Salad speaks (Vol.1)

Oh, hi everyone. I wanted to get a word in before I disappeared. She just stashed me in here but I've got a feeling I'm not going to stay- What's that? She left? Okay, well, for how long?

No. That doesn't make sense. She said earlier something about making a big salad...? There's a lot of veggie moved in the same time I did....Some radishes, over there is a carrot....there was a cucumber here this morning, but he's been gone for a while. He'd due back any time now.

What am I most excited about. Great question. Let's see.....all of it! Can I say all of it?! I'm excited to mingle with Ice Berg, really getting to know him finally. My paleface brother. Oh, my god- kidding! I didn't say that! Its just- listen, we're family, but we're so different it's hard to wrap my mind around that sometimes. It will be nice to spend some time with him, is all I'm saying.

What else? Why- what do you know? Are they going to spin me? God, I've heard about that! You take a dip and then you go for a spin. That sounds like so much fun. I can't wait. I don't want to get my hopes up though. Have you heard anything about that? You know something.

What's that now? Oh- nope, I'm not picky. Ranch would be fine. Caesar. Maybe something light. A vinaigrette? Not sure what it is but it sure sounds elegant. Not blue cheese- no. Trash central.

I'll right, listen it was great to catch up. I'll talk to you later, if I'm around! But don't count on it! I'm off for glory!

Signed,
The bag of mixed greens in Melina's fridge

Soda pop pyschology

I am eating alone, same restaurant, same book. The woman sitting in the table next to me places her order:

"I'd like the cheeseburger, cheese on the side."
Okay. Part of me wants to stand up and punch her in the gob for the sake of all waitresses everywhere. But the other portion is too busy trying to conceptualize this. Cheeseburger, cheese on the side. Is it still a cheeseburger? At what point does it become just a burger? Have we as a populace determined the exact spacial configurations of cheese to burger in order for it to be defined as one thing or the other? Even crazier- the cheese and the meat come from the same source. Furthermore, they will end up in the same place. Therefore the cheeseburger itself is just a brief, temporary existence, merely a vehicle between one entity and another. Does the cheeseburger even exist?

Mind blowing.

Still, I want to punch her.

'Rorschach

And lead us not into temptation

I'm eating alone at a restaurant, reading a book, when from a few tables away I overhear a woman exclaim to her friend:

"You ate the entire omelet? How liberating!"

I take an immediate mental inventory of everything I've eaten in the past two days.

The conclusion I've drawn: I am the most liberated woman on the planet. Also, I'm fat.

From the desk of Rainn Wilson

Some time last week, my nightly Corona drinking, idea sketching, deluded thought harboring, multi-tasking Office watching frenzy reached a fever pitch: in a fit of optimism, I submitted a writing sample to the editors of a site called Soul Pancake. The site is a compilation of writing, art, questions and conversations created and run by the actor Rainn Wilson, best known as the maniacal beet farm owner slash paper salesman Dwight Schrute.

Rainn, as it turns out, is a real person with an inspiring history of hard work and creative endeavors behind his 44 years. From what I've learned, he's the type of star that uses his fame to help leverage other artists out of obscurity. Also awesome: he was raised in Seattle and attended the University of Washington. Hey-oh! So did I! (Well, he went for a little while, then he transferred to NYU.) Of course, he now lives in Scranton, PA (anyone! anyone?) No. Stop. He lives in LA now. But I was equally thrilled to discover that his wife, Holiday Reinhorn, also went to UW and studied fiction writing. Hey! So did I! I even remember studying some of her work in my intermediate short story seminar.

(Side note: why is anything writing related always referred to as a 'workshop' or a 'seminar' - why can't we just call it a class like the rest of the academic disciplines? Damn writers.)

So anyway. The very next afternoon over breakfast, I received a message from one of the content managers at SP. This was less than twelve hours after I sent over my submission. The email began with this line: "I'm really impressed with your writing and I have two immediate offers for you" and, three paragraphs later, ended with "I promise we'll try to challenge you creatively, emotionally, and cerberally (sic) and make you laugh. A lot. Often at yourself."


I never thought that the hours I spend alone between 8pm and 2am, writing outlines of stories I never write and conducting google searches of my favorite performers would pay off, but I think this proves that it can. Not necessarily that it will, but that it can. Which leads to tonight's lesson, ladies and gentlemen:

Whatever it is you love to do when you're alone, do it with conviction. Plenty of people will tell you to go to bed, and that you spend too much time doing it and for what, and that it will get you nowhere. Don't listen to them. Because you never know. You know? Yeah. And while I'm at it, treat each small victory in your life as your Big Break. It's a much more fun and celebratory way to go through life. And the truth is, it genuinely could be. You just never know.

