Because it's Labor Day weekend and the Crabfam are feeling antsy we have decided to quit Crabtown and go head for the Pacific Northwest, to an actual city for the weekend.
I haven't been to an actual city in so long I'm afraid I won't recognize it.
What is that thing? A "subway"? Whaa?
And that? A Chinese restaurant? What's "Chinese"?
And that...? A "skyscraper"? Okay, but WHAT, pray, does it do?
It's as though we are Mennonites, making our way through civilization for the first time, en route to some corn-plucking festival in Canada.
Okay, so before I get into trouble for mention Mennonites and other minorities (Gabe, you still a fan?) I will instead get back to the point and tell you that I shan't be posting while I am engaging in my metropolitan meanderings. If you need more of me, please go to my Cookie bloglet where I am forced to post regularly, wherever I may roam and regardless of the amount of crack I am doing.
My latest Cookie post comprises part two of the toddler art debate, and includes a summary of top tips for guilt-free disposal of that terrible toddler preschool artwork. Haven't added your two cents? Come on over. Heck, add three cents if you want!! Labor Day's post should be even more useful, containing my newest Million Dollar Mommy invention, the MartyrMeter (New parents who can't figure out which of you is doing more? Stop arguing! Let the MartyrMeter calculate the truth!)
And if you are still lusting for my Crabbiness, I have conveniently collated a list of my top Crabmommy posts of seasons past. So many of you readers are new. And I like you. Ish. But we would like you more if you had known us back in the early Crab-days, when the crabbing was raw and fresh.
Here follow my personal pluckings from the Crab-archive (so hard to choose! They are all so delightful and useful! One might call it a random sampling):
The Cure for Whining
Cover Girl Clavel!
The Listening Chart
Upwardly Mobile (okay this one is recent...but it got me the highest # of hits ever so maybe it has something the others don't)
If that doesn't give you more than enough reading material, check out this article on people who potty train their tots from birth. I'm sure all the blogmommies are bloggiting on about this issue right now. Whaddya think? We can talk about it when I get back.
Happy week to you...wish me well as I voyage far and wide...and north...and west.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Because it's Labor Day weekend and the Crabfam are feeling antsy we have decided to quit Crabtown and go head for the Pacific Northwest, to an actual city for the weekend.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Here's a first. I recently experienced my first mobile home. And it was not the kind of mobile home you see in Dwell magazine. It was a trailer, fair and square. And it was not Aaron-of-Crabcorner-Cowboy- Compound's trailer. It belonged to a friend of the Crabtot. She and I attended a birthday party in there.
When we first moved to Crabtown we did not realize the cost of crappy rental apartments. We did not realize we had moved to the remote mountain west, only to find ourselves in New York. Luckily this wasn't a serious issue as we found a reasonable apartment. Except for the fact that the walls were new-construction-thin, and the man to our left had some sort of sleep apnea mixed with a serial killer past. I mean, he would shriek and yell and fall off his bed regularly as one being murdered (or, more likely [since he was still very much alive] reliving a murder he had committed).
Then there was the local actors' troupe who had digs to our right. The lead actor, who played the part of some hearty olde cowboye of days yon and had a big shaggy beard, would sing loudly at the top of his lungs every day. His name was Cash. Cash had a wise and twinkly face and made fortunes doing Santa throughout the west in December. Summer saw him in Crabtown playing nightly at the streetcorner where they enact an old west gunfight every night at 6 pm. It's free. An old western shootout, right across from the Gap! (Actually that Gap just closed. Couldn't afford the rent.)
Below us, the newlyweds. Let's leave it there.
Diagonally across, a lady who reported back to us on Crabtot's every whimper ("sounded like teething last night" or "does she have a cold?"). She might have seemed sensible enough were it not for the fact that she took her cat for walks in a baby stroller.
This wasn't enough to make us move. But when the apartment got sold out from under us, we had no choice. Back to the real estate listings we went. I brought them to Crabhub after work and we would pore over them, trying to find that magical 2-bedroom apartment that we could afford. Through a realtor friend, I got a tip on a listing and printed out the image on the url. It was an image of a floorplan . It looked fine, sort of shotgun style. It was big.
"It's a mobile home," said Crabhusband. As an architect, he knows these things. That doesn't stop me from arguing. "Nonsense." "Yes it is." "How can you tell?" I wanted to know. The answer: "I just can."
