All About Wonderful Me

I wrote the following essay for one of my husband's cousins. She is compiling a list of similar entries, artwork, photos, etc. from the entire family for a journal of some sort to be presented to my husband's parents this Christmas. We were asked for a contribution that described ourselves. The instructions were very loose and without walls. It was an easy way to add to the ol' blog.

My adulthood to a certain point can pretty much be summed up in this passage from Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums:

Then suddenly everything was just like jazz: it happened in one
insane second or so: I looked up and saw Japhy running down the
mountain in huge twenty-foot leaps, running, leaping, landing with
a great drive of his booted heels, bouncing five feet or so, running,
then taking another long crazy yelling yodelaying sail down the sides
of the world and in that flash I realized it’s impossible to fall off
mountains you fool . . .

The “certain point” when this exuberant and justifiably selfish existence ended was 10:26 p.m., July 4, 2000, when Stevie and I reached an agreement—he was ready to see the world and I was ready to get him out into it. The tangible endorphin high that settled in over all of us exceeded any that I experienced after the few times that I actually did what the passage above describes. If my life then was a collection of experiences, of truly ecstatic highs and emotionally jarring lows, my life now is akin to what happens after those huge leaps down mountains: to sitting around a campfire with people you love and—more importantly—enjoy, with a lot of stories, a full belly, passing around a jug of cheap wine. Or, more accurately, a couple of juice boxes.

I miss hiking all the time. But that is the only flaw in my life now. It’s true that my life isn’t as exciting, but a happy marriage (hallelujah!) is a refuge from anything the world can dish out, and being a mother to a kid like Stevie is as comfortable as . . . I’m searching for a metaphor that isn’t as tired as an overused metaphor . . . so I’ll have to say as comfortable as taking off my bra at the end of a workday—or any day, for that matter.

The life I’m living is what happiness is. It is comfortable, satisfying, joyful, secure, interesting, and full of possibilities. It’s a life that I want my children to have, for starters.
That would be a good place to end, but I’m going to make a few more statements to better fulfill the time capsule aspect of this project.

Date: September 5, 2004
Name: Lisa McClary
Age: 34
Turn-offs: Presidential campaigns, war, civilian Hummer driving
Turn-ons: My husband, my kid, my future kids, living in the country, quilting, taking it easy, hiking, really good music, the smell of wild sage with red sand underfoot and blue sky above, sleeping under an open window with a cool breeze blowing
Two Lines of Advice to My Children: Don’t live your life in fear, and don’t get so busy that you can’t sit on a porch swing and watch the corn grow.
Keepin’ it all together: Lest you think after reading this that my life is some flower-strewn utopia, don’t delude yourself—I have problems, mostly of my own making. But for nearly two decades (!) I’ve gone back to my tattered copy of The Dharma Bums and here I found the perfect summary to my bio:
“But let the mind beware, that though the flesh be bugged,
the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious.”

"This Lunch Table Goes to 11"

Yes, the Pudding Club is getting used to its new 4-square table. It's a bit of a change, this new size, but it's fun getting to know new people. Raisinette, Jam Master J, The Bridge, and Alternate #3 are adding their unique bits of flava to what was threatening to be a tired, tired lunch population, and I'm down wid dat.

Today I asked everyone to rapid fire the worst movie they ever saw. The first one out was "The Horse Whisperer," an impossibly boring and depressing movie, almost on par with "The English Patient," which had essentially the same stars. Other winners were Sphere, Gigli, Kangaroo Jack, Jingle All the Way, The Waterboy, Toys, and I can't remember the rest.

Then, we rapid fired our favorite comedies, which elicited a slightly less enthusiastic response as well as a rapid fire response to a particularly offensive choice. Among the best: Spinal Tap--a real shocker coming from Alternate #3, and one of my personal faves, Raising Arizona, Dr. Strangelove, A Fish Called Wanda, Orgasmo (elicitor of offense), Shrek, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Galaxy Quest, Airplane, and here is another example of what happens to brains as they age, because I can't remember the others and the sayers of these others won't email me back with their choices. (harumph!)