Word Me

The joy of of my day was driving back from a day of preparation at Camp Onaway and hearing the conversation between two dudes on NPR dissolve into Zombie puns. Zombaid. Zombies without borders. People for the ethical treatment of the undead.

Puns are going to take me places, I can tell.

A sweet country tale

Ah, I love when life writes itself. The woman who f-bombed me for legally and safely parking in my hometown on the way to the balloon festival added depth to what was otherwise a one dimensional day of festivities and local culture. A needed reminder that life, despite its tendency to appear chummy and affable, is always out to get you.


I was out for a paddle at Sumner's Falls in Hartland, Vermont with my two friends Cassie and Austin. It was a low water, reasonably uneventful day, the waves curled just enough for surfing. Two fishermen built fires on the beach alongside the eddy, and the smoke mingled with the metallic tang of churning water. Eventually we'd run all the rapids and ended up beneath them in the wide, flat calm of the open Connecticut. Instead of bothering to walk back up, we tooled around the rest of the afternoon, talking about how lucky we were to be born in this state, in this place, next to this river.

Then we hiked back up to the beach and discovered that Austin's car had been vandalized. The passenger side windows were smashed out and little cubes of of aqua colored safety glass were everywhere. His wallet was among the missing. My heart swam into my large intestine as I jogged over to my car, and sure enough I hadn't been spared. My window was as wide and gaping as The Scream. I tiptoed through the glass, immediately cut open my thumb, and took a tally of everything that was missing. Which, somehow, was nothing.

Nothing! I had not yet cleaned out my car from my recent move, and apparently the clutter just overwhelmed the perps! One more salute to the unbelievable messiness that is my way of life! Their one attempt at digging deeper had been to open the sunglasses holder above the driver's seat. Please- I had lost my sunglasses weeks before. Had they known anything about online gear re-sales, they could have made a fortune in Kokatat and quick draws. And had they known anything about the places normal people stash their Ipods and wallets when they leave a car in an sketchy spot, they could have been up four dollar bills and a lot of Southern grocery store savings cards. And an Ipod.


Really, for all the fuss, all they did was smash the window and put a sizable dent in my dreamy ideals about New England. And, my insurance didn't cover it one red cent. On the plus side, I finally learned what a deductible is.

The silvery lining of all this, is that it gave us the opportunity to mingle with the local fishermen. We offered them Jelly Beans in a gesture of friendship and, I'm pleased to say, the following photo is not staged:

The little one is named Tim and the big one is named Bubba- thank you Lord I've finally met a Bubba. We asked if they'd seen anything, and they hadn't, but they sure told us a lot of other things. Tim had an autistic savant like approach to conversation: he told us every fact and statistic there was to know about Sumner's falls. How more people drown there than they should. The human sized fish that swam way below the surface, and the monstery things that were occasionally spotted sunning themselves. He recounted with particular fondness the story of a crazy man that held three canoeists at gunpoint, completely nude. This, he said, making a sweeping gesture with his hand, was a dangerous place of outlaws and rogue activity.

"My God," I said, toeing at a chunk of window, "I had no idea. Me and Cass were planning on coming out here alone the other night to paddle in the full moon."

"Woah- hay! Nevah come out here alone!" said Bubba, speaking for the first time. "I don't evah come out here without a shotgun. I tells ya- I got one right here in the cah." He tilted his chin at the beat up truck, and I noticed the outline of a teenage boy, hunched in the backseat like a big insect. "And nevah-" he continued, "come out here in the full moon. Indian ghosts. Bands of them. I ain't kidding yah. I see them, I see them come out here in their birch bahk canoes-"

Tim interupted. "Yup, and I see'd them lanterns floating out there, I was with my wife and she says, she says to me that looks like a birch bahk canoe and I says, let's just get outa here!"

And so it went. In case you are wondering, Tim and Bubba did not appear the type to bother making up stories. They seemed completely true to their word, and I believe them. The naked man and the man eating fish and the Indian ghosts, I believe it all. I'm just upset that I have to be thinking about all these things whenever I go paddling again. With my luck and limited skill set there's already enough to worry about.

Austin had to call four different numbers before reaching the local police, who, as it turned out, had no idea where Sumner's falls was. They didn't bother coming down for the occasion, just gave us each a case number and called it a day. I tacked up a garbage bag on the window until the glass was replaced, and eventually I vacuumed up the rest of the evidence. The only thing we're still chewing on is- why us? Why our two cars when their was a fancy shmancy lincoln deal with out of state plates parked right there with us? My only guess is that they were targeting the kayakers. The haughty, hippy, stir up the water and scare the fish kayakers. And I guess I understand. There have a few times when I've had the urge to smash out a few windows, but I don't have the coconuts.

