Peace of mind, only $1.49 at the hardware store

Had my first face-to-face encounter with 2 trespassers recently.


My general rule during hunting season is: never argue with hunters. This rule emerged from a common sense approach to managing the land. I’m never armed when I walk the property and I have no idea as to the state of mind of the hunters who are on my land. (Have they been drinking? Arguing with anyone? Do they have something to prove?)
Mostly I’m not opposed to hunting. Just do it on your own land or on land where you’ve got a permit to shoot: elk, caribou, mule deer, and whatnot.
I seriously doubt you'd be thrilled if I showed up at your house, uninvited, and started poking around in your backyard. Now picture me driving into your driveway, emerging from my car with a gun, and then I start poking around your backyard looking to kill something. Trust me: you’re hackles would be up at that point.



It was a Saturday and I’d been in town running errands (hardware store, the library, grocery store, etc) and I was in a good mood when I passed this one stretch of my land where there used to be a gate and an overgrown skid road but owing to a recent thinning by the state, the old skid trail is as clean as a whistle. I noted two large pickup trucks parked. It served to reason that the hunters were somewhere nearby, hunting. And that’s when it happened. A little blast of adrenaline. Snap. And I was done with hunters on my land. I raced to the house and grabbed a hammer, nails, a no trespassing sign, and an orange safety vest.
I rushed back to gate. A small anount of anger coursed through my veins but I vowed to hang the sign and get the heck out of there. The plan was to pin the No Trespassing sign on the tree right near the trucks so that when the hunters returned they couldn’t miss it. (And in the future anyone with any bright ideas wouldn’t be able to miss the sign either.)

As I approached the trucks, gulp, the hunters were seated on a felled tree, shooting the sh*t. (No bullets required to shoot the sh*t.) Their rifles rested at their sides.

“Be cool,” I told myself and knew that I couldn’t turn back. They'd seen me and I'd seen them. I was definitely going to be saying something but I wasn't going to "have words with them." There was a bit of a nip in the air but I din't feel it. At all. I was warm all over and there was a buzz in my body (sort of like a runners high). I know that I have a temper. Just hang the sign and head home, I reminded myself. Say as little as possible.

The two dudes, somewhere in their mid-50s, approached me. Their orange hats and vests contrasted against their camo and the scenery.


“Whatcha doin’?” one of them inquired.

(It was kind of obvious: the hammer, nails, and sign were unmistakable.)
“Hanging a sign,” I said and noticed my blood pressure go through the roof.

I pounded the first nail into the tree. It broke. I hadn’t realized it was a maple tree and the adrenaline was f*cking up my coordination.

“We came in over on [redacted],” the talkative one says.

As if his entry onto my land two miles from where we stood meant had anything to do with anything.

I replied, “There’s 175 acres between here and there. And you’re on private property.”

He asked, “Who owns the property?”

“I do,” I replied.

His eyes go big with surprise. “Oh.”

At this point I broke another nail and pounded the hammer against my thumb. (Holy sh*t that hurts!). Inside I did my best to control my temper. And the only response I had to anything he said, was to remind him that he was on private property. He made one other inanane comment. I avoided eye contact. I knew that if I turned my attention from the task at hand I could blow up. I got two nails into the sign, another one was all bent up and I could tell they were thinking I should never do any carperntry.

As I turned and walked away I made eye contact with each of them -- once. And they wore the most bewildered expressions.

As far as I was concerned they’d been put on notice and as adults they could chose to remain on my land, in violation of state law, or they could get the H*ll off my land and go poach somewhere else.

As I got back into the car and drove home the pain in my thumb screamed. And I noticed that my hands were shaking. But I’d kept my promise to myself and hadn’t argued with them.

The next day I put the gate back up and this past weekend I noticed there weren’t any trucks parked on my land. For the first time in years I didn’t hear the report of rifles being fired and didn’t fear a stray bullet entering the living room and killing me. They really do hunt that close to the house.