I just came out of the company communal bathroom. Does anybody like going to the bathroom in front of other people? Especially when it's so eerily quiet in there? NO! Anyway, I found myself desperately washing and drying my hands without inhaling, trying to balance a thorough de-bacterializing with the body's need for oxygen, and was successful in not taking a breath until I was safely clear of the bathroom. And I quickly found myself thinking about the times when I have been upside down in various rivers, strapped into a kayak, hearing only the roar of whitewater, feeling only the sudden cold and the rush of adrenaline, which slowly made its way into panic as I realized that I was upside down in a fast-moving, cold river, and my legs were being held in a boat that I wanted out of (or at least righted), and I had no oxygen in my lungs, and I can't breathe!!!!! It's freaky. But oh, man, what a rush. And now here I am, walking down the long, gray hallway of a building in an actual corporate park, having just survived another harrowing and somewhat gross journey into the bathroom, where women were doing what we all do everyday, but trying to be ever so quiet and nonobtrusive about it, dying with embarrassment everytime something audible happens, throwing curses at the other people in the bathroom for being there. It's freaky.

As for me, I shit in the woods.

I Know Why the Caged Rooster Doesn't Crow

Yep. Offered offed our rooster Saturday. And he did crow--even in his cage.

I was wondering if there was a way to make a rooster's last hours highly pleasant--the rooster equivalent of a steak dinner. There isn't. They're not supposed to have any food or water for at least 12 hours before their death, so we had to put Tim in a cage overnight. Early Saturday morning, Offered put the last details on his slaughterhouse, and Tim's time ran out.

So here is how it is done (Squeam Alert):
The best way to kill poultry is to slit the throat. To do this, you hang a "killing cone" (actual name) from a high place (Offered used the track of the garage door), put the unfortunate chicken head down into the cone (so that the head would be sticking out of the bottom of an ice cream cone), pull their head slightly, and slit the jugular. This allows for a fair amount of blood to come out before the heart stops beating.

Once the bleeding stops (there's less than you think), you dip the bird in a large amount of hot water for 30 seconds or so to loosen the feather follicles. Then you hang it up by its feet (Offered used a rope (looped around the same track) with both ends secured to a little square piece of wood, wrapped the feet, and "latched" the rope on the wood) and pluck it. The plucking took Offered about half an hour. Even though the bird looked cleanly plucked, close inspection revealed the little pin hairs that are normally burned off with a propane torch (the fancy little kitchen ones would work great). We don't have a propane torch, so Offered suggested Rooster Stew, which would allow us to remove the skin (and the pin hairs) prior to cooking.

Offered had more trouble gutting Tim, and ended up frustrated with not as much meat as he had hoped. All he had to go by was some pictures in an old book, and he would have preferred a live example.

Still, he got a lot of meat from that rooster, which I turned into a lovely stew, which I couldn't eat more than a bite of. Offered, meanwhile, ate with gusto, proclaiming that "we've gotta get some more chickens!" Honestly, I was a bit squeamish about it, having had a personal relationship with the deceased, and not liking dark meat (and there was a lot of very dark meat). If this farming thing turns me into more of a vegetarian, well, that's not a bad thing. Offered, however, has tasted the flesh of homegrown farm animals, and there will be no going back.

Spawnasaurus--the victim of most of Tim's outbursts--had mixed feelings about the whole thing. He was not witness to the execution, but he did want to see the plucking. I got pictures of his reaction--the little face he made, as if he had just smelled something vaguely unpleasant but wasn't sure what it was. He said, "Tim won't be able to attack me anymore, now that he's dead." He seemed pleased about Tim being dinner, and we thought he would relish the sweet revenge of eating his backyard nemesis. However, when it came down to dishing up a bowl of Tim, Stevie opted for macaroni and cheese. It could be that he has gained a sense of what it means to eat meat, and will from here on out be a vegetarian (save for hot dogs, of course). Or it could've been the carrots. Either way, he dug for dinosaur bones without fear this weekend.

