The #1 Reason Why Garbage Men Deserve All The Money We Pay Them And More, Even If They Never So Much As Graduated From Kindergarten. Even If They're Illegal Aliens. Even If They're Pedophiles. Even If They're Terrorists:

Maggots.

Crawling on the trash bags in the sealed-tight garbage can.

And I had to take the trash bags to the dump.

And the raccoon-proof can wouldn't fit in the back of the car. So I had to take the you-know-what-riddled bags out of it.

And no matter how many times I dropped the bags on the ground, the you-know-whats wouldn't come off. So I had to bring them with me. In the car.

And in the car, they crawled off.

And I was in Mom's car, which just got detailed in the garage. So all those napkins from all those iced-coffees from all those Dunkin' Donuts runs, that are supposed to be wedged between the seat cushions or blowing all over the floor, were gone.

So I had to pick the you-knows up and toss them...

WITH MY HANDS!!!

Here is a picture of puppies:

Take Two

This is the same post I published yesterday, but I ran out of the house so fast last night that I didn't bother with proofreading or editing. Proofreading and editing are Very Important. I never should have published it as it was. I'm sorry, folks. It's better now. Do you forgive me?

I got back to Maine last night, and have been doing a fat lot of nothing ever since. Went and got Mom's car out of hock with Dad. Shot some pool. Did not vacuum as soon as I stepped foot in the door like I swore I would (actually, I swore I'd do it before I stepped foot out the door, but that didn't happen, either). Forgot to set my alarm. Slept till 6:45. Worked out. Walked. Showered. Twice. The shower, that is, not the walk. And then got positively flattened by the heat. Napped on top of the covers under the ceiling fan for three hours until the Census Man came to the door and sent the dog into conniptions...

Anyway, I'll get back on schedule tomorrow, but to avoid actually doing anything productive for a little while longer, I'd like to present a pair of unrelated stories from my last lazy 24 hours. I'll alternate italics and plain text, so you can tell where one ends and one begins...

On my way out for my walk this afternoon, I heard a rustling in the trees which turned out to be a pair of cows meandering in the woods. Holsteins. Just a couple houses down the road. Maybe they've been there all along, but I walk the same route every day and never noticed them before. She rustled, I looked, she mooed at me, I laughed out loud. Even at the time I wondered why that struck me funny, but when she mooed at me I couldn't help but laugh.

Then, when I had almost reached the same spot on my way back home, a man in a red pickup truck pulled over to the side of the road and hailed me. "This is going to sound strange," he said, "but have you by any chance seen a pair of cows?" 

"Yes!" I said, glad that I could actually be of help. "They were in the woods just down the road about an hour ago!" 

"No," he said, "that's where they live. But there are supposed to be four, and two of them went through the fence this afternoon." 

Whoops.

I like to think the two I saw were the rogue ones. I like to think they saw me walking by and heard me laugh and got inspired. I hope they have all sorts of radical experiences, maybe get themselves all kinds of laid, and never-ever-ever wind up caught. Even if that means they have to stampede themselves off the edge of the goddamn Grand Canyon.

But still, I do like to be of help in any small way when I can, so I took his number and said if I saw them, I'd call. I didn't get his name. His number's listed in my cell phone under "Cows." That also makes me laugh out loud, so I think I'll leave it there. Forever and ever and ever and ever and ever...

On a whim I went out last night at 10:00, but I forgot to bring my pool game, so after about an hour I put my cue away and bellied up. Five minutes later, just like clockwork, yet another real-live biker took the stool to the left of me, introduced himself, and asked me what I ride. I said I didn't, and somehow we wound up talking about music for a while. I had to do some very embarrassed backtracking when he said "Metallica" and I said "Yes," and he thought I meant the band. Which, ick. But I couldn't very well explain what I really meant, which was: "Metallica, naturally. Because you, my friend, are a cliche." Which isn't very nice of me, I know. I blame James Taylor...

