Out West

I just finished a Scrabble game at the Socorro (N.M.) Public Library. Online Scrabble is heaven to me. So many people to play with! For this particular game my opponent was a Pennsylvania woman who was friendly and funny and we had a lot of laughs chatting.

Then she referred to someone as "he." I wrote, "Who's he?"

She wrote, "He is you."

I said, "I'm not a he, I'm a she -- I know because I was in labor for 30 hours."

Looking back at our chat, I realize that she -- thinking I was a guy -- was actually flirting with me! I hope she wasn't too mortified to learn of her error. I guess she must have assumed "stickfarmer" was a manlike user name. Maybe I should change it to "stickfarmerette"?

The tone of our chat definitely changed after the epiphany. I'm thinking maybe I should've just let her go on thinking I was a guy. I can imagine. Someday she'd want to meet me. I could dress up as Crank Farrell, a fictional good ol' boy from the fictional town of Deadpan, Maine, but I think Crank Farrell would be as much, if not more, of a shock to her. (For a picture of Crank, send an SAE -- self-addressed email -- to me at stickfarmer@verizon.net)

So here I am Out West, enjoying the wide openness, the big sky, the bare ground and the mountains that appear pleated and draped in beige plush. Last night I stayed at the Riverbend hostel in Truth or Consequences, N.M., and it was everything the online reviewers said it was -- wonderful hot springs, shabby dorm, strange people. I enjoyed it, but I don't think I'll stay there again.

My favorite hostel -- the Sandia Mountain Hostel -- is in Cedar Crest, about 14 miles east of Albuquerque. It's very comfy and friendly, and even has donkeys roaming around free-range. (Nice donkeys; not like the one I once owned.) One of the owners is a Scrabble fiend and I'm hoping to play with her next Sunday.

Catch you later.

New features!

I have actually started building my Web site! It's accessible now, but there's not much on it. If you'd like to see it, go to www.stickfarm.org

The second new feature is something I've been hoping to do for a long time, and now it's do-able!!! I can link names in the People I Have Knewn sidebar (at left) to a page on my Web site where I elaborate on the people and tell funny stories about them. True stories, I mean, about, say, how I met them, how we interact, adventures we've shared.

So far I've only done two. You'd think the first person I wrote about would be someone really important to me, someone who figured large in my life. Instead, it's a person whom I barely spoke to in high school and whom I've neither seen nor cared one way or the other whether I'd seen since. But I do remember her, if just barely, and I happened to be putting her on the list when it occurred to me to try to link a name to the Web site.

There are people on the list about whom I could write entire books. My plan is to try to write a little about everyone at first, and expand on some as time permits. I'll try to come up with a system of noting which entries have grown.

I would also like to invite you to offer stories if there is anyone you know on this list. You can email me at stickfarmer@verizon.net. I reserve editorial discretion as to what gets posted. Unkindness is strictly prohibited. Happy browsing!

Love in a Time of Pneumonia

I was ordered by my co-workers to write this one down:

Kati kisses me goodnight.

"Oh!" she says in alarm. "I shouldn't have done that!"

"Why not?" I ask.

"I'm afraid you'll catch my cold," she says.

"For heaven's sake, I don't worry about that," I say. "I'm your mom. I'd rather have a kiss goodnight, no matter what."

"You don't care if you catch my germs?" she asks.

"Right," I say.

A couple beats. "Even if I have PANDEMONIA?"

Not quite knowing what she means, I repress my instinct to say, "PANDEMONIA? What's THAT?" Instead I say, "Yes, even if you have pandemonia."

She turns over, pulls the covers up around her, and slowly drifts off to sleep, holding my hand.

Later, I realize the exchange was moot. I've already had pandemonia so many times, I think I'm immune to it.

The Week from Hell

You know that list of stressors that someone made up so you can tell if you had a bad year and exactly how bad it was? (Like you don't know if you had a bad year!)

Well, here's a stressor that was left off: Eight-year-old daughter's Halloween party.

