Stories from a Redneck's Wife

What it Feels Like, Part Two

2012-02-20T16:09:00.000-05:00

Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). I forgot about that one in the first post...I wonder why? Oh, yeah, that's right. I'm ADD.
Here's an important distinction: I have attention deficit disorder, not attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, ADHD. That's why I wasn't diagnosed until I came to my psychiatrist's office after the first semester at Virginia Tech in tears. I was studying 4 hours a night. Typing out all of my notes. And failing miserably. I felt stupid.
My doctor gave me a pretty simple set of questions. He asked me to remember three words. Then, he asked me to count backwards from 100 by 3's. Yeah, right. I got to 91. And then could remember one of the three words. Once medicated, I rarely made a B in college. It was like someone turned off all of the background noise in my head.
For me, ADD is nothing more than a pain in the ass. I stopped taking the medication in graduate school. I think I chose journalism because it takes little to no long-term concentration. One story takes a week or so, and then it's on to something new.
I do struggle with long conversations, and meetings. Last week Jasen and I met with our financial planner. He's ADD, too. I found myself staring at the pictures on his wall, then snapping myself back into the conversation.
I have to make lists to remember anything. Then I have to make reminder notes about the lists.
If I am trying to concentrate on a task, such as writing right now, it drives me absolutely bonkers when someone interrupts me. Like Juni 5 minutes ago because he broke his Lego truck. Or Jasen 30 seconds ago because he can't find the chicken stock. Seriously frustrating.
ADD is more of an annoyance than an issue at this point in my life, which is while I don't take medicine. Another reason I don't take the meds for this particular disorder is because they are stimulative, which is something that does nothing but fuel my anxiety disorder.
I'd write part three, anxiety, if I could pay attention any longer. Or if Juni could rebuild the truck on his own. Or if Jasen could actually open the cupboard door and look in front of his nose for the chicken stock. Unfortunately, none of those things are going to happen...

What it Feels Like, Part One

2012-02-08T18:57:00.000-05:00

I always have people ask me: "What does it fee like to be bipolar? What does it feel like to be depressed? What does anxiety and a panic attack feel like?"
Even people with the same issues ask me what mine are like, and when I knew my meds began to work. So here goes. It's an emotional week because Juni is turning six (anxiety from him growing older), and I'm beyond hormonal (which gives me anxiety and depression.) So the two of those are just the perfect storm. And I need to rain a little words on the blog.
I figure for every one person who asks me what it feels like, there are 10 too scared to ask. So here goes. I can only handle one part at a time, or my emotions will take over. I'll start with what I've taken meds for the longest: depression. Then anxiety. Then bipolar. If you have questions, ask me. If you need help, I'll help you find it. And if you're going through anything like this, there is help. There is hope. And it WILL get better. Trust me. I had my first panic attack at age 5. My first major depression at 18. And my first full-blown mania at 30. I've embraced my issues, and I'm happy. It's not easy, and it takes work. But that's just life.