When my beer was empty he offered to buy me one and I explained my policy against accepting drinks from men in bars. He seemed surprised. Not offended, exactly, but surprised. I can't be the only girl who does this, can I? I think Miss Manners would agree that it's the right and reasonable thing to do. Even so, is everyone else out there taking advantage of drunken generosity, even when the man in question makes you hurl? Not that this guy did or anything -- as cliches go, he was pretty standard-class -- but even if he were the hottest thing on two American-made wheels, I still wouldn't let him buy my beer.

Anyway, he was so taken aback I actually apologized and suggested that, in lieu of the frosty beverage, he might answer a question that's been nagging at me for a while.

"Why," I asked, "do people up here -- bikers, especially -- keep asking, and assuming, that I ride?"

And do you know what he said?

"Because you're hot."

Well, never mind the brain freeze I got trying to figure out an appropriate response to that answer. And never mind how inappropriate it is that I'd be immodest enough to repeat it here (wherever she is, Miss Manners is having an attack of the vapors right about now). Because all of that aside, you have to admit there's something inherently flawed in his logic. The dormouse might think it makes a certain sense, but my Philosophy of Language professor would be sharpening his pen. Because if you spelled it out, the Q.E.D. would go something like this:

I'm hot. (Let's just assume it's true for the sake of argument, and keep the tittering in the peanut gallery to a minimum, okay?)

That means I must be a biker.

Therefore all bikers must be hot.

Yes, well, but those aren't all the bikers, are they? I'm still feeling distinctly unfulfilled.

I should have just accepted the damn beer.

I Have To Go To The Euphemism!

Oh, man, do I have nothing to talk about!

I mean, I do have Stuff to talk about – oh, man, do I have Stuff to talk about! – but it’s all Stuff I can only talk about to the Imaginary People in my head.

For instance: this past week, since I came down to Massachusetts, I have been very busy Doing Something – something rather All-Consuming and Important. It’s the whole reason I came south in the first place, as a matter of fact, but it isn’t about Me – and it’s not about any of those imaginary head-folks, either. So let’s just say I have been Standing Up as best I’m able, and that today I am officially Standing Down.

Today's Me day, then. Today, I will be walking on the beach, getting my toes done, and going out for birthday-sushi with my brother. But none of those will make for much of a story unless I end up with a shark bite, gangrene, or salmonella. I wouldn’t count out the likelihood of any of those yet, though. This is me we’re talking about, after all. In fact, now that I think about it, the smart money’s probably on the trifecta.

Then tomorrow I have Some Other Stuff I have to do. That stuff’s about dissolution of assets and blah blah blah. Bo-ring, as Oscar the Grouch would say. Or none of your beeswax, as my mom would.

But don’t you fret, my little chickadees. For on Tuesday night, come hell or high, I’m back to Maine. And if the telephone conversations I’ve had recently are any indication, then my hitherto-quiet life up there is about to change. Because – I haven’t told you folks about this yet; in fact, I’ve been trying to decide whether I would* – but it seems I’ve gone and made myself a brand-new friend. And the other day, when we called to say we missed each other in that brand-new-blush-of-friendship kind of way, she asked me if I wanted to play golf.

And yes, folks, she is married. To a man.

I hesitated. I mean, I’ve never played before, not really, and while it looks on television like a thrill-a-minute sort of game, I’m sure it can’t be all porn stars and car crashes for real. But I’m always up for new experiences. And from what she says, there’s beer involved. So I said yes and set to practicing. It’s only been two days, and I don’t want to brag or anything…

But I can already say “play through” like a pro.

*Because of the whole Private Person thing. But then my new friend wrote this about me, so I figured it would be okay. 

  
UPDATE!!!!! 

My Me Day Sucked!!!!

Actually, the walk on the beach was uneventful. I went at 7:30 in the morning and was almost the only person there. Very low tide. Lovely. Save the carful of high-school boys who wondered -- rather vehemently, I might add -- whether I might feel inclined to let them have a gander at my tits. At 7:30 in the morning? I don't think so. But even that, though.... There could be worse ways to start a day, I guess.