How are the other chickens, you ask? Tim's absence is definitely felt. The overall vibe of the chickens is more mellow. The only rooster left, little Sue, seemed surprised that his newly vibrant crows went unchallenged, but has failed to establish barnyard dominance--I saw one of the Reds henpeck him yesterday, so the ladies are feeling confident in their status as the Queen Latifahs (in "Chicago") of the coop.

All-in-all, it wasn't a traumatic experience (I didn't have to murder anything, after all, and Offered used his gloves). As a former "conscientious-objector" vegetarian, it was good to fully realize--and witness--what meat-eating entails. It was also nice to know that should I (we) continue to eat animals, that the animals had a good life, were not filled with hormones and antibiotics, were not part of the corporate farming machine that is destroying lives and the environment, and died in a relatively respectful manner.

I Know Why the Caged Rooster Doesn't Crow

Sometimes celebrities give everything, too

This post is a quick response to Burb's latest on www.whywontyougrow.blogspot.com, where he points out the ridiculous amounts of stuff that celebrities get at awards show. I feel you, man.

But go to the Oprah show web site and read about the delightful trick she played on her audience during her season premiere this week (www.oprah.com, click on "season premiere" and watch the first half of the video).

Spoiler alert: For those of you who just have to know NOW, here's what happened: She called 11 people to the stage, all of whom desperately needed a car, and gave them all a brand new car. And there was much rejoicing. Then she told the audience that she had one more car, the keys of which were in one of the boxes being passed out to everyone in the audience. When she told them to open their boxes, a great piercing scream filled the studio as everyone discovered that they had won a car. The other twist was that, supposedly, everyone in the audience was in some sort of financial distress and could actually use the car.

They all got GM sedans, and GM flipped the over $7 million bill. Of course, Oprah talked up the car and its laundry list of features, but what the hell? Even an anti-ad gal like me can appreciate the marketing genius behind this stunt: GM pays $7 million for the hearts of millions of women everywhere, the show gets international publicity (thanks to my blog), and a bunch of people who really needed cars got new cars (and the tax bill covered, too).

And by the way, I don't watch her show much (I'm never home at that time and I rarely watch TV), but I like Oprah. So there.

The Meaning Behind "Rural Fetish"

Below is the text of an email I sent out to some of my coworkers today:

I brought 2 dozen truly organic, free-range, vegetarian-fed hen (unless they ate bugs and stuff, which is really beyond my control) eggs today. Scott has first dibs on ½ dozen, if he wants them, as a ‘reward’ for bringing in many, many egg cartons. The rest are first come, first served. They are in the fridge, and there are ½ dozen cartons with them. To use, wash them under running water before cracking.

Also, if you want to bring me some egg cartons, I would not only appreciate it, but I would fill them with brand new eggs and bring them back to you, all for free. Our chickens have requested that their eggs be goodwill eggs.

Also, if you want a rooster, I have one that I will give you. If you don’t take him, he will be killed. That little so-and-so stepped up to ME this morning! He actually came running after me, and stood there defiantly even as I kicked my foot in his direction! Angry now, I chased him a few feet, English muffin and to-do list in hand, until I slipped on the grass and fell on my ass. Luckily, I avoided chicken crap. It’s a good country day!

For those dear reader coworkers who are relatively new, I need to explain. I have 17 chickens--15 hens and 2 roosters. Currently, the four Rhode Island Red hens are all laying, so I get 4 eggs per day. Very soon, the four Barred Rock hens will begin laying, and then the 2 Bantam Buckeye hens, the 4 Ameracauna hens (they lay blue and green eggs! Just like Martha's fancy-ass chickens!), and the Bantam Black Cochin hen. "Bantam" is a catch-all term for miniature chickens, which are about half the size of a normal chicken. Think of "Miniature Greyhound" in the dog world, and you get the idea. And, yes, they lay teeny little eggs, still incredibly edible.