Who knew a No Trespassing sign, at $1.49, could bring such peace of mind?

No good deed goes unpunished (especially if you’re clocked doing 70 in a 55 mile per hour zone)

Late Friday I learned that someone was needed to get dressed in the Bad Kitty costume for an event at Books of Wonder on Sunday afternoon. I leapt at the chance. Seriously. Being dressed as Bad Kitty is the closest I come to being treated like a rock star. And kids are so much cooler than adults in this type of setting. It won’t be long until they decide to follow the pattern of their parents and become jaded New Yorkers. In the meantime, there is room for fun and joy. And picture books!


Unless I wanted to get up while it was still dark and drive the speed limit from the country to the city (something I have yet to do on both counts), I had to hold steady at 70 m.p.h. (which is something I can do in my sleep) and I’d get to the city in time to grab a snack and suit up. Thirty miles from the city I was surprised to look in my rearview mirror and see a motorcycle cop with his lights flashing. I pulled into the right lane and so did he. This is when I started laughing. I was getting pulled over. I had no idea how fast I'd been driving but I figured people got pulled over for going 80 or 90. And I was doing neither. Was this about something as pedestrian as 70?
I was all smiles and chatted affably with the officer.

“Why were you going so fast?” he asked.
“Bad habit, good mood, and I’m in a rush." I replied
“Where are you headed?”
“New York City.”


I asked, “Just out of curiosity, how fast was I going?”
He answered, “All of 70 when you flew by me like I was standing still.”

He headed to his bike with my license and registration.

I kept chuckling as I straightened up the interior of my car. I was about to get fined in the neighborhood of $150.00 on a lovely Sunday morning as I headed into the city to be Bad Kitty. (I’m sure Bad Kitty, when she becomes a teenager will be joyriding. I know I did my fair share of that as a teen.) There was nothing to do in this situation but laugh and I’ll try to keep that in mind when I get points on my license and my insurance goes up.

“And how was it being Bad Kitty?” you ask.

It was the star turn it always is. No pain -- all gain.

Midway through the reading of A Bad Kitty Christmas, Nick Bruel announced, “The part of the grandmother will be read by singer and actress Vanessa Williams.” (Say wha?) And Nick held the microphone up to his Mac computer and sure enough, via mp3, Vanessa Williams read Granny.
And Thank G*d that one of my dear Aunts always hits me up with a C-note at Christmas time so at least I’ve got the fine for the traffic violation covered.

Bantam Rooster Found

After an earlier incident in the rural town where I live, when an over-zealous sheriff shot a neighbor's pet as it ran away from him, killing the pet, an Action Alert Group, interested in safe guarding local pets was created. (Please excuse that run-on sentence...) BTW: the sheriff was a total d*ck. This dog had a collar and was super goofy and clearly not posing a threat to the officer or the community. But the cop had to go and get a rifle and shoot the dog dead.

The Action Alert Group sends out emails whenever a dog or cat is found or reported missing/lost. At least once a week a cat or dog goes on the lam.

And I don't want to be mean: but how do you lose a dog on a walk? I get that it's the country and a person might want to let his or her dog off the leash as owner and pet amble along a country road at sunset. Nice and romantic, right? Not if the dog doesn't come when you call it and ends up spending the night in the wilds (not where domestic pets belong) running from bears/coyotes/mountain lions or worse, shot dead the next day by the po-lice.

Today's alert is a classic.
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Bantam Rooster Found

Friday, Dec. 2, 2011

If you or anyone you know is missing a rooster:
A rooster has taken up with [redacted] flock on [redacted]
White bantam rooster with leg feathers.
A silver bracelet tag.

[redacted] will read the bracelet tonight when they roost.

Please forward this to anyone you think might be interested or helpful in getting this boy home.
 
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If I were that rooster and I'd taken up with a new flock, given that the new flock had a couple of cuties in it, I might be perfectly happy not to be found. I can't wait to learn who "lost" this bad boy. I might pop over to visit his new haunt to see how he's doing.

A year to the day (almost)

1 year ago I gathered up my belongings and headed to the house for an unpaid leave of absence from work and a month of writing. Once I was at the house I settled into a routine of sorts. The goal was to write for a minimum of 4 hours per day, whenever it struck my fancy. I tend to be a night person so it was very strange on the three mornings when I woke up and said, "It's time to write." And got to writing at 6 a.m.

Mostly I got up and headed to a Walmart a few towns over and walked the perimeter of the parking lot ten times, which I think was equal to a few miles. (It was hunting season and I was not interested in being shot on my land. (I can sit in my livingroom and listen as poacher fire their rifles at game. Get off my land you f*cking trespassers!)

After the morning walk I headed back to the house where I kept the temp at a brisk 55 degrees. And I'd write, eat simple meals, and watch movies on DVD.

I was back in New York City on December 12, returning to the office the next morning

My month of writing resulted in a First Draft. This was read by about 5 people who gave me awesome feedback. And sadly all seemed to agree on a couple of major points which meant it was back to editing.

In the Springtime of 2011 I commenced with revisions. Each and every weekend from April through September I wrote for about 4 hours on Saturday and Sunday. (Ok, when Hurricane Irene knocked out the power I didn't end up writing that weekend.)

At the end of September I concluded work on the Second Draft.

It was time to go hunting for an Agent. I have a friend who is somewhat famous and she was gracious enough to put me in touch with her agent. Her agent was not feeling my book. At all. I was told the characters were "unlikable." Fair enough. Thanks for your opinion. Next.

And now, G*d bless my weary soul, I've been in touch with another agent. Both he and his assistant were "taken" with the story and I'm set to meet with him soon to discuss moving forward. (Do I hear a small bird whispering in my ear? She's saying, "More revisions are on the way.")

At the rate I'm going, the book pubs sometime in 2013.

And so it goes

I am having an interesting week. One in which I search for a literary agent.

I work in publishing. That and $2.25 will get you a ride on the subway. Except it actually does have little perks. I was totally perplexed about creating this new relationship between me and the agent. (I love that this year has been filled with new things, eg: running 5k races, finding an agent.) And so I knocked on the door of a trade publisher and asked if she had 5 minutes. She said yes. For the next ten minutes I asked her questions about agents and she gave me really great answers. Oddly the one sentence that sticks out in my mind is: write from where the passion is. (Which has nothing to do with finding an agent.)

And as we talked I realized a couple of things. I'm going to use my guts. I'm going to follow my instincts. And above and beyond that -- I'm going to let the agent who is right for me, appear in my life.

And today, I received a rejection letter from an agent. Which is totally awesome! (Note: I might be one of the few people who likes being rejected.) The reason why I like being rejected: I don't want to work with you if you don't want to work with me. For real.

I learned this when I farmed. I did not want to do business with people (or retail outlets) who weren't in love with my vegetables.

My real customers loved me and I loved them.

I also don't mind that I was rejected by one agent because there is an ocean of agents and editors out there. And I have my book with another agent. And if s/he rejects me, it'll be onto another one.

Folks. It's all good.

So said Karen O

"Thank you for coming to our dress rehearsal." So said Karen O, last night, at the conclusion of Stop the Virgens at St. Ann's Warehouse. (Which opens to the public tonight through October 22.) It's too bad karen O has said the show is a "psycho opera" because that minimizes the show's cultural and artistic value. This could be the long-awaited riot grrl response to "Tommy" (by The Who). I didn't are for a second that there was no discernible plot although I would have like a play bill or hand out with the lyrics so I could follow along. I mean this is an opera. Can I get super titles here?

How would I describe the performance? In one word, "mesmerizing." Too bad I'm no good at reviewing music because I could go on at length about the catchy hooks, a seriously intense (and stellar) line up of musicians, and the chorus. Yes, the chorus, directed by Debra Barsha.

