Catherine (aka Pinhead) is too lazy to set up her own blog, but she is going to do a guest spot on mine, probably a tribute to me. Ha, ha! She told me that I have approval of all comments; we'll see.
Ladies and gentlemen, Catherine Billman
I'm thinking that maybe in some time we can turn this blogarama into a talk show or variety show.
here's something that has been on my mind lately.
HOW TO CHOOSE YOUR FRIENDS
first of all when choosing friend you must first reach into the depths of your own life and find out what qualities you do and don't have. You do want your friends to complement your great qualities and ignore or at least not heckle you about your short falls, so NO assholes (sorry mike).
second you may want to choose people who are either less attractive or not as smart as you especially if you plan to ever go out in public with them. If they are smarter than you offer them a haircut because at least that way you can guarantee that they are less attractive and remember kids always cut in a bald spot.
If you have a very good looking stupid friend go shopping and tell them that they look GREAT in a moomoo. remember they're stupid.
third, now that you have chosen stupid or ugly friends, you might want to consider height I like to choose people who are taller and wider then I am. This way you can always ensure that you will look thin and small. This step is not nearly as important as the second step.
fourth In general you may find that your friends have great qualities such as kindness and loyalty. Don't let them know that you know this about them. Tell them that they are mean and flaky.
fifth always choose people who you can beat up either mentally or physically, or make sure you can run faster than they can. Here I would suggest "accidentally" breaking their legs when they are not looking. You can do this by pushing them down the stairs. This is what I did to my mother it seems to have worked. But be careful everyone she's pretty smart and very good looking, needless to say I didn't choose her she chose me.
sixth, Always choose people who think that you're listening although you never really are. I tend to use terms like uh huh, and really when not listening and I know that nobody really reads this blog so no one will every know that I'm never listening. My mother uses other tactics so see if you can catch on to these.
seventh, this one is really important, your friends need to have money. A job is the best way of obtaining money and you can always let them know this, it's a great way to ridicule hobo's. Trust fund friends are great but they may overstay their welcome.
So everyone, now that you realize that your friends are better looking, more intelligent, make more money, have better qualities, are better listeners and can beat you up; pack all of your belongings and relocate to an area called Nebraska. Nebraska is where everyone who has followed Catherine's seven steps to great friends has relocated to, so I'm sure you'll meet some lovely people there. Just don't talk to them.
I also wanted to make a note about friends who like to stay in, these are the best kind of friends, because they only make you look like an ugly asshole in the privacy of your own home. Choose wisely, but always make sure you are the one who is choosing.
Thank you for purchasing "Seven Steps to Great Friend". That'll be $17.95.
I'm Patricia Murphy, and I approved but did not punctuate this post.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Daughters, they're the best
My oldest daughter Alicia (aka Bighead) will be here tomorrow night. My youngest daughter Catherine (aka Pinhead) is here right now, asleep upstairs. So I thought I'd take a moment and talk about daughters. My daughters are my greatest asset, my best friends, my confidantes, and my comic relief. We have a relationship that is a little atypical, to say the least. They have seen me through emotional turmoil that I thought would take me under, and they've listened to me when I didn't even want to hear my own voice, but for some reason I kept talking anyway. They remember the winter of 1999-2000 all too well I'm sure because it was the darkest time of my life. Thank goodness they were teenagers, and they were busy, what with the getting into trouble and small town Idaho (non Mormon) fun.
Now my daughters are 27 and 25 years old, which means that I am damn old. As I look forward to having them both in the same place for a few days, I can't help but think about last summer, when we all sat by mother's bedside while she was in intensive care at Holy Name Hospital (don't go there, go to Englewood Hospital, or anywhere else for that matter). Alicia came from Portland and Catherine from Clinton because my mother was not expected to make it. Those of you who know me know she did make it, and now we'll see her again, and seeing her will make us unbearably happy.
So here are some things I'd like you to know about my daughters:
1) they are cuddly, but in different ways
2) they are eccentric, also in different ways
3) they can sew, draw, write, sing, dance, cook, read (duh!), and do so magically
4) they are nice people
5) they recycle
6) they live in cool places (Portland, OR and Northampton, MA)
7) they are a massage therapist and an applied linguistics major
8) they are funny and witty and smart
9) they are beautiful
10) they love me
So, if you're a daughter, if you're a mother, what do you want to say about your mother or daughter(s)? Yes Nick, we'll talk about fathers and maybe even sons soon, but this one's for the ladies.
