Another Farm Fiasco Part II

Hey cows! readers! Remember part I of the Great Escape story? Here's part II. The part where I save the day. Seriously!

From my sister's blog I quote, "[She] saved the day, I tell you." In italics.

Nevermind it was after a thinly veiled criticism of my tendency to talk a lot. But hey, it was my ability to talk a lot that saved the day. In italics.

(I kinda like this whole 'someone else writes my blog posts' thing.)

Hey cow - Who you lookin' at, huh? After all that, I'm done taking any crap from you bovines, ya hear? Done.

I think we've been going too easy on them. Gotta show 'em who's boss. This oughta intimidate 'em: You think?

Another Farm Fiasco

"Now where'd did that d*mn steer go?!?"

We had another eventful weekend on the farm, but this time it wasn't my fault! I wasn't involved! I am completely innocent of any and all wrong-doing!

Ok, I did inadvertently allow that one rogue steer to crash through the fence (as opposed to jumping over, like a sane animal might do) and escape into a 100 acre cornfield, but that's only because after racing him up and down the fence line he finally decided to show me who's boss and put on the steam.

Sounds like a new tv game show - "Are You Faster than a 1000 lb. Steer?"

In a word, no. No, no I'm not.

I'd love to tell you the whole story, but I've got a busy weekend ahead. I'll let my sister regale you with the details. Besides, it's her farm, they're her steers, and it's about time one of the farm fiascos happened while she was in town rather than out, leaving us dopes in charge. (Wishing now you'd've booked that exotic Caribbean cruise, aren't ya sis.)

And besides, she's funny. And she can lift haybales her own d*mn self, thank you very much.

Part I of the "Great Escape" is here. Enjoy!

Disconnected Internet, Disconnected Thoughts

Ever since Brady tried to swap the operating system in my computer for the operating system in his computer, the wireless network adapter isn't working properly.

By the way, anyone speak Greek? Because that's what the above sentence is to me.

If I have to translate it to layman's terms it would sound something like this:

"Brady! WAH! My computer won't stay connected to the internet! Fix it! What do you mean you can't fix it? I'm going to burst a blood vessel now. Please call the paramedics. Amen."

It also means I'm having trouble uploading pictures to my blog and ya'll know, if there are no pictures, I have nothing to say.

You did know that, didn't you?

That's Jonathan's explanation for why I didn't blog much last month. My photos all suddenly disappeared from Picasa and I was forlorn, lost, and twitchy. It made my muse crawl into the fetal position, suck her thumb, stick her blankie up her nostril and refuse to come out until the photos were found.

Which they were. It had something to do with the whole operating system swap-o-rama-gone-bad. Brady.

And so, with no photos to keep me focused, I can only post random, disconnected thoughts on my blog today....

Rob had a fever last night. It's weird when adults get fevers. Rather than seem especially sick, he got loopy and silly.

We ventured out to Monroe, WI today to meet up with a new-to-us homeschooling group, thanks to an invitation from Jodi of Sunflower Hill Farm who introduced herself to me at the InHome Conference and who was, incidentally, just featured in the Wisconsin State Journal. Thanks Jodi - We had fun!

Usually I have to boot Jonathan out of my bed so I can go to sleep. The last two nights I had to boot Brady out. He hasn't done that in approximately 7.6 years.

There is a pair of naaaasty looking socks on my staircase. I refuse to touch them. Which means they'll be there for a long, long time.

It's 10pm and I should be in bed before I turn into a pumpkin.

But instead of sleeping, I'll end up watching Iron Chef America on the Food Network. Which gets my heart-rate up. Seriously. I get sooo nervous. I'm a dork like that.

Today I was asked to serve on the planning committees for TWO conferences. I'm going to feel badly about letting one of them down. Eenie Meenie Miny Mo.

Jonathan is upset with me tonight because I wouldn't do yoga with him. It's part of his new, "I want to get stronger and more fit" plan, which he announced tonight. This from a kid who has worked out every day since January 1st.

I only said no because I'd just gotten home from a 2-hour stint at the gym, was already showered, and had a full stomach. I promised we'd do it tomorrow morning. OM-baby-OM.

I decided today that I jive with country folks better than city folks. City folks are cool, hip, urban, and intellectual. Country folks talk about things like growing horseradish and suckling pigs and have kids who run around barefoot with dirty toes. I'm intimidated by city folks. Country folks are kin. City folks make me realize just how unhip I am. Country folks make me relax and feel like expanding my garden by 2.5 acres.

I sometimes make sweeping generalizations I later regret.

Tomorrow is my birthday.

To cool Rob's feverish head, I placed a cold, wet washcloth on his forehead. Which immediately prompted his famous Ferris Bueller impersonation. The part where he's faking-sick for his mom.

My mom is making Boston Cream Pie for my birthday.

I like inchworms. Even though they send a shiver up my spine.

I'm a Whiny Puke. I'm Sorry.

I'm in a bit of a funk today. I put myself on a strict candida diet because my normally wonky hormones are wonkier than usual. And that's not good, considering the usual wonkiness often causes my head to spin around and venom to spew. So picture that and then some. Uh huh.

I was going to make an appointment to see my crazy, holistic boob doc in Madison - (what, I haven't mentioned him before? Hmm, that's a story in itself) - as he's working with me to get my hormones in balance after a (story hint:) breast cancer scare. But then I realized that he'd ask me a round of questions, including this one: "What are you eating?" And I hate it when he asks me that question.

He'd like me on a very strict whole-foods diet, and to say that I've veered a bit off the path is like saying the war in Iraq is going, um, just as planned.

Anyhoo, what I'm saying is this: I know deep down that it's not right for me to ignore a good portion of what my doctor suggests and then go looking for his help. He's already offered me help - it's up to me to take it. Grumble grumble harrumph.

But this diet... oh this diet... let me tell you what I am. I'm starving is what I am. And Sharon, please quit laughing, you're mean to me. Sharon goes on this diet frequently because she has health concerns of her own, and when I text her asking if I can eat this or that, she texts back things like "Nice try - no." The booger.