After going through the agony of planning, worrying that I wasn't doing enough planning, yelling at my daughter and husband to help with planning, trying to not spend too much money on things like eyeball bouncy balls and witches-on-a-stick and pumpkin peeps, PLUS concocting a costume to said daughter's unrealistic specifications, PLUS discovering I'd been scheduled to work the night of the party and having nightmares about my eccentric, clueless husband supervising 12 children all by himself -- well, after all that, I think I'd rank Kid's Halloween Party right up there with Parent's Death and Reuniting With Longlost Sibling Who Turns Out to be a Cannibal. It is WAY higher than Loss of Job, New Baby and Divorce. In fact, Divorce may be considered a counter-stressor if it follows a Kids Halloween Party.

But even a Kids Halloween Party pales as a stressor (and you thought this blog entry was just some housewifely rant) beside New Hampshire Public Radio's own very special form of torture: Pledge Week.

OK, I know everyone complains about Pledge Week. It's old hat. Even Garrison Keillor makes fun of it. I used to hate Maine Public Broadcasting Network's Pledge Week until MPBN got smart and did what I'd been requesting for years: Set a goal and quit begging once they reach it.

NHPR has made no such adjustment. Their pledge breaks are almost constant, and they didn't seem limited to one week, either. They went on, and on, and on. And it's hard to believe, but their pledge breaks were even more boring than MPBN's. If there were a prize for most irritating pledge drive, NHPR would win it without even breathing hard.

It's too bad, too, because in all other respects, NHPR far outshines MPBN. Like any good Mainer, I scorn most things New Hampshire, but even I can recognize quality, and I switched all my loyalty to NHPR. Now all the mailed appeals from MPBN to renew my membership go in the dumper. If they want to play classical music 22 hours a day, it's OK with me, but I'm not going to pay for it. Ditto that Saturday afternoon opera. Man, I hate opera. What a waste of afternoon airwaves.

I know this was just a coincidence, but NHPR's most recent pledge drive just happened to coincide with Kids Halloween Party.

It would have been the straw that broke the camel's back had the camel not already been down in the dirt with spine already broken into 72 pieces. Basically, it just added more rocks to the several tons already pressing the life out of yours truly.

Is there an upside to all this? Well, yes. The party was only 2.5 hours long, everyone lived through it, all the kids had a good time, and I got to return some items that we ended up not using. And Pledge Week finally ended.

The downside, of course, is the heart attack that will probably occur sometime in January, if my calculations are correct.

Kid Logic

My daughter needed instruction recently on how to clean off her horribly cluttered play table.

I advised her to just put away 17 items every now and then, when she had a moment. Then it wouldn't seem like such a big, impossible job.

"But Mom," she said, "what if at the end, there aren't 17 items left to put away?"

Isn't that a perfectly gorgeous example of how kids think? I caught myself almost getting exasperated, but then I smiled and thought how cool it is to be sharing space with a youngster to keep me guessing with her fabulous kid logic.

I am We, and We are Us

Yes, I confess, I use the word "I" a lot.

Criticism has flowed and ebbed over the years around my use of the first person singular, but who among us is innocent? Let she or he who is without "I" cast the first stone.

One of my ex-fiances was especially hateful. He claimed, based on my use of the word "I," that I was self-absorbed and self-righteous and self-(fill in mean word here), and then he had the nerve to proclaim that he loved me! I was supposed to be grateful that he would overlook my self-indulgence, that he could see past my self-aggrandizement to the shining beauty within.

His objections might not have irritated me so much had I not spent several thousand dollars and countless therapy sessions learning how to say "I." My counselor taught me that since I am the only person whose feelings I can truly express, I would do best to communicate in sentences beginning with "I," to wit, "I am uncomfortable with your objections to my use of the word 'I,' " rather than: "You are unbelievably stupid." Do you see where using an "I" statement could be way less inflammatory?

But to my ex-fiance, starting a sentence with "I" was the equivalent of dousing him with gasoline and tossing a lighted match his way.

Naturally, I bought everything he said about me and it took about 10 years to feel good about myself again, I'm sure he'd be happy to know.

Recently, I discovered that in his retirement, he is hosting a Web site on which he blogs about blogs. He cruises the Internet, looking for blogs that he likes; or he visits a blog on someone's recommendation. Then he, in essence, reviews them.

The amazing thing is: He never uses the word "I."

Hats off to the man. I knew he was clever, but this is way beyond clever. I wish I'd thought of this technique, which allows him to be totally self-absorbed and self-righteous without ever appearing to be so. In addition -- and this is the really awe-inspiring part -- his technique actually makes it seem as though there are other people who agree with every word he writes, people with whom he has conferred and with whom he has achieved a consensus, which gives the opinions expressed in his reviews a much greater weight. Wow. (A moment of reverent silence.)