When Crabtot and I received directions to the tot birthday party, we were told "it's a trailer" and "you'll see a double-wide on the right." A double-wide. Such technical trailer terminology never made it into my personal lexicon. But I didn't want to seem square, so I said "Oh, right" as though I knew the diffs between the "double-wide" and the "single." As though we were talking about espresso shots.
I was slightly excited to visit my very first real undisputed trailer and truth be told it made me feel adventurous and democratic. I'd like to say that we walked in and it was all quite lovely and attractive. That would make for a nice irony. But it's not true. It was an old trailer and had bizarre faux-wood panelling inside and unspeakable trailer-y mess spilling out in every direction. It had low ceilings and ancient Napoleon-Dynamite sort of carpet. It was, to be frank, quite a horrifying sort of place to live. Mind you, it's worth at the very least $500K. For it is a historic trailer on a historic patch of weeds right in the center of town. It is a plot of weeds that has been in the trailer-owner's family for a very long time. For they are an historic Crabtown family and even have a street named after them. Mind you, anything in Crabtown is worth $500K at the absolute bottom. A piece of land no bigger than .16 of an acre starts there. Much less one with an actual trailer on it. That's what realtors call a "charming historic bungalow" out here.
Back to last summer's move: once we had ascertained that, indeed, the plans of the house I had found denoted a trailer home, the following comment just shot right out of my mouth: "I can't live in a trailer. I went to graduate school."
How exactly I came to associate "trailer" and "grad school" as antonyms I am not sure, but somehow to me in that moment, graduate school had everything to do with who I was and where I should not live. A ghastly railroad apartment in New York with a hole in the bathroom ceiling and a mobster Albanian landlord with a mail-order bride was fine for a graduate of graduate school. A minuscule hovel with roaches everywhere and where the bed touched the dining table was fine for a graduate of graduate school (heck, I'm talking about my actual NYC graduate housing!). But a trailer. No can do. Never mind how big or how fairly priced (not that cheap, though, I might add. A trailer is expensive here!). A trailer for all I knew might be perfectly nice. But as a graduate of grad school, it was out of the question.
Luckily for us, we got a proper lead on a darling bungalow with a reasonable rent. The owner was out of town so all we could do was drive by it. It was perfect. Blue metal roof, cheery yellow wood siding, a lovely little freestanding house and on desirable Crabcorner no less! Crabhub told me to go for it and make sure we got that house. He claimed he could tell just from looking at the outside that it was a good bet. It had a new foundation. It would be solid and decently insulated, unlike the vintage log cabins festooning this town, which in frigid 9-month winter would be a problem to live in.
When the owner of this cabin came back to town, he offered to show us the next door house (which he also owned) because he didn't want his tenants to know he would be kicking them out for us. The next door house, he said, "is identical." So we went to that house and I liked it immediately. High ceilings, wood floors, clean white walls. Perfecto! Crabhusband was dead silent. When the owner asked us if we wanted it, Crabhub said yes. We handed him a check and got into our car.
"Don't you love it"" I asked Crabhub.
"Well," he replied. "It's a prefab. A modular home."
"Modular?" The grad school part of me did a little backflip. "What do you mean? How can you tell?"
"I just can," he said. So much for being able to spot a good thing from the outside. As with so many things in life, it's what's inside that apparently counts the most. "It's a house that comes in a box," Crabhub elaborated. "That's why the one next door is exactly like it."
We then debated the relative merits and drawbacks of living inside a house that came in a box. What is the line between redneck-prefab and cool-prefab, between modular and trailer, between That Which is Appropriate to Grad School Graduates and That Which is Simply Not?
I don't have a clear answer but I can say I know what I like and I know that we didn't like anything else we saw out there. I can say we are happy here even though the bathroom walls are made of cardboard and when I'm in the kitchen, I sometimes feel I am demo'ing in a model kitchen. Like one set up in an IKEA habitat. Only not quite as cool, I'm afraid, thanks to the dodgy rock-bottom cabinetry and nubby plastic walls. Yes, living in a house-out-of-a-box can feel a little bit "not real."
On the other hand, the birthday party double-wide trailer felt extremely real. It had at least 40 years of history in it and it showed in the dust layers on the plastic plants. But the party was fun! The homemade macaroni-and-cheese was delicious. And evidently one can still make excellent chocolate cake in a trailer.
Evidently one can still have a great time in a trailer and a kid can have the best third birthday of her life in there. And, so I have learned, even a graduate of grad school can enjoy herself in a trailer and admire its assets.
It certainly was spacious.