I might also characterize the show as "Bjorkian." But taken to a whole nuther level. There was something dark and luscious, primal yet refined.

If there are any women's studies/media studies phd candidates out there, you need to get your asses to this show. Your dissertation could be based on this one show alone.

More than anything I was stoked to see a female performance artist go the distance. I remember seeing Karen Finlay with the yams (way back in the day) and Karen O (whether she knows it or not) benefits from the foremothers (and aunts and nieces) of performance art. Marianne Faithfull? Suzie Quatro? Yes, Karen O needs to be sending them thank you notes but better still she's produced Stop the Virgens which could be viewed as a love letter to creation myth, feminism, and anarchy. Did I mention the catchy hooks?

I would have liked a smidge more movement from Karen O and a tiny bit more variation from song to song but overall the 9 songs hold up together individually and collectively.

And I was stoked to be on the 300+ guest list for family and friends. "Karen O thank you for having me at your dress rehearsal."

Last week I decided to emerge from my shell, for one week. It’s been a year of forestry and novel writing and I needed a break from both so I decided to turn up the heat on my urban social life.


Monday evening rolled around and with nothing better to do I texted a friend to meet for dinner. We ended up at Porsena. As we were catching up at the bar, I realized that we probably should have been in a locker room rather than a civilized dining establishment. (My friend M is almost as blunt as I am when it comes to conversation and he isn’t even a Sadge.) I looked up from the first of many glasses of sparkling white wine and noticed that Jim Courier had just entered with a good looking woman. I thought it was his gf but after googling realized it was his much younger wife.
I had a pleasant first-taste experience when I tucked into a bowl of nodi marini, sailor’s knot.
Tuesday night I met one of my former assistants, L, for bon voyage drinks. She’s heading back to the West Coast. She’s finally able to laugh about the night we went out drinking 5 years ago and she got so hammered she threw up on me. (This has become one of her favorite New York City stories). It’s her, “I threw up on my boss story.” I finally got to hear her side bc she didn’t used to have a sense of humor about this incident and refused to speak of it. I filled her in on what happened after she threw up on me and passed out in the cab -- I had to go through her purse to find her license and hoped that it listed her current address. (It did. Phew.) Her roommate was super-surprised when I came through the door with a completely inebriated L hanging on my arm.
Wednesday night I attended Let Us Eat Local, Just Food’s annual gala. If you haven’t been -- but you love food sourced from local farmers, prepared by well-known (and/or famous) chefs, washed down with local wine, beer, or spirits – you should go. 2012 will no doubt be as stellar as the previous three events. Let Us Eat Local does not disappoint.

Thursday afternoon I handled the distribution of the veggies and eggs at my CSA and then hopped in the car  to jet to the country.

Friday and Satuday were a mish-mash of country living. Getting the house inspected, removal of invasive species (plants), a visit with a contractor to bid on some repairs. In the evening I watched Dead Man and The Fly. (Purchased at KMart for $5 and $7.50 respectively.) It occurred to me that both movies were the directors at their best. Nothing like unwinding one's mind to Jim Jarmush and David Cronenberg. More like wrinkling one's mind.

Sunday was a day I had been looking forward to for some time. The Jack Kerouac 5K in Lowell. I was stoked for this race, mostly I was ready to see what I was made of. (The course in Lowell wasn't nearly as bucolic or hilly as the Granby Steeple Race.) I managed to take note of a few things along the way: the large hill between mile 2 and 3 that was treelined and the only part of the course in shade, a kid who appeared to be selling drugs out of his car, the fact that the finish line seemed to be too far away from the mile two marker.
Monday thorugh Sunday: enjoying myself and pushing myself. And that folks is how I spell LIFE.

Totally skipped the Sabbath last week. This week I will attempt to learn how to spell SLEEP.