeks ago Jonathan and I drove to Dicks Sporting Goods and bought ourselves two new tennis rackets. We had consulted with a tennis fanatic friend prior to our purchases, and Jonathan did some research on the internet, including reading reviews on each style of racket. He knows all the fancy details, but to me we bought a yellow racket and a green one. The day we bought the rackets it was about a thousand degrees out with five thousand percent humidity, but Jonathan insisted that we stop at the local court to hit some balls.
"We have to try them out," he said. "Aren't you curious about how much better the rackets will be?"
Truthfully, I wasn't. However, I didn't argue, because he had that happy kind of 10 year old boy who just got a new toy look on his face and his enthusiasm was genuinely cute in spite of the weather.
Once we hit a few balls we realized that the new rackets were basically machine guns compared to our old rackets, which were like cap guns. It was going to take a lot of practice to get used to the supreme power of these new beauties. Of course, we really suck at the game since we haven't played in something like fifteen years and we weren't all that good back then, but we seem to enjoy the physical torture and mental anguish that tennis provides for an out of shape body. Jonathan was having trouble with his forehand. I had absolutely no backhand, because I'm ambidextrous and I used to just switch to my left hand when I saw a backhand ball coming. Clearly, we had a lot of work to do to polish up our rust encrusted game. Within a half hour we were soaking wet, Jonathan's shoulder hurt and my ankle was bothering me so we called it quits for the day. There had been glimmers of good shots, which buoyed our hopes that the rackets would help us play a more competitive game.
"Think of how good we'll be by the end of the summer," I said once we were back in the car with the a/c on hurricane mode. "We just have to keep practicing!"
Jonathan's enthusiasm had been drowned in the heat, but he managed a weak smile and murmured, "Uh huh,"
Fast forward to yesterday, which was about our fourth, or fifth practice session. We would be playing more, but there's this pesky barn full of horses that we look after, plus people who ride the horses and need instruction and bug us to go to horse shows all the time. If it weren't for the fact that we have to earn a living, we'd be ready for Wimbledon by now. Anyway, we arrived at the court to find out that we've come during recess time for the school whose property abuts the courts. Gaggles of children were running, swinging on swings, shrieking and generally having a fabulous end of the year romp. This meant one thing to me...I was going to have to watch my language. When I hit a bad shot, I curse. Never the same word either, I like to mix it up. I took a deep breath and focused on my substitute swears, like "sugar", "son of a biscuit", "dang it", you get the picture.
For some reason on this day, Jonathan isn't getting his groove on. I watch his face go from concentrated focus, to murderous, ax killing demon. He doesn't swear while playing tennis, but I'm beginning to think he should, because the faces he makes are downright evil and I think holding in that anger is bad for his blood pressure. I'm hitting okay, a few very good forehands, and Jonathan helped me with my body position for the backhands, so I'm feeling pretty chuffed in general.
"Maybe you should try to relax a little, focus on a straight trajectory for the ball, think of the position of the face of the racket when you hit the ball," I offer to the ax killing demon across the court from me.
"What do you think I've been doing?" the demon explodes back. I swear his head spun around on his shoulders.
Okay, I've been to this movie with Jonathan before so I know to just be pleasant and he'll figure it out on his own. We're batting a few good volleys, back and forth, with occasional wayward hits, when I hear little voices chanting a name. I look over toward the school yard and there are three little girls in a row, and when they see me look toward them the volume increases, "Brittany!!!!!!", they scream. What? Are they yelling that name at me? Who the fuck is Brittany? I'm totally confused.
"That's not my name!" I bark toward them. It doesn't seem to register with these little girls. More little girls appear and now there are ten, or so little girls yelling, "Brittany!!!" at me.
I look at Jonathan, who shrugs, shakes his head and serves me a ball. How the hell can I be expected to concentrate with a flash mob of 8 year olds yelling "Brittany!!!" at me? I manage to hit some good shots, actually the little crowd causes me to step up my game a bit. Nothing like the pressure of small schoolchildren watching you to make you up your ante. I decide to ignore the kids and just keep playing. Any time I glance in their direction, they nearly swoon and scream louder. What in the living hell is going on here? Is Brittany a popular babysitter in town? These kids are too young to remember Brittany Spears before she had kids, went crazy and shaved her head. They couldn't think I was Brittany Spears anyway. I have brown hair and my thighs are slim, with scrawny calves. These kids were really starting to get on my nerves.
"Maybe we should stop. I'm getting tired," Jonathan said.