Then I picked up the cat. I forgot to mention he was on the agenda. He had an appointment for another glucose curve on Friday so I went ahead and let them hang onto him for the weekend so I could Stand Up without distraction. Well, he's never been boarded before, and it turns out when he boards he doesn't eat. If he doesn't eat, he can't have his insulin. If he doesn't have his insulin, of course, the diabetes cycle starts again. But they went ahead and gave it to him this morning anyway, so when he got home I had to pull him out of insulin shock again. Plus I think he has a UTI. I'm going to give it a few days at least, till we're in Maine, but I'm steelinig myself to invoke The Gift.

And then my workout was kind of blah. Which may seem minor to you people, but it's one of the big joys in my day. My muscles actually ache for it, and if I have to skip it for some reason they start to twitch. But you know how sometimes it's just like you're going through the motions? You do all the stuff you're supposed to do, and when you're done you don't feel like you did anything at all? And yet you're still mysteriously sweaty? Blah.

Then I ran out of shaving cream 3/4 of the way through the job. Nobody touch my left thigh until further notice, 'kay?

Then -- oh, I'm not even getting into that. Suffice to say I got a wild hair and tried to get tomorrow's Euphemism out of the way today. Had to talk myself out of skipping the pedicure in favor of a half a dozen beers.

But I couldn't have a half-dozen beers at 2:30, because I'm supposed to have dinner with my brother at 6:00. And while I love my brother very much, he is also very much a worrier. If I showed up for dinner three beers in, he'd have me checked into McLean faster than you can punch James Taylor in the face. Faster than I could, even. Which is pretty fast, I bet. I've never done it, but I hate that motherfucker.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, so I decided to go ahead and get the pedicure. It's relaxing, right? Massage chairs and little Asian ladies kneeling at your feet? (That was bad, right? I shouldn't have said that? Sorry. I blame James Taylor. And if that makes you want to punch him in the face, I wouldn't mind.) Well...

She told me to sit right down, so I did. And it's not her fault I didn't remember about the iced coffee I'd left in the car until after I took off my shoes, rolled up my pants, and put my feet in the the little foot-jacuzzi. What is her fault, though, is that I was still sitting there forty minutes later, waiting for someone to take them out.

Argh.

And then she did the slowest pedicure ever, and hurt me a little bit, and left the white stripes a bit too wide even after I asked her to fix them, so by the time she was finally done -- TWO HOURS after I walked in -- I was twitching too badly to wait for them to dry. And I was wearing my Frye boots. So we'll just see how that turned out when I take them off.

It'll be a while, though. See, after that ordeal was over, I only had an hour till my brother was supposed to pick me up, and I thought I might as well go to this bar I know of right near the restaurant, that happens to have a pool table. But there were five cops cars out front when I drove by it, and so I just kept right on driving by. Stopped at the packie for a six-pack instead. And at the first right-hand turn, all six bottles spilled out of the pack and rolled all over the floor of the car.

Oh, you don't think I didn't drink them, did you? They're slightly fizzy, but they're still mostly beer. I'd just finished my second when I got a text from my brother, saying he's stuck in traffic on 93 and he'll be late.

I'm opening a third.

If you're looking for me later, I suspect you'll find me at McLean.

 He better run.

You Wanna Fuck With The Eagles, You Have To Learn To Fly

I've been off-line for a few days, tending to a Very Dear Friend who's been in need of some major Tender Loving Care. I'm still offline and tending, in fact, as you read this, but I found a moment while she was sleeping to get on and pre-schedule this post.

Because, you see, it seems a certain annual occurrence has rolled around again. And I've decided to mention it in a slightly less subtle manner than I have in other years because, well...

Do you remember a few months ago, when I wrote about a pair of too-small breeches I've been hanging onto since I was sixteen years old? Or maybe fifteen? Or possibly fourteen?

Well, if you love me enough to remember that, you may have also noticed an unspoken rule I've quietly followed on this blog since its inception: I don't post pictures of myself here. I really thought I positively never would.

But tomorrow is my birthday.*

I'll be turning 41.

And yesterday I wore those fucking breeches.

So today feels like a day for bending rules.

Ta-da.

Ta-da.

 Ta-da.

Yes, yes, I still have horse-thighs. I've always had them, and they're in my genes so I assume I always will.