Now, you don't need roosters to get eggs. You only need roosters if you want fertilized eggs and the resulting new chickens. Fertilized eggs taste the same as unfertilized eggs, only there is a slight gross-out factor if you really think about what you're eating, which is a fetus and the contents of a placenta. But that's neither here nor there.

We have two roosters--one big Barred Rock (a lovely black and white striped breed), and one Bantam Black Cochin (blackish-blue feathers with feathered feet, giving them the look of a chicken wearing extreme bellbottoms, only it's like a Wal-Mart attempt at fashionable bell-bottoms--they just go too far). The Black Cochin rooster is named Sue, after the guy in the Shel Silverstein/Johnny Cash song who has to beat everyone up because he's named Sue. Our little Cochin, with his fancy little bell-bottoms, luckily doesn't know that other roosters think he's a total queer. He has the cutest high-pitched crow, and is too intimidated by the big hens to try to take a ride, if you get my drift.

It's the other rooster, Tim, that has become a problem. A local chicken expert told us that when he starts getting cocky and "challenges" us, to chase him down, grab him by the legs, and whirl him around in great, revolving loops. Unfortunately, he has taken out his newly sexually-mature bravado on Spawnasaurus...THREE times now. Once he knocked him down, the second time he actually scratched his face, and the third time he just "puffed up" and scared Spawn. All three times Offered has given him a helicopter ride. But Tim won't learn.

Which brings us to this morning's episode. So we are going to kill and eat Tim. I'm sure that the hens won't miss the animal world's equivalent to a meathead in a Speedo with lots of gold chains jumping them all the time in what canNOT be described as "making love." And we won't miss an aggressive rooster terrorizing our son and leading me to fall on my ass in rage. But, still, we raised him from a fuzzy little chick and his sheer beauty and amusing personality add a lot of character to our little ranch. I imagine that eating him will be bittersweet. Think of Homer and Pinchy the Lobster, and you get the idea.

What's in a name?

Today I experienced grave misgivings over the name of my blog. It's not that "Rural Fetish" is a bad name or not the sum of my entire life. But I'm currently downloading a lot of my CDs onto this computer and I listened to the song "Foggy Notion" by the Velvet Underground (my favorite band of all time) and decided that THAT would have been the flat-out best name for this blog.

As you continue to read it (oh please, please, please, generous reader, as the primary goal of my life is to get more hits than Burb), the perfection of this title will become apparent.

So here's my dilemma: Do I change a good, shakily established name for a perfect, yet untried and unknown name, but one that is bound to get a few hits on Google by people who, in their love for the VU, might actually consider it a good thing to get linked to my blog?

Oh, the vexations of the too-overloaded-to-be-bored-and-so-have-turned-the-corner-back-into-a-boredom-like-state mind.

By the way, I still love the tagline. But I also love change. Gosh DANGIT! Why is life so hard?!

I only have eyes for you...and him...and sometimes even her...

I have oft made the statement, patient reader, that whatever one's endeavor, one should always formulate a crush on a coworker. I'm talking a "Lite" crush--the kind of crush that at times morphs into mild, tittering sexual innuendo or second-rate fantasies, and leaves you feeling a little perkier, a little more apt to clean yourself up in the morning, and, at times, overlaughing at the crushee's offhanded quip. I definitely do not recommend the soul-stomping, heart-breaking kind of crush. You know, like the one I had on James Dean when I was a young teen. The one that left me sure that The Rebel was the only one for me, and he's already DEAD-my-God-what-am-I-gonna-do!?!?! Sob.sob.sob.

A crush involving a little more mental (key word there) appreciation of a person than your marriage vows allow in real life makes coming to work much more enjoyable. If you knew me, you would know that I abhor people who cheat on their spouses/significant others, so it's significant that I am writing this, and you should think of work-place crushes as acceptable because they have my blessing as healthy and cozily harmless diversions in an otherwise first-scene-from-Joe Vs. The Volcano corporate work environment.