After all, we're talking about a double wide.
Friday, August 24, 2007
I swore I'd leave the religion thing alone for my next post.
But at crack of dawn this morning, a lovely looking Latter Day Saint was at my door. My usual excuse is "Sorry, I'm Jewish (which is half true...as I'm half-Jewish by birth)...I think Jewish is even more final for Christians than saying "atheist." They tend to leave you alone when you utter the J-word. But this morning, I didn't even go that far. I was half-dressed you see, having just come out of the shower. There I was with wild wet hair, with a dirty little Crabtot at my feet. And I just didn't feel like talking to anyone, much less a Momo mish. So I just shook my head. And she looked at me, smiled, and left.
Late for preschool, I almost backed over another Mormon. Cursing my driving, and the proliferation of the LDSers, I said some sacrilegious things. Crabtot then asked me what a Mormon was. This is not easy so early in the morning. I said a Mormon was a very nice person who wants you to look at their books all the time and Mommy just didn't have time for the Mormons today.
En route to school, she asked "Where did Mormon go?"
And I said, "She's gone to someone else's house."
Returning home I saw a thicket of Mormons on the street, one with an eye patch. They clustered together, evidently checking to see who had gone where and to what house. When I drove into my driveway, I could have sworn they knew who I was: the Crabmommy, Unconvertible.
I can see them even as I type. Up and down the street they go. I wonder if they have been to the rodeo-compound yet and if they have found Aaron in his trailer. He had a party last night. He'll be pretty hungover today. Still, I think the LDSers will like it better on the other side of the street.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
I'm feeling besieged by Christians this week.
Now I know some of you are Christians out there and even some of my best friends are Christians, so the saying goes. But I am fed up with Jesus' peeps all the same.
So I just joined the BlogHer Ad network and thought I should click on their blogroll to support my fellow BlogHerians...except that I clicked on someone's blog and was treated to a post in which a natural-birth-endorsing mom explained that women experienced labor pain as a payback for "(wo)man's sin." C-sections, breech babies, all of these things did God give unto us for being bad. Such a loving God!
Okay, replying to such absurdity is too easy. But reply I did. Only to be accused of making a "personal attack" and then being referred to a passage in the Bible in which God sternly gives Eve labor pain and a husband to rule over her because of that naughty apple business. I never have understood why Christians direct non-Christians to a book they don't believe in, but then again, whoever said any of it made any sense. I'm probably going to get kicked out of BlogHer now for not supporting a sister or something. But what is the line between inappropriate and appropriate when it comes to responding to someone's personal moral high-handedness that they make public on their blog?
Just last week I went on holiday with my family to a dude ranch that turned out to have a distinctly Born-Again flavor. Pamphlets about our Lord abounded, nobody drank (which I had innocently thought to be a sign of Mormon management...no such bloody luck) and the whole event was tainted with a whiff of piousness.
Christians, you surround me here in Wyoming. I wish I could quit you. But you are everywhere. You also seem to dominate the blogosphere. In fact, many of my readers are Christians of one sort or another and I think many of you are Mormons too. Please don't leave me, Mormons. I like your crowd. Your men are mostly very hot. I was in love with a Mormon once. He became an alcoholic after his mission and it didn't diminish his appeal in the slightest. Mormons, do not quit the Crabmommy. Many of you are stylish and I have questions for you. Do you really drink Mountain Dew all the time or is that a myth? Why is Jesus coming to Missouri of all dull places? I mean, why not Las Vegas? Mormonmommies, if you stay I promise not to mention John Krakauer.
Christians, I'm feeling a little less generous. I know we're all meant to be tolerant of others' religions but until people are tolerant of my atheism, I'm not sure I can extend the courtesy. There's plenty of evidence around us to suggest that a belief in God gets us into a bit of a global pickle. Monotheism...not a good idea in the not-so-humble opinion of Crabmommy.
But mostly, in the end, I am just plain feeling surrounded by God's people. Has anyone else noticed the proliferation of Christian mommy blogs? Why? Is the explanation the old "go forth and multiply...and then blog about it"? Christian homeschoolers with 20 kids (who feel joy in the morning), natural birthers who see a direct link between pitocin and original sin...you gals are everywhere.
And mainly I resent you because you get way more traffic than I do.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Check out my bloglet at Cookie magazine today for some fun Mom accessories...in the form of Merit Badges for moms. Cute. But she is missing some badges there. Like she doesn't give any to bottle-feeding moms. And to me that means the chick just forfeited her "Don't Judge Other Moms" badge.