Gotta go, time for peace at the Clinton Farmers' Market.
Whatchu got?
Now my daughters are 27 and 25 years old, which means that I am damn old. As I look forward to having them both in the same place for a few days, I can't help but think about last summer, when we all sat by mother's bedside while she was in intensive care at Holy Name Hospital (don't go there, go to Englewood Hospital, or anywhere else for that matter). Alicia came from Portland and Catherine from Clinton because my mother was not expected to make it. Those of you who know me know she did make it, and now we'll see her again, and seeing her will make us unbearably happy.
So here are some things I'd like you to know about my daughters:
1) they are cuddly, but in different ways
2) they are eccentric, also in different ways
3) they can sew, draw, write, sing, dance, cook, read (duh!), and do so magically
4) they are nice people
5) they recycle
6) they live in cool places (Portland, OR and Northampton, MA)
7) they are a massage therapist and an applied linguistics major
8) they are funny and witty and smart
9) they are beautiful
10) they love me
So, if you're a daughter, if you're a mother, what do you want to say about your mother or daughter(s)? Yes Nick, we'll talk about fathers and maybe even sons soon, but this one's for the ladies.
Gotta go, time for peace at the Clinton Farmers' Market.
Whatchu got?
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Alright, I've had it!
Today I was going to blog about what I've been writing and maybe even put up my new poem "Alien, My Love Monster," but things changed when last night . . . .
after Catherine and I killed two bees in my bedroom, and were just settling down for a long summer's sleep, this giant thing the size of a small bat came flying into the room. We both jumped out of bed screaming and ran out of the room. It followed for a minute, long enough to flutter across Catherine's back, and then disappeared. We looked everywhere, and I mean everywhere for it, and just as I was gathering sheets for us to go sleep downstairs (this is also the bee room (see earlier post)) I saw it on the curtain. It was HUGE, I mean the size of a premature baby huge. Okay, strike that; it was an exaggeration and distasteful. But it was a long, very lovely beetle of some kind, just minding its own business. Does this mean that we were able to deal with the situation in a mature manner? No, it took us an hour to get up the courage to trap it in an old Trader Joe's coffee can and throw it out the window.
Now I've had five hours of sleep and it's time to go look at the killing fields, as I like to think of the side of my house where the bees are. Last night Carlie brought over a ladder and two cans of bug spray went up there. There were, as I said, two bees in my room after that, but the spray definitely rendered some bees incapable of getting in the hole outside. Score: Pat 1, Bees 0 -- for now.
Along the theme of bugs, I will post my poem about Tent Caterpillars. For those of you who don't know, tent caterpillars are to New York (at least this part of New York) what cicadas are to Jersey, Mormon crickets are to Idaho, locusts are to the Midwest (and to biblical figures). The poem is over a year old (maybe two), from when we were in the second year of a cycle. The caterpillars came back again this year, but died almost spontaneously and without my help. Perhaps there is a god, after all.
Tent Caterpillars — Clinton, New York
They are an unrelenting, indiscriminate army,
these bugs that climb my house, eat my trees
at night with a moist and endless rhythm while I
try to type out poems about middle-aged lust.
They have no souls; of this I am convinced.
They will not turn into beautiful butterflies
or contribute to a cure for cancer. They are
only here to destroy my homeowner’s bliss.
In the car on the way to Utica my daughter screams.
I think of cars pulling out from stop signs, danger,
but it's only a caterpillar on her leg. “Sorry,” she says,
“but they’re just so disgusting.” The car is no longer safe.
They can climb the tires, but not the body. They get in
on shoes that cross the 10 feet of front lawn, stowaways,
and who knows what they’ll do inside a Toyota. They
breed fantastically quickly, after all, and know no shame.
On NPR last year the extension agent promised no return
of tent caterpillars for 15 years. He seemed smart and
certain, but now I know he was a fool. Last year I swept
them away with a broom and chlorox, but not this year.
Armed with a sprayer I BT the house, create a moat of
biological toxins that will eat them alive after digestion.
They will, it’s true, take a little time to die, but I’m patient.
I have a lot of rubber gloves and old clothes to wear.
My friend from Little Falls says on the phone: flamethrower,
and the sweet sound of the word is a melody for revenge.
I see myself dancing around the yard,
aiming, flaming, trees and worms writhing.
