Blueberries Hill

How I miss summer. I can't wait to get back on the road in the warm weather.

I secretly recorded this short clip of Cathy last year when we were staying in a little cabin on a low-bush blueberry farm in Maine. This is my own version of Watergate, except the only thing I am exposing is my lovely girlfriends digestive habits. No doubt, this is the end of a long and lovely relationship.

We would wake up every morning, pick enough blueberries to make you sick, and eat them with milk and granola. It was heavenly. Cathy did not want me to post this and says "if I (cathy) don't become queen of dc because of it then you are at fault." Sorry dear. I will make you a crown out of paper clips and gum drops.

The recording is low, so turn it up. For those hard-of-hearing, the text is as follows:

(footsteps)
Cathy: Let's go down, er, want to go up the to the hill first? Er, no, Let's get berries.
Cathy (whispering): (mumbles something that can't be made out, I wish I knew what she said. Any ideas? )
Me (laughing): ok
Cathy (whispering): And then we'll get more on the way back.
Cathy (whispering): And then I'll poop in my pants.
Me: Classy
Cathy: mmm-hmmm