It's basically like going on a fast or some sort of cleanse. Put nothing into your body that isn't whole, and allow it to cleanse itself of toxins and build-up and imbalances such as yeast overgrowth.

Hello, you still there?

But like fasting or cleansing, it also makes you irritable. I mean the "I can't stand to watch you chew, please get away from me now" kind of irritable. And that isn't fun for anyone, is it Rob. (Your sympathies can be sent along to rob@youpoorschmuck.com.)

There are other things irritating me today. I have low energy. (Thanks again, d*mn diet!) No matter how often I swat, there are flies in my house. And because it's fall they're doing that sort of slow death-thing they do where they get clingy and slow and land on you, like, every other second. (Just what I need, something clingy.)

Also, I got stung by a wasp yesterday and mother-**** did that hurt. It stung me right behind the knee and it's red and swollen, so everytime I bend my knee.. ouch ouch OUCH you g*d d*mn wasp! Oh, and I have my twenty-year class reunion tonight. With the mood I'm in, that should go swimmingly.

But recognizing that this funk is doing no one, least of all me Rob and the boyz, any good, I decided to do something about it. What did I do? This:

If you need a kick in the pants, a reminder to pay attention, to breathe, to be mindful, to quit feeling sorry for your d*mn self (ok, I added that part), read this book.

I got my signed copy sent from Patti herself, after my essay was chosen for part of her 37 days blog countdown. I've been reading it ever since, treasuring every word. It is filled with quotes and I LOVE quotes - anything that can pack a punch in only a few words is always, to me, sheer brilliance. And it's filled with artwork sent by readers and wisdom and suggested actions and humor. It's good, good stuff.
I took the book, a glass of water, and a bowl of - lucky me - celery sticks to my sunny deck and began to read. It only took about a half sentence to wake me out of my pity party.

Dear Patti - It's not quite finished yet, but I'm polishing my mud ball. Thanks.

Want in on the secret? Get the book, already, yo!

*~*~*~*~*~*
Patti Digh will be in Madison, WI at A Room of One's Own Feminist Bookstore on Friday, October 03, at 6:30 PM. I'm going to try like h*ll to get there. Wanna meet up?

No Crises Allowed, Please

When you have a schedule that looks like this....

• Monday - prepare for onslaught of parties
• Tuesday - Jonathan's kid birthday party; Cousins' Ladies Night Out
• Wednesday - Jonathan's family birthday party my side
• Thursday - prepare for continued onslaught; hopefully nap; probably not; Jonathan's track meet
• Friday - get manic about Saturday; Jonathan's family-friends birthday party; practice deep breathing
• Saturday - big Open Mic & Live Music (JUST MAYBE) bash in our yard
• Sunday - clean-up; pack for vacation; leave for vacation? crawl into fetal position and suck my thumb

One does NOT want to hear the following words wafting from upstairs...

"Honey, I just bled all over the comforter."

SOS - I am BURIED in Soccer Work

You may have noticed I've gone missing from Blogland. *sigh* I miss writing, I miss visiting my favorite blogs (and odds are, that means YOU), and I miss... well, I miss.... I miss life-before-soccer.

Crazy me. I took on the job of club administrator - which was not entirely nuts - but then I also took on the job of manager for the U-15 team, Brady's team. That has been a disaster from the start. Not because I don't like the kids, not because I don't like soccer, but because I have only seven players. You need 11 to play, and a few subs wouldn't be a bad idea either, seeing as games are 80 minutes long. For some reason there just aren't enough players to form a team in this age group. We've cancelled 3 games and showed up to last weekend's tournament with 8 players, no uniforms, and no coach. I was handing out (the wrong) uniforms on the sideline, which made us look like a ragamuffin team. But that wasn't nearly as hilarious as watching me - at 5'2" - huddle up the tall, 15 year old boys and ask, "What position do you play again? Ok, keep doing that."

I begged, borrowed, and stole players from our younger teams to fill my roster. I called players who hadn't returned to the club and begged them to fill in for the tournament. We managed to have 11 players on the field for all 3 games - 3 of them were goalies - and we managed to tie one game while losing the other two. I also managed to get two other coaches to help me but they could only make it to one half of a game each.

Madness.

One player quit today. One's injured. Two want to defect to another team to play with their friends (who can blame them - can I go too?). And my goalie says he'll play "when he can." One wants to play but he can't get his player pass approved. Only four are carded, show up regularly, and want to play soccer for my team.

I'm waving the white flag. Can you see it? I'm also calling UNCLE, mowing S.O.S. into my front yard, and pretending to have heart palpitations so someone will take mercy on me and relieve me of my duties. Wait, those heart palpitations are real.

This, and last week's registration nightmare, has consumed me full-time for two weeks now. I've apologized to Jonathan for taking so much time away from him, and things like blogging and cleaning my house and sleeping and eating have gotten pushed to the back burner. Speaking of burners, today I charred an egg beyond recognition. I suppose burning an egg is better than my entire right hand, but it still means I haven't heeded the messages in burnt toast, burnt eggs, or burnt fingers. Did you know burns turn a deep, dark brown when they heal? *shudder*

Trouble is, I'm involved now and can't retreat without letting down a small group of soccer players who are looking to me to work this out one way or another. They're good kids. They enjoy practice despite the horrible odds against them. They laugh and humor me when I try to coach them myself. They blush and look away when I promise homemade cookies if they'll show up. I will carry on until I know just what is going to happen with this team, whether that means forging ahead and finding more players or scrapping the team and folding them into the older teams. And after that - NEVER AGAIN.

Despite this crisis, we've managed to carry on with regular life and all its opportunities for fun. Here is a snapshot view of what we've been up to. (I'm the one behind the camera with a cell phone attached to my ear saying things like, "No, I really need you for THIS game, if you can't find a ride I will drive (30 minutes out of my way) to get you!")

Flat Stanley came for a visit! All the way from the UK! He's been going on adventures with us! Translation: to soccer, soccer, and soccer.