"No, let's hit a few more. Sometimes you hit your best shots when you're tired," I reply.
In all honesty, the kids were freaking me out and I didn't want to have to leave the safety of the chain link enclosed court. Who knew what those half crazed little buggers might do? They might attack me, pull out my hair and steal my yellow racket. Finally, the school bell signaled that recess was over and my wee fan club grudgingly headed back to the building, yelling a few half hearted, Brittany's over their small, slumped shoulders. It almost made me feel badly. Maybe I should've handled the situation differently? Should I have waved back and said, "Hi Kids!! Yes, I'm the fabulous Brittany! Have an awesome day!!"? They might've all died of instant little heart attacks. Instead, I played the part of an aloof, spoiled star. In fact, I freaking rocked that part, I could totally be famous and pull it off. I WAS famous for a few minutes on that parched tennis court in the middle of the village of Millbrook. Except it wasn't for playing tennis, it was for being "Brittany, iconic figure to little girls, but for what we have yet to determine".
"Let's go honey," I said to Jonathan. "Brittany's tired and needs a drink."
"We have to try them out," he said. "Aren't you curious about how much better the rackets will be?"
Truthfully, I wasn't. However, I didn't argue, because he had that happy kind of 10 year old boy who just got a new toy look on his face and his enthusiasm was genuinely cute in spite of the weather.
Once we hit a few balls we realized that the new rackets were basically machine guns compared to our old rackets, which were like cap guns. It was going to take a lot of practice to get used to the supreme power of these new beauties. Of course, we really suck at the game since we haven't played in something like fifteen years and we weren't all that good back then, but we seem to enjoy the physical torture and mental anguish that tennis provides for an out of shape body. Jonathan was having trouble with his forehand. I had absolutely no backhand, because I'm ambidextrous and I used to just switch to my left hand when I saw a backhand ball coming. Clearly, we had a lot of work to do to polish up our rust encrusted game. Within a half hour we were soaking wet, Jonathan's shoulder hurt and my ankle was bothering me so we called it quits for the day. There had been glimmers of good shots, which buoyed our hopes that the rackets would help us play a more competitive game.
"Think of how good we'll be by the end of the summer," I said once we were back in the car with the a/c on hurricane mode. "We just have to keep practicing!"
Jonathan's enthusiasm had been drowned in the heat, but he managed a weak smile and murmured, "Uh huh,"
Fast forward to yesterday, which was about our fourth, or fifth practice session. We would be playing more, but there's this pesky barn full of horses that we look after, plus people who ride the horses and need instruction and bug us to go to horse shows all the time. If it weren't for the fact that we have to earn a living, we'd be ready for Wimbledon by now. Anyway, we arrived at the court to find out that we've come during recess time for the school whose property abuts the courts. Gaggles of children were running, swinging on swings, shrieking and generally having a fabulous end of the year romp. This meant one thing to me...I was going to have to watch my language. When I hit a bad shot, I curse. Never the same word either, I like to mix it up. I took a deep breath and focused on my substitute swears, like "sugar", "son of a biscuit", "dang it", you get the picture.
For some reason on this day, Jonathan isn't getting his groove on. I watch his face go from concentrated focus, to murderous, ax killing demon. He doesn't swear while playing tennis, but I'm beginning to think he should, because the faces he makes are downright evil and I think holding in that anger is bad for his blood pressure. I'm hitting okay, a few very good forehands, and Jonathan helped me with my body position for the backhands, so I'm feeling pretty chuffed in general.
"Maybe you should try to relax a little, focus on a straight trajectory for the ball, think of the position of the face of the racket when you hit the ball," I offer to the ax killing demon across the court from me.
"What do you think I've been doing?" the demon explodes back. I swear his head spun around on his shoulders.
Okay, I've been to this movie with Jonathan before so I know to just be pleasant and he'll figure it out on his own. We're batting a few good volleys, back and forth, with occasional wayward hits, when I hear little voices chanting a name. I look over toward the school yard and there are three little girls in a row, and when they see me look toward them the volume increases, "Brittany!!!!!!", they scream. What? Are they yelling that name at me? Who the fuck is Brittany? I'm totally confused.
"That's not my name!" I bark toward them. It doesn't seem to register with these little girls. More little girls appear and now there are ten, or so little girls yelling, "Brittany!!!" at me.