And yes-yes, I had to stand on the toilet to take these pictures of myself in the bathroom mirror. Sometimes, when no-one's around, you do what you have to do to take care of yourself.

And yes. Yes. I am in the AssVac. Again. Temporarily.

But you people are not paying attention!

The point is. 

I am wearing.  

The size-six. 

Fucking breeches.

(And yes, I have now said "fuck" gratuitously at least four times in a single post, including one time in the fucking title. So? I might do it a few more times before I'm through, so you just watch it. If you're that sensitive, stand back, and maybe shove some cotton in your ears.)

(Then again, if you're that sensitive, what are you still doing fucking here?)

As an added bonus, though -- and to make up for subjecting you to so many gratuitous fucks in one Very Special day -- here's a lesson I learned just in time for the start of my 42nd year that I am (temporarily, at least) big-hearted enough to share with you. Because I love you. Every single fucking one of you. Really. I'm not just saying that. I don't go saying just anything in public, you know. What do you take me for, some kind of Freak?

Anyway, the lesson I've finally learned after 41 years of existence on this planet is:

It may not make for a very pretty picture, but creamy peanut butter is an excellent addition to a s'more.

Now, anybody out there want a piece of that?

I didn't think so...




*I decided to post this a day early so y'all could see it in time to tell me how fabulous I am (and look) on my Big Day. Because I know you only read this crap as a diversion when you're supposed to be working. And by Monday, I imagine, I will have taken the fucking breeches off.

But maybe not.

I am kind of digging my 41-year-old ass in them, after all...

Mean Green Mother

Here is an admittedly-incomplete, but still fairly-representative list of outdoor activities that make me twitch:

1. Yardwork

2. Working in the yard.

3. Gardening.

4. Mowing

5. Weeding

6. Pruning

7. Watering

8. Pretty much anything in any way pertaining to the care and maintenance of plants.

I can’t think of any more points to add to that list, such is the extent of my loathing. I don't know what you people do out there all day. Or why, for that matter. I will pick a tomato if it happens to be ripe and I happen to want one at the exact moment that I happen to walk by, but that’s pretty well the sum total of my willingness to interact with kingdom Plantae.

Seeing as how I brought it up, I might as well admit it’s not just yard-plants. It really is the whole of the kingdom. And I’ve been like this since I was a little girl.

My mom, see, was one of those people who can whisper into a plastic pot of dried-up soil that you may or may not have abandoned in your dorm room over Jan-term, and have it green and blooming in time for you to kill it again by spring break. Our house was always like a jungle: flowering things hanging in every window, trees of all descriptions in every corner on the floor, bushy leafy green stuff on every side table and shelf. And as a girl, while I watched television, I used to absent-mindedly squeeze the flower-buds off hanging plants just to hear that satisfying pop, break branches off of trees to throw the pieces at my siblings, and make criss-cross patterns with my thumbail in the lush green leaves.

I’m telling you, if anyone ever deserved to get eaten whole by Audrey II, it’s me.

In college, I majored in biology, and they wouldn’t let you do that without learning at least something about plants. So sophomore year I took a class called Animal & Plant Physiology. All we had to do was memorize the names of of all the parts, and I chose it because, as I hope you can tell by the title, it was only 50% hateful green. I passed the class, of that much I am certain. And if I know me I probably did pretty well. I probably still have my notebook from the animal half of that class kicking around somewhere in my father's basement, for that matter. But of the plant half, I remember not a whit. In fact, if I do know me, I probably skipped the plant half entirely and got the notes from someone for the final (although, truth be told, the sophomore-me that I remember probably skipped the animal half, too).

I seem to have strayed off track a little somewhere with this post (Hello. Have we met? My name is EGE. I’ll wait here while you read "About Me" at the top of the right-hand margin. Yes. There. You see? So just do your best to keep up, and I promise to poke you if I’m about to say something that will be on the final.)  (Ahem: POKE), but the point I set out to make is that one of the things I've loved about this life-transition thing I’m going through is that I get to say goodbye to all of that.