You may have guessed that he has simply replaced the word "I" with the editorial "we." Maybe the "we" isn't editorial, you argue. Maybe he really does have a board meeting to discuss every blog reviewed on his site. Maybe he hands out surveys to complete strangers and compiles the results -- and of course, the complete strangers, being thoughtful, sensitive folk like him, always concur with his thoughtful, sensitive opinions.

Ha! I can guarantee that he is typing merrily away all alone in his den or study, passing judgment on all these blogs and expecting the rest of the world to accept his assessment as universal truth, all because of the almighty "We" that appears in just about every sentence.

Let's try it. Here's part of this blog post converted to We-speak:

Yes, we confess, we use the word "we" a lot.

Criticism has flowed and ebbed over the years around our use of the first person plural, but who among us is innocent? Let they who are without "we" cast the first stone.

One of our ex-fiances was especially hateful. He claimed, based on our use of the word "we," that we were self-absorbed and self-righteous and self-(fill in mean word here), and then he had the nerve to proclaim that he loved us! We were supposed to be grateful that he would overlook our self-indulgence, that he could see past our self-aggrandizement to the shining beauty within.

His objections might not have irritated us so much had we not spent several thousand dollars and countless therapy sessions learning how to say "we." Our counselor taught us that since we are the only person whose feelings we can truly express, we would do best to communicate in sentences beginning with "we," to wit, "We are uncomfortable with your objections to our use of the word 'we,' " rather than: "You are unbelievably stupid." Do you see where using a "we" statement could be way less inflammatory?

But to our ex-fiance, starting a sentence with "we" was the equivalent of dousing him with gasoline and tossing a lighted match his way.

Etc., etc., etc.

Isn't it incredible? Somehow we now come across as thoughtful and sensitive and believable, instead of resentful and vindictive and brimming with sour grapes. Now we are simply wryly rueful, poking fun at ourselves, dryly observant but humbly so. Don't you find yourself more sympathetic to the "we" than to the "I"?

We imagine our life today would be vastly different had we simply switched to We-speak back in our Savannah days.

But that was then, and we were I, and ours were my, and our "ares" were "ams," and our "weres" were "wases." And we must say, if something as innocent as our use of the word "I" threatened the relationship, it's a good thing we got out while we could.

Stricken!

BAD NEWS on the Alzheimer's front.

I was horrified to read in today's paper that elderly people who feel they are organized, disciplined and lead a purposeful life are less likely to be stricken with the dread disease, which sucks the good stuff like memory and intellect out of one's brain and replaces it with lesions.

It's not that I wish ill on people with purpose. It's that I think of myself as completely disorganized, undisciplined and leading about as aimless a life as a human being can. So even though no one who shares my DNA (i.e., close family) has been diagnosed with Alzheimer's -- which is good news, because there's a strong genetic component -- I still seemed headed into a train wreck.

As usual, my reaction, well-developed by years in therapy, is to conduct a reality check. Am I really disorganized, undisciplined and aimless? Should I readjust my self-assessment? Can I somehow manipulate semantics and come out smelling less like horse manure and more like a contributing, useful member of society?

Let's start with the Myers-Briggs test. According to this test, which I took about 15 years ago, OK, 20 years ago, showed me to possess a remarkably well-balanced personality. That's the way I like to interpret it, anyway.

My results fell right smack in the middle on almost every continuum. For example, I'm not an extrovert or an introvert. Apparently, I'm equal amounts of each. Ditto on the sensing/intuition scale. Ditto on the thinking/feeling scale. AND on the judging/perceiving scale.

For years I didn't quite know how to take this. I thought it meant I had no personality.

But then the light bulb went on.

This test explains exactly why I have SUCH a hard time living my life.

Picture the extremes (introversion/extroversion, for example) as being points at the base of a mountain at the same elevation but on opposite sides of the summit. Picture the summit as being equidistant from each extreme. Now, if I'm at the summit, gravity is trying to pull me to either side.

When I'm in a given situation, do I behave as an extrovert or an introvert? I experience conflict. It's not that I'm consciously asking myself the question. It's just that I'm inherently torn.