I look at Jonathan, who shrugs, shakes his head and serves me a ball. How the hell can I be expected to concentrate with a flash mob of 8 year olds yelling "Brittany!!!" at me? I manage to hit some good shots, actually the little crowd causes me to step up my game a bit. Nothing like the pressure of small schoolchildren watching you to make you up your ante. I decide to ignore the kids and just keep playing. Any time I glance in their direction, they nearly swoon and scream louder. What in the living hell is going on here? Is Brittany a popular babysitter in town? These kids are too young to remember Brittany Spears before she had kids, went crazy and shaved her head. They couldn't think I was Brittany Spears anyway. I have brown hair and my thighs are slim, with scrawny calves. These kids were really starting to get on my nerves.
"Maybe we should stop. I'm getting tired," Jonathan said.
"No, let's hit a few more. Sometimes you hit your best shots when you're tired," I reply.
In all honesty, the kids were freaking me out and I didn't want to have to leave the safety of the chain link enclosed court. Who knew what those half crazed little buggers might do? They might attack me, pull out my hair and steal my yellow racket. Finally, the school bell signaled that recess was over and my wee fan club grudgingly headed back to the building, yelling a few half hearted, Brittany's over their small, slumped shoulders. It almost made me feel badly. Maybe I should've handled the situation differently? Should I have waved back and said, "Hi Kids!! Yes, I'm the fabulous Brittany! Have an awesome day!!"? They might've all died of instant little heart attacks. Instead, I played the part of an aloof, spoiled star. In fact, I freaking rocked that part, I could totally be famous and pull it off. I WAS famous for a few minutes on that parched tennis court in the middle of the village of Millbrook. Except it wasn't for playing tennis, it was for being "Brittany, iconic figure to little girls, but for what we have yet to determine".
"Let's go honey," I said to Jonathan. "Brittany's tired and needs a drink."
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Happy JUNE!!!
It's June! I've always loved this month, and my love affair with it started when I was a little kid. In my home town of Hampton Falls, NH, we had two important town functions that occurred in June which were run by the volunteer fire department. They consisted of a very special fair and a horse show. The first Saturday in June was the annual Village Green Fair. I LOVED the fair and I looked forward to it all year long. For me it was like a second Christmas, except the weather usually called for shorts and a tank top instead of a down jacket and knit cap. The fair was held on the town common, a swath of land in the middle of town which had a tall obelisque monument surrounded by a granite border, with old cannons and piles of cannon balls at four corners. The common is still there in all of its glory, in case you're curious. The Fair had a used book table, bric-a-brac table ( never really spent much time there so not sure exactly what bric-a-brac consists of...what an olde term!), rummage sale (lots of old, cool clothes), an art sale, an auction of old furniture, and whatever else the townsfolk wanted to sell, a dunking tank (fun to watch, but not fun to be on the plank with random people throwing a ball at an ancient arm to attempt to dunk you in the murky water that the fireman pumped into a rusty metal tank that was coated with yards of poly paper the night before the fair), a frog jumping contest (run by my dad, yeah he was the presiding judge of frog jumps and he rocked that role for years), hamburgers and hotdogs offered at the lunch table, and last, but not least, PONY RIDES! The year I was 9 yrs. old I took so many pony rides that the pony ride people started letting me take the ride by myself. I was a gold star customer! It was heaven for a horse crazy kid. Teeny Shetland ponies, clad in stiff western tack, cranky little cusses, but willing to take a kid like me for a stroll down the lawn and back equalled heaven to me. I think I spent a total of 8 dollars that day. It was a quarter per ride. Ahh, those were the days. My mom was working the rummage sale during the fair and she happily doled out quarters to her horse crazy daughter, oblivious of what kind of demonic equine love she created with each coin she sent my way. I know she doesn't regret it and neither do I. The Fair. Such golden memories. I can still feel the tingle of waking up on the morning of the Fair!!
My second special June memory was the Hampton Falls Fire Department Horse Show. I believe it was held the weekend after the fair. My first memory of the show was when it was held just down the street from where I grew up. I would grab a bowl of Life cereal and perch on the rock at the end of my road by 7 a.m. to watch the horse trailers roll by on their way to the show grounds. It was thrilling to watch the 70's trailers which were unique, often homeade jobs, cruise by me. Rickety rigs, pulled by station wagons, or old pick ups. I would spend the day surrounded by quarter horses, appaloosas, morgans and arabians, smelling their fragrance, eating dust and watching the riders in their English and Western finery. Snow fencing created the "ring". It was a plain, old open field all year long, but during the show it was a place where horses were shown! Shown! I loved it! The Indian paintbrush flowers that grew there were beaten down during the show and there wasn't any special footing. But this was horse show! I knew it was part of me. And one day it I would be a rider. The show eventually moved to a more suitable venue in town, with a proper ring. Thanks to my fabulous parents, I ended up owning a horse that I showed in this special home town horse show a few years later. His name was Believer's Ten and he was a bay Quarter horse gelding that we'd purchased from good friends, the Titcomb family. We bought Ten as a 3 yr. old and god bless him, he was a good boy. I practiced and practiced on that horse, between bareback trail rides and lessons, we grew as a team. In 1985 we won the Hampton Falls Volunteer Fire Department Local Pleasure Perpetual Trophy. Wow! It was such a great day! I have pictures of me smiling on that horse's back, so filled with the love of riding, my horse, my family and the town that I grew up in. It was such a wonderful day. I remember it like yesterday. I feel so blessed that I grew up in a rural town, with parents who cared and such special traditions. They all meant the world to me when I was a kid ( and to this day!) and I know that's why I feel so strongly about the month of June. Happy June to all!!!
My second special June memory was the Hampton Falls Fire Department Horse Show. I believe it was held the weekend after the fair. My first memory of the show was when it was held just down the street from where I grew up. I would grab a bowl of Life cereal and perch on the rock at the end of my road by 7 a.m. to watch the horse trailers roll by on their way to the show grounds. It was thrilling to watch the 70's trailers which were unique, often homeade jobs, cruise by me. Rickety rigs, pulled by station wagons, or old pick ups. I would spend the day surrounded by quarter horses, appaloosas, morgans and arabians, smelling their fragrance, eating dust and watching the riders in their English and Western finery. Snow fencing created the "ring". It was a plain, old open field all year long, but during the show it was a place where horses were shown! Shown! I loved it! The Indian paintbrush flowers that grew there were beaten down during the show and there wasn't any special footing. But this was horse show! I knew it was part of me. And one day it I would be a rider. The show eventually moved to a more suitable venue in town, with a proper ring. Thanks to my fabulous parents, I ended up owning a horse that I showed in this special home town horse show a few years later. His name was Believer's Ten and he was a bay Quarter horse gelding that we'd purchased from good friends, the Titcomb family. We bought Ten as a 3 yr. old and god bless him, he was a good boy. I practiced and practiced on that horse, between bareback trail rides and lessons, we grew as a team. In 1985 we won the Hampton Falls Volunteer Fire Department Local Pleasure Perpetual Trophy. Wow! It was such a great day! I have pictures of me smiling on that horse's back, so filled with the love of riding, my horse, my family and the town that I grew up in. It was such a wonderful day. I remember it like yesterday. I feel so blessed that I grew up in a rural town, with parents who cared and such special traditions. They all meant the world to me when I was a kid ( and to this day!) and I know that's why I feel so strongly about the month of June. Happy June to all!!!
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
A thorn in my...foot
Let me preface this post by saying I never walk around my house without shoes, or slippers on my feet. It's just too hazardous with all of our pets. I could encounter mouse guts, mole guts, bird beaks, burs, or other random flotsam on the floors. I vacuum, like a demon, but despite my best efforts there is always SOMETHING potentially dangerous in my home. I don't ever want to step on something squishy, or prickly, or thorny. My feet are tender. Always have been. My older sisters grew up running round with no shoes, tough, grubby soles, impervious to anything. They could walk on nail boards and be fine. Me? Not so. I have tender, small, flat feet. Whenever I walked barefooted as a child, I used to stub my big toes on a regular basis, much to my big sisters delight. They would regale me with stories of Bloody Mary, who left trails of blood, wherever she walked due to her bleeding big toes. They even conjured up a song, "Blooddyyy Marrrryy!, Bloooddyy Maaarry!" It scared the bejesus out of me! I think they made it up just to spook their bratty little sister, but it left scars and not only on my toes! I have delicate, geisha feet, and way too small for my height. I'm tippy on a mere size 7 1/2. I'm 5'8, for heaven's sake. I should rock a good size 8, or bigger. It's a burden.
When I got up this morning I felt a slight pain on the outside of my right heel. Nothing horrible, but it hurt, nonetheless. I ignored it for the first hour, but when I began moving around to make another tea it got worse.
"What was it?" I asked myself. It was time to go to the bathroom and investigate.
I got a pair of needle like tweezers and sat down for a good look. I sat on the bathroom rug and bent my leg backwards so I could see my heel. Ouch. I'm not made to be very "bendy". My knee screamed, but I kept the angle and noticed what looked like a splinter in my heel. A very small, painful splinter. I told myself if I worked fast I could get it out, so I dug, and I dug. It HURT! And my knee joint began to pulse. Two of my cats came in to give me support (read:get in the way), but I couldn't get it. Gah! I had to get up and relieve the ache in my knee joint. Again, I told myself that yoga would be a good thing to add to my weekly routine. I hobbled to the shower thinking the hot water would help extricate the invasive splinter, you know, soften up the traumatized area. It seemed reasonable at the time.
After my shower, I went into my bedroom, full of hope that I could get this wicked piece of HELL out of my foot. I stood by the doorway of my closet, in full sunlight and bent my leg up so I could get a good look and get the dang thing out, once and for all. There it was! It was small, but surely the source of pain. I dug the tweezers in, digging and digging. No dice. No DICE! NO DICE! Crap. Now my left hip was killing me from standing on one leg. When the pain became intolerable, I gave up. Whatever. I have a little, tiny splinter in my foot. No idea how it got there. No way of getting it out without causing extreme physical harm. I'm screwed. I got dressed and figured it was just a small splinter, carry on with the day. I had bigger fish to fry.
Well, now it hurts a lot. I think I have to ask for Jonathan to help me with my "situation". The only problem is that I have extremely sensitive feet. When I was in my early 20's, I dated a guy who was hell bent on getting me over my ridiculous foot sensitivity. Why? Well, he was a psycho. I ended up kung-fu kicking him in the face. We broke up soon after that incident. I've never had a pedicure due to my extremely sensitive feet. I feel deprived, yet happy that I've only kung-fu kicked one person in the face in my life.
On that note, I'm going to steel myself and ask Jonathan to get the tweezers and extricate this splinter, once and for all. I promise I won't kick him in the face. I won't! I'll kick to the side if I start freaking out. I'm pretty sure I can do that in the heat of the moment. Pretty sure...
When I got up this morning I felt a slight pain on the outside of my right heel. Nothing horrible, but it hurt, nonetheless. I ignored it for the first hour, but when I began moving around to make another tea it got worse.
"What was it?" I asked myself. It was time to go to the bathroom and investigate.
I got a pair of needle like tweezers and sat down for a good look. I sat on the bathroom rug and bent my leg backwards so I could see my heel. Ouch. I'm not made to be very "bendy". My knee screamed, but I kept the angle and noticed what looked like a splinter in my heel. A very small, painful splinter. I told myself if I worked fast I could get it out, so I dug, and I dug. It HURT! And my knee joint began to pulse. Two of my cats came in to give me support (read:get in the way), but I couldn't get it. Gah! I had to get up and relieve the ache in my knee joint. Again, I told myself that yoga would be a good thing to add to my weekly routine. I hobbled to the shower thinking the hot water would help extricate the invasive splinter, you know, soften up the traumatized area. It seemed reasonable at the time.
After my shower, I went into my bedroom, full of hope that I could get this wicked piece of HELL out of my foot. I stood by the doorway of my closet, in full sunlight and bent my leg up so I could get a good look and get the dang thing out, once and for all. There it was! It was small, but surely the source of pain. I dug the tweezers in, digging and digging. No dice. No DICE! NO DICE! Crap. Now my left hip was killing me from standing on one leg. When the pain became intolerable, I gave up. Whatever. I have a little, tiny splinter in my foot. No idea how it got there. No way of getting it out without causing extreme physical harm. I'm screwed. I got dressed and figured it was just a small splinter, carry on with the day. I had bigger fish to fry.
Well, now it hurts a lot. I think I have to ask for Jonathan to help me with my "situation". The only problem is that I have extremely sensitive feet. When I was in my early 20's, I dated a guy who was hell bent on getting me over my ridiculous foot sensitivity. Why? Well, he was a psycho. I ended up kung-fu kicking him in the face. We broke up soon after that incident. I've never had a pedicure due to my extremely sensitive feet. I feel deprived, yet happy that I've only kung-fu kicked one person in the face in my life.
On that note, I'm going to steel myself and ask Jonathan to get the tweezers and extricate this splinter, once and for all. I promise I won't kick him in the face. I won't! I'll kick to the side if I start freaking out. I'm pretty sure I can do that in the heat of the moment. Pretty sure...
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