And yet…

Remember how I said about Mom and her green thumbnitude? And remember how I’m living in Mom’s house, now?

Yeah.

There aren’t any inside-plants here anymore – thank god. But there is still this garden-thing out front. And sort of grass..

Ugh.

So that’s the down side. The upside is that, while the garden-thing is – or was – an honest-to-god garden, the grass really is just “sort of” grass. The house was built, see, on a cleared lot in a scrub-pine forest, so the soil’s not really soil so much as it is sand, and the only grass that grows looks, well, like this:

It doesn’t really need to be mowed so much as hacked at with the occasional machete. Or, you know, weed whacker. But even that, I’ve been unable to bring myself to do, despite the fact it's been specifically requested of me. Several times.

See, it makes my father (understandably) sad to see Mom’s garden all overgrown and gone to shit and seed. But he’s not in any shape to tend to it himself. So every time he comes up here, he finds a way to gently suggest that maybe, if I were bored and if it weren’t too hot, I might think about taking an uncharacteristically horticultural-related stab.

At first I was really, honestly, genuinely, too no-foolin’ busy to even think about it. The inside of the house was a huge job, and it was really, honestly, genuinely, more no-foolin' important to get done. But when it was actually finished, I stooped so low as to tell Dad not to ask me to do yardwork anymore. I said I hated yardwork. I said I cleaned out the entire fucking house all by myself. I said if I weren’t up here for the summer the place would be vacant and the weeds would be waist-high anyway, so could we please just accept that and move on?

I know. I told you. One of these days:

Nom! Nom! Nom!

But there came a point when I started thinking: what the hell else am I doing with my time up here, now that the house is finally (almost) done? Besides writing for my life, I mean, and working out 4 ½  hours a day?

And then last weekend, after I crashed Mom’s car and Dad was up dealing with the repercussions of all that, he appealed to my fitness routine by saying that wielding the weed whacker would be excellent exercise. Since he is, quite frankly, worried about my fitness routine and my recent weight loss, I knew if he was willing to go there then it was just exactly that important. So I took pity. And this weekend I went out in the goddamn yard to whack some weeds.

Or, rather, grass.

Sort of.

I mean, it’s possible I missed some spots accidentally…

…I may have been a wee bit blind to others…

…and I plain old skipped some other bits completely…

Ahem.

But I did it. See?

I sweated and swore through every loathsome second of it, but it's done. And it turns out my father is a lie, because it only took like twenty minutes and the whacker only weighs like seven pounds, so I didn't get a turd's worth of exercise. Still, though. It's done.

Happy, Dad?

I even picked the onions, like you asked.

They didn't turn out to be as big as we expected...

But I did it.

Please don't ever mention the rest of that garden-thing to me, though. Seriously. I don't care if Audrey II punches through the now-locked door and eats me whole...

 
...because I did not skip all those physiology classes all those years ago so I could wind up tits-deep in a pile of shit and seeds like that.

But The Caravan Moves On...

The bathroom in this house is right inside the front door.

The blueprint, as I mentioned, actually intended for this to be the back door, so it’s not as if I can blame the little incident I’m about to describe on the architect. But still. The bathroom in this house is right inside the door.

(Anybody out there know where this is going? Can we have a show of hands? Very good. Now I’m going to tell you anyway, so sit down.)

When you live alone, see – and especially when you live alone in a log cabin in the middle of the woods – you don’t always so much bother with the clothes. I don’t walk around naked all day or anything, but while I put the coffee on in the morning? While I brush and floss before I go to bed? While I go from shower to bedroom, and vice versa? Sure.

I mean, why bring clothes with me to the shower? This isn’t summer camp, or college, after all (although now that I mention it, I don’t remember lugging clothes in either of those places, either; I think we just wrapped ourselves in towels, but whatevs). I finish working out in the living room, I strip and throw my sweaty clothes down the basement stairs on my way by, and then I just keep going down the hall. I leave the bathroom door wide open while I’m in there, too, because I like to listen to music while I wash and the sound of the exhaust fan drowns it out (I turn the fan on when I’m finished, Dad, don’t worry). Then, when I’m done, I stand at the sink and complete my morning ablutions in my altogether. I don’t even have a robe up here.