And, because of my centralized position, I'm torn, or face the potential for being torn, ALL THE TIME! So much of my energy is taken up with these constant choices, there's very little left for making decisions in my outward life.

How am I doing? Am I progressing logically to the point where I can totally justify lying in bed reading books, doing crossword puzzles and unsuccessfully trying to resist bon-bons all day? Can I say that I really am organized, just organized in an extremely undisciplined and purposeless way?

Actually, when I think about it, maybe being highly susceptible to Alzheimer's isn't such a bad thing for someone like me. Maybe it would even be a blessing. It would be a great excuse to just sit in the warm fall sunshine and be. It would let me live the way I want to live, but without the guilt!

Hindsight

STAPLES IS NEVER going to hire me.

I'm lying in bed, thinking over the answers I gave to the company's online questionnaire for potential employees.

I'm not the sort of person who can give unconditional answers. Many times I hesitated between the options "Agree" and "Disagree."

For example, take the statement, "I smile a lot," or words to that effect.

Well, I do smile a lot, on purpose, because it makes those little pouchy things at the corners of my lips go away. Inside, however, I may not be smiling. So, does the statement mean "I smile a lot because I am happy" or "I smile a lot so maybe I can reverse the aging process and look forward to someday getting carded when buying wine"?

I had to answer "Agree" to "I smile a lot," which may give the wrong impression, but there was no instruction to use the back of the page to elaborate if necessary.

The questionnaire had a lot of leadership statements. I tend to think of being a leader as a good thing, while being a follower conjures up images of sheep jumping off cliffs. It hurts to say it, but I am not a natural leader. Still, given statements by Staples such as "People tend to view me as a leader," I had to say "Agree," because I have a great number of people fooled. But to the statement "I tend to follow rather than lead," I also had to mark "Agree."

In fact, filling out the form forced me to confront the fact that my public and private personas don't have much in common and would probably get divorced if they could agree on who gets custody of the id. I think what Staples is going to have to conclude is that I am one confused babe.

The clincher, the statement that I realize sinks my ship, is this one: "People tend to believe what I say." I almost picked "Strongly agree" for that one. What stopped me were memories of people laughing at things I said in earnest, thinking I was joking. If I said to one of my friends, "I LOVE this ballpoint pen!" I would get a laugh. I can't count the times I've had to say, "No, really, I'm not kidding. I love this ballpoint pen."

So I had to say "Disagree" to that one. But if they'd just given me a chance to explain, I would point out that there are just as many times that I have had to assure someone, "I was KIDDING!" It seems that people believe me when I say what to me are totally outrageous things that no one could possibly take seriously, and when I make simple, straightforward observations that to me are obviously heartfelt, people think I'm yanking their chains.

But Staples will only deduce that I am a bald-faced liar and everyone can see through my falsehoods and no one will ever buy so much as a No. 2 pencil from me, choosing to dismiss my assertions that it is, indeed, a No. 2. "See? It says it right there on the side! If you would just LOOK at it!"

It would only take a couple of customers complaining to management before I'd be thrown out. "Yes, ma'am, it was THAT ASSOCIATE over THERE! Tried to tell me a pencil was a No. 2! Lying through her TEETH!"

So, in six months, will I take the test again, making wiser choices? Skewing the answers toward what Staples wants in its product associates?

Probably.

My Little Farm

It has occurred to me that My Little Farm so far has no posts about my little farm.

My first thought is, "Some farm." Today there's a bonfire on the next lot being developed on the private road along one side of my land. My horses are probably going to have to be treated for smoke inhalation.

The name of that private road is "Sunny Way." I am really embarrassed to be living next to a road named Sunny Way. I guess it's better than "John and Marie Drive," as another road in town is named. Still, it sounds far too subdivisiony.

The good thing about that lot being developed is that Sunny Way had to be extended further up the side of my land, so now my back three acres has road frontage. I guess I am going to have to put it up for sale so I can continue to support my husband in the manner to which he has become accustomed.

I'm sorry, I'm kind of down today. Yesterday there was a glitch in getting my prescription and I think the pharmacist was a little wary of me after I said, "So, what do I do? Go off it for 10 days and be angry and irritated?" I think she was afraid I was going to cause a scene. I had to reassure her that it was not a rhetorical question, just an innocent inquiry.

We had a couple of nice days. Now we're back to rain. And the Yankees beat the Red Sox last night in a come-from-behind win. It was ugly. And today the game will in all likelihood be rained out.

