City Mouse, Country Mouse

Man, with PolackPappy, sometimes you just can't win.

Take yesterday, for example. Yesterday I realized I would be traveling to NYC next weekend to see Gogol Bordello play (JoyceFrances and I, to save cash, are driving in from her place in Albany and driving back that night). And I had a busy workweek coming up, one that I would need to start on Sunday. So I called Pp and said hey, why don't I come rake the leaves for you this afternoon? And he said, good idea, because it's going to rain tomorrow.

So rake the leaves I did. And rake and rake and rake. Well first I had to grab Chauncey the Wonder Corgi, who had chased the dog of the neighbors behind us, and the proceeded to take several short whizzes all over that doggie's lawn while the dog, who is twice the size of Mr. C, cowered between his master's legs. Then I brought over a chipmunk tail, a gift from Ethel the barn kitty, to show Pp. When I showed it to Pp, the neighbor said "How can you be sure it was your cat that killed it?" Implying of course, that maybe his cat had done the killing. Well first of all, buddy, if we're taking the behavior of your wimp-ass dog as an example, I know what to expect from your cat, and it's not this.

And second of all, I found the tail right next to the door that leads to the back porch. Ethel always leaves her gifts there. This morning, there was most of mouse. She'd disembowelled it but left a fair amount of leftovers. I let her smoosh her wee drooly face into my armpit this morning as a thank you.

But back to the main story! Pp left to go clamming with Dennis the Menace. Sea clams is what they were after, and you get them by wading waist-deep into the water at Hampton Beach and plucking them out with -- well, I don't remember what you pluck them out with. They're used as bait. The last time I went fishing with Pp and D the M, I threw up, a lot, over the side of the boat and I said "Treat me like a man. I'm no wimp." For D the M, man-treatment meant calling my name when I was mid-wretch and then dangling a sea clam between his teeth, and growl-laughing as he shook it back and forth maniacally. You know, to help with my wretching.

OK, onto the main story! So I raked. And raked and raked and raked. I was helped along by my iPod and listened to Paul Theroux read short fiction, and Robert Reich talk about, shockingly, the economy on an Economist podcast. Then I listened to Neil Diamond sing about his imaginary friend because sometimes I have very cheesy taste in music. Actually when I was listening to Neil Diamond, it was dark out, and I had finished the raking -- there was an enormous amount of raking and I got blisters on both hands, even though I was wearing gloves, one of which poppped and bled before I noticed it, the other of which is filled at the moment with fluid and blood and is the color not of regular Kool-Aid but of the watery bug juice version of Kool-Aid you get at camp.

Anyhoo, I had told Pp I would also cut back branches but by the time I got around to that it was dark out. So I spent part of my Friday night first with a strategically-placed 1 jillion candlepower spotlight and then, when that burned out, a blue flashlight tucked in my armpit, cutting brush. "Be careful not to cut yourself!" said McMumsy. I didn't, but I was determined to finish the job, and I exhausted myself. When Pp came home, I told him of my accomplishments and showed him my blisters. "Why didn't you wear gloves?" he said. "I did!" I said, expecting him to be impressed that I had raked so dang hard that even with heavy leather gloves on I still busted up my hands, but instead what I got was "Oh, you poor wussy city person with your pale hands. All you ever do with those is type away on a keyboard." Hey! I thought. "Hey!" I said. But there was no convincing him.

For with Pp, when it comes to the city mouse, country mouse argument, you cannot win. For he can take out a chipmunk at 200 paces on a cloudy day! Or drive several different kinds of tractors! Or chop cord after cord of wood!

But also! Until he was 12 he lived on the mean streets of South Boston, where he used to play in a big field with hoboes. Yes, hoboes! And those hoboes would beat him up and steal his pocket change! Ultimately it does not matter whether you, A, fight off a pack of snarling coyotes with one hand tied behind your back or, B, fight off a pack of snarling disenfranchised urban youth. You will have to have done both, is what I'm saying.

Now I'm going to go put band-aids on my blisters.