BIG BAD BITCH OF A SUMMER

This summer is a huge bitch. And it doesn't want to end.

I've lived in Southern California and West Texas - - which means I'm acquainted with agonizing six-month summers. 

When I came to the Tennessee wilderness I was delighted to discover summers that are brief and relatively mild. At least the first three were.

This fourth summer is a combination of the Twilight Zone, Wild Kingdom, and Death Valley Days.

I've endured more misery, horror, and pathos than one humble blog could maintain.

(What exactly is pathos? I threw it in for literary enhancement)

It hasn't rained in three days, which - in this area - probably means a serious drought.
The "brush" on my property has grown so tall from the continuous rain that it exceeds my six-foot-one height and impedes any attempt to drive out (in a vehicle).

I no longer give a rat's royal ass about trying to maintain it.

 My front "yard"

This is the shallow part

Of course, the tall brush attracts critters - which is probably why I had a snake in the house last week (see previous post).

I'm still completely unnerved over that adventure. I keep looking everywhere - thinking I'll find another humongous serpent.

I have squirrels in the roof and 'possums under the house. The critter invasion permanently expels the concept of all those cutsie Disney animal films that I was indoctrinated with as a child.

I'm ready to load my shotgun and annihilate Bambi. 

Did I mention that there was a small bat (yes, bat!) hovering around the kitchen window tonight?

I was making nachos at midnight (one of the advantages of living alone).

Suddenly there was persistent banging on the window.

 I was stunned to see a fluttering bat looking in at me. 

My first thought was Dracula!

My second thought was - he might break the glass.

I pulled down the blinds and turned out the bright light.

Bugs, anyone?

I'm still plagued with gnats (see two previous posts) and when they finally disappear, the Asian beetles will arrive (no, I'm not jesting). Happens every year.

My latest wasp sting (I've now had four this summer) is healing nicely but still itches.
The wasps are building nests everywhere and their aggression knows no bounds. I eliminated three nests this week and noticed a new one being constructed near one of my windows.

Four wasps got in the house yesterday and I was running around in my Fruit of the Looms armed with a gallon (yes, gallon) of bug spray. I managed to kill two of them.

Late last night (about 4:00 a.m.) I was in bed reading, naked (too damn hot to wear clothes), when a wasp came out of nowhere. It zoomed around the reading lamp.
I jumped out of bed and raced around the room, stark naked and armed with a fly swat
(don't try to visualize this - it's immensely unappealing).
Never did find the wasp.

Did I mention the intense heat?
It's been hotter than a tamale in Hades.
The header photo of my cat Kitzee (also known as Scratch) attests to the fact.

Bosco stays in low, cool places, but still enjoys basking near the sun.

SCENARIO AND TREE TRIMMING

Here's a scenario for you to ponder:

You're sitting alone, minding your own business, when somebody comes out of nowhere and says 

"On the last Thursday in November you have to kill a turkey, prepare an outrageously costly and elaborate feast, and share it with relatives and friends that you really don't like and who often irritate the jeeters out of you.
And you have to pretend you're happy and having a good time." 

While you're trying to ponder that, they suddenly add

"And a few weeks later you have to kill a pine tree, prop it up in your living room, and buy outrageously costly and elaborate gifts for relatives and friends that you really don't like and who often irritate the jeeters out of you.
And you have to pretend you're happy and having a good time."

Please don't let this dissuade you from enjoying the upcoming holidays. It was merely a spontaneous and perfectly innocent thought. 

By the way - this year Thanksgiving has been changed from the last Thursday in November to the second to last Thursday in November. 
Consider it a courtesy so you have more time in November to start your Christmas shopping.

I have no time to ponder the holidays. I'm still recovering from my nerve wracking drive to town yesterday - which I had to do while wearing only one contact lens.
It's bitterly ironic that when I got home, my new contact lenses had (finally!!!) been delivered.

I wrote a looooong blog post about this yesterday, but decided to delete it. It was the merciful thing to do.

This morning was raw, damp, and cold. I decided to sleep in and get some desperately-needed rest.

Loud crashes and grinding noises jolted me out of Dreamland at around 7:00 a.m.
I looked out the window and saw that the county workers were on their annual tree-trimming expedition.

