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Crofton, MD, 21114

A long-running personal blog shared by two authors with completely different approaches to life. And a lot of large, beautiful photographs of dogs and nature and places we've traveled to. Rich in commentary and irreverant in style. 

Blog

We started blogging a long time ago. Our work hours never aligned with recommended psychotherapists and we needed to get our thoughts out. We are great friends, total opposites and long-time housemates. This was a way to communicate. With each other. With strangers. With consumer marketers. With sub-par meteorologists. With distant friends who wanted to see pictures of stuff we were up to.

This is the place. Our bucket of thoughts to share. You are welcome. 
(We realize that most of you are here for the dog pictures.)

Capt'n Crankypants: Down On The Farm

Healey

Sunday - I spent the weekend being Capt. Crankypants. I was peevish about everything and spoke about naps as if they were sacred healing lore passed down from generations. Unattainable. “If only I could take a *nap”. And it was annoying – because there was nothing keeping me from having one other than the passive aggressive Olympics I was competing in (with myself).

So I tried to stay away from people.

I did errands where I would mentally insult office supplies and the customers shopping for them around me. I went to the grocery store where I was depressed at the state of the produce being offered to me. Why can’t I find a decent tomato??? WHY? It’s the end of fucking summer – people should be dumping crates full on the side of the road to get rid of them! In an effort to be season less society have we messed up the genetics of a simple tomato so fully that we are no longer able to achieve ripe juiciness?  See! People trying to get to Mars are WASTING money when we have REAL NEEDS right here at home. ON EARTH. I put the tomato back. I looked up to a woman who was regarding my awkwardly long gaze at the rejected fruit/vegetable. Fuck you lady. You are SETTLING for that limp cucumber and your family doesn’t even know better. I walked away and pretended to be interested in raisins.

I stopped at the farm on the way home to pick up some flowers and see if my mood couldn’t be improved by a scenery change. I approached the geese cautiously – knowing that they would sense my dark cloud and run instinctively. Actually they would run from me no matter what mood I was in… but today everything was overshadowed with inescapable dark knowing sarcasm. What fun. The geese pretended to be frozen the entire time I was near. So I started to annoy the cats. There were cats everywhere. Obviously this place is a whorehouse at night because there were kittens coming out of storm drains, cracked windows, vegetable stands…it was out of control. I leaned down to try to attract the attention of the one closest to me. Trying to see cuteness in it. It pounced on the end of my scarf and proceeded to choke me from a squat to a kneeling position. I hate cats. Then I went to the chicken barn-thing-house. This is what I imagine New Delhi, India smells like. It is the smell of living soup. I grimaced and peered in at the pretty animals that I had no matching names for. Hello red angry big eyed rooster looking bird. What did you do today? Where does the drain water from this scary building go? Mental note to not buy produce until I have a better grasp of the irrigation set-up.  Slowly I walked into the farm stand building where it was cool and lovely and mentally 5 miles away from living things that hang out chatting in their own feces. There were lovely dried herbs and brilliant sunflowers. I bought two bouquets and watched a woman get scratched by a kitten that was hanging by the cash register.

As I pulled up to the house I saw Nancy out front. She was doing something else to the 12 cubic feet of front yard she called ‘hers’. She was always out there. It is beyond me what transpires. I liked to hang out in the kitchen window and ponder what metal instabilities would drive someone to inspect every inch of grass with nothing but their fingernails. But I was feeling momentarily up beat and decided that I should be a nice person and give her one of my bouquets of flowers. She lived alone and probably never got flowers out of the blue. So I gave her the prettier one and kept the simple sunflowers for myself. Then she wanted to talk. And I didn’t. I tried to pretend I was Yenny to get away  - but I do not have her gift. The gift of appearing foreign and distant. Of suddenly relinquishing ALL Knowledge of the English language at the drop of a hat and any empathy for your story right along with it. She has a gift, that Yenny.  A gift from the gods. But I am weak. So I stayed out there for a bloody half hour before slipping back into my house breathless that I could not control that situation.

If only I could take a nap.