I bring all this up because Burb, Shirtless Wonder, and I were eating even more work cake and, when I mentioned that I wanted some chocolate cake to add to the almond cake that we had just consumed, Burb said that he would get a piece and we could split it, a scenario that was just fine with me. Shirtless Wonder pouted (he pouts a lot) and said that he was about to make the same offer, to which Burb replied "Well we could have a three-way (quick realization of what just came out of his mouth) of the cake, I mean!"

This was after a lunchful of sexual innuendo involving smoothies, erotic pastries, and a suggestion from Old Navy's young fiance that, if forced (from a desperate cube shortage) to double up in our cubes, we could lessen the tedium by making out. Not a half-bad idea! Making out can be so, so hot. (The promise of "more hotness" fulfilled, lunch eaters!)

The first guy that I was ever in love with (totally unrequited, I might add, until I had already fallen in love with the guy I was to marry, and then this guy turns up and admits his mistake, and then he died a couple years later!?) was hanging out in this house that I lived in with my incredibly recent ex AND the first guy that I lived with...seriously, it could have been a sit-com if we weren't all so very f**ked up...and we were hanging out late at night when he made the suggestion that we "make out." Just "make out!" Sure! Why not? I said, and he put on Donovan's Greatest Hits (an odd choice, but incredibly right on) and we made out--just made out--for the length of the tape. We weren't too far removed from our teen years, but it was quite nostalgic and every bit as hot as those heart-pounding, damn-near-driven-insane gropes that teens are so righteously fond of. So hot that sex itself would have ruined it. Well...maybe not ruined it...but there's something about having to put on the brakes that takes it to a, whew! it's getting hot in here.

Which, come to think of it, is why workplace crushes are so fun.

The original topic of this email had something to do with what is inappropriate, topic-wise, at work. Eh. Now I don't really care. My mind is elsewhere. Is there a full moon tonight or what?

(Note to Burb...It's 3:15! Spooky.)

It's 9:01 a.m. Time for some beef.

I am disgusted. I am disgusted that we have become so complacent about being manipulated by politicians and their ad men.

We talk about it openly, as if it's all par for the course. Meanwhile, real issues wither. For example, the Bush camp is currently going through the motions of its convention. The PR guys and, I assume, no or few gals, are trotting out their New Brawny Guy version of George W. in a desperate attempt to appeal to gobot females in the suburbs and swing the vote in the GOP's favor. Now, everyone knows that George doesn't really give a crap about women (his views on abortion rights are medieval, he pulled funding from family planning clinics all around the world, his wife has sold out so completely that she might as well be wearing a burka, and let's not forget all the women who have lost their children in this preemptive war). But, suddenly, half the voting population is important to George, and so he puts on sheep's clothing, has his daughters call him a nice guy (so insightful--I'm convinced!), and does these incredibly stupid and offensive campaign commercials that attempt to link this multi-millionaire, ridiculously powerful man and his oh-so-silent, un-Hillaryish wife to, well, to me and my husband. Yes, George, it would be tough to decide which child to pick up first on September 11, but your preemptive policies and lack of courage to really get to the root of the problem by figuring out why they hate us and changing our way of doing military-supported business in the world have practically ensured that other parents will have to make that choice in the future, either here or in one of the countries you drop your sensitive new-age guy bombs on.

Anyway, the press talks about these political manipulations as if they were inherent and even benign--they OPENLY EXPOSE the dastardly schemes of PR people and yet don't care at all! They then broadcast clips of politicians expounding on how they never do things 'because the polls and focus groups tell me to.' It's unbelievable. That is ALL THEY DO, especially during an election, and it's despicable.

When are we going to demand that the advertising of political candidates stop? Are we as stupid as they think we are? By the way, my disgust extends to both sides of the fence, even though--guess what, people?--there are more than two sides! Ugh. Which pair of rich white guys do we elect this time?