We had an outing at Angelic Organics. The farm is incredibly inspiring, but the coolest part? Mom in Madison joined us! I love meeting bloggers in real life. Here our blogger sons feed a baby goat together. And yes, that's a Heineken bottle, sans the beer.

Jonathan made a good climbing structure for said goat, too.

Oh the garden... My yard always looks bedraggled in the spring, when the dandelions let loose (we're die-hard organic here) and the grass grows long because soccer takes every waking moment (and then some). I just close my eyes, knowing that come June, dandelion season is over and somehow, somewhere, I manage to carve out enough time to get seeds planted and beds turned.

I had the bright idea to burn the dried garden stalks on my garden and spread the loose ash. But we've had so much rain it was too damp. It took me a dozen tries to get the piles lit. We will be hauling dried garden stalks to the compost pile.

Here, Flat Stanley keeps watch over my newly planted herb seeds.

Always more occasions to make dishes to pass. This time, mini-cinnamon rolls. Because my thighs just weren't jiggly enough.

Rob and Jonathan sneaked away for an impromptu Cubs game. And we're making homemade gifts for the grandmas for Mother's Day... shhhh.....

And it's gotten so busy 'round here, Jonathan has resorted to leaving notes for us on doors.

But the biggest event? PROM.

Stay tuned....

Mindfulness Mishap

I recently sold a freelance article about mindfulness. Jon Kabat-Zinn defines mindfulness as
“Mindfulness means paying attention in a particular way;
On purpose,in the present moment, and nonjudgmentally.”

In my article, I wrote about the message in burnt toast. You know the drill... you're rushing-rushing-rushing to be somewhere and your mind is racing in twelve (or twelve dozen) different directions. You're whipping a smoothie with one hand, organizing your paperwork with the other, and kicking the refrigerator door shut with a foot, while a steady chant of "Let's go! Mas rapido! Move it, Move it! Don't forget your cleats!" pours forth. All seems to sail along smoothly - for a while. And then you burn your toast. Cue expletives. Or, in my case, head-hanging and a deep sigh.

My kids and Rob know the precise definition of my sigh. I didn't even realize I did it until they pointed it out to me. Sometimes my sigh is wistful, but most often it's more of a huff. Once, I huffed loudly. Brady, then the wise old age of nine, grabbed his brother and said, "Come on! That noise means Mom is really frustrated!" and high-tailed it out of the kitchen, dragging his brother by the collar. Jonathan, then 6, replied, "No, I think she just has too much air in her mouth."

Nothing like a deadpan (badump bump) from your 6 year old child to snap you out of a foul mood.

But the message in burnt toast is this - slow down. Pay attention. Be mindful of what you're doing. Do one thing, and do it well.

I even warned, in the article, that sometimes we ignore the messages of burnt toast and it takes something larger, something worse, to wake us up. Something, say, like this:

That ain't burnt toast, people. My wake-up call came in the form of burnt fingers.

This has been a NUTTY week and on Tuesday, I was just getting warmed up. I was still in low gear but I was already revving my engine, doing some calisthenics, cracking my knuckles in preparation for the ensuing onslaught of obligations.

And as I was rushing to get Brady out the door, already my mind danced on all the things I had to get done that day not to mention the rest of the week, and however was I going to manage to get them all done, and who put all this stuff right here on the counter?, and oh yeah I have GOT to return that phone call, and and and and and....

I shoved a mug of water into the microwave and pressed two minutes, as I'd done thousands of times. But the mug wasn't microwave-safe. And I reached in without looking and grabbed it. And it was CRAZY-hot. And I did that frozen-in-time 'WTF do I do!' thing. And then I jumped, spilling the crazy-hot water over my hand, and dropping the mug. (The mug did not shatter. I was of a mind to pick it up and give it another go, though. D*mn mug.) And then I let a few choice words rip as I ran cool water over my hand.

Lesson learned?

Well, yes and no. It reminded me to stop for a minute and slo-o-o-o-w do-o-o-o-w-n. And yet, all but the most minimal obligations don't just disappear because I recklessly burned my hand. My right hand. My dominant hand. *whine*

Things that are more difficult to do with bandaged fingers:

• Tupe. I mean, tpoe. I mean, type. HELPS IF I TYPE IN ALL CAPS
• Wipe (Sorry)
• Flip through 100s of soccer registrations over and over (and over)
• Tie shoes
• Wash dishes (a burn can feel fine until you run water over it... OUCH)
• File papers
• Put hair in ponytail

Things I can still do with bandaged fingers:

• Complete registrations for 100 soccer players
• Schmooze the people who can help make that happen
• TYIPE. Wait, rtpye. Caps only help - TYPE
• Photograph dozens of soccer players for ID cards
• Manage most prom details
• Manage details for soccer club's tournament this weekend
• Get boys ready for weekend of soccer
• Get Brady for weekend of prom
• Make 257 soccer-related phone calls
• Make 34 prom-related phone calls
• Drive boys all over northern IL
• Put things in "deal with later" piles
• Brush hair

But somehow, it all gets done. Whether you go through your duties in a manic craze or a mindful calm, the registrations get completed and the hundreds of phone calls get made. The corsage gets ordered and the team managers get called. The prom clothes get ironed and the plans get coordinated. The uniforms get passed out and the player photos get taken. Sometimes in the rain. And I even manage to crack a few jokes with the other club administrator -

Him – “I’ve gotta run home, deal with some loose ends, and I’ll meet you at 7pm.”
Me – “I’ve been leaving loose ends all over northern IL this week. Keep an eye out for them.”

Me (via email) – “blah blah important-detail blah blah question - *snort*”
Him – “I hope that means you’re laughing and not that you’re resorting to illegal substances to get through the week!”

And I didn't take offense, as I mistakenly do when I'm overtired and frazzled, when the parent coordinating the prom meet-up joked, "Boy, you're a lot of work, you know that?" after I called with my nineteenth question. (I have trouble wresting information out of Brady.)