So...Part One: Depression

Depression is sneaky. It's slow. It comes over you like a fog. Just a little at a time until eventually, you can't see. For me, it starts with a "down" feeling. Less motivation. Less physical activity. Less energy. Less talking. Less everything. Except for eating. Food becomes my friend.
Depression slowly moves in, and then takes over. My body feels heavy. Like I've been jumping on a trampoline, and now my legs are made of concrete. My mind can't get out of the "funk." And my body doesn't want to get out of bed. My body aches. My face sags. I don't look like myself. Even my posture changes.
I'm tired, all the time. But not because I'm busy. Because I just don't see anything better to do than sleep, or watch tv, or basically any other sloth-like activity.
This lasts for a while...the build-up. And then I hit bottom. It hurts to get out of bed. It hurts to smile. It hurts to talk and it hurts to love. Life isn't...anything. Everything just...is. Not fun, not enjoyable, not anything. Numbness. Failure without trying to succeed. No drive...for anything. Even my senses become numb. Food doesn't taste the same. The world looses it's color to the point of almost black and white. When someone hugs or touches me, there's no reaction. I'm hearing, but not listening. Just going through the motions, wasting my life. Hours, days, weeks pass and I don't realize how much times has gone by. The television is my best friend. Mindless.
And then there's the realization - This sucks. This isn't right. The world is moving, but I'm not. I'm in slow motion. It usually took my mom, driving to Blacksburg, to literally pull me out of bed and take me to my psychiatrist. She'd threaten to take me home to Chesapeake if I didn't go. She'd force me to take a shower, shave my legs, and brush my hair. I hated it, but loved her for seeing that I needed help, and for forcing me to take care of myself.
The problem with depression meds is that they take weeks to work. And some of the side effects just plain blow. But...anything is better than feeling like your life doesn't matter. I've never thought suicide, but I've wondered why I was alive. What my life was worth. What it was all about.
It takes time for the meds to work. And when they do, it's not the magic bullet. You don't wake up on a Tuesday and say "wow! the world is beautiful! I'm alive again!" It's more like the fog slowly lifting, until one day you realize the sun is shining. It's slow. It's never fast enough. It's a process of finding the right med at the right dose. It's hard. BUT...once you find that perfect dose of that perfect med, you're good to go. I've taken the same medication for six years, with no signs of depression and no side effects. That's success.
Yes, I get sad. But that's part of life. I should get sad when my dog dies or my feelings are hurt. But the depression is gone.
I went on and off depression medications three times before I was 20. My doctor told me he followed the "three strike rule." If you go off and on three times, it's not situational (like a death in the family, loss of job, etc.). It's an imbalance within the chemicals in my brain.
Every three or four years, my mind outsmarts the antidepressant, and I have to switch. That's not fun. But it's manageable. I slowly go off one and go onto another to decrease the withdraw symptoms. And it's okay. It ups my anxiety, but I can manage that, too.
Depression is evil. It's sneaky. You don't even know it's there until it's in control, and you're crying in bed, not knowing what's happening or how you even became this shell of yourself. And getting that control back is extreme work. But I fully believe that there is a med out there for everyone. Talk. Give it time. Realize that there are others that have felt THE EXACT SAME WAY. You're not the only one who can't get out of bed today. And this isn't the last day you'll feel this way.
But if I can do it, then so can you. Depression sucks. BUT...things could be worse. Cancer, diabetes, ALSmeds work, and that I have such an amazing family that takes care of me, watches for signs, and strives to understand.

Well...I'm spent. I could talk about how it feels forever...it literally affects every aspect of your mind and body. But that's how my depression feels, in a nutshell...

What DO you get a Redneck Husband for Valentine's Day?

2012-02-08T18:27:00.000-05:00

Apparently, Spongebob sleepy pants from WalMart. I love them. And they're under our $10 limit. If I can ever snap a photo of him, I'll post it.
My other ideas were Moonshine (he has two jars in the fridge, though), beer...ummm, yeah...we have a beer fridge, and liquor. That would be in the beer fridge with the moonshine and beer.

A Love Note for the Redneck Husband

2012-01-29T15:15:00.000-05:00

I took Juni to Great Wolf Lodge Thursday. Jasen stayed with us that night, but headed back Friday. So it was the "Juni & Mommy Roadtrip of 2012." And it was awesome. I gained 5 pounds noshing on pancakes, waffles and ice cream for breakfast, lunch and dinner. We swam, bowled, played in the arcade, and swam until our fingers and toes were nice and prune-y.
I figured Jasen would burp beer and fart turnips all night, but I still wanted him to know I was thinking about him. I know how he gets into bed...like a walrus plops onto a rock. No attention to the pretty pillows or sweet-smelling sheets. Just a humph and a plop. And snoring. Lots and lots of snoring.
A note atop his pillow wouldn't work. So where do you place a note for your Redneck Husband? I decided to think of where he spends his time.
The toilet? Putting a note on the toilet seat just seemed wrong. Very, very wrong. The fridge? I'm thinking he's seeing only food when the door opens. My note would get trampled. On the vanity, by his deodorant? I was out of town...no telling if he'd touch the Arm & Hammer that day or not. By the beer would definitely work, but he may decide to break out the Jack Daniels with me out of town. His truck is a mess, and it smells funny. Plus his idea of taking a message consists of tiny pieces of paper strewn throughout the entire vehicle. His sock and underwear drawer? Again...I'm out of town. He could wear his long johns all weekend for all I knew.
I decided my best bet was inside the shower, on top of his Pantene. I know. Not extremely romantic, but it's the only thing I knew he'd do while I was out of town...I knew that after a day in the waterpark, he'd take a shower. It worked.
That night I called him because Juni was crying, missing Daddy. And Jasen said he found the note, and that it made him feel good. Point scored for the wife...

Valentine's Day Gifts

2012-01-24T12:06:00.000-05:00

I'm busy creating lots of thoughtful, handmade Valentine's Day gifts for my friends, so this blog is on hold for a few days...check out what I'm creating on my other blog...

http://randomthoughtfulness365.blogspot.com/

Cooking for Jasen

2012-01-13T10:57:00.000-05:00

Despite my complete hatred over Jasen assigning me a resolution, I decided to swallow my pride, suck it up, and try to cook a few things. Damn it.
This week I tried homemade chicken and dumplings. We're talking pastry blenders, rollings pins, the whole bit. It was beautiful. I added extra spices and veggies, and leftover chicken from my first attempt at feeding a picky husband who compliments his own cooking ad nauseum.
He gets home, and I'm helping Juni with his homework. The kitchen is immaculate. The house smells like comfort food, and I'm completely proud of myself.
He asks what's for dinner, I tell him, and he takes a peek. And the conversation begins...
Jasen "So, what does this go over? Rice? Noodles? Ohhh....egg noodles would be good."
Me: "It's chicken and dumplings. It's a one-pot meal. There's chicken, peas, carrots, corn, and dumplings. The dumplings ARE the starch."
Jasen: "Okay! I was just asking."
Me: "K."
Five minutes later...
Jasen: "How about some cornbread to go with it? That's sounds awesome! But I'll cook it. You don't know how to make cornbread like I do."
Me: Silent for 15 seconds, then "You're effing kidding me, right?"
Jasen: "I was just sayin', it would be good. But if it's going to hurt your feelings, never mind."
Me: "Of course it hurts my feelings! What did I tell you? I cook, you eat, and you don't complain. That's how this is going to go. If you complain, I don't cook, and I kill you. Got it?"
Jasen: "Why are you so mean to me? I just want some cornbread. You know what? Never mind the cornbread I'll just eat this. This is fine."
Me: "Okay! Mommy needs a timeout. I'm going to fill Juni's tub, you wash him, and I'm taking a shower. A long one. I swear, if you knock on that bathroom door I'll ... I don't even know. Do NOT knock on that door. Seriously."
Jasen: "Damn...don't you think you're over-reacting a little?"
Me: "Babe...I love you. But you're driving me crazy."
Thirty-five minutes later. Jasen takes his shower, I have everything ready to eat when he comes downstairs, including his sweet tea.
Immediately, he douses his bowl with pepper. I manage to not yell at him for not at least trying it first. But believe me...my blood is still boiling.

New Years Resolutions can kiss it

2012-01-12T10:57:00.000-05:00

I'm not a fan of New Years Resolutions. Every year I make one, usually to loose weight, I succeed for 50 seconds and then fail. Enter the guilt, and depression. Not good.
Last year I decided to make life resolutions...small changes that will make a big difference in my everyday experiences. 2011 was to realize what I have, and the struggles most people face. In other words, get over myself. I decided to realize that my life rocks. And things could be worse. For example, if I had a tummy ache, I'd let myself feel sorry for about 3 seconds. And then I'd thank God my tummy wasn't upset from chemo. Perspective was my life resolution. Something I try to gain each and every day. So far, so good.
This year I decided my life resolution was thoughtfulness. Jasen laughed. But I decided to make myself accountable. Check it out here http://randomthoughtfulness365.blogspot.com/.
I mentioned Jasen laughed. He said my resolution was too broad. Here's how the conversation went:
Jasen "You should have the resolution to make and master 10 new recipes. You don't cook enough. You're cooking more than before, but not enough. And not with your heart."
Me: "So...you're giving me an assignment? Okay, Dad. Here's the thing. I used to cook for you all the time. And you never complimented me. Actually, every time you cook, you say it's the best in the world. This is the best shrimp ever! This is the best steak I've ever had! You love your cooking. And when I cook, you hover over my shoulder and tell me how to do things. Not fun. Before Juni was born, I cooked all the friggin time. But you made it miserable."
Jasen: "Okay, how about five?"
Me: "Seriously? Are you kidding me? I'm not your kid! You can't give me my resolution! I'll try to cook more, but I swear. If you hover, or tell me it's too healthy, or don't tell me you like anything, I'll never cook anything for you, ever again. Jackass."
Jasen: "Why are you so mean to me?"
Me: "Are you friggin kidding me? Dude...so, what's your resolution?"
Jasen: "Don't have one. There's nothing I need to change."
Me: "I can think of a few."

And that's when I turned over in bed, completely pouting. The next thing I know, he's snoring. I have begun to cook more. And he still is completely convinced he needs no resolutions to change anything. Argh.

August? Really???

2012-01-05T09:49:00.000-05:00

It's been AUGUST since I've found time for my blog? That's just insane. Granted, kindergarten took me a while to adjust to...I'm just not a 5:50 a.m. kinda girl. But that's just rediculous.
Today is a new day. Today, I begin making time for myself. I've kept notes about insane stories to write about. And I'll get there. But first thing's first. Resolutions...

I am not a fan of New Year's Resolutions. They suck. Set you up for failure. Every year mine are the same. Lose weight. Don't argue with my husband so much. Spend more time with Juni. But those are things I'll never feel secure about. I'll never feel happy about my weight. I try daily not to pick at my husband so much...relationships are work, and I go to work every day. And I could never spend enough time with Juni. I will always call my Mom Role Model, my mom, in tears, wondering if she felt the same inadequacy I feel. And she did! The Ultimate Uber-Mom felt the same was! Jackpot. If SHE questioned herself, then everyone will. There is no possible way to be a better mom than mine. End of story.
So...I'm taking a cue from two of my friends, who have inspired me throughout the years. Jenn and Cathy. Jenn is the true definition of an artist. She finds art every day, and even keeps several successful blogs up to date about her creations. Inspiration No. 1. Cathy is one of the most thoughtful people I know. She randomly sent me homemade apple sauce. From Kentucky. I felt like an ass. All I sent her was a Christmas card, and ordered a few football tickets in advance for her family. Inspiration No. 2.
The result: 365 Acts of Thoughtfulness. That's my goal. And it's totally do-able. I'll keep track on my blog. And notice...it's not 365 days...some days are better than others. Some days, I suck. And that's okay. Jenn creates art every day. I envy her. And I'm reasonably thoughtful every day, but my resolution isn't about reasonable. It's about thinking. Going out of my way. Doing something out of the ordinary.
So...here's the new blog...365 Random Acts of Thoughtfulness.

My first delve into the Grassfed, Organic Beef Market

2011-08-29T15:30:00.001-04:00

This is what I posted on craigslist today...let me know if you're interested!

http://norfolk.craigslist.org/grd/2572060182.html

This bull is a Gelbveigh. He would be great as a bull, or a meat steer. Since he's grassfed, We'll wait a few more months to castrate him, so he gets the growth hormones naturally, but not the sexual hormones that come with puberty. The calf is three months old, and just under 200 pounds. I'll post more pictures as I can. The large bull is his daddy, and the cow in the back is his momma. Stay tuned for better pictures!
In case you're infamiliar with the breed, here is a bit of information: They're large. And fairly rare for this area. If you breed a Gelbviegh to a Black Angus, you get a Balancer. Gelbvieghs are highly sought after in the meat market, but are usually too expensive to find in your average grocery store.
This particular bull has perfect confirmation. Both parents are on site. He's never had a bit of grain in his life, and has more than enough grass. Fresh, untreated water flows every day. We do not use hormones or antibiotics, and our fields don't receive an ounce of pesticides or fertilizer (except for what the cows naturally leave behind.) All of our cows have a trace mineral lick available, and are treated as pets until it's their time to feed families.
Here is how the meat pricing works:

1. A $150 non-refundable deposit is required, to cover the cost of castration
2. You tell us at what weight or age you'd like your cow slaughtered. If you round him up and deliver him to Central meats (off of Kempsville, and the most humane slaughter house I've found) there's no transport charge. If we do it, the cost is $50.
3. Each cow crosses the scale just before slaughter...that's when you know exactly what they weight, and how much you'll pay. We will charge you the WHOLESALE price for grassfed, organic meat on the day of slaughter. Basically, you're cutting out the markup from the few stores that carry this type of meat. Plus, you know for sure what you're getting. You can even visit if you'd like!

4. You are responsible for creating the list of how you'd like your meat cut...that's the best part! You can tell them how thick, how much hamburger, if you'd like the bones for your dogs...you get to decide the cuts you want.
5. Central meats charges a slaughter and packaging charge, just like any other grocery store. When you pay me for the meat, I will release it from Central to you.
The best way to make this work, unless you have a sub-zero, stand-alone freezer, is to go in with family, friends, neighbors...anyone who would like truly grassfed, organic meat. And who wants to save significant money in the process.
Please email me with any questions!

Editing Services

2011-08-29T15:06:00.000-04:00

I've always planned to return to work after Juni began school. Who knew kindergarten lasted just 3 hours a day, and that he'd return home before lunch?
So much for entering the workforce this year. So I'm improvising. I'm beginning to break into the grassfed, organic meat market...stay tuned for an explanation in another post.
This post is about editing. Books, articles, blog entries, school papers, dissertations...you name it, and I'll edit it.
My first endeavor is for a 75-year-old man self-publishing his first book. I'm beyond excited! I can make a financial contribution to the Norge household! Whoopee!
My point is, if you you or anyone you know could use some help, let me know. I understand each writer needs a different level of editing, so prices vary. But the quality remains the same...can you say toot-toot? My editing philosophy is to take what you create and make it better. The trick is to improve...not change. Writing is a personal expression of self. It's scary to let someone else critique what you've spent hours, days, months or sometimes years perfecting.
But everyone needs a professional eye. Our brains read work we've written with a preset notion of what the page reads. Interesting, but difficult to overcome. So email me, and let me help!

Has it REALLY been TWO months?

2011-08-29T15:00:00.002-04:00

Wow. No wonder I have the writing itch. But I'm not gone forever. I'm never down and out. Just enjoying the summer with Juni, who starts KINDERGARTEN in 8 days. Geeze. On of my goals when he goes to school is to write more!
So...stay tuned for more stories from a Redneck's Wife...I've been keeping a list!

The day the sheep kicked my bootie. And leg. And arm. And skull.

2011-06-22T06:41:00.001-04:00

When I think of sheep, the cute, giant cotton-ball image comes to my mind. Little did I know, there exists what's called a hair sheep. They're tall, like a goat, thin and fast. Very fast.
Sadie, my sweet yet inept Australian Shepard, needs herding lessons. Bad. She herds the chickens into he pond, kids around the front yard, the guineas into the woods next door, and the cows back and forth through the pasture.
I took her to a local trainer a few weeks ago. Apparently, my Sadie is a herding genius. I, on the other hand, need some work. A lot of work.
The trainer placed herself, Sadie, and three hair sheep in a small round pen to try out her natural instincts. She began herding them like it was her job. Instinctively picking up on the trainer's signals, and running those sheep like it was her job.

Am I sexy, or what? My vote is what.

My job was to simply walk across the ring and exit through the metal gate. The trainer said that if the sheep headed my way, to simply throw my hands in the air and they'll divert. It did not go well.

The first time they ran toward me, I threw my hands up and they scatter in the opposite direction. The second time they charge I raised my hands, and no such luck. I was backed against a 6-foot metal fence. And they ran UP me. Not around. Not over. UP.

I felt six front hooves dig into my leg. Then my forearms. They my forehead. I stumbled into the center of the ring, dazed and seriously confused. And crying behind my sunglasses because I was just that embarrassed. It was kickball in fifth grade all over again. I'd gotten smacked, and it hurt my body and pride.

The people watching rushed to open the gate, grab water, and Advil. Lots of Advil. Once I got over the initial shock, I realized just how beat up I was. My head pounded. I was bleeding. And I was sleepy.

I don't consider myself graceful. I'm always finding mysterious bruises from run ins with random tables, chairs and animals. But this time, The sheep kicked my bootie. And leg. And arm. And skull. One for the records.

They Call them Birdbrains for a Reason

2011-06-20T11:57:00.002-04:00

We've raised many birds over the years. Chickens. Geese. Ducks. And now guineas.
And let me tell you...they're all stupid. The ducks were afraid of water. The geese landed on the barn. Last week one of the chickens drowned in their own water bowls. And it takes the guinea's two hours to find their way out of their coops. If one is left in our out, it rams its chest against the chicken wire, not thinking to walk around to the door.
I may not have the most commonsense in the world. I count on my fingers. I can't do multiplication in my head. And I can't do percentages, even when armed with a calculator.
But so far I haven't drowned in my bathtub (except for the time when Jasen caught me passing out in the tub from Benadryl to get rid of the hives throwing my Dad's 50th birthday party gave me), I can find my way out of my house (although I can't find my key to get it) and I can back my car out of the driveway (except for the time I couldn't, and plopped into the ditch, and had to get Jasen to yank me out).
But the next time someone calls me a birdbrain, I'm going to kick their ass. Them's fightin' words, I tell you. Fightin' words.

i. Am. WONDERWOMAN...

2011-06-18T10:23:00.002-04:00

I woke up this morning feeling like I'd been run over by a Mac truck head-on. And smacked by a train from the other end. Then left to die between the two. My entire body screams with aches. I slithered out of bed. Almost poked my eye out with the mascara wand, because my fingers can't grip anything. Total muscle exhaustion in every inch of every muscle from my ears to my pinkie toe. And it feels awesome. Almost as awesome as last night.

Buttercup is in the front, followed by Big John
and the cow that had so much trouble last week.

I delivered Buttercup's calf last night. I know. Not something I ever consider in my realm of possibility. But I did it. Me. ME! Me. The sister who wears makeup every day. Even to the gym. Me. The girl who has too many shoes. None of which are covered in anything stinky. Me. The one who doesn't pick the chicken eggs because the coup makes me gag. ME!

I'd spent the day making pickles, doing the laundry, mowing the lawn, and hanging out with Juni's friend Kyle and his mom Grace. I love Grace and Juni loves Kyle. A match made in preschool heaven. Grace loves animals as much as I do, so when I noticed Buttercup by herself, circling and contracting, We both hooked the boys up with a cartoon and snacks, and we plopped a squat in the field, armed with a zoom lense camera and optimistic excitement.

Thirty minutes later the boys were running in the back yard, Buttercup had passed the bubble (her water breaking) and two hooves were sticking out of her by just inches