Every year around this time they come out to the rural areas and cut tree branches away from the power lines.
I'm glad they do this, because there are a few trees on my property that I was considering trimming myself. 

My trusty El Cheapo digital camera has new batteries, so I took some pics from my window.

 Bosco took a keen interest in the tree trimming procedure.

The excitement of rural living never ceases.

AND NOW NOVEMBER

The days seem to be impatiently rushing towards the end of the year. October is now only a memory.

Halloween was mild and breezy - a balmy 69 degrees (that's Fahrenheit, for those of you in Oslo). My celebratory mood was minimal: I had pizza and a piece of Mississippi mud cake.

What's Mississippi mud cake? 

Heck if I know. It has chocolate and nuts in it. And probably simulated marshmallows. I bought it at the supermarket. My knowledge of exotic southern cuisine is minimal, at best.

What I really love is Mississippi Mud Beer. It's my favorite.
I used to drink it when I lived in Texas. I haven't seen it in Tennessee. I suppose Tennesseans consider it to be an evil concoction consumed by heathens.

The day after Halloween the weather suddenly turned cold, gloomy, and damp. Some of the lovely colored foliage is already withered and turning dire brown.

Yesterday (Friday) I needed to go to the bank and post office in town. It was extremely important and I couldn't avoid it.
It was a chilly 42 degrees - wet, misty, miserable. As I navigated the slick, winding mountain road I continuously cursed myself for living in a rural area. And I yearned for the good ol' days when I used to live three minutes from civilization.

I got back home quite early, since I didn't do any shopping. So I decided to take a quick walk in the wet woods. Mostly to snap a few photos of the remaining foliage.

My boots sank in the mud. And I got caught in a thorn bush. Don't know exactly how it happened, but suddenly two long thorny tentacles wrapped around my legs and I couldn't get lose. The thorns were so sharp that I was afraid to pull them.

As I was standing there, trapped in mud and thorns and wondering how the hell to get loose, I heard gun shots.
It's officially hunting season!

Gun shots always reverberate haphazardly through the forest and hills and it's difficult to tell exactly how close they really are. But these shots sounded uncomfortably nearby.

I finally managed to untangle the grasping thorny things with minimal damage to my hands (some blood, but not a lot). Then I hurried home, while praying that a myopic hunter wouldn't mistake my skinny ass for a whitetail deer.

The joy of living in the wilderness is almost unbearable.

WILD ONE-EYED ADVENTURE

Well, boys and girls - I've been debating whether or not I should reveal this latest "adventure" on a public blog. It will confirm the absolute chaos in my wretched life and raise serious questions about my sanity (if indeed I still have any).

My entire life has been filled with  unconventional incidents, catastrophic occurrences, chaotic catastrophes, and a generous share of wild adventures.

I thought that as I grew older and attempted to live a simple, uncomplicated existence things would calm down. I was wrong.

My life here in the Tennessee wilderness is fraught with problems, inconveniences, and complications.

I valiantly try to downplay the negatives on this blog - but it ain't easy.

It's no secret that one of the inconveniences I despise most is the long drive into town on a narrow, perilous mountain road. The very thought of navigating it sends me into spasms of acute anxiety.

  Last Friday I had to drive into town. There was no way to avoid it.
I was low on supplies, my car (desperately) needed gas, I had some personal business to take care of, and - most importantly - I had to get a postal money order for some new contact lenses.

I order my contact lenses from Canada. Since I no longer have a credit card I'm compelled to pay with a money order (it's the only alternative payment method they accept).

I desperately need new contacts because one of my lenses recently ripped in half. All I currently have left to see with is an ancient pair of glasses.

I wasn't too thrilled with the idea of driving to town wearing my old glasses but I had no choice.

I was still pondering this when I sat on the edge of my bed - not knowing that my glasses were there until I felt the crunch under my ass.

Leaping up in a panic, I saw the pulverized remains of the only source of vision enhancement that I had.
I'm extremely nearsighted and can't see a herd of elephants two feet away without contacts or glasses.

So, here I am in the wilderness with no glasses, ONE contact lens, and an urgent need to drive into town.

