Small town speed

The Fairy Queen does not move slowly. She darts and fidgets and lunges and mentally sprints and runs into things at top speed. Patience is not her gig. Once upon a time, a lifetime ago in a really different job that involved interviewing people about themselves, taking copious notes, and then writing about them, she once said to a plodding individual: I can write faster than you can talk.

(Phrodaux: at times he has issues, but spent time at his grandparents' farm; for those who didn't, "Napoleon Dynamite" was a documentary, not fiction, I can put real names to all those people, and them some. Eugene, Loomer and Camille just as teaser, teaser, so at times, just enjoys being with "his peeps")

The farm is a place to slow down, relax, recharge. That's all good, when it's just the FQ and Phrodaux and the beasts. Once in a while, though, we venture out into the surrounding countryside for supplies or amusement or both. That's when it becomes abundantly clear that the Fairy Queen's pace is not particularly suited to rural settings. She is trying, though, to develop a small town speed, with mixed results. A recent weekend provided ample opportunities to practice.

(phrodaux here adding a sidebar: this onetime at the bar where the bartender who we love has since left, and we mostly don't like it nearly as much as when she was not left, 'cause she ruled the place with an iron fist, yet knew what kind of salad dressing we liked, and had a baseball bat for those who misbehaved... where was I... oh yeah, FQ tried to be gregarious, but the object of gregarious was really stinky, and called phrodaux "you sexy fuck" more than she felt comfortable with,  side, side note, calling phrodaux "you sexy fuck" less than six times is apparently acceptable, just so you know, and knowing is half the battle)

(phrodaux commenting on a phrodaux sidebar... I really am a "sexy fuck", just sayin')

Stop 1: Lamb & Wool Festival Parade (minimal patience required). Also, all the pictures will be from this spectacular spectacular, because after the parade the camera went away to allow for full involvement in all errands, interactions, and spiritual quests that came after.

Here's all you need to know about this parade: the color guard came in the middle, not at the beginning and ALL the town's law enforcement vehicles are in the parade somewhere, so no one is blocking roads or directing traffic, so random cars inadvertently joined the parade at several points.

Stop 2: Mexican grocery store for soft bread and queso - Phrodaux was on a torta mission (more patience required).  Why does a tiny store with few customers have a computer system that could run NASA? (Phrodaux here: 1976 NASA, boom chicka wow wow) Why does it take 20 minutes to buy bread, cheese, 6 limes and 2 avocados??? (deep breaths) (phrodaux here, again, boom chicka wow wow)

Tractors! We LOVE tractors. The ones in this parade were OK. For a REAL tractor parade, you have to go to the Great Oregon Steam Up. Go! This summer! Go!

Stop 3: Farm store (a little more patience required, but only in order to restrain self from smacking horrible woman trying to get her kid to do things - like fetchingly hold a tiny chick - just for the photo opp). The staff is great and we leave with the best combinations of things. This time: strawberry plants, a 50 gallon water barrel and asparagus plants.

The official categories for this parade are listed below. When they say "Coarts" I think they must mean "Courts" as in princesses and such or maybe tennis.  Or not. Have I mentioned that small towns present challenges, not least of which is spelling?
Equestrian Units
Motorizd Units
Floats
Other  (Coarts, Bands and Walking Units)

Stop 4: Hardware store (a little more patience required, because the cashier was new and all our old pals who admire Phrodaux's tresses and miss us when we don't come in for 3 weeks were out on the floor, helping customers and teasing each other).

It was a TRANSFORMER! The bucket is UP, then there are powerlines, so the bucket is DOWN, then the bucket is right back UP again.

Stop 5: Grocery store (A LOT MORE patience required, because the people who have obviously NEVER shopped before stalked us through the whole place. And also, what is with the human instinct to HALT IN DOORWAYS and OTHER NARROW PASSAGES???) (phrod: why is this? it seems universal, everywhere, people stop in pinch points to have extended banal conversations, is it an earthquake survival thing? if so wouldn't it be offset by the "you are blocking the passages of non-earthquake survival people, so I must kill you evolution thang?)

This photo really does go with the next photo. Look closely at door #2.

The first time we came to the Lamb and Wool Festival, we were innocent newbies. High and low, we  looked for the lambs. Finally, we asked at the hardware store: Where are all the lambs? Nice hardware man said, On the grill. Oh. Well then. We thought about that for a while and then we realized: If you raise sheep, you only need so many boys. So, unlucky boys, it's the grill for you.