I will, though. The next time I go home, I’ll bring a robe.

Because today? After I was out of the shower but before I was out of the bathroom? Somebody came to the front door! And both the bathroom and the front doors were wide open!

Fortunately, I was in the sweet spot, pressed up against the sink, so whoever it was couldn’t see me.

Unfortunately, I still had the music blaring (Funhouse, okay? I’m still listening to Pink. I'm sorry, but you leave your husband and a place like the AssVac and try not to become obsessed with lyrics like “This used to be a fun house, but now it’s full of evil clowns.” I mean, have you been paying attention to this blog recently at all?) so I didn’t hear whomever it was until they knocked.

Fortunately, I am in semi-permanent possession of a 92-pound (yes, he’s gained a little weight since we’ve been up here, so?) Great Dane/Black Lab cross. And as long as you’re on the wrong side of the threshold, he passes for a hell of a junkyard dog. Barks like sixty, in an enormous, 92-pound, I'll-eat-your-face-off kind of way, and sounds – and looks – really frighteningly fierce. Of course, should you actually take so much as a single step inside, what he'd do is bring you a toy or a bone and run around and wiggle at you and beg you to please-please-please-please scratch his butt. But as long as Whoever It Was was still outside, they couldn’t possibly know he wasn‘t salivating for their throat.

Unfortunately, I was trapped. In the right-inside-the-front-door bathroom. With the I-guess-I-just-lost-my-husband music blaring. And really not so much with the clothes.

My options, as I saw them, were thus:

1. Remain pressed up against the sink and hope Whoever It Was went away.

2. Close the bathroom door and hope Whoever It Was didn’t get a flash of boob while I did it – and also, after I did it, went away.

3. Pause the music, wrap a towel around myself, and peek.

I don’t know why I chose #3. I guess I assumed it was a neighbor, and since I was quite obviously there, I didn’t want to risk giving offense. So I hugged the wall around the corner to the towel rack, grabbed the only one on it (why oh why did I have to throw the extra-giant stripey L.L. Bean beach towel in the wash today?), and wrapped the teensy thing around my bare.

It wasn’t a neighbor. Or at least, if it was, it wasn’t one I’d ever seen or met. It was a man – a rather large, strange-looking man at that – with an orange t-shirt on and no front teeth!

I said: “Whoa, Charlie. Easy there, boy.”

Charlie said: “WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! I WILL EAT YOUR TOOTHLESS FACE! UNLESS PERHAPS YOU WOULD LIKE TO SCRATCH MY BUTT!”

Mr. No-Teeth said – to the dog, mostly: “Is the owner home?”

Charlie said: “WOOF! FACE! BUTT! ETC.!”

I said: “I live here, can I help you?”

Charlie said: “I WILL EAT YOUR FACE! I WILL EAT YOUR FACE!!!! BUT ARE YOU SURE YOU WOULDN’T RATHER COME INSIDE AND SCRATCH MY BUTT?”

Mr. No-Teeth looked at me for the first time, noticed I was in a towel, said: “Oh. Sorry.” And ran away. Well, not “ran away” so much as trotted over to his truck in the driveway and peeled out.

Charlie said: “YEAH, THAT’S RIGHT, GIT!! UNLESS YOU'D LIKE TO COME BACK HERE AND SCRATCH MY BUTT!!!”

I said: “You are a good boy, Charlie-dog.” Then I gave him a treat. And scratched his butt.

I don’t really think the guy was trying to get in. I think – I’m not sure, but I think – it might’ve been the same guy who knocked when I first got here, asking if I wanted to seal-coat the driveway. I was dressed that time -- sort of -- and I don’t remember him being toothless then. But whatevs.

I know – I don’t think, but I know – that the next time I go south (by which I mean “to Massachusetts,” so shut up) I’ll bring a robe back with me. I already threw an old t-shirt in the bathroom closet, along with one of the six or eight pairs of jeans I have lying around that are too big for me now. And maybe – just maybe – I'll start shutting and locking that front door. At least while I’m in the shower.