I think I will just go back to bed!

Lynn's Brightest Friend

I took the "RPM Challenge" last February and compiled an album of original songs in the specified amount of time. Even though my album -- "Lame Duck Girlfriend" -- is shorter than required, they kindly included it in their Jukebox.

If you'd like to listen to my 5 songs, click on the Lynn's Brightest Friend link at the side of my blog. When you're redirected, scroll down to the band Lynn's Brightest Friend, and then just choose which song to listen to! It's as simple as that!

The sax on "Inspection Sticker Blues" was kindly provided by my nephew Kyle Hardy. I did everything else.

P.S. If you know Willie Nelson, please have him listen to "Savannah Home." It would be perfect for him.

On Comments, on Cupid, on Donder and Blitzen

A number of you -- oh, why am I being modest? HUNDREDS of you -- have written to complain that you cannot post comments and also to wonder why your name is not in my "People I Have Knewn" listing.

My advice to you: Be patient. My strategy will work. It's working now, actually; it just doesn't look like it. You must trust in me. You must trust that I have your best interests at heart. Even though you tell me what you want, and tell me clearly, I know better. You think you want your name on the list now. You have a perfect right to express yourself. I hear you, but I know better.

Sound familiar? I learned that argument from our president. Oh, I hate that guy. He goes to Australia and touts democratic ideals, I read. Democratic ideals? This from a man who has flouted our own laws, abused his power, quashed our freedoms.

OK, calm down, calm down. Pop a couple pills. Breathe deeply. Relax.

Now, about comments. I believe you may post comments by clicking on "O (or some other number, but probably 0) Comments" at the bottom of each post. I am currently allowing anyone to comment, but that may change if any naughty comments are left. Also, I think you can sort of subscribe to My Little Farm by clicking on the Atom link wherever it appears. It connects you (I think) to the RSS feed.

I think of so many things to write about while I'm doing other things. Then when I sit in front of the computer they flee like lemmings. You can actually see them exiting my head, like dandelion fluff. Here's one that remains however:

I was taking a driver safety class for older people (for the record, I was the youngest person there) and I took an instant dislike to the instructor. He had the annoying habit of posing questions then adopting this smug smile that says, wordlessly, "It's a simple answer, but you'll never get it." He also kept turning to one of the two men in the class for confirmation or elaboration, as though we women weren't on his level. But what really got my goat was when he mentioned that my dark-colored glasses frames were of the type that used to be referred as "birth-control glasses."

Meaning what? That they're so ugly no man could see past them to the fabulously sexy body beyond?

I was stunned but, of course, commented mildy, "They didn't work."

Which got a laugh, but if there had been a scimitar within reach, class would have been quickly at an end while everyone except me searched for a box and ice to pack his severed penis in and called 911 and asked for the mini-limb-reattachment squad.

Oh, the wrath of a woman scorned.

Yesterday I was filling out an online application to work at Staples (I am panicking at my lack of income) and one of the statements I had to agree or disagree with read: "I say whatever is on my mind."

Most people who know me will strongly disagree with my answer, which was "strongly disagree." Contrary to popular opinion, I repress SO MUCH of what I am thinking that I have to have several nightmares a night to compensate.

Wouldn't it be fun to say whatever is on my mind? Take the example of the driver safety instructor. The above scene would be rewritten:

Instructor: "We used to call those 'birth-control glasses.' "

Me: "You stupid f***-wad. Shut the f*** up. Who's your supervisor? I'm going to get you f***ing fired!"

Harsh, but probably more healthful for both of us.

Mozart

Coming up is our major offering for the day, Mozart's Symphony No. 39. The piece was written in 1788, near the end of Mozart's short but musically prolific life, and displays a mature lyricism that foreshadows the grandeur of his two final works.

Back in Mozart's time, it wasn't quite as unusual as it is today to make a living from writing music. Today, many composers survive hand-to-mouth if they quit their day job to pursue their calling. But in Mozart's day there were people called "patrons" who actually employed composers like they'd employ a butler. No home was really complete without its own composer.

Still, Mozart wasn't good with the money he earned and he and his wife Constanza often faced financial difficulty. In the book "Mozart: A Personal View," author Baron von Gottlieb quotes a letter Mozart wrote in which he describes a typical exchange in his household:

"She'll stand in my studio door (Mozart wrote) and harangue me."