Stop 6: Gas station (Tons of patience required, gladly given. No one should be 71 years old, working 4 pumps solo, while customers yell and curse and no help is coming). Filled the gas cans and fled the scene, desperate to get back to the farm, the pups, the meadow, the space, the mower.

(Phrodaux: he really is a nice man, but maybe a bit taxed by the task of pumping gas, everyone should be nice to him, especially since all the teenagers who didn't excel, but did an ok job at pumping gas, but really shouldn't, have quit, and the cow who manages the place thinks it is a good idea to only have one person on the payroll who happens to be a nice man, but maybe peaked at just below pumping gas at 71 years old, but is rather nice but he's the ONLY F-ING EMPLOYEE FOR 8 PUMPS WITH HORRIBLE PEOPLE YELLING AT HIM FOR ONLY DOING HIS BEST!?!??!?!

But to the nice people just before us who tried to pay the $8.87 with a $10 bill and were told that he didn't have the $0.13 change and then the nice people told him to keep the $0.13 and the other dollar, you get karma points and nice things said about you on our random blog, which if you knew, NEVER HAPPENS! good on you, we love you a bit.)

Today's theme (about a week later) is that we don't so much like people. There's us and our family by gene sequence and our family by choice but after that WHATEVER. Except those people Phrodaux was ranting about a couple paragraphs above. We like you. We might even love you. Come by the farm. We'll take you to a really lame parade. 

this one ain't ripe yet...

...dems don't bite, dems pets...

(dems don't bite...)

{FQ sidebar: THAT is another story altogether, involving a mini van, a cross-country trip, E, and the state of Tennessee.}

{FQ channeling Phrodaux: That is also another story of HIS altogether, which may or may not be told here. WWGGPS besides "enough is enough and too much is shitty"}

This is one of those "both of us" posts, or another way of putting it is "Phrodaux is just typing some crap down and the Fairy Queen will perdy it up"

Let's start, shall we? begin.

(one is not quite ripe, can you tell?)

One has (kinda) figured out what goes where and how to get mommy and daddy to dance like puppets on strings. The other still can get mommy and daddy to dance like puppets on strings, but maybe less intentional.

(for those keeping score the green one is not quite ripe)

Is there any other display of happy springtime that outshines new plant growth than a small white (green) dog ecstatically rolling on his back sun warming his wiggly belly? yes. there is . A small white (green) dog ecstatically rolling on his back sun warming his wiggly belly on freshly mown grass, thus turning said ecstatically rolling small white (green) dog slowly from an ecstatically white upturned wiggly dog into a ecstatically green upturned wiggly dog.

Mo is ten months old, slightly green, and smells of nori. Nubie is 10 months and 10 years old, mostly white, and smells of sweet nice dog (but let's let the definition of sweet nice dog remain fluid). Any predictions for the trouble they will get into this summer? Or, better yet, at "beginner" dog obedience class, which starts in one week?

Slow gifts

Have you ever spent MONTHS trying to give a gift? I don't mean the package that never gets to the post office or the "I'll know it when I see it" item that is never quite found. I mean the sheer logistics of presenting a person - say, Phrodaux - with a particular gift.

Well. Here is my completely not recent or timely or urgent in any way story.

A couple of years back, in the month of September, Phrodaux and I checked out this groovy place: Beam & Anchor. You should too. Go there now. This post will still be here when you get back.

Anyway, just inside the door was the chair. A lovingly and painstakingly restored antique dentist's chair. Round base, wooden arms, the little headrest thingy, and buttery new leather on the seat and back and twitchy foot parts. Now dentist chairs are something the Fairy Queen can take or leave. Not super fond of being at the dentist, don't really want to sit in their chairs, etc. But Phrodaux was instantly smitten. I think I need it was what he kept saying.

(phrodaux here: I don't love the dentist, I'm not Jack Nicholson or Steve Martin, look it up.)

I thought I might save all pics until the end, but that just seemed mean. Also, this post is so long and random, you might give up. So here! Here it is! What this whole endless story is about!

See those blankets? They come up in Step 3.

The FQ can be cagey, sometimes. She knows when to play her role (den mother and team killjoy): No, really, what would you do with it? Where would it go? There's no space for it. Which in this case was just a way to buy some time. Her REAL internal monologue was going something like this:

• Perfect gift for impossible to find perfect gifts for Phrodaux. 
• How can I get it? 
• And how can I keep it a secret? 
• It's not like I can put it under the daybed in the library where all the other secret prezzies hide out with the dust bunnies and abandoned dog toys. 
• When? Where? How????