I see myself accidentally burning the house down, trying
to explain to my insurance agent that it seemed like a good
idea. I remember that my friend takes medication, and
resolve to find another way out of this mess. Is there an
offering that can be made? I will make it. Is there a winged
god who can be prayed to? I will pray it. Some talisman I can
wear? hot line I can call? shaman I can hire? priest I can bribe?
Stop! I’ll just stay in the house all summer and write bug poems.
Have a bug free day wherever you are. Mikey, where were you when we needed you? How about a post on least favorite bugs everyone?
after Catherine and I killed two bees in my bedroom, and were just settling down for a long summer's sleep, this giant thing the size of a small bat came flying into the room. We both jumped out of bed screaming and ran out of the room. It followed for a minute, long enough to flutter across Catherine's back, and then disappeared. We looked everywhere, and I mean everywhere for it, and just as I was gathering sheets for us to go sleep downstairs (this is also the bee room (see earlier post)) I saw it on the curtain. It was HUGE, I mean the size of a premature baby huge. Okay, strike that; it was an exaggeration and distasteful. But it was a long, very lovely beetle of some kind, just minding its own business. Does this mean that we were able to deal with the situation in a mature manner? No, it took us an hour to get up the courage to trap it in an old Trader Joe's coffee can and throw it out the window.
Now I've had five hours of sleep and it's time to go look at the killing fields, as I like to think of the side of my house where the bees are. Last night Carlie brought over a ladder and two cans of bug spray went up there. There were, as I said, two bees in my room after that, but the spray definitely rendered some bees incapable of getting in the hole outside. Score: Pat 1, Bees 0 -- for now.
Along the theme of bugs, I will post my poem about Tent Caterpillars. For those of you who don't know, tent caterpillars are to New York (at least this part of New York) what cicadas are to Jersey, Mormon crickets are to Idaho, locusts are to the Midwest (and to biblical figures). The poem is over a year old (maybe two), from when we were in the second year of a cycle. The caterpillars came back again this year, but died almost spontaneously and without my help. Perhaps there is a god, after all.
Tent Caterpillars — Clinton, New York
They are an unrelenting, indiscriminate army,
these bugs that climb my house, eat my trees
at night with a moist and endless rhythm while I
try to type out poems about middle-aged lust.
They have no souls; of this I am convinced.
They will not turn into beautiful butterflies
or contribute to a cure for cancer. They are
only here to destroy my homeowner’s bliss.
In the car on the way to Utica my daughter screams.
I think of cars pulling out from stop signs, danger,
but it's only a caterpillar on her leg. “Sorry,” she says,
“but they’re just so disgusting.” The car is no longer safe.
They can climb the tires, but not the body. They get in
on shoes that cross the 10 feet of front lawn, stowaways,
and who knows what they’ll do inside a Toyota. They
breed fantastically quickly, after all, and know no shame.
On NPR last year the extension agent promised no return
of tent caterpillars for 15 years. He seemed smart and
certain, but now I know he was a fool. Last year I swept
them away with a broom and chlorox, but not this year.
Armed with a sprayer I BT the house, create a moat of
biological toxins that will eat them alive after digestion.
They will, it’s true, take a little time to die, but I’m patient.
I have a lot of rubber gloves and old clothes to wear.
My friend from Little Falls says on the phone: flamethrower,
and the sweet sound of the word is a melody for revenge.
I see myself dancing around the yard,
aiming, flaming, trees and worms writhing.
I see myself accidentally burning the house down, trying
to explain to my insurance agent that it seemed like a good
idea. I remember that my friend takes medication, and
resolve to find another way out of this mess. Is there an
offering that can be made? I will make it. Is there a winged
god who can be prayed to? I will pray it. Some talisman I can
wear? hot line I can call? shaman I can hire? priest I can bribe?
Stop! I’ll just stay in the house all summer and write bug poems.
Have a bug free day wherever you are. Mikey, where were you when we needed you? How about a post on least favorite bugs everyone?
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
more nature
Those of you who know me know that I have a long history of being a tree hugging nature lover. When I lived in Idaho I was a camper, angler, and all around outdoorsy girl. I camped in tents and in a camper and liked tent camping better. Then I moved to New York and got to know the west side of the Adirondacks better. My favorite lake is Nine-cornered lake because it's close enough to where I live and it's just beautiful. A short hike from the road and you can swim and just sit and look at the water. I have a picture of it in my office, so when I'm working in the dead (should I say horribly depressing death grip?) of winter I can look at it and remember that there will be summer in NY again.
That said, I now want to state that while nature is great, it needs to stay the f--- away from my house. You might know from my earlier post that I recently encountered a bat in my window fan, dead (its mouth open in a silent shriek) but in my house nonetheless. Now it's bees. Bees that are going into a gap between a window and the outside wall of my house. Yes, going in. And they're going into my bedroom. So last night it was a trip to Lowes to get outdoor spray (I mean real poison here) that shoots 20 ft. into the air. Except it didn't. But by standing on the edge of my side porch and reaching as far as I could, I got the spray to hit my target and drenched the shit out of my beloved old house, which now has two windows covered with a drippy substance that probably looks like you-know-what (I know you know).
This morning as soon as I'm done with this post, I'm going out again. I'll spray and curse and curse and spray (thank god the neighbors are on vacation) until I'm satisfied that I have wrought death and destruction upon some poor little creatures who just want to spend some time at my house. Do I feel bad? Yes and no. I wish they hadn't exhibited such poor judgment, but in doing so they left me little choice but to KILL, KILL, KILL them. I also worry about the spray coming back on me and waking up with a mutated face. Well, if so maybe I can get work as an Elizabeth Taylor look-alike.
Here are, in no order, my least favorite members of the "natural" world:
bees, used to be allergic to them, now just ridiculously frightened of them
deer flies, biting mouth parts (I think they're called black flies here in New York)
mosquitoes, now that they bite me because I have iron-rich blood
moose: they're not afraid of anybody
bears: they're stupid but more afraid than moose
badgers: scary as hell
bats: at least when they're in my window fan
skunks, well you know why
I know it seems like I don't like nature at all, but think about all the animals I do like: birds, fish, deer, elk, bunnies, snakes . . .
What aspects of nature do you like and/or not like? Don't worry, I won't tell the Sierra Club if you say you don't like spotted owls. C'mon, let's see some posting here, and thanks Jess, You're a trooper.
Gotta go; I got me some killing to do.
Rambo
That said, I now want to state that while nature is great, it needs to stay the f--- away from my house. You might know from my earlier post that I recently encountered a bat in my window fan, dead (its mouth open in a silent shriek) but in my house nonetheless. Now it's bees. Bees that are going into a gap between a window and the outside wall of my house. Yes, going in. And they're going into my bedroom. So last night it was a trip to Lowes to get outdoor spray (I mean real poison here) that shoots 20 ft. into the air. Except it didn't. But by standing on the edge of my side porch and reaching as far as I could, I got the spray to hit my target and drenched the shit out of my beloved old house, which now has two windows covered with a drippy substance that probably looks like you-know-what (I know you know).
This morning as soon as I'm done with this post, I'm going out again. I'll spray and curse and curse and spray (thank god the neighbors are on vacation) until I'm satisfied that I have wrought death and destruction upon some poor little creatures who just want to spend some time at my house. Do I feel bad? Yes and no. I wish they hadn't exhibited such poor judgment, but in doing so they left me little choice but to KILL, KILL, KILL them. I also worry about the spray coming back on me and waking up with a mutated face. Well, if so maybe I can get work as an Elizabeth Taylor look-alike.
Here are, in no order, my least favorite members of the "natural" world:
bees, used to be allergic to them, now just ridiculously frightened of them
deer flies, biting mouth parts (I think they're called black flies here in New York)
mosquitoes, now that they bite me because I have iron-rich blood
moose: they're not afraid of anybody
bears: they're stupid but more afraid than moose
badgers: scary as hell
bats: at least when they're in my window fan
skunks, well you know why
I know it seems like I don't like nature at all, but think about all the animals I do like: birds, fish, deer, elk, bunnies, snakes . . .
What aspects of nature do you like and/or not like? Don't worry, I won't tell the Sierra Club if you say you don't like spotted owls. C'mon, let's see some posting here, and thanks Jess, You're a trooper.
Gotta go; I got me some killing to do.
Rambo
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Whatchu reading?
I love summer reading when I actually get to do it. Last summer I was in New Jersey because my mom was really ill, and I read an entire composition book and a bunch of true crime books that my brother got from the Bergenfield Public Library. I had a copy of Mark Doty's Dog Years with me in NJ, and I would read to my mother from it every day when she was in intensive care. I had that book and a novel with me, and I asked her each time which one she wanted and she would say (well, not really say because she had a big respirator in her mouth) that she wanted the dog book. So, one day I got to a passage in which Doty talks about the death of one of his dogs, and I didn't know what to do. I read on and cried through part of it; today my mother told me that she doesn't remember any of it. But of course it made me think about how much texts can move us and help us through those times that are tough, to say the least.