Also, I have just joined the BlogHer network, meaning I get really schmantzy ads popping up on my site. Be a dear and click on them. This way they will think I'm worthy of remaining in their circle. Yikes, telling people to click is probably illegal and I'm probably going to get tossed out of the network now. So I take it back. Pretend you never read this. Pretend I deleted it.
Last, I am ashamed to say that I voted myself Best Parenting Blog on some wanky website just so I could get that nifty new button some of you may have noticed on my blog. I wouldn't have 'fessed up, except that it's rather blatantly obvious—when you go to the site—that the one nomination for this here blog comes from, erm, Crabmommy.
OK, so I'm a Bragmommy too. But I need all the badges I can get, people. Blogging is competitive! Don't judge me! Don't judge! (Just click.)
"...Clean up, clean up, everybody do their share." So sings Crabtot at preschool and she is, apparently, immaculate in this regard, humming that lovely little ditty as she picks up Lincoln Logs and Lego, a helpful, obedient Crabtot every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
But Tuesdays, Thursdays, and weekends...not so much.
Today we reached an all-time low after I begged, threatened and went mad with rage, insisting that Ctot do just the tiniest bit of cleanup after weeks and weeks of fun and filthiness and vacational mess. To begin with, I tried to be like her teachers. I sang the song. I spoke in a calm, friendly manner. I used positive reinforcement and avoided stern commands and negative constructions. I "helped" her help herself. No dice. The tot simply refused to lift one tiny, but chubby, pinkie in the process. I switched gears, lost the sweet voice and got down to business. I demanded she obey. I spoke in a low evil voice, a high shrieking out-of-control voice, a loud non-nonsense voice, a sinister soft threatening voice. Again, nowhere.
Because I have been trying to avoid my true self, i.e., my incarnation as the Spankmommy who loses her temper, I have been trying to come up with alternative threats that will speak to the tot with power and consequence and make her do my bidding. I long to be one of those parents who is spoken of as "never having raised her voice" yet somehow she commands respect and fear simply by a slight altering of the voice register. Alas, Crabtot doesn't care what my register is. She would rather anything than capitulate to the cleanup song at home. So she spent over an hour refusing to put her miniature fuzzy beaver toys onto their little red-and-white-striped wooden deck chairs, the one chore I was hell-bent on seeing her accomplish.
I needed those beaver-butts on their tiny chairs. The room was a vortex of dolls, toys, clothes, pillows, dried pasta, odd socks, ripped books...but somehow I felt that if just the beavers were in place, all would be manageable once more and a crucial battle would be won, with lessons imparted and parent-tot relations appropriately aligned once more, after weeks of rules-be-damned- there-are-too-many-guests-to- pay-attention-to-tot-rearing vacation!
It is amazing how long a tot can hold out. Even when the punishment is terrible. And, yes, Meanmommy that I am, I have devised an alternative to spanking. When all is lost and nothing will stick, I threaten to pour water on Tot's beloved Blankie, also known as Bangie. It sounds vicious doesn't it? Threatening to maim the loved one's lovey! But what's the alternative? Spanking? Please don't tell me Time Out. That's just a joke round these parts.
But I do find myself wondering what is worse: physical or psychological torture? I picture Crabtot in later life accusing me of child abuse for maligning that filthy Bangie with water. Indeed, you would think one should call Child Services judging by the bloodcurdling shrieks that accompany my threats of pouring water on Bangie ("pouring" means wetting the corner, people. Relax. Don't call.) She screamed and screamed, but God forbid she place those weird little fuzzy beavers on their bloody deck chairs. Even after the corner of Bangie was thrust beneath the faucet, she still refused to obey. And while I am unclear as to the right methods for punishing kids, I am clear on one thing: follow-through. You must do what you say.
After Bangie had two corners wetted, I sort of just lost it altogether. Crabtot was flinging herself at her dad, to whom she goes for all cheering up. Crabhub and I had been bickering about discipline to begin with, and I had a flash from my own childhood, where my stepdad was the popular one and my mom the disciplinarian.
Feeling my imminent meltdown about to happen, I nearly spanked myself. And then I just went and did something I've never done. I quietly locked myself in my bedroom. And I didn't say a word. Ctot knocked at the door, and Crabhub padded near it from time to time, but I answered no one. I lay on my bed, then I did something else I haven't done in yonks: I took a bath. Long after the Bangie edges must surely have dried, I remained in my bathwater, listening to the bemused sounds of Crabtot as she called for me through the keyhole. "Hi, Mommy! Can I come in?" "Mommy, are you there? What are you doing? Do you want to cook some pasta with me?"