I'm still smiling, and my blisters are healing nicely. The soccer players are carded and registered, and the first games are underway (and I don't have to be there until the gloriously late 11am!). The corsage is in the fridge, the date has all the details, and Brady's 45 second shower-and-get-dressed-like-NOW is arranged at my uncle's house after Brady's unfortunately-scheduled 5pm game.

But all that said, my cell phone is ringing again and there's a uniform shortage at the fields. I've gotta fly.

Er, I mean.... I've got to take a deep breath and calmly handle the crisis.

Old Trigger, New Day

Just when I'm about to be famous for my sudden appearance on Sandra Dodd's website, I have a relapse. Isn't that just the rub?

I'll blame it on my hormones, lest I blame it on Rob. Or, I'll blame it on the fact that I just posted "a day in the life" about how perfect my life is. That'll show me.

I've been rejiggering my hormone therapy a bit, unbeknownst to my doctor. When certain side effects crop up I do some reading and tweaking, even when he insists there is no correlation. Ya well, I've had enough adult acne to last me a lifetime, thank you very much, so I'm going to fuss with my dosages. Vanity wins. It's been a few weeks since I dickered with it, and so far the results have been positive. Last night I looked at the bottle of DHEA I've been skipping. Apparently, just looking at the bottle was enough to cause me to wake up in a pool of sweat 5 hours later.

But this morning I was on a mission. My house is a wreck since I've been unwell for so long, so after rising at 5:50 - that's a.m. people - to get Brady off to school (urgh, UG, that is an ungodly hour), I got busy. I cleaned out the van which was so cluttered you could lose small children in there. My nephew has been safely returned to his mama, you'll be pleased to know, having survived on shriveled half-sandwiches and ketchup packets found under the bench seat. (Kidding.) I unloaded the dishwasher and reloaded it with the dirty dishes from the over-flowing sink. (Don't you hate it when you can fill the dishwasher as soon as it's emptied?) I did 3 loads of laundry, actually folding and putting away the clothes as they came out of the dryer. (I know! It's gotta be the wonky hormones.) And it was just as I was done scrubbing the sink and toilet in the boys' bathroom that Rob finally dragged his arse out of bed came downstairs, ready to leave for work. It was only 7:55 at this point, mind you, and I was feeling mighty smitten with myself for being so productive.

I stopped my toilet-scrubbing and washed my hands and caught up with Rob in the laundry room to give him a kiss good-bye. (I'm a really doting wife like that. Well, today anyway.) And that's when he said, playfully, "Come here."

I followed him into the kitchen where he made a slightly-mocking, passive-aggressive display of turning off the light I'd left on. "Do you see a difference in how well you can see if the light is on or off? I can't."

So I began a thoughtful reply, which went something like, "Well whine whine I'd turned it on earlier snark moan excuse-growl-excuse when it was still dark outside pout rant snarl and besides you should duck now I've been BUSY WASHING TOILETS AND DOING LAUNDRY seriously, run, run fast all morning and rage-whine-excuse-pout-choke-suffocate-xidurjsleuf-soeurfeiai-xryihezafhpe."

"I'm just concerned about global warming," Rob was quick to offer, amused at my defensiveness, a remark that would normally make me swell with pride that I'd married such a conscientious, environmentally-concerned man.

Not this time. This time I swelled instead with rage and excuses and snarky retorts and ugly words like "Nevermind that I was just cleaning YOUR pee off the toilet." I know. I'm amazed at my lack of maturity too. "And nevermind that I just picked up SIX PAIR of YOUR dirty underwear when there were not one, but TWO, clothes baskets 2 inches away."

"So stop yelling at me," I continued.

"I'm NOT yelling at you," he laughed.

It is an unspoken rule in our house, the elephant in the room if you will, that I'm overly sensitive, easily offended, unnecessarily defensive always right, so I just couldn't leave well enough alone.

Rob left. I sent him a text. It said something like, "accusation accusation defensive-whine accusation so there what up now" and ended with one of my pet names for him, "Dingleberry," the definition of which is quite unflattering, if not funny.

His reply text? "You are a great wife and mother."

Sometimes the best defense is a perfectly-timed compliment.

The man ain't as dumb as he looks, folks.

(I'm evil. I know this.)

It's the hormones. It's got to be the hormones.

Post-Vacation Sucker Punch

I'm sick, people. I'm very, very sick. I'm sick in the head is what I am.

Jonathan came down with a crazy-bad head cold during the last three days of our Florida trip. He was a trooper, doing Busch Gardens by day, but walking into our hotel room each dinnertime with an announcement of, "I'm tired. I don't feel good. I'm going to bed." And he burrowed under the covers 3.5 seconds later, not to emerge until the following day. By our last day in Florida, there was a slight burning in my chest - which is a good sign of, um, nothing good.

I'm sure it had nothing to do with Jonathan handing me his dirty tissues for 3 days straight, tissues he is apparently incapable of disposing of himself despite my 3-step instructional tutorial I freely offered every chance I got.

"First, honey, you wrap up the boogers in the tissue. No, YOU do it, they're YOUR boogers. Then, sweety, you throw the tissue away. No, not on my lap, in the trash can. And Boo, you need to wash your hands. Yes, you do. Yes. You do. Please. Please?"

But as we all know, it is written in the fine print that mothers are obligated to handle all bodily functions no matter how gooey, and so I stuffed my backpack with 8,283 tissues and followed Jonathan around, ready to prevent as much projectile mucous-sharing as I could.

I was talking a bit with Kelly about penance. To punish myself for my shameless bragging that I was in a warm place when most of you weren't (excepting Joanne, who had the foresight to simply move to said warm place rather than continually moan about wanting to live in said warm place - what a concept!), I did a bit of jogging to flog myself for it. I do not like to jog. I especially do not like to jog at 10:30 am when it is already so humid in Florida that breathing is like sticking your face into a sauna the size of a ziplock bag. But the road was flat and my running shoes were packed (Whatever was I thinking?) and I had to find a way to stop the osmotic absorption of nine restaurant dinners into my thigh tissue, so I laced my sneakers and took off.

But Kelly kindly pointed out (too late) that penance is not usually necessary as karma will inevitably take care of things. Thanks, Kelly, thanks for the timeliness of your message. Really.