(phrodaux back here: note to self, don't look under the daybed in the library, phrodaux don't play that way, likes gifts to be a suprize, thinks dust bunnies deserve their privacy being bunnies and all)

Well. Things transpired, slowly.

Step 1: Buy the chair. I called the lovely Beam & Anchor people, who agreed to sell it to me over the phone. I suspect they put a cunning little SOLD tag on it and only wish I'd seen it. When we buy art, I 99% love the art and 1% love knowing that the SOLD tag means the piece is eventually coming home with me. Does that make me a small, acquisitive person? Whatever. We have some cool art.

(phrodaux blah, blah, we have a lot of cool art, not cable or other things that people think are essential)

Step 2: Get the chair. This happened a full month later, due to a shiny confluence of events. There is a day in October when kids get the day off due to something called "Statewide Inservice Day." My first, brutal, cry every day year of teaching, I asked my principal what I was supposed to do. She said, "Take a class if you want to, otherwise stay home and soak your feet." Essentially, the ambitious among us take a class and everybody else tries to get caught up. I did take a class once, through the brilliant Wordstock machine, with Jeff Anderson, and if you read one teacherly thing this year it should be Mechanically Inclined but lord almighty how I have digressed. Ahem. This was not a take a class year. This was a corner your lovely father, the Wood Master, along with his ancient truck, and make a plan to PICK UP THE CHAIR.

Step 2.5: Actually pick up the chair. Let's boil this one down to: a) the chair is badass heavy; b) you can't really lift it because of the hydraulic thingamajigs that once made it go up and down; c) it took 3 nice guys who are somehow affiliated with Beam & Anchor, plus their lift truck, to get it into the Wood Master's truck.

Step 3: Store the #$*)#*$(#* chair until Christmas, the occasion for which this gift is intended. Luckily for me, the Wood Master wasn't driving the ancient truck much in those days, so the chair stayed safely in the back, under the canopy plus blankets and tarps and such to ward off rain, mildew, and evil spirits.

Step 4: Give the gift. Yay, much rejoicing. Was Phrodaux surprised? I don't know. Ask him. I can never tell.

(phrodaux: yep)

Step 5: Get the $#*#$(&$(#*&$(*#&$(*#&$(*&# chair into our actual house. In the week between Xmas and New Year's that year, we actually had a little dinner party. At some point I thought: OK, the Wood Master can drive over and somehow the guests can all get together and unload the chair. And then I woke from my dream of youth and realized we're all old and have bad backs. New plan required.

(phro: one had recently had back surgery and been confined to bed for more than an insignificant time, actually the youngest of the group, crap. I remember when we bought our first color tv.)

Step 5.5: Hire movers to transfer the chair from the Wood Master's truck (parked in our driveway) into our living room. They are young and have insurance. Done.

Step 6: Enjoy gorgeous, lovely, perfect chair.

(phr: yep, that is my I'm talking on the phone spot)

Notice that cute little round rug?? It pulls it all together, right?

Step 7: Realize (Phrodaux) that what's missing is a small table next to the chair. A table that is so small it cannot become a beacon for clutter, like every other surface in our house. No, a table that can hold exactly one bottle of beer, to be sipped while talking on the phone, which is what the chair has proved perfect for. Can such a table be purchased? No! It must be created by Phrodaux himself. And of course it will have a chicken leg/foot.

Notice the fluffy things stuffed under the chair? Mo thinks it's a good place to wedge tennis balls, then cry and bark about his sad, sad life in which the balls just keep getting stuck.

Ignore the stuffing! Look at the table!

Chicken Foot!

(Ph: yep, feet be chicken feet, and yes it is possible to have a table that doesn't get covered with projects/paper/crap/entrails of your enimies, oops, did I say that, I meant "donuts", yah, donuts)

The morals of this story are: a) Find a way to give your true love what he/she wants. It's worth it; b) Some gifts take a long time, but that's OK; and c) You never know, your house might just need a dentist's chair. Confession: Phrodaux is not the only one who sits on it when talking on the phone.

(P: my lovely wife loves and knows me, neiner neiner, or you can thank the dark gods that you all don't have to because the fairy queen does)