So this summer my mother's doing great, and I'm happy to say that I'm reading all kinds of good books. Here are a few of them:
The Sweet Hereafter by Russell Banks
The Pajamaist by Matthew Zapruder
A Parade of Hands by James Hoch
Leave the Building Quickly by Cynthia Kaplan
Rule of the Bone by Russell Banks
Collected Poems Kenneth Patchen
So what are you reading?
So this summer my mother's doing great, and I'm happy to say that I'm reading all kinds of good books. Here are a few of them:
The Sweet Hereafter by Russell Banks
The Pajamaist by Matthew Zapruder
A Parade of Hands by James Hoch
Leave the Building Quickly by Cynthia Kaplan
Rule of the Bone by Russell Banks
Collected Poems Kenneth Patchen
So what are you reading?
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Wildlife
In central New York we have houses surrounded by trees, trees, and more trees. We have tidy lawns that end in tall flowers, vines and assorted other ground covers that probably include poison ivy, sumac, whatever. So, it's little surprise when nature finds its way inside. Yesterday it was a little nature in my window fan -- a bat, dead thank goodness. A bat, not cut by a fan blade, but stiff and intact with its mouth open as if it gave out some horrifying scream right before it expired. How'd I get it out? I took the back off the fan and dumped the bat in the backyard, nowhere near where the last bat went, the one that was right by Missy's food dish. that was two years ago. I guess I can handle one bat every two years.
The thing is, nature has a way of letting us know we can't just expect to take over and not have some feedback from those critters whose places we've taken. In NJ it's opossums. They get hit by cars, of course, but they still keep coming back, and bears now, and raccoons, skunks and deer. In central NY it's turkeys, deer, skunks, foxes, raccoons, bats (obviously): have I left anything off the list?
So what you got where you live? Any bears looking in the window? Any deer eating your tomatoes? Any bats in your belfry?
The thing is, nature has a way of letting us know we can't just expect to take over and not have some feedback from those critters whose places we've taken. In NJ it's opossums. They get hit by cars, of course, but they still keep coming back, and bears now, and raccoons, skunks and deer. In central NY it's turkeys, deer, skunks, foxes, raccoons, bats (obviously): have I left anything off the list?
So what you got where you live? Any bears looking in the window? Any deer eating your tomatoes? Any bats in your belfry?
Friday, August 1, 2008
Peacin' Out Again
Yesterday we (the Mohawk Valley Peace Coalition) set up our Food For Thought table at the Clinton Farmers' Market. We didn't have much luck, but a few really nice people stopped by, and I finally put up a "thought" on our bulletin board. We have cut out paper in the shapes of fruits and veggies and we ask people to write down something they think we all should be thinking about. We tell them it doesn't have to be something about peace, and people have written about happiness and other related issues. Here's what I wrote:
It's the things we carry with us, and the people who help us carry them, that make our lives worth living.
My daughter Alicia asked what I meant by "things" and I told her, you know our burdens and joys and all that stuff. I left it vague on purpose -- reader interpretation and all that.
So dear readers, whoever you are (yes, Nick and Jess I expect a post) what would you write on our bulletin board if you could be here in Clinton, NY, and there was something you wanted us all to think about?
I'll add this final thought: wherever you are, whoever you are, you've got a really important job coming up in November, so rest up, get ready, practice your button pushing or ballot writing, or poll booth arm pulling. We've got a new president to elect and a war to stop.
Peace Out Everybody, and if you're good I promise my next post won't be political. Hell, maybe I'll put in a new poem if I get it done. I know, big deal -- something to look forward to.
It's the things we carry with us, and the people who help us carry them, that make our lives worth living.
My daughter Alicia asked what I meant by "things" and I told her, you know our burdens and joys and all that stuff. I left it vague on purpose -- reader interpretation and all that.
So dear readers, whoever you are (yes, Nick and Jess I expect a post) what would you write on our bulletin board if you could be here in Clinton, NY, and there was something you wanted us all to think about?
I'll add this final thought: wherever you are, whoever you are, you've got a really important job coming up in November, so rest up, get ready, practice your button pushing or ballot writing, or poll booth arm pulling. We've got a new president to elect and a war to stop.
Peace Out Everybody, and if you're good I promise my next post won't be political. Hell, maybe I'll put in a new poem if I get it done. I know, big deal -- something to look forward to.
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