I spake not a syllable.
I am not sure I can say that silence speaks louder than words. But bathing feels better than screaming. And when I came out and explained to Crabtot that Mommy felt very upset and didn't want to come out of her room because Crabtot's beaver-hineys weren't on their deck chairs, she promptly went and did her chore. True, it was several hours after the fact. But she did it.
I guess I'll lock myself in my room more often.
Funny, as I have stood and held Tot's bedroom door shut during tantrums, I often wish there were a lock on it. I often halfheartedly plan to put one on so I can lock her in her room during her wildest rages, in order to prevent her from constantly coming out of her room... But I never thought of the alternative: locking myself away from her. There's a lock on my door. Duh! I just never thought to use it.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
I've tried hard never to post unless I really have something to say. But tonight I don't have much, though I'd like you all to know that I am still here, in spite of the abundant vacational frolicking I have been doing with family visitors, of late. I'd like to say I have some fab postings up my sleeve but my young niece has a double ear infection, Crabtot has been driving us all to distraction, and basically we are a tad tired tonight.
Instead, I do the unthinkable and point Crabmom readers to the bloglet, where I am forced to come up with novel ideas, no matter how dull the insides of my brain might be or how irritable or ill my family members. At Cookie, I must be quick and on the mark. So please, do go there and see me in my perkier incarnation.
At the Bloglet:
Tomorrow's post at my Cookie blog will involve super-smashing top tips for lazy and cheap mothers who wish to dazzle their tiny daughters. Yesterday's post contains fond musings on toddler vocab and the charm of mangled words in grownup conversations. And if you've been longing for some of that old Crabmommy advice and haven't checked the bloglet for a while, be sure to scroll back a few and/or search the archives for my snippy takes on irritatingly obvious advice from pediatricians and other tot experts. It's all here, at the advice-column-within-my-Cookie-column, Because We Need Advice.
Crabmommy has also developed an entire range of gadgets with you, the exhausted and unglamorous and fed up parent in mind. Forget Julie Shickerton-Whilliker of Baby Einstein! Crabmommy will soon be the new Million Dollar Mommy.
Read the bloglet, my friends. Push past the pop-ups. Deal with the sign-ups. Help Crabmommy stay solvent by responding with delight and enthusiasm to the Cmomatcookiedotcom. We've got to keep our tot in Hello Kitty bandaids, my chums. Or, at the very least, in Singorillo ones.
Ok. Plug over.
I will be back soon...ish... With original content. Ish.
One can only hope.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Because Bloody Blogger messed with my photos and many of you were not able to see the rodeo snaps, and begged me to fix the problem, I re-uploaded all pics. See for yourselves by scrolling down to the post entitled "Everything Totally Went Down...at the Rodeo."
p.s. If you have ever tossed your toddler's preschool artwork, please visit the bloglet and tell us whether you feel guilty or not guilty for doing it. Also, what are your criteria for keeping vs. trashing the tot art? This is a matter of great personal relevance to me right now.
Posted by Crabmommy at 12:50 PM
After that spate of educational-playtime bashing that I did throughout the month of May ("We Don't Need No Education") Crabmommy is gratified by this article officially slamming the Baby Einstein Vids. By studying a bunch of BE-watching tots, and recording what they knew and didn't know, scientists concluded what we at Crabmommy have known all along: BE is for losers. Or as they say, perhaps more eloquently:
Interesting that intense BE watchers knew words like "truck" and balloon" but not so much "Mommy."
"The most important fact to come from this study is there is no clear evidence of a benefit coming from baby DVDs and videos, and there is some suggestion of harm," Zimmerman said in a statement.
Julie Figgerton-Whillicker must have her knickers in a real knot today. Her PR peeps are probably writing statements as we speak, and hopefully she is getting her hair re-shellacked and her tan re-applied for the media. Maybe she will tell us all that she is sorry if she misled anyone. Maybe she'll also say it in Spanish, Russian and ASL.
Thanks A&A for this priceless link.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
The moment has arrived.
I am ready to tell.