After considering all the alternatives (which were nearly non-existent) I decided to tackle the dilemma head-on:
I guzzled a few beers for courage, popped the one contact lens into my left eye, and got into the car.

Within minutes I'm navigating the harrowing mountainous curves while peering through a grimy windshield and desperately trying to see with one contact lens.

As I'm squinting like Popeye and praying that I won't go over a cliff, I happen to see (with my left eye) the bright red ROAD CONSTRUCTION sign.

I've lived here for four friggin' years and never saw a smidgen of construction work being done on the mountain road. To say it's ironic is an understatement. 

For the next six miles, I'm straining my left eye to avoid hitting construction workers, ramming into steamrollers, and running through freshly-laid patches of tar.

By the time I got to town I was not only catatonic, I needed a crowbar to pry my fingers from the steering wheel.

I won't bore you with details about my one-eyed trip to the gas station, the bank, the post office, or Walmart....

.....but I will say that it's a slight challenge to do one-eyed grocery shopping in a crowded supermarket. Thanks to the long and grueling drive, my normally bad back gave out completely and caused an excruciatingly sharp pain in one of my legs.

I could hardly limp and squint my way to the checkout line.

Let's cut this tedious blog post short (or is it too late?). I won't reveal any details about my drive home - except to say that I did a lot of cursing....and praying.
Not to mention squinting.

A grim postscript:
After I mailed my order to the contact lens company I realized that I made a horrendous mistake when filling out the order form (with one eye). I now have to contact Customer Service and try to get it all straightened out.



 

DEJA VU

You're very fortunate that I haven't had time to write a post about the recent Oscars.

I hear a collective sigh of relief.

But I might sometime in the near future.

Groans of abject disgust.

Until then, I'll continue to brighten your lives with the intensely boring subjects that I've rehashed countless times before: sunsets, cats, and life in the harsh and unforgiving wilderness.

After a few glorious days of beautifully mild weather, winter decided to return and bite Tennessee in the ass. At least in my area.

A rude, cold wind started blowing yesterday at sunset - drastically dropping the temperature and inspiring snow flurries after midnight.

The sunset was so impressive that I grabbed my El Cheapo camera and ran out onto the front porch to capture the lovely scene while it was still ripe. 
Unbeknownst to me, Bosco and Scruffy (the cats) came out, too. 

After I took the photos, Bosco obediently came back inside (like he always does) and Scruffy went down the front steps and disappeared (like she always does).

She was gone all night - when the temperature was dangerously low and the frigid wind shrieked. To make matters worse, she has a bad cold with coughs, sneezes, and ample snot.

The last time Scruffy pulled this disappearing act she took refuge under the house. My only consolation was that she would do this again. Nevertheless, I worried all night and kept going outside to call her.

At the cold crack of dawn I went out again and kept shouting "SCRUFFY!!!"
so loud that it reverberated in Kentucky.
Finally, the wayward feline came out from under the back porch.

Nothing's better than a happy ending.

 Scruffy

Post script:
A special thanks to my cousin Nancy who drove all the way over here on Monday to check up on me because neither of my phones were working.

Here are some sunset photos from last evening:

FROZEN LEAVES

Why Frozen Leaves? Because it sounds nice. And the leaves (or those few remaining) are indeed frozen solid today. I encountered some on my morning walk in the woods.

There hasn't been much excitement around here since the customer service repairman came (last Monday) to fix my router.
That sounds deliciously salacious.
Actually, he fixed my computer's router. Not mine.
Unfortunately. 
(I just threw that in to unnerve you).

The next day I had to drive to town. A wet, gloomy, damp, dreary, very misty day. It was Gothic. 

For the second time in a row I forgot to buy trash bags. I'm completely out of them. 
Make a list, Jon.
I made a list. I still forgot to buy them.

Whenever I go into town everything is a complete frenzy. The endlessly long and harrowing drive is enough to impede my memory. Then I have to haul my trash to the dump (this time in improvised trash bags). I have to put gas in the car, go to the bank, pay bills (I never pay online anymore - for reasons I won't go into), and get a month's worth of groceries. And cat supplies.

By the time I get done running around I can't even remember what gender I am - let alone what I have to buy.

On the way home, when I finally reached my property, my car got stuck in the mud. With an incredibly bad back and mud up to my knees, I'm pushing and dragging the friggin' car out of the relentless quicksand.

Then I have to drag bags and bags of groceries up the mercilessly muddy hill to the back door. Slipping, sliding, and gasping for breath.

I'm giving you the kind and gentle version. My existence here in the wilderness - at best - is beyond the deepest realms of hell. 

On the bright side, we had two gloriously warm days in the 50's (Wednesday and Thursday). It was so wonderful that I actually opened my bedroom window for a few hours.

On Friday the temperature dropped rapidly. Snow flurries all night. Today (Saturday, I think) the daytime "high" temperature is 18 degrees (Fahrenheit). It's supposed to get much colder next week. 

Here are a few photos I took today - along with sunsets on the recent warm days (Wed/Thurs).

 I mostly take the sunset photos from the front porch. It's the easiest way to do it.

 I couldn't stay out very long today because my fingers were nearly frozen (I don't have gloves)

Not a living soul except for me (partially alive) and a few birds. I did hear several woodpeckers. 

There were flurries all day long but not much accumulation.

SCARY STUFF

It wasn't until this morning, when I unwittingly glanced in the mirror, that I realized there are some advantages to growing older. I'll never again have to worry about buying a Halloween costume. I'm permanently wearing a mask that would win first prize for Best Spook at any Halloween party.

I initially thought I looked like Lurch from the Addam's Family.

 But on second glance I realized that Lurch looked infinitely better. 

On to a brighter note: scary stuff.
Halloween is my favorite time of year and I had planned on writing  a lot of scary Halloweeny stuff.

As I cowered in bed this morning - reluctant to crawl out from under the covers because of a severe back ache and the fact that the room was colder than a witch's tit - I came to the conclusion that my life here in the wilderness is much scarier than anything Halloween has to offer.

Every day here on Hillbilly Mountain is packed with various degrees of horror that would inspire the most staunch Halloween aficionado to cower and cringe.

The long perilous walk to the mailbox is enough to reduce tough men to tears. 

Having heavy boots sucked off your feet by the thick mud and battling 15 foot high weeds is nothing compared to the steep trek back to the house - which saps your breath, increases your heart rate to 300 beats a minute, and renders you semi-conscious by the time you're halfway home.

I won't bother to mention the coyotes that gleefully emit death howls at my back door at 3:00 a.m.
Or the mice that scratch mercilessly in the walls until 5:00 a.m. 
Or the 'possums under the house
Or the Unknown Creatures on the roof that makes my should-be-peaceful nights a living hell.

Did I mention the insects?
The only positive thing is that the temperature has suddenly dropped 400 degrees and many of the annoying insects are finally gone.

Yup, boys and girls, last night was below freezing. Today the daytime "high" was 35 degrees (that's Fahrenheit, for those of you in the Hebrides). There were snow showers early this morning.

And this is the coldest house I've ever lived in. If it's 35 degrees outside, it's minus 40 degrees inside. 

"Global warming", my shivering ass! 

I flatly refuse to put the heat on in October. I (supposedly) live in a mild southern state. If I wanted to put the heat on in October, I would have moved to Iceland. 

Is this post getting too long? Tough noogies. I'll stop for a moment to insert these delight photos that I snapped this morning from the back porch. Cloudy, dreary, frosty.

My cat Scratch (also know as Kitzee) was very sick a week ago. She has never had a sick day in twelve years, so I was extremely worried. Her behavior was frighteningly strange.

I was almost ready to call the vet, but decided to wait. In two days she began eating again. In three days she was beginning to act halfway normal.

Now, she is completely normal again and intent on making me delightfully miserable.

This afternoon she kicked Bosco off the bed and slept in his favorite place - so I am assured that she has made a full recovery.

Bosco was sleeping on this old green pillowcase, and Kitzee scared him off and took his place.

BTW-
the photo of Scratch (Kitzee) at the top of this post was taken when I lived in Texas. She's posing with one of the tiny pumpkins from my drought-stricken garden.

Well, that's enough scary stuff for now.
Just wait 'till Halloween....

COMPLICATIONS

Life in the wilderness isn't for the timid, weak, or faint of heart.  It takes courage (or insanity) to live here.

Fortunately, I'm a tough honcho. 

Is it still legal to say "honcho"? I can't keep up with the current illegalities enforced by the politically correct.

Honcho was a gay magazine that I used to write articles for - - but that was like 300 years ago. I doubt if it's still in existence.
And it has absolutely nothing to do with this blog post. I just threw it in to inform you. And, of course, to impress you.

Anyway, every day here in the wilderness is fraught with complications and inconveniences.


A simple thing like mailing a letter has become a nightmare.

Horrifying as it might seem, I still occasionally send Snail Mail letters. I was never enthusiastic about email. And I've never completely mastered the art of texting - - it usually takes me three or four hours to text two sentences.
It is beyond the realms of comprehension how people can text and drive.

Speed it up, Jon - your readers (all two of them) are getting restless.

So last week I had two extremely important letters to mail. And to mail letters, I have only two options:

1. Drive 2,000 miles to town (very slight exaggeration) and go to the post office. 

2. Risk leaving the letters in my mailbox and pray to the Winged Messenger God Mercury that the mail-carrier will somehow someday notice the letters in my box and take them to town.

I prefer to say "mailman" instead of "mail carrier", but it's no longer legal or politically correct - - and I certainly wouldn't want to ruffle any feathers (he says tongue-in-cheek).

So - -
out of the two evils, I (reluctantly) opted to leave the letters in my mailbox and hope for the best (which I instinctively knew would be the worst).

That was last Friday. 
For some strange reason unbeknownst to me, the mail carrier never comes around here on Saturday. So, I eagerly anticipated Monday.

On Sunday, I suddenly realized that Monday was a holiday - - so the mail carrier wouldn't take my letters until Tuesday. If I was lucky.

What holiday was it?
Those of you in Guam might be wondering.

Monday was Columbus Day.

Of course, Columbus Day is now nearly extinct, because the politically correct spoilsports want to ban it - - insisting that Columbus was an evil, syphilitic, masochistic Italian slob who stole America from the Indians. Or Native Americans.

Look at the bright side, you miserable historical revisionists:
if it wasn't for Columbus, we'd never have pizza.

But I digress.

Anyway, Monday was Columbus Day and there was no mail delivery. So my letters remained in my mailbox (since Friday).

Let me interject here, in a wicked ploy to make this post even longer:

My mailbox isn't anywhere near my house. In order to access it I have to climb down a steep mountainside and go out onto the narrow road that winds past my enormous property.
I said "enormous" to impress you.

Walking to the mailbox is a terrifying ordeal that usually takes half an hour. By the time I climb back up the mountainside to get to my house, I'm so faint, winded, and dizzy that I need paramedic assistance and oxygen. It takes hours to recover.

The road where my mailbox is situated

I'll never understand why mailboxes have to be 45 miles away from the house when you live in the wilderness - but that's beside the point.

On Tuesday afternoon I took the long and dangerous hike to the mailbox to see if the mail carrier had picked up my letters.

To my astonishment, the narrow country road was blocked off and THREE humongous work trucks were by my mailbox. I could see from a distance that the red flag on the box was still up - which meant the mail carrier didn't take my letters.

As I huffed and puffed my way back to the house - while putting a Hungarian curse on the road workers and the mail carrier - I wondered what the hell the workers were doing way out here.

The road that winds past my property is about four feet wide, seldom traveled, and leads to nowhere. 
Are they finally going to fix the potholes and cracks (which have been there since Daniel Boone was a boy)?
Or are they planning to level the forest and build a Walmart?

Hell if I know.
Intuition tells me they're repairing the road.

To make a long story short (I just said that to irritate you) - - my two extremely important letters weren't picked up by the mail carrier until today (Thursday).
Nearly a week since I left them in my box.

If this long post frustrated you - you're not half as frustrated as I am when trying to mail letters.

I'm considering getting some homing pigeons.

So what happened to your damn online store, Jon?

It's just about complete, boys and girls. I will probably open it tomorrow - Friday the 13th.