Constanza: Wolfgang, what are you doing?

Wolfgang: Writing music.

Constanza (tapping foot): Really? And who is it for?

W: Uh, the emperor.

C: Oh, right; excuse the sarcasm, but has he paid for it up front?

W: No ...

C: Jesus, Wolfgang, we have to live somehow. Why don't you go get a job?

W: I'm a composer! I'm working hard!

C: Well, it's not bringing in any money. The dentist is hounding me to pay for little Wolfie's extractions. How can I pay?

W: Stanzie, I will not commute to a menial job.

C: Really! Too good for honest work, are you? Look, Mother was saying the butcher shop needs help. At least it would pay the rent.

W: For God's sake, Stanzie, get off my case.

C: You could compose in your spare time.

W: Yeah, once I got all the blood washed off. And if I didn't chop my fingers off while preparing pork loin for Frau Schnabelbein.

c: Why don't you just TRY it? It might work out. And FYI, the Schnabelbeins don't eat pork.

Fortunately, Mozart ignored his wife and eventually died penniless from an unidentified illness and was buried in a pauper's grave. Contrary to legend, it was not always unmarked. For years after his death, Stanzie maintained a marker engraved with the phrase, "I told you so."

And now, Symphony No. 39.

Drooling Banjos

The other night I lost my way as I drove home from work at 1:30 a.m. One minute I was barreling down the monster hill 2 miles from home, the next I was tooling along a dark, narrow lane that I didn't immediately recognize, hemmed in by hemlocks on both sides.

I can account for the missing 5 minutes. I was listening to an audiobook which had just reached an exciting part. So wrapped up was I in the story that I was pounding the steering wheel, screaming, "Stephanie's in on it! Stephanie's in on it!" Alas, the protagonist paid me no attention.

As I pounded and screamed, I drove two miles, turned right, went past my own road, stopped at a stop sign, crossed an intersection and drove about another mile. It's scary how I managed all that and yet have no memory of it. But I do remember that Stephanie had a tell-tale tattoo on her inner thigh that was all that was left of her after she was tortured and killed by her former OSS handlers.

It's a good thing the book was over, or I might have ended up in Vermont.

Actually, Vermont sounds pretty good to me these days. I'm having escapist dreams. They come to me whenever I venture into my yard and forget to look away from the pile of junk in front of the 30-by-70 Quonset hut my husband stores his important extra parts in. They come to me when I hear my gelding coughing from excess dust in the paddock. They come to me when the mornings are crisp and clear and the day, now that my daughter goes to public school, stretches ahead of me like a long, intriguing road.

They also come to me when I look at the schedule at my newspaper job and see that I've drawn maybe two four-hour shifts in the coming week. My job is dwindling away to nothing. Everyone who's anyone at the paper is jumping the print publication ship and signing up with the online crew. No one seems to be the least bit interested in the print side of the operation. I'm having what one of my co-workers referred to recently as a "crisis of relevance."

Even I can see that print news just cannot compete with electronic news. I worked the wires the other night -- pulling stories off the news service wires and laying them out for the next morning's edition -- and at the end of my shift, after putting the paper to bed, I visited Verizon Online. Its headlines were pretty much the stories I had just put in the paper. No one need read the paper in the morning. Just power up the computer and they'll get the same thing.

I do find it difficult to accept that eventually print newspapers will not be wanted at all. As a kid I loved spreading the funnies out on the floor to read, and I loved the columns and classified ads and editorial cartoons and the serial Christmas stories. As an adult, I've loved putting them together and reading all the funny stuff that doesn't get in and being part of a newsroom. I don't know what people will read in the bathroom if there are no more print newspapers. I guess they'll have computers mounted directly in front of the john. Now that I think of it, I'm surprised my husband hasn't installed one there yet.

One thing I am sure of, though, is that I don't want to be part of the newspaper Webolution. This is why: Because there are too many people spouting just about everything on the Internet, myself included, and there doesn't seem to be any quality control. Where we expected to be able to trust our print newspapers, where print newspaperpeople committed themselves to earning trust, the Web just doesn't seem trustworthy to me. It seems rampant and wild.

But I suppose I had better get used to fossilization, because that's where I'm headed.

And I thought it was only Vermont!