So here I am, propped up in front of my computer, only because if I have to lay prone for one more second I fear my back muscles will contort beyond the point of no return, wrapped in the biggest comforter I could find, with a scarf wrapped around my neck, a box of tissues (my third) at the ready, a steady stream of hot tea (thanks to sweet Jonathan who fills my cup and asks, "Can I get anything for you? A sandwich?"), and doing shots of anything I can find in Rob's homemade pharmacy which promises relief anywhere in the upper half of my body. Usually I am fairly openly hostile about Rob's love for over-the-counter pharmaceuticals, insisting most things need to run their course and his body would heal itself if he'd just let it. But not today. When I woke at 4am, sure I had pneumonia and obsessing about how drowning in my own mucus will be such a horrible way to die, I suddenly became willing to drink or swallow anything with "relief" written on the label and tasting like toxic-cherry-bubble gum-waste. And how's that working for me you ask? Well, I now have an acid stomach, which does, believe or not, sometimes take my focus off the feeling that my sinus cavities are about to do an Old Faithful any minute now.

I don't know if it's being in a house of boys that does it, but the bedside manner 'round here is just so-so, with Brady asking, "Oh, you're sick?" despite my incessant moaning from the couch region of the house, and Rob telling me to "Go lay down!" like I'm a dog or something. He does do a pretty amazing infomercial for all the OTC drugs we have in our house, most of which I've never seen much less used myself. I wonder if we put him on youtube he'll get royalties or something? "Side effects may include severe dizziness, abdominal bleeding, divorce papers served by your wife's cutthroat attorney, and uncontrollable wheezing. Ask your doctor if MucusBeGone is right for you."

And, of course, there's the especially nasty karmic sting that we always get sick on weekends, when we're given the unattractive choice between suffering (and panicking during my late-night irrational bouts of "I think I'm going to die. Rob." nudge nudge "No really, I think I'm dying. I'm drowning in my own phlegm. I think my lungs are filling up. Rob." nudge nudge poke) and paying three thousand times more to see a doctor who's surely not covered by any insurance plan within a hundred-mile radius and who will give you that look that says, "Ya, you and every other hypochondriac in here is doing to die this very minute," followed by, "I think it's a virus, go home and go to bed and if you get any worse between now and Monday (but we all know miraculous recoveries are pre-scheduled for 8am on Monday mornings), call an ambulance or something. That'll be 3 gazillion dollars, please."

Ok, I'm done whining. For now. I'm going to go do head-stands on the couch in hopes of unplugging my left ear (which has been plugged since yesterday and is going to drive me ape-sh*t-mad anysecondnow), snort salt water ala neti-pot-style, down another gallon of my homemade concoction of cayenne pepper, honey, and apple cide vinegar, and continue telling Rob to stop talking to me like I'm a dog.

But I hope you, my lovely friends, are having a delightful, snot-free day and a good chuckle at my throw-down loss to karma and her bad-*ss peeps.

I deserve it, I guess.

Life's Heavy Doses

Does it ever happen to you that you're feeling tired, or agitated, or tense, or ouchy, and you're not even sure why? It happens to me.

Does it ever happen to you that you get a little passive-aggressive about blogging, about attending the usual commitments, about, say, cooking dinner, or... getting out of bed, and you're not even sure why? It happens to me.

Does it ever happen that you set out to type a newsy email to a friend, and all this angst-ridden stuff comes pouring forth, and you realize by the end of it, "Ahh, so that's why I'm feeling like this"? It happened to me. Just now.

This is a heavy week, for several reasons.

~I met my mother's new 'friend.' I liked him fine, so that's not the problem. And he's good to her. It's just surreal, that's all.

~I met with the headmaster at Brady's school to discuss the possibility that he may drop out. I can hear the homeschoolers now, screaming excitedly, "That's not a problem! That's not a problem!" and I can hear the rest of you thinking, "HUH?!? You're not serious..." It's a long story. We're on the fence (including and especially Brady). We're neck-deep in discussion. It's a huge decision. Again.

~Tomorrow we sign papers to buy the main family farm. Because my father died, because my grandmother died, I find myself in the interesting and unexpected position of becoming 1/3 owner of our fifth-generation family farm. It's exciting and frightening and mind-boggling all at the same time. It was Dad's plan and we're carrying it forward.

~Tomorrow is also the 2-year anniversary of my father's death. Two years already. That doesn't seem possible, as I still look for him around corners and among fence rows. And I still haven't been able to visit his gravestone. I've tried.

~And I saw some old friends last week, whose reception of me was so kind and warm and accepting, it shined a very bright light on the fact that I don't have that in the current communities I'm running with.

So I guess, dear friends, I've got a lot working on my mind and my heart, so I've been tired, and quiet, and introspective... and tired.. and, well, tired... Instead of my usual blog chirpiness, I'm loaded down with big things that can't be easily discussed in this blog.

'Twill be a good day when I post blog chirpiness again.

But we need to end this on a high note, because a wise friend recently told me...

~ the thing you feed is the thing that grows.... ~

*****
Good news part one - I've been doing some arting lately, and for anyone who knows me at all, this is pretty unusual. It's been very soothing. And while the feel of pencils and paintbrush in my hand is rather foreign, I find it doesn't matter - it's the process I need right now, not the product. So indulge me, if you will, by looking upon my beginner's work.

One became a bookmark and went to live with my mum.

Good news part two - I sold an article! http://www.everythinghomeschooling.com/ purchased an article I wrote titled, "An Unschooler Goes to School". Subscribe to their web-zine if you want, but you already know the details. :-)

Good news part three - We just returned from our annual homeschooling conference, and it couldn't have come at a better time. I needed the pick-me-up more than ever. Brady and I stayed up until 2:40am on Saturday night, Brady going on 'adventures' through the hotel (which was bizarre and very bad feng shui!) with his new unschooling friends, while I chatted with a new group of unschooling moms. And a very cool serendipitous event was my chat with Ren Allen. She was a featured speaker at the conference and as I'd connected with her online a time or two, I hoped to say hello to her. However, she was swarmed with questioners after each workshop so I didn't have the opportunity to chat with her. Well, our room's coffee maker died, so on Sunday morning, after most of the conference-goers were gone and the hotel was finally still, I went to the hotel cafe to get a coffee and there was Ren. Her flight didn't leave for several hours and I had time to chat because Brady wanted to spend as much time as possible with his new unschooling friends, so we got over an hour to talk. Looks like I wasn't meant to have only a quickie hello with her after all. Good things come to those who wait. So glad to have connected with you, Ren!

*****

Now listen - if Brady decides to leave school and come back home, I'm gonna need all the good unschooling mojo and support vibes you've got to spare. All of 'em. It's hard work going against the grain of society again and again, and it gets harder as the stakes get higher. The collective sigh of relief when Brady entered school did not go unnoticed by me (or him), and it takes a strong spirit to shut out the myriad opinions, doubts, and fears and listen to your own inner voice speaking, and that's what he's faced with right now. Big stuff for a 15 year old.

I am in awe of his maturity, his willingness to be who he is, and his obvious ability to succeed no matter where he is, no matter what he chooses. We want him to be happy, and we will do whatever is necessary to see that happen.
*****
Thank you to everyone who's sent "where'd you go?" and "come back soon" emails - it's a comfort to know I'm missed. And now I ask you for one more thing - a big fat dose of "I've got your back grrlfriend" and some 'there there' if you've got any to spare.

Odds are, I'll be back with more than a little bit of big news any time now.

The metamorphosis continues.

~Namaste~

Baby, It's Cold Outside

You know it's cold when I consistently dress like this:

In the house.

And truth be told? I'm getting a little p*ssy about it.

Chasing Amy

I'm Chasing Amy.

No, not the movie, although I did love that movie. Wasn't it great? That's when I first saw Joey Lauren Adams, and do you know that until now, until this very moment, every time I've seen her in recent movies I've thought, "Now just WHERE did I first see her???" Man, it was really bugging me, so yay for my serendipitous discovery! It'll allow me to sleep better tonight, it will. So have you seen Chasing Amy? If you haven't, you run down to your locally-owned movie store right now and rent it. And if they don't have it, tell them to get with it, man, and locate it for you.

But that's not what I want to talk about. I'm Chasing a different Amy. Amy Steinberg. That's the Amy I'm chasing.

A blog link sent me to her myspace page the other day. She's already my myspace friend (we're, like, TIGHT doncha know) but I've never heard her perform live so I decided to check out her Upcoming Shows. It went something like this...

Ohmygosh she's going to be in Chicago this week! Oh wait, she'll be there on the 21st and I'll be in St. Louis by then. Shoot.

Ohmygosh she's going to be in St. Louis on the 24th! Oh wait, we're leaving on the 24th to come home. Shoot.

Ohmygosh she's going to be in Florida in March! She'll be in Tampa and I'm going to be in Tampa! Oh wait, she'll be there on the 15th and I won't get there until the 19th. Shoot.

Ohmygosh she'll be in Florida for another show later that week and I'll still be there! Oh wait, that gig is across the state, 200 miles away. Shoot.

And by then, good people, my "Shoot!" had really turned to "Sh*t!" and I was emotionally exhausted from the repeated let-down.

You have to admit, it's a little odd that I get that close in 3 different states but can't quite seal the deal.

Oh well, I'm off to St. Louis for a few days. Be sure to rent Chasing Amy while I'm gone so we can discuss it when I get back. Try not to miss me too much - I know it's a scary thought to go a few days without reading a post about a boy in a box or inhaling chicken sh*t while bike riding or why Betty Crocker ain't got nuthin' on me, but I guess you'll just have to try.

Oh, and if you see Amy? Please tell her I'm looking for her.

Mid-Winter Blues

I woke up grouchy today. I don't know if it's the mid-winter slump or what, but I've been fighting off an especially intense bout of 'the blues.' I'm finding I need more sleep, healthier foods, and more physical movement to stave it off, but even then it dances at the edges. I've long danced a slow waltz with severe moodiness; it seems strange to say that depression is somehow attractive, and yet that's where I find myself, drawn in, over and over.

I put myself to bed early last night. I felt I was at the end of my rope, energetically-speaking, so I gave in to it and retired earlier than usual. My visiting brother was here, even, but I apologized and excused myself and burrowed under the covers and fell fast asleep.

However, as contrary as it sounds, after I finally give in to the need for some extra zzzzzs, the next morning I'm almost always a little off-kilter. I can never seem to make the transition back to the happy place without a little turbulence.

But I know this about myself, so I'm better able to navigate it these days. I recognize the snarky comments as they rise up in my throat and find ways to swallow them back down (usually). I recognize the ugly feelings about messy bedrooms and footprint-marked carpets and cat hair-covered sofas as they burst into my sleep-heavy head and find ways to coax them back down to a safer place.

Rob and the boys took off to chop firewood today and it is a welcome break. I knew I was going to fight off feelings of irrational anger and resentment, and it's better if I can find my center with a little room to breathe.

I made myself a cup of tea and surveyed the rooms around me. I'd gotten the kitchen to a reasonable state the night before, but there was laundry to fold, wood to haul inside, laundry to do, and a bathroom to wipe down. It's those types of undone tasks that, in times like this, make my fragile emotional state tip very easily from "I'm Feeling Blue" to "Why Doesn't Anyone Ever Pick Anything Up Around Here?"

But because I know this, I can help myself.

I hauled wood first knowing that, even though it never sounds like an enjoyable task, the fresh air, movement, and sunshine (if there is any - harrumph) always does me more good than expected. Then I folded the two laundry baskets because they'd been sitting there for two days, taunting me, cluttering up my space and tipping my emotional scale toward "poor me" every time I looked at them. When I went in to Jonathan's room to put away his clean clothes, I noticed there were dirty clothes on the floor. I picked those up. Then I picked up the books nearby. Next thing I knew, I'd picked up everything on the floor. And as I put away the clean towels, I did a quick wipe-down of the bathroom.