The obvious question now is this: who is coming with me to investigate on the next full moon? Bubba says that the beat of the ghost drums can be heard at the end of the road, so we could probably get away with just a drive by. Who's in?

I'm serious.

Ask the Militant Biker

Yesterday, I was parallel parking on the side of the road in Quechee, Vermont, on my way to the annual Hot Air Balloon Festival. As I was doing so, a middle aged lady on a bike passed me screaming that I my parking was a 'fucking inconvenience.' Today, as a real treat for our readers, we bring her in as our guest columnist!

Dear Militant Bike Lady,
I've recently moved back home to rural Vermont, and I feel as if I'm losing touch with my old friends. It's not that we don't get along, it's just we have less to talk about. What can I do to stay in touch?

Sincerely,
Increasingly Isolated


Dear Isolated,

What the hell!? Move over! Move the fuck over! Do you want to kill me? Is that what you want? You want to paralyze me? GO AHEAD I could use the money! Look in your mirror for Chrissakes I'm right here! HeLLO I'm right HERE! Yeah, that's right you asshole, you ever heard of sharing the road? You think this is sharing the road? You asshole. I know my rights! You're fucking dangerous! Fuck!!

Sincerely,
The Militant Bike Lady


Dear Militant Bike Lady,
Like most of us, I've been feeling the economic 'crunch' lately. Suddenly, buying clothes and accessories is a luxury I cannot afford! How can I keep myself looking hip and fashionable, while not breaking the bank?

Sincerely,
Reluctantly Thrifty


Dear Reluctant,

So now you're not using your turn signals! Jesus, what- you think I could just read your mind that you're merging? Or did you think I'd figure it out when my head is through your windshield! You fat, polluting piece of- Oh GO RIGHT ON THROUGH THEN! Don't mind me! Fuck! You people are unbelievable! Move OVER!!! FUCK!!

Sincerely,
The Militant Biker Lady

Want to pick the brain of the Militant Bike Lady? Leave your question in the comment area!

A general announcement

As many of you know, I will be away at a job from June 23- July 30th with no access to my computer.

During this absence, my blog will be maintained and published by the common household objects in my home.

Thank you very much and I hope you look forward, as I do, to what they have to say.

-Melina Coogan
Author and Creator, Thewildercoast.com

announcement

Oh Be Joyful

There is a roadside river in Colorado called the Oh Be Joyful. It's excruciatingly difficult to paddle, and apparently a lot of fun. So I've heard. I've never run it and chances are I never will.

Here in Vermont, we are lacking in terms of challenging Whitewater, at least in Windsor County, at least at this point in the season. But what we're missing in hydraulics we make up for in little secrets, like this one:





(And let me just say, this swing has its own history of carnage, generally involving boys, backflips, and foot entanglement.)

I was going to bring this all together by drawing some parallel between the Oh Be Joyful and the joy this rope swing has brought to all bored Vermont kids for the past fifteen years, but my sister, who thinks this blog can get too 'flowery', would fly across the country and slap me across the face.

With just cause, I suppose.

Best not to think about too hard

A friend of mine who knows about these things told me recently that the crosswalk button is a complete guise. Apparently, it's set up to make us believe that the things we do have an influence over the things that happen to us, but in reality, the button is not even wired to anything.

This seems like a metaphor for a lot of things lately.

Or maybe this thought is just a way to rationalize the fact that in two days, the only work I've done is to emo-sketch my dog.

Things to Consider

Reasons for not returning to my previous job:

1. Fear of drowning. (Me)

2. Another year's worth of Tino's special Pancakes, served over pancakes, with a side of pancakes, for dinner. (See also: reasons for returning to job)

3. Sooner or later, someone is going to start taking a good look at those itemized company Credit Cards bills.

4. The one time I tried to make an evening out of showing an episode of Sex and the City to the other staff members was a big no-hitter.

5. All-male work environment. (See also: reasons for returning to job.)

6. My superior once yelled at me for inadvertently making a pun.

7. Fear of drowning. (Me)

This is what happens, every time the door opens. Every. Time.

Oh hey, didn't see you come in. That's weird, I usually see everything that goes on around here. Well, anyway, hi!. hi hi HI HI HI HI! I'm so glad you're here! Before you came in I was just quietly chewing on my fish chew. I think it's a trout. Not really sure. Hey- since you're here, do you have any interest in rubbing my tummy? I'll just- I'll just roll on my back for you. Oh- oh, you -wow. You are a total natural at this. I know we just met but I feel like I really connect with you, you know? You know? Hey, if it's cool with you I'm just going to roll my eyes back, maybe close them for a while....wow. So relaxed. This is what it's about, man! I - woah. WOAH. You just moved your foot. You just moved your foot! Were you aware of that? God, I was so totally zoning out till you did that. Hey, look, there's my fish chew! Boy, I love chewing that thing. Did I mention that when I get it right, the tongue sticks out? It's totally cool. Here, let me....let me just try and make that happen for you...gotta get up on my feet for this. Chew chew chew chew chew chew chew. Hey- woah! It squeaked! Did you hear that? Did you even HEAR that? Sometimes I forget that happens and then it's like- woah! Hey! Is this thing alive? Well, okay, I'm not making the tongue stick out...maybe do you want to try that tummy rub thing again? This time if you could just be really still, yeah, yeah, thanks. Perfect. Oh, wow, now I'm really happy and WOAH! WOAH! THE DOOR! THE DOOR JUST OPENED! IT DID I HEARD IT! Don't be alarmed but - Woah! I gotta GO I gotta go SEE WHAT'S HAPPENING. I gotta BARK I gotta Bark LOUD. Don't go anywhere, I'll be right back or, you know- maybe I won't. The DOOR OPENED it could be ANYTHING!

This post dedicated to Abby Crahan's dog, Jack.

Honey, I shrunk the Job Market

Girl (12-13) sitting on steps outdoors

Batten down the hatches, folks, the super suck economy has hit home!

Here's what went down: I found out about the perfect job for me. Not personal shopper for John Krasinski perfect but still- pretty ideal: A kayak magazine needed an editor. A magazine about kayaking needed someone to find stories, write contact, take photos and edit other people's grammar! Hello, that's what I do all day, for absolutely no money!

My former double combo boss and boyfriend David sent me the link, and then sent the magazine a killer recommendation for me.

Was I excited? Let's just say, them chickens were counted.

A few days after emailing them my resume, I had already decided on a business card mock up. Around that time, I called my editor to discuss an article I had written previously about the Siete Tazas. The article was finally finished and ready to be subject to the red marker and then go to print. Much to my surprise I found out that the magazine I had been writing for had gone under and my editor - although he'll always be my editor- was out of a job.

And guess what- he was applying for the same job that I had considered myself a 'real shoe-in' for.

Well, people, the shoe's off.

My editor is my one and only connection into the world of professional writing. Not to mention he has a wife and two of the sweetest baby girls you have ever seen with cheeks so big that after every time I see them, I have to go out and order a plate of pancakes just to satiate my appetite. Would I ever try to take a job from underneath him? Nope. Would I ever even have a chance? Heck no. He has years and years and years of experience being an editor. For a magazine. A kayak magazine.

I'm 25, I'm single as the day is long, and I'd be a fantastic magazine editor. I'd throw my heart in soul into it. But there's no way I'd get the job over people who've been doing this for years, and now way I'd try and go up against this guy. So when my editor brought it up that he'd been talking to the people over at the magazine, I didn't mention that I'd been haranguing them with emails and phone calls and resumes and references. And when said, "I bet I can get your article published at this new place, in fact, it might help me nail in the job if I came bearing some content," I let him take the piece.

The magazine never returned my emails or phone calls, and I never tried to contact them again.
I don't know what happened with my friend and that job, but I do know that a few days later, he had worked it out that a different publication- Canoe and Kayak Magazine- would publish my article.

Blue China Piggy Bank With Fabric Bandage

So that's good. But, dude, what the hell is up with this economy. We're vying for jobs with people who have decades more experience than we do, people who should be our bosses and our mentors, not our competitors. And on the flip side, I'm sure they're not thrilled to be fighting for entry level jobs against kids just out of college with no families, little financial obligations and nothing preventing us from working 100 hour weeks just to get ahead. Or keep up.

Although, I do have something preventing me from working 100 hour weeks. It's called The Office, season 1-5 on DVD, and, for now, it's as good as family.

The economy is something that I don't feel responsible for, unlike other catastrophes, like, say...anything environmental. I mean, I wouldn't have A-okayed that criminal war in Iraq which bumped up our military's already ridiculous consumption of fossil fuels, and about those oil plumes in gulf of Mexico? I listen to NPR. I've heard all about the lax safety standards. But I can't overlook the fact that all supply needs a demand, and that demand is me, pumping up my Subaru so I can drive long miles to the grocery store, because I choose to live in the country. I get it. I'm working on it. I really am .

But the economy, Jesus, I didn't do that! All I've done in the last 25 years is buy things and pay overdraft fees! Seriously, that really sums it up nicely! I've been pumping money into the economy from the moment I was first handed an allowance. So who do we blame for this mess? This-the-world-is-your-oyster-well-not-really-ness? Really, who set up the workings for this economic crisis and who set it off? All I know is that there are a lot of people responsible, and I blame them all with a limitless store of resentment and anger. I mean, I'm really angry here.

I'm going to go figure this out. I'll get back to you.


Coffee Stained Sticky Pad with Broken Pencil and Telephone Receiver