Ladies, Gentlemen, Margie:
Welcome to charming Ashfield, Massachusetts (yes, you guys, I DID learn how to spell it eventually. Through trial-and-error).
Population: Small enough that people know we're Double Edge interns because they haven't seen us before and we're under the age of sixty.
Population: Small enough that we, all innocent eight of us, are being persecuted by the local library because of crimes committed by previous interns WHOM WE HAVE NEVER MET. Good ol' Puritans and their grudges...
Population: Largely farmers, largely dairy farmers. Next door to 551, our house, is a farm that raises sheep and chickens, who apparently get murdered every morning between the hours of 4 and 6 a.m. One of the sheep sounds like a very bored collegiate male. You'll hear, "(high pitched) baaahaaahaaaa, (medium high) baaahahahaaa, (high pitched) baaahaUUUUUUUUUUUUUH." (That was Regular Sheep getting interrupted by Math Test Frat Sheep).
We live with two cats, Abdullah and (best guess at spelling) Julenar.
Julenar is morbidly obese. Her favorite pastimes are lying in the middle of the stairs when you're carrying something really heavy, getting yelled at for jumping on the table, and miscalculating her own tremendous mass, thus causing her to crash heavily into stationary objects when running frantically around the living room.
For a while, three of us thought Julenar was pregnant. She exhibits all the symptoms, down to the weird patchy balls of fat hanging off her belly. We treated her really nicely for a day before finally double-checking with one of the permanent residents who informed us that, no, she was spayed and just incredibly overweight. He suggested that we start complimenting her on her figure, so she'd be inspired to keep herself up better. He suggested, "Oh, Julenar, you're so slim. What a lovely tummy." We have instead taken to shouts of, "Stop eating my cereal, fatass!"
Abdullah is this, like, 1920's mobster cat who sneaks out all the time and won't take no guff from nobody.
It is because of Abdullah that we now have fleas.
Though, I have to admit, there's something satisfying in being able to claim that I am now literally a flea-bitten actor.
Last night, two of the other interns and I went to see a local puppet show called, "Once Upon A Compost Pile." Ashfield is scary into the green movement. This show was... and I mean, I'm a fan of composting myself, as my previous downstairs neighbour will gladly tell you over a beer, but... awkward. Charming, but very decidedly coo-coo bananas.
Mother-son team, presenting a show in three acts. Act One: Their life up to this point. No joke. Recap of their life. Act Two: VERY INTENSE puppet show about how the girl puppet (played by the mother) should stop approaching non-composters with ten page flip-charts and should instead "let her hair down" and do something FUN with composting, like... oh, did you guess it? Write a puppet show. Act THREE. The puppet show she and her puppet son wrote. Encore: Puppet comes into audience and very aggressively asks audience members if they compost. He first asked this really cute old lady, who, unfortunately for her, didn't compost. This was especially uncomfortable as she was the next door neighbour of the mother. A tea date was promptly set up. The second victim was yours truly. APPARENTLY, composting isn't enough. What was my favorite PART of the decomposition process. What was my favorite MICROBE. These are the sorts of questions, folks.
So that's all for now, I think. I need to ration out my stories because it's really rare that we leave the ten-mile radius of Ashfield and I need fodder enough for two more months.
Oh-ho-HO. Very important closing note:
Ashfield Hardware: Home of
FIFTY. CENT. HOMEMADE. ICE CREAM, Y'ALL.
God blurss Ahmurica?
Love ya's.
Welcome to charming Ashfield, Massachusetts (yes, you guys, I DID learn how to spell it eventually. Through trial-and-error).
Population: Small enough that people know we're Double Edge interns because they haven't seen us before and we're under the age of sixty.
Population: Small enough that we, all innocent eight of us, are being persecuted by the local library because of crimes committed by previous interns WHOM WE HAVE NEVER MET. Good ol' Puritans and their grudges...
Population: Largely farmers, largely dairy farmers. Next door to 551, our house, is a farm that raises sheep and chickens, who apparently get murdered every morning between the hours of 4 and 6 a.m. One of the sheep sounds like a very bored collegiate male. You'll hear, "(high pitched) baaahaaahaaaa, (medium high) baaahahahaaa, (high pitched) baaahaUUUUUUUUUUUUUH." (That was Regular Sheep getting interrupted by Math Test Frat Sheep).
We live with two cats, Abdullah and (best guess at spelling) Julenar.
Julenar is morbidly obese. Her favorite pastimes are lying in the middle of the stairs when you're carrying something really heavy, getting yelled at for jumping on the table, and miscalculating her own tremendous mass, thus causing her to crash heavily into stationary objects when running frantically around the living room.
For a while, three of us thought Julenar was pregnant. She exhibits all the symptoms, down to the weird patchy balls of fat hanging off her belly. We treated her really nicely for a day before finally double-checking with one of the permanent residents who informed us that, no, she was spayed and just incredibly overweight. He suggested that we start complimenting her on her figure, so she'd be inspired to keep herself up better. He suggested, "Oh, Julenar, you're so slim. What a lovely tummy." We have instead taken to shouts of, "Stop eating my cereal, fatass!"
Abdullah is this, like, 1920's mobster cat who sneaks out all the time and won't take no guff from nobody.
It is because of Abdullah that we now have fleas.
Though, I have to admit, there's something satisfying in being able to claim that I am now literally a flea-bitten actor.
Last night, two of the other interns and I went to see a local puppet show called, "Once Upon A Compost Pile." Ashfield is scary into the green movement. This show was... and I mean, I'm a fan of composting myself, as my previous downstairs neighbour will gladly tell you over a beer, but... awkward. Charming, but very decidedly coo-coo bananas.
Mother-son team, presenting a show in three acts. Act One: Their life up to this point. No joke. Recap of their life. Act Two: VERY INTENSE puppet show about how the girl puppet (played by the mother) should stop approaching non-composters with ten page flip-charts and should instead "let her hair down" and do something FUN with composting, like... oh, did you guess it? Write a puppet show. Act THREE. The puppet show she and her puppet son wrote. Encore: Puppet comes into audience and very aggressively asks audience members if they compost. He first asked this really cute old lady, who, unfortunately for her, didn't compost. This was especially uncomfortable as she was the next door neighbour of the mother. A tea date was promptly set up. The second victim was yours truly. APPARENTLY, composting isn't enough. What was my favorite PART of the decomposition process. What was my favorite MICROBE. These are the sorts of questions, folks.
So that's all for now, I think. I need to ration out my stories because it's really rare that we leave the ten-mile radius of Ashfield and I need fodder enough for two more months.
Oh-ho-HO. Very important closing note:
Ashfield Hardware: Home of
FIFTY. CENT. HOMEMADE. ICE CREAM, Y'ALL.
God blurss Ahmurica?
Love ya's.
So what is your favorite microbe?
ReplyDeleteI miss you Miss Molly.
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