You know, being a Rock Star.

And throwing fistfuls of Glitter in the Air...

But in the meantime? I am really, really glad I have the dog.

Fierce-lookin’, ain’t he?

Quick, Henry!

I’m starting to look like I have the plague…

See, I’ve been taking these walks almost daily since I got here. I do it partly for the exercise, partly just to get out of the house, and partly because having your skin turn a lovely shade of golden brown because you’re walking 5 miles a day in a strap-tank is just a coincidence, and it's not the same thing as "getting a tan" at all. Uh-uh, it isn’t. You can’t catch cancer if you’re moving. Swear to god.

At first I was just randomly wandering. I’d make a note of where I took a turn, keep an eye on how long I’d been out, and after 45 minutes or so, retrace my steps. But in doing that I discovered that from here to the end of Newfield road (which actually becomes Bridge Street when you hit the Newfield line) is exactly 2½ miles. So now that’s the route I follow every day. Well, every day unless it’s raining. Or too hot. Or if my free time’s spoken for because I have to Go To Town.

Before I started randomly wandering, though, I was hiking through the woods. I grew up in the woods, I love the woods, and there are acres of them out here. And I was really looking forward to getting acquaintanced with them again before I, you know, make the big move to the wilds of New York.

But one thing I’d forgotten about the woods over the decades of our estrangement was the horseflies. So when I said “before I started randomly wandering I was hiking through the woods,” what I meant was: I did that exactly once.

Because oh, my Christ.

For those of you who have never been outside the city, or who live in, I don’t know, Antarctica, a horsefly is a creature from the bowels of Hades. Looks like a housefly but yellow-and-black-striped like a bee, darts like a housefly so you can’t swat it even if it’s standing still, has some sort of invisible forcefield so it mysteriously doesn’t die if you do somehow manage to land a blow, and stings like a motherfucker. Also buzzes. Loud. Loud enough so you can hear every time a new one comes to join the crowd that’s swarming around your eyes and hair and nose and ass and ears.

(FYI, and only sort of incidental to this story: if you see something that looks exactly like a housefly except huge, then you’d best drop everything and run like hell. That there’s a deer fly, and if one of them stings you your arm falls off. My hand to god (no pun intended). It used to happen to me all the time.)

So but the good thing about horseflies is they don’t so much like the heat. They come out in the summer, sure, but they’d much rather stay out of the sun. They turn the woods into a crazy-making circle of throbbing hell, most definitely, but they're not difficult to avoid along the road. So I took to going for my walks at noontime, or thereabouts, when the (now non-carcinogenic!) sun is overhead. Because in the mornings and afternoons, when the shade from the forest encroaches on the road, the stinging and the buzzing and the throbbing and the hell comes right along.

Oh and because another thing, which I forgot to say, is that these are some tenacious little shits. If I walk through the shadow of a tree, I will pick up a horsefly, and he will be on my ass the whole five miles. Well, not literally on my ass, but you know, he’ll be there. Buzzing. Trying to sting me. Unless I stop, stand very still so that he'll land, and let him sting me — then smack the hell out of whatever tender body part he chose.

And trust me, friends, these past few days, I’ve smacked ‘em all.

These past few days, see, I haven’t been able to walk at noon. Well, I mean, I’m not spontaneously crippled at that time or anything, but situations have been coming up. So yesterday I went out late, today I went out early, and both days came home just a little weltier than when I left.

And when I say “just a little,” what I mean is “holy crap.”

I just counted the horsefly bites I have on me right now and I came up with 29. And those are only the ones, mind you, that I can still see or feel. It’s not counting, for example, the one that happened inside my front pocket somehow, because it seems to have, mercifully, faded away.

So if you see me – which none of you will, I hope, until I’m healed, but if you do – please try not to run screaming away. It’s not a pox I have. It’s not a plague. It isn’t acne. It's none of those disgusting things, I swear to god.

It's just a couple itchy, welty, crazy-making days of throbbing hell.


And you know how you can tell that isn't fiction? Because I only promised not to talk about communicable diseases -- an insect infestation is a completely different thing!