Crabfamily went!! We did! And there did we hobnob with Aaron of Crabcorner cowboy-infested compound. Who took us backstage. I mean, behind the buck-and-shoots. Or is it bucking chutes? Hmm. I didn't pause to check the spelling with Aaron, and something tells me he might not have been able to help me there. Either way, now I know what a buck-and-shoot/bucking chute is. And it is dang scary, that little gate holding back those surly chunky bulls with their dirty, prongy headgear.
Let's start from the beginning.
Tot dressed in appropriate attire (we pulled out from hibernation the outfit Crabgammy bought for her before she was even born). We consumed a hearty dinner of tacos and beans.We walked down to the rodeo, spotted our neighbor, and went backstage immediately, VIP peeps that we are. And though Tot didn't have cowboy boots and had to settle for rainboots instead...
...she knew she was cool because hot damn, she was behind the bucking chutes and on first-name terms with a real bull rider in this here event.
And here he is, readers.
Our personal bullrider, also known as King of Crabcorner Cowboy Compound.
You've been waiting for him...
Maybe I should make you wait longer..........
Like on of those annoying email forwards involving lucky numbers and favorite colors and endless scrolling down to see whether you are a person of inner peace or a manic depressive...
wait for it....
add 3 to your number then times it by 5.
OKAY! Here he is peeking out from behind Ctot's fringed top.
A good shot, eh? A handsome chap. Though my African sister kept thinking he had something a bit off in the facial region, on account of a squonky angle to one side of the mouth. But we know that he just packs a chew, peeps.
Thus began a spell of watching the bullriders pulling on their chaps, taping each others gloves to their wrists......and doing these weird, jiggy perpendicular leg movements in preparation for the event, movements that were too flash-fast for me to capture on film, unfortunately. We also watched them pray into their hats. Crabfamily doesn't see or do much praying so this here definitely warranted a sneaky shot. Then we watched the various menfolk prancing about on horseback and womenfolk too, who were referred to by the announcer as "pretty little cowgirls." Lovely!
Crabtot was entranced. No, I'm not that good-looking. That's my sister. At one point they opened the gates and let out a flood of small children to rush a hapless sheep.Tot was desperate to join and screamed, begging us to let her be a "mutton-buster" (rodeos are very educational! New vocab words of many syllables!). She tried to hurl herself over the fence. And had to be told off by Crabmommy.
Yes, that's my finger. Oh, thank you...yes I have been told how attractive my finger is, but nice of you to say it again!
The grand finale: the bullriders line up and then one by one they enter the ring and try their luck at staying on for 8 seconds. We went crazy rooting for our man, whom, the announcer gravely informed the audience, was holding his rope in a suicide hand wrap. This is when you know a rider means business. And is not afraid to die for doing what he loves.
Crabcorner-Cowboy-Compound-King goes up.And alas, comes down in 3 seconds.But, at least this time, he walks away unharmed.Okay, so in all seriousness, Aaron is a very brave and or very stupid man. It's really quite shocking when you hear the inside scoop, backstage, from a VIP's perspective. Behind the chutes did we learn that everyone who does this will either get maimed or die from doing it. Aaron told us he knows 2 people who have died doing it. And when we went backstage there were a couple of cowboys limping in turquoise chaps. Or, at least they limped when we walked past them. Then they seemed to straighten up behind our backs.
But, yes, a very dangerous sport and the announcer verified the fact of accepting death or serious injury as a given if you enter the sport. That and poverty. They made our Crabking pay $50 to enter himself in this event. And the winner only makes $280! Ridiculous, I say.
So did we give our friend the money we felt he should have rightly earned for putting his life at risk for our entertainment?
No. But we did give him a six-pack.
And so, my friends, we come to the end of an era. After circling our crabcowboy friends for so long, we are now all tighter than a strap around a bull's willy. We had a great night at our very first rodeo. We learned that the life of Aaron and his buds is one of certain demise, deep poverty, extreme grime, and cheerful obsession. We learned that one must very cheerfully sport a death wish to participate in such a life, and one must be content to live in a trailer or in one's car and to eat at Wendy's very, very often.
Crabtot dug it madly.When we got home, the world of our Crabcorner looked a little different, bathed in the afterglow of that night. Everything looks transformed now!Or maybe not.
Monday, August 6, 2007
I know I've been very slim on the blogging lately, but I've been taking a vacation, and Crabfamily members have been infesting the town all month long. But, though my blogfingers have been idle (except at the bloglet, where I must post, for bread and butter), my mission to keep you informed of the local activities has not been far from my mind. I do have extraordinary accounts to relate, which I will post later this week, so stay tuned, and in the meantime, here's a teaser: