One Wedding and a Whine Fest

Mr. Moose and I leave on the motorcycle this Thursday for Cadillac, Michigan.  We’re there to attend the wedding of our beloved niece.  Or, at least, that’s what the Mister believes.  I, of course, have ulterior running-related motives.  ‘Cause guess who lives in Michigan??  This guy, that’s who!  And guess what race occurs, oh so close to Cadillac?  This one, that’s what.  It’s a costume run, of sorts, with runners encouraged to dress as a favorite movie character or as any old thing they like.  I’m thinking that if I dress as a llama I will lure that guy outta hiding.  Even if he’s dressed as Borat or Ariel the Little Mermaid or  Dirty Harry I will know him.  Because he’ll be the one violently kicking my llama ass. And then running a six-minute mile.   

And it does NOT make me a bad aunt to drive hundreds of miles to shun my only niece’s wedding.  Truly, it doesn’t.  Because, let’s face it - marriage is tough.  She’ll likely have another wedding (or three) in the future, and I will make every effort to attend that one. 

Unless, of course, it conflicts with a race.  Besides, she’s technically only my niece by marriage. And I think we’ve already determined how fleeting and tenuous THAT can be.

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I haven’t run today. I think I’m having a “recovery” day, and I fairly well hate it.  But I’ve gotta be at my best for those Fun Runs tomorrow.  I’m worried not only about the prepubescent, spindly child who is my nemesis, but also about my OWN child.  Teh Boy Moose is inexplicably growing faster and faster, and this is a real cause for concern.  At our most recent 5K I beat him by just one minute and 59 seconds.  Now keep in mind that the margin used to be MUCH greater than this.  But somehow I’m getting marginally faster with ENORMOUS amounts of effort, whilst he’s getting vastly faster with NO discernible effort.  I’ve cut back on the mileage lately, but I have been focusing on speedwork. I average about 25 – 30 miles per week, with hill work and speed work comprising a fair amount of that mileage.  Teh Boy Moose, however, ONLY runs at the Wednesday evening Fun Runs.  He runs one 5K once a week.  He is a slacker.   And so I cannot let him triumph.

It’s probably just a matter of time, though.  He’s got two very important factors in his favor.

• He’s 19.
• He’s male.

Whereas I am neither young nor male.  (Although Glaven once thought I was because of my out of control cussing and my preoccupation with Teh Sphincter. But I swear I’m a middle aged woman.  I’m just reeeally immature.)  

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Yearly mileage: 832

I Am Woman

Remember that douchebag at the 5K yesterday who tried to outsprint me at the very end?  Turns out I beat him by one whole second!  And his name – and I’m not even kidding here – is Cox!!  Bwa ha ha!!! Take that, Cox! 

Not that I don’t try to burn past people at the end, too, but when I do it it’s all about elevating the level of competition.  It’s about bringing out the personal best in both me and my competitors, so that we can grow as runners and as people.  Yeah, that’s it.

But when people do it to me, well, they’re just being cocks. Limp, crooked syphilitic ones.

Speaking of cocks, there was a real absence of them at the IronGirl Triathlon which occurred near Frostburgg recently.  J. and I considered doing this event for about a nanosecond before we came to our senses.  The training would be a drag, as would my complete and utter lack of essentials such as a wet suit, a bicycle and a helmet. Oh, and buoyancy. 

I really DO want to try a tri someday, but it will definitely NOT be with an organization that is so blatantly sexist.  WTFuck?  Iron GIRL????  Somehow I’m thinking that when male competitors swim and bike and run their guts out they would NOT want to be referred to as “Iron BOYS”, so what’s up with the whole “girl” label?

Their website states, (in pink of course, ’cause girls like pink, almost as much as we like unicorns and Teh Jonas Brothers) “Iron Girl’s mission is to empower women toward a healthy lifestyle.”

So stop calling us GIRLS, already!!  I’m premenopausal, for Christs’ sake! And I talk about Teh Ass more than a proctologist who moonlights as a butt ‘ho.  Hannah Montana creeps me out, and I’m GLAD that unicorns are just mythical creatures.  If they WERE real, I’d want them to use that phallic horn of theirs to impale cuddly kittens and fuzzy teddy bears and other things that GIRLS hold dear. I menstruate and fuck (Sometimes, messily enough, at the same time) and vote and work and raise young and go on the occasional feminist tirade.  Ergo, I am a WOMAN. Don’t mess with me.

Yearly mileage: 826

Portathon 5K

Teh Boy Moose and I ran a 5K today.  I was hoping to beat my PR of 22:23.  Or even better and even more improbable, I was hoping to do a 21:30. Because I do  wear Asics 2130s, of course, and I only purchased them because  I naively believed that they would, with zero training, propel me to a 21:30 5K finish.  Clearly, this pair is a dud, as they did no such thing.  I’ll give them one more chance, however,  before I gather all the disgruntled Asics wearers of the world and file a class action lawsuit.  Really, the only thing Asics can do to vindicate themselves at this point is to come out with Asics 1759, which will give me a 17:59 5K, and leave Nitmos feeling poky and impotent for not attaining his goal before me. An impotent Nitmos would be way better than a multimillion dollar cash settlement, don’t you agree? I knew you would.

So, about those two goals?  The sub 22:23 and/or the 21:30?  Yeah…I was less than successful. Really, though, my most important goal was to beat a colleague who was registered as a walker AND to not shit myself in the process. Because just think how humiliating it would be to get poned/out-boweled by a walker who you then have to see each and every day. She’d flash her smug walkery smile at me and stare pointedly at my treacherous sphincter. And that would be so embarrassing at our weekly staff meetings and the annual Christmas party. 

I took Immodium before the race.  Usually I only medicate for 10Ks or longer distances, but I thought it wise to take extra precautions today.  That’s because of the presence of the dreaded colleague, of course, as well as my utter gluttony this week of fresh blueberries.  Little Known Moose Fact #28:  Despite living in blueberry-rich habitats, the moose cannot digest blueberries.  Moose are, though, quite effective at rapidly turning blueberries into pooberries.  This process takes mere seconds and leaves alces alces  with almost attractive bowel movements of a lovely purplish hue.

In other words, blueberries go right through me.  Did you get that?  So I took the Immodium, although I very nearly took Unisom instead.  That’s because the drawers in my pantry are shamefully disorganized, and there’s just random pills all over the place.  Immodium and Unisom look very similar, and on more than one occasion, I’ve had close calls.  This explains a lot.  Because sometimes, despite premedicating, I nearly whip up an asserole AND I sleepily long for my blankie.   ZZZZzzzz….pffft!…..

Official results are not yet up, so I’m not sure of my exact time.  I do know that at the turnaround I counted just five women ahead of me, and I think that one or possibly two more snuck by me on the world’s steepest hill. I finished neck and neck with this douchebag guy who thought he’d take me right at the end.  I was surprised that I had anything left to give, but we were FLYING as we crossed the finish line. I saw that the clock said 22:something, but then I just collapsed.

I’m thinking I won an AG award, but I didn’t stick around to claim it as Teh Boy had to get back home. He and Mr. Moose have an all day Warhammer event planned today, and if you think we runners are an obsessive, nerdy bunch then you’ve obviously never met an avid Warhammer player.  Remember that scene in “Forty Year Old Virgin” where Steve Carell is lovingly painting his orc figurine beneath the large, lighted magnifying glass?  And he talks to it just a bit.  Yeah – that’d be Warhammer.

I’ll post my stats once official results are up.  And then you can all comment, “Good job, Loose Moose!”, “Way to go!!” and “Warhammer??!!  WARHAMMER??  For Dog’s sake, woman!  Run!!  Run for your life!!”

Yearly mileage: 822

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Stats, Lovely Stats:

22:30

7:15/mile

1/3 age group (Sad, huh?  I coulda just went out for a slow mosey and STILL won an AG award.  Next time…)

6/104 females

39/218 finishers

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OMG!!! Teh Boy Moose grows stronger!  He finished in 24:29, which is a PR for him by over a minute and a half! That’s a 7:53/mile, and it’s enough to make me grow veeery nervous.  WTF, Boy Moose?  The only time you train is at the weekly Fun Runs.  You freakin’ slacker!  You run 3.1 miles once a week and that’s IT!!  So settle down, Boy, and I mean it. The very first time you beat me at a race, I’m disinheriting you.  And also selling all your Warhammer miniatures.

A Scary New Position

I found myself in a frightening and unfamiliar position last night . And no, Glaven – it was NOT anal. ‘Cause anal, while definitely frightening is (Sorry, Mom) not completely  alien, whereas this new position was something I had never before experienced. 

My position? Believe it or not, people, I was #1 female at the 10K Fun Runs  last night. 

And I fairly well hated it.  It was scary, scary SCARY. 

My original intent was to run the 5K , and hopefully make that wussy ten-year-old child cry for his mama again.  Casey was not there, however, and as I saw no other small children to demoralize, I decided to run the 10K.   Now most everybody runs the 5K at the Fun Runs, so there wasn’t a lot of competition.  We had probably 150 runners altogether, with maybe just 40 running the 10K.  Of the forty, maybe 15 were female.  And somehow, I, lowly Loose Moose, led the pack. Go figure.

I thought “#1 female” would make a positive, motivating mantra, and I mentally uttered each syllable as my feet hit the ground.  Rather than motivate me, though, it just scared the living bejeezus outta me.  ‘Cause where were the other females?  Where, I ask you??!!

Out to get me, that’s where.  Critically eyeing my wide, flat ass and wondering, “How the hell did THAT get ahead of me?”  I could almost hear them heckling and taunting my Veinessa- which is clearly bullshit, as she is a kind and munificent vein, and she never asked for any of this. 

I knew that there were several girls from the high school track team behind me, and I was desperate to keep it that way.  I began a feverish mental negotiation with them, all in my head of course.  “Please, girls, PLEASE just let me have this.  I am an old, old woman, with occasional bouts of inexplicable chin hair.  My 401(K) accounts are laughably small, and I’ve no tits to speak of.  My kitchen is scarily outdated and dirty besides, and my feet are so freakishly large that I can’t wear girl shoes ever. You young ladies, though, have your whole lives ahead of you.   You’re cute and perky and your chins are remarkably hairless. So just stay back and give me the win, all right??”

It worked. I finished in 49:01 which is no PR, but it definitely felt like one.

 

Yearly mileage: 815

The Reason I’ve Never Done a Tri…

…’Cause none of  YOU, Eleven Readers, has produced for me this sweet ride. Which is pretty freakin’ thoughtless of you.  

 

Yearly mileage: 805

Moose a Trois

 So presumably we are all adults here, (Certain exceptions may apply.  You know who you are.) and as such we can talk about this subject.  You know the subject.  The one that leaves us hot and breathless and wanting more. The one  that makes our hearts race and our bodies sweat.  It can be oh so very good.

  But, sometimes, even when it’s good, boredom can set in.  It can become stale.  That’s when we try to spice things up, maybe adding a new “toy” or a kinky outfit to our repertoire. Because something that feels so delicious should be cherished and nurtured. 

Occasionally, though, even a new toy or sexy outfit doesn’t do the trick.  And that’s when it’s time to try something drastic.  I’ve come to the realization that what feels good for TWO people, might be even better with THREE.  That’s right, people.  I’m not fantasizing about threesomes - I’m making it happen.

 Now the majority of my fantasies involve home improvement or cunnilingus on a Hawaiian beach. (What would be REALLY cool would be Mr. Moose going to town WHILE he uses his otherwise idle hands to finish the floors in my Maui beachfront bungalow. But I digress.) Never, though, have my fantasies involved two other women. (Unless, of course, they’re really hawt.  And know how to lay ceramic tile.)

That was before J. seductively propositioned me and M., however. “Wanna do it?”  she breathlessly asked.  “I promise it’ll be SO good.”  I couldn’t even believe how quickly M. agreed to the threesome.  It was like she’d been having these salacious thoughts all along.  Filthy hoo-er.

I was initially reluctant.  After all, I’d never done anything like this before, not even in college or at sleepaway camp. But the question DID get me thinking.  And by “thinking” I mean, of course, “Damn!  Why am I so hot and sweaty? And how did my panties get so fucking wet?  Mmmmmm …yes…ohhhhh…Let’s DO it!!”   With J. and M. both on board, I quickly decided that I didn’t want to miss out on the fun. I’ve been giddy with excitement ever since. My first threesome!!!

 And so, in three short months, J. and M. and I will be forming a three-person relay team as we compete in  the Wineglass Marathon in Corning, New York.

And if you were imagining something else, I really don’t even know what is WRONG with you.  Gawd!!  You’re kind of a perv.

Yearly mileage: 795 

 

 

Fun Run

So our Wednesday Fun Runs just got a whole bunch more fun.  That’s because I have finally, finally, FINALLY beaten my nemesis!!!  (While some people might eschew competition during a ”fun” run and just  focus on the joy of running, those people are clearly not right in the head.  Because there IS no joy in running, people, so you might as well get used to it. The Fun Run has all the elements found at a typical 5K, and so I am treating it as such and running my hardest. We’ve a start line and a finish line, a water stop, a timing clock and a few dozen runners.  Therefore, there must be present  the other characteristics of a 5K -  pain, cramping, misery and feelings of worthlessness.)

Last year, I was fairly evenly matched with my nemesis.  He always ran the 5K, while I switched weekly between the 5K and the 10K.  On weeks that I ran the 5K, we always finished within 30 seconds of each other, and it was anyone’s guess as to who would win.  This year, though, he has beaten me each and every week.  I kinda hate that guy.

On Tuesday I went to the track and did some much needed speed work.  That meant that I was not at my best for the Fun Runs. I finished the first mile in a respectable enough 7:05, but I felt tired and weak.  When I reached the turnaround, I actually stopped running and walked for a bit.  “Screw that stupid nemesis o’ mine!”  I thought.  “He’s unbeatable.  I give up already!”

I forced myself to run again and then  - off in the distance – could it be?  Was that my nemesis?  WALKING?? Yes!!  I ran faster, hoping to close the gap between us.  Nemesis stopped two more times, once to tie his shoes.  I was now right on his tail, and he did not look pleased. He took off like a shot – fucking showoff.

Just before mile 3, I finally overtook my nemesis.  When I passed him, I made sure to control my breathing, to relax my stride and to make my running appear as effortless as possible.  This was incredibly difficult, but I figured that if he saw any sign of weakness he’d sprint and beat me to the finish.  ‘Cause he’s spiteful like that.

I finished in 23:45, which is no PR but it sure felt like a victory.  When Nemesis crossed the finish line, he was immediately embraced and coddled by his mama who anxiously asked, “Oh my gosh!! What happened?  Is everything alright?” 

Yeah, that’s right – I said “embraced by his MAMA“.  **cough cough Sissy Boy cough cough Fagelah cough**

Okay…I better just out myself before J. does so in the comments.  It’s kinda like this: Nemesis just so happens to be a ten-year-old child.  A sorta spindly, frailish ten-year-old named “Casey”, for dog’s sake.  And the reason he had to stop and tie his shoes is probably because he’s had just a few short years or so to practice.  The boy’s a veritable googoo baby.  Eight years ago he was shitting his pants and speaking gibberish, whereas I…Wait.  Never mind.

Can you understand my need to beat this kid, though?  Imagine, please, that twelve years ago you ran weekly fun runs with a young Usain Bolt. Now, he wasn’t yet world famous Olympian Usain Bolt, but just some spindly, frailish ten-year-old.  And in this ten-year-old, you saw great potential.  I bet you’d work like a dog to beat him NOW, knowing that in the future you wouldn’t stand a chance. And then one day, perhaps the stars would be aligned just right and there would be shoe lace difficulties and you’d blow right by that young Usain and you’d holler, “YES!  In your face!!  Eat my dust, then braid my hair, mon!”  Or maybe you wouldn’t yell that at all because you likely are a far better sport than I.  Whatever.

That’s how it is with me and Nemesis. This kid’s gonna set some records someday, so I gotta beat him now while I have a chance. Because everyday he’s getting stronger and faster while I just grow more and more decrepit.  And bitter.

Soon Nemesis will be consistently kicking my ass, week after week.  And when that day comes, probably next Wednesday, I’ll merely change my focus.  I plan on annihilating  his six-year-old sister. And possibly his wheelchair bound Nana.

Yearly mileage: 781

Boilermaker Race Report

So today J. and I were in Utica, New York, running the world famous Boilermaker 15K.  I shouldn’t bore you with a race report, because odds are that YOU were there, too…and your brother-in-law and your dentist and your annoying cranky neighbor who lets his dog shit on your yard.  EVERYBODY was there, and by “everybody”, I mean 10, 582 finishers. But even though you were likely there, I’m STILL writing a race report.  It’s my blog and I get to do that.

It’s been a long, long time since I’ve run a race just to be social and to have fun.  I decided that today I’d stick with J. and I’d focus on the experience  rather than on the finish time.   This is not so easily done, but it does have certain rewards.  For instance, were you aware that the Moilerbaker has insane amounts of rather unique entertainment along the route?  Yeah, me neither.  And not counting today, I’d already run the Moilerbaker three times. Usually, though, I’m just staring straight ahead, willing the person in front of me to either shit out a thick slice of raspberry cheesecake, or to at least amuse me by painfully pulling a hamstring.  I’m so focused, that I’m generally unaware of what’s going on around me.  And that means that I’ve missed out on the following race oddities:

• a veritable slew of accordian players.
• several belly dancers, many of whom were morbidly obese.
• Polish  dancers.
• Irish dancers.
• Dancers of indeterminate nationality.
• A two-man band doing a stellar job on one of my favorite running tunes: “I Melt With You”.
• Dozens of other bands, several of whom seemed to believe that polka music is entertaining.  Hint:  It is not.
• Six – eight popsicle and freeze pop stops.
• A small menagerie outside the Utica Zoo.
• Some of the nastiest tasting water imaginable. No one else seemed overly disgusted, though, so I could just be a water snob.
• A gajillion gallons of Saranac beer at the post -race party.
• Lots and lots and lots of urinating, nekkid man meat.  Usually said man meat was in close proximity to a vacant port-a-potty, so I’m guessing these were exhibitionist runners.  And they might want to consider  circumcisions.  Because…ewww??? I saw a WHOLE bunch of foreskin. 
• Elite runners from all over the world – Morocco, Ethiopia, Russia, Kenya…Only one American finished in the top ten, and he was #9.  The shame was more than I could bear – this is why I’m not a patriot, people.
• A deafening, thunderous flyover by several F15s. (J. couldn’t be bothered to look up, dismissively saying, “What do I care?  That does nothing for me – I used to work on an air force base.”  I, for my part, covered my ears like a small, fucktarded child and nearly hit the ground, believing that those sneaky, dastardly Canadians had finally attacked our great nation.)  

This was a very cool race.  I had one red popsicle, two green freeze pops and dozens of cups of very foul water.  I high fived more small children than ever before, and I did the “YMCA” with hordes of random strangers while running through bubbles. I pet a 15-pound rabbit, a small baby goat, and a giant tortoise. (Usually this race boasts a llama as well, but he was noticeably absent today.  Could Nitmos have been among the 10,582?  If so, he should probably be questioned for llamocide.)

Race Stats:

43:56

4:43/mile

1/795 age group

1/10,582 overall

Oh…wait.  That can’t be right. These might actually be the stats for the winner, a 23-year-old dude from Morocco.  But I swear I was right behind that guy.

Maine Road Trip: Days Six and Seven

Admit it, people.  You just breathed a HUGE sigh of relief knowing that this is the last post.  And you’re REALLY grateful that I combined the last two days, aren’t you? You’re welcome.

July 1 and July 2, 2009:

 Don’t you just hate the end of a vacation?  You’ve got all that tiresome traveling to do to get back home, then lots of stank laundry demanding your attention.  Fortunately, as Mr. Moose and I were BIG scummers this trip, we had little laundry to do.  Road trips bring out our inner refusing-to-change-our-pants dirtbags.

On Wednesday we traveled from Greenville, Maine to Barre, Vermont.  This is only 250 miles or so, but keep in mind that our hienies were already really sore.  To take my mind off of my bootie, I focuced on the scenery.  Here’s what I saw:

• In Bethel, Maine we saw oodles of signs proclaiming the city as “The Home of the World’s Largest Snowman”.  I think they’re full of shit, personally, because I saw no evidence of the world’s biggest pile of melted snow.  Nor did I see the world’s biggest displaced carrot nose.   So never trust a Bethelonion – clearly they lie.
• In Rumford Falls, Maine, Mr. Moose sodomized a metal moose. 
• 

 What?  You thought I was KIDDING?  I never joke about moose buggery.  And now you know why Mr. Moose is not allowed to sodomize ME – just look how freaking EAGER he is.  My sphincter is puckering in panic.

And when he was done, he had his way with the saggy breasted Native American in the background. He’s such a horn dog.

• In Jefferson, New Hampshire we rode past Santa’s Village.  Which is BULLSHIT, people, because I happen to know that in the ’70s Santa lived high in the Adirondack Mountains of New York State.  My parents took me there when I was very little, and I have vivid memories of rubbing Santa’s freezing cold pole.  It was red and white striped, icy and huge. Mrs. Claus must be really, really swedged out…but minty fresh inside. 
• In Gorham, New Hampshire we saw a group of Christain whackos taking their Jesus stick for a walk.  They had matching God shirts, along with matching facial expressions of self righteousness.  They somehow did NOT inspire me to go to church.  Mr. Moose figured they were looking for someone to crucify, but their Jesus stick was way too flimsily made to crucify a grownup.  It probably would’ve held a decent sized toddler, though. 
• In St. Johnsbury, Vermont we saw a “Dog Chapel”. The sign had a Bible-toting nutball, with three happy pooches on leashes.  So I guess I won’t be retiring THERE. Organized religion + dogs  = Loose Moose dystopia.
• In Lunenberg, Vermont we saw this sign in a yard: “The Obamanure is getting deeper.” Stoopid Vermonter.  Shouldn’t he be off growing weed, boycotting MallWart and eating Ben and Jerry’s? 
• In Barre, Vermont we stayed at the Twins Cities Motel.  And holy crapola, people!!! Unbeknownst to the Mister and me, we had stayed at this exact location when coming home from our honeymoon almost 21 years ago!!! We recognized it the second we pulled in the parking lot.   I think there may have been a spot of residual hymen blood.  Not mine, his.
• Even the fact that we were experiencing fond honeymoon memories was not enough to compel D. to go for a walk.  So we got NONE, ZILCH, NADA, ZERO sex.  And that silly D. even asked us, “Should I go for a walk?”  I guess that’s because I was pushing my butt in Mr. Mooses’s face and meowing like a cat in heat.   But when we answered D. with a horny, resounding “YES!!!”  he STILL did not leave.  So we locked him in the teeny, tiny bathroom.
• 
• What?  You thought I was KIDDING?  I never joke about imprisoning cock-blocking Canadians.  Notice, please, that the door to this particular hovel  hotel bathroom is just one and one half  Asics wide. And obviously, you should just turn your head already, because I STILL can not has computer skizz.
• Canada Day?  What the fuck is CANADA DAY?  Get back in your minuscule bathroom-cage, D!!!  There will be no recognition of this “holiday”, dammit. ’Cause it’s not like you gave us anything good for Constitution Day or anything.  You cheap Canuck bastard. 
• On Thursday, July 2 we traveled from Barre, Vermont to Frostburgg, ??.  It wasn’t smooth sailing, though.  First Mr. Moose had to “grease D.’s chain”.  Yeah, whatever.  You’d think the metal moose would’ve drained him of his seed, but I guess not.
• 
• THE END!!!!!!!!!!1!!!11!!!!!!!1!!!!!

Maine Road Trip: Day Five

So SOME people can manage to go on a short trip and write about it concisely, devoting just one blog post to their adventures.  But that is not me.  I’m the verbose, rambling, long-winded type.  Deal with it.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009:

Mr. Moose and I woke up bright and early, leaving our Canadian friend to slumber.  We hopped on the bike and rode to the Greenville, Maine DOT, hoping to check out some salt-loving moose.  We were not disappointed. 

At first we just saw fog, and plenty of it.  We hid in the woods and amused ourselves by quietly whispering.  Mostly it was all, “So what special gift do you think we should get D. for Canada Day tomorrow?”  Okay – not really.  Mostly it was, “What the HELL is wrong with that simple minded Canadian bastard?  Can he ever make himself scarce so we can get some?  Hey! I know!  Maybe we can convince him that he should give himself  a Canada Day present – the wonderful present of peace and solitude.  We’ll tell him that he really deserves twenty minutes just sitting quietly on his bike in the hovel  hotel parking lot.   With his helmet on to dull his hearing.  Or even eleven minutes.  Yeah – eleven minutes oughta do it.”   

Just when we’d worked ourselves up into sex-less indignation, she emerged.  A moose appeared out of the fog and just stared at us.  It was amazing.  She absolutely knew that we were there, and she kept her guard up.  She’d lower her head to take a drink, but then shoot it right back up and give us the stink eye, with a “I see you two jokers.  And you better watch yourselves” expression. She hung around for five or ten minutes, and then just disappeared in the mist. 

Moose: “Shouldn’t you two clowns be off buying D. a nice Canada Day present?” 

Moose: “WHAT?!?!  He never self-sexiles?  And despite his years in America -the greatest god-fearing, freedom-loving land in the nation – he STILL says “zed” instead of “zee”??!!”

Moose: “I wish I had me some antlers.  I’d prong him so hard he’d cry for his mother  mum.” 

After the moose encounter, we headed back to the hotel, collected D. and rode into the village, eager to use the canoes we’d rented the previous day. We rode to Prong Pond, a 400 acre “pond” off Moosehead Lake.  The pond is two miles from end to end and over one mile across.  It has several small, rocky blueberry-covered islands, and some pretty impressive mountains all around.  It was absolutely gorgeous, and so quiet and peaceful.

Well, it WAS peaceful and quiet.  Then Mr. Moose and I attempted to row a canoe together.  Have I mentioned that I am not adept?  At most anything?  Including canoe rowing?  ‘Cause I’m not. But I blame Mr. Moose, too, because he persisted in using the very confusing phrase, “That’s good”.  WTFuck, Mr. Moose??!!   Apparently, by “That’s good”,  Mr. Moose meant, “That is sufficient.  Please stop. Stop, goddammit, lest we crash or capsize!”  But usually when Mr. Moose says, “That’s good”, he’s saying it not in a canoe but in the bedroom.  Where it definitely does NOT mean, “That is sufficient.  Please stop.” Hence my confusion.  Eventually we learned to work together, and Mr. Moose caught some amazing fish, mostly small mouth bass and perch, as did D.  I’m not into fish abuse, so I served as trip photographer.  Check out my work:

 

Mr Moose: “Am I not a great American Hero?  Check out the size of my fish!!!”

Mr. Moose: “Glaven’s kid, Teh Ian, just caught a fish.  But my fish is bigger.  So boo-yah, Ian.  In!  Your!!  Face!!”

D: “Good God. Will this trip never end?”

A full day of fishing/photographing really took a lot out of us.  When dinner time rolled around, we were all too tired and lazy to go out.  So we stayed in our hovel  hotel room, just the three of us and that godforsaken scary ass fox-beast, and we had potato chips and liquor for dinner.  It was delicious, but not nutritious. True story.    

Tune in next time (the LAST time, I promise!) to hear all about the Jesus stick , Santa’s summer home and our complete and utter neglect of Canada Day.