Ahhhh, I can breathe.

Time it took to complete these tasks? About 45 minutes. Amount of time I'd already spent getting pissy about these undone tasks? About 4 hours.

I'd now cleared away enough space for the voices of wisdom to be heard again. It makes absolutely no sense to spend hours getting angry and resentful that these tasks need to be done (and that no one else seems to think so - harrumph) when I could spend a quick 45 minutes to get them done. It makes absolutely no sense to get angry with my family for not reading my mind and instantly changing from what-they're-doing to what-I-think-they-should-be-doing when I can simply recognize that it's me who needs the house to be tidy right this very second.

When Rob and the boys returned with their first load of wood, I was in a much better place to receive them. They poured through the back door, spreading snow everywhere, and Rob rushed in complaining of severe heartburn and in need of ginger tea.

As I made him a cup of hot tea and swept up the chunks of snow, I breathed deeply.

I am back.

All is well again.

A Bit O'Blogger Rant

Sometimes Blogger doesn't let me edit my posts the way I want. Take the last post, for instance, about my conversation with Jonathan. I tried 4 times - FOUR TIMES - to insert a double-return after each paragraph, and Blogger won't let me do it. Other days it lets me do it. On occasion it doesn't. On those occasions I want to take Blogger, squeeze him until his little eyeballs pop out of their sockets, and say, "You stop it right now!"

Grrrr.

I'm done.

The Thing About Living in the Cornfields....

Mostly, I like living in the country. It's quiet. It's spacious. There's room enough to mow a soccer field in our front yard and have an acre-sized garden (as I did at one time). And we have an ahhh-mazing view to the east and a spectacular view of the constellations.

There is the occasional disadvantage. We were confronted with one the other night.

Rob and I were watching a movie in the basement when the boys came running downstairs to tell us, in an agitated manner, there were people at the front door. Sign #1 that something was wrong - It was late evening, it was dark, and we weren't expecting anyone. And besides, any family that drop by use the garage to let themselves in, and any friends would've called first before traipsing out into the middle of nowhere. Too late for Jehovah's Witness visitors, too late for the Schwann's Man. Too late for UPS, the mailman, or those guys who always want to pave my driveway for "real cheap" with leftover tar.

I sent Rob upstairs, sure it was just my brother coming back for something he'd forgotten. We must've already locked the garage, I thought.

But a few seconds later, Rob was calling me to come upstairs, and his voice was sounding tense. My heart pounded as I took the stairs two at a time. Sign #2 that something was wrong - Rob hadn't let them in. We're hospitable folks, usually more than ready to be good samaritans. But Rob's black belt training in karate taught him reliable criteria for assessing danger. If he didn't want to let them in, there was a good reason.

At the front door was an older woman who rambled on about getting their truck stuck in the ditch. I asked her where it was and she started in on Vague-Answer-Number-One, "Oh, it's down on that road... you know, that one road... the one with the big farm with lots of barns..." Now first of all, this is cornfield country; we're surrounded by farms. She'd have to be more specific. "You know, the road that goes to... oh, what's it called... that one place... that gas station by the lake..."

She rambled on. Hmmm. The road that goes to "that gas station by the lake" is exactly one mile from our house. Not only that, there are no farms with "lots of barns" for 1/2 mile in either direction once you reach that road.


I pondered the legitimacy of her claim when I noticed the other person. At the end of our sidewalk was a boy, in his late teens or early twenties judging by his clothing, who had his hands in his pockets and a hood over his head, masking his face. He was pacing and shifting from one foot to the other. He mostly kept his back to us, and we couldn't see his face. Rob and I began communicating with our eyes as he grabbed the phone to call the tow truck.

A million things went through my head. They were casing the place for a future robbery; it is Christmas after all, and the number of break-ins increases when every house is full of holiday loot. There were others outside, waiting for a signal. Or, of course, they really needed help. Well, if they'd hiked over a mile to get to our house, they could handle a few more minutes out in the cold.

Still the woman was rambling. And then she gave Vague-Answer-Number-Two, a different location for her vehicle. "We walked on that busy road... that one over there..." and she pointed in the opposite direction from the road that goes to the lake.

At this conflicting information, the hooded boy still pacing ten feet away from the door, I went to Brady's room. While Rob kept them at the door, I calmly and firmly told Brady to get his brother and go out the back door and straight to the neighbors' house. I didn't want them here if things got dicey. "But what about you?" he asked. "I think it's ok, I'm just being safe." He grabbed Jonathan and within seconds they'd sneaked out the door and across the pasture.

Then I called my brother, who'd left our house not too long before, and asked him to come back over. Then I called my brother-in-law and asked him to come over. Better safe than sorry, I figured, and I wanted these folks to see that I have people. I didn't call 911 - though I really, really thought about it - because last time we called it took them 30 minutes to arrive. I wanted faster back-up.

All this time the woman never stopped talking. She talked about her cats, her mean husband, and her arthritis. She told me she isn't usually this fat but she has a sweater on. She told me she lives in a cabin in the woods and her son lives in the shed. She told me her son doesn't have a microwave and her brother's wife's in-laws' cousins' friend died. All this time I kept my eye and her and the boy, memorizing their clothing, her face.

As I waited for my back-up to arrive, the woman asked for a soda. Then she started on a new thread, saying, "We're not really stuck... I mean, we probably could've gotten out... but it is a little icy.... I tried a little, but my tires were spinning... but we're not really THAT stuck..."

And that's when she pointed in a third direction and gave Vague-Answer-Number-Three, saying her truck was over "on that busy road... by the farm with barns on both sides of the road..." This, incidentally, was finally some concrete information. I know which farm has barns on both sides of the road and is located on "that busy road over there." That farm is two miles from my house. And there are exactly ten houses between here and there. Ten potential stopping points. Ten options for help. Instead, they hiked two miles in the dark, in the cold, and stopped at my house?

"Did you stop anywhere else for help?" I asked.

"No... no, there were dogs, and we didn't want to scare that one boy..." More rambling. More nonsensical answers. I know every house they passed. I know there are very few dogs. I know most of the houses are lit up, advertised as perfectly good resting points for broken-down travelers.

My back-up posse arrived. We let them in. The tow truck came and took the woman and the hooded boy away. I finally got a small, quick glimpse of the boy's face - I burned it into my memory. Just in case.

My sister called and confirmed that a tow truck seemed to be stopped on a busy road near her house, just a short ways from the farm with barns on both sides of the road.

Best case scenario? The woman is a little "off" and the boy was embarrassed. But you can't ever be sure. We drove to the neighbors' to get the kids, knowing they'd be too spooked to walk home. The neighbors told us how their dog had been on high alert and even scratched his way back out of the barn after they'd penned him up thinking he was barking at a raccoon or something. When we left a short while later, the dog was still perched at the back step, in guard mode.

"He never does that," said the neighbor.

Sometimes I feel a little vulnerable living in the cornfields. We installed an alarm sensor the next day.

Weighted Ice

The midwest is shrouded in snow, ice, and slush today. Trees have snapped off their tops. Power lines have fallen. There is a heavy gloom all around. It seems fitting.


For a long while now, I've been feeling centered, feeling 'high', feeling inspired. When I'm in that place I wonder why others can't 'feel the love' and join me there. I wonder why people let the little things bother them. I share my wisdom like I have it all figured out.


Unfortunately the pendulum's pattern of my life shows me that after each high there must be its accompanying low. And there's where I find myself today.


It started with the day when Rob and I sniped at each other the way old, married couples, who've never found a way out of the ruts, do. It continued with an even worse day on Saturday, despite my 'lessons noted' if not learned. Edgy, edgy, edgy, trying not to spill it but it brims over anyhow. And it carried on yesterday when I got a bee in my bonnet (more like a bug up my *ss) and spent all morning cleaning our disgusting garage, then cleaned the house, then rearranged the furniture, got the tree, made dinner, put up decorations, and fell into bed, exhausted. It was one of those 'keep moving' sort of edgy days.


So I wasn't entirely surprised to wake today and find I'm edgier than ever. School was called off but I couldn't find it within myself to make it a fun day. I couldn't think of one d*mn thing to do; I knew I was going to let the day pass with no fanfare. And then mom called.


My grandmother died.


This was not entirely unexpected; she's been failing for a while. And she was 95. But, still... it's my grandma, and she's always been here, and she's always bounced back; was always the tough one. And when I cried, I'm a bit ashamed to say the tears were mostly a release of all the buried grief for my father.

I get a bit wacky when I grieve these days. My answer to the edginess I felt was to make a Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings. For no good reason. I had to slog through ice and slush in a barren, shut-down countryside to get a few ingredients. I gave dirty looks to other shoppers because I was feeling surly. I cooked and cooked and took out my angst on the mashed potatoes. I didn't heed the messages of the lost measuring spoons or the the spilled bottle of safflower oil or the vase that shattered on the counter. I kept cooking. We had turkey dinner, d*mn it.

This is when I hope-hope-hope there's some sort of next stage, because I'm pretty sure my grandma really needs to see her son.



And I'm pretty sure she needs to see her husband, who died over 50 years ago, leaving her with a farm and three kids to care for.

And I'm pretty sure she needs to give him a stiff upper-cut to the jaw right after their reunion kiss.

We've asked her to give dad one too.

After the hug and kiss, of course.

Good News! And We Have a Winner!

My camera has been FOUND! Oh joy of joys, it's back. And a good thing, too, because as I mentioned before, it had some ultra-important pictures on it that I could not bear to lose!

Like this one, for example:

That's the paperwhite bulb I mentioned before, pre-bloom. I did not get a picture of it blooming. *pout* That's when my camera was lost, in case you didn't know. Did you know my camera was lost? Anyhow, friend and women's group member Martha gave us each two at the last grrrl's gathering, to help us through the long winter! Thanks Martha!

And this one:

I told you I can't drive more than 2 miles without pulling over and taking pictures, didn't I? Well, it's true. I got places a lot faster this week while my camera was lost. The kids might take up temporary-camera-loss as a practice, at least on those days where we have to be somewhere they want to go.

This shot was taken down my road, while I took food to my cousin who just had a baby. The lighting that night was just lovely, and I made the wise decision to take the scenic route. (She lives all of 2.5 miles away.)

And then there was this shot. I can't help but take about 14 dozen photos of my nephew Armando each time he visits. He's just that darn cute. And quite the artist, you see!


And here is my hero. This is the first picture I took after my reunion with my camera.

**((My Jonathan))**

The look on his face as he slowly withdrew the camera from our fabric-paints totebag was so cute!


I told him he's now my favorite 11 yr old. But I think he already knew that.

***

Now for the even better news - bonnyjane is the contest winner! She correctly googled guessed "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum"! That's the musical I was in, cast as a courtesan. Oh the fun we had! The song "I'm Calm" was sung by Hysterium, who was trying to juggle about a dozen things before his master returned. Here he is, dressed as a bride to fool the captain:

Anyhoo, bonnyjane, you contest-winner-you, email me at piscesgrrl(at)aeroinc(dot)net and I'll mail you your book!

And many thanks to everyone who sent "oh sh*t, I hate it when that happens" "find your camera NOW" vibes my way! It worked.

***

p.s. Is it wrong to be a little sad that I don't get a new camera? Oh the tangle of emotions!

p.s. I looked in that totebag. Twice.

p.p.s. It was the only bag I did not turn upside down.

p.p.p.s. I don't know why.

p.p.p.p.s. Maybe because subconsciously I wanted a new camera?

p.p.p.p.p.s. That would be very lame of me.

p.p.p.p.p.p.s. But not entirely out of character.

p.p.p.p.p.p.p.s. But I didn't lose it on purpose, I swear.

p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.s. I didn't consciously lose it, that is. Just maybe didn't conciously look in the right place.

p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.s. I'm done now.

p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.s. I'm emotionally exhausted.

p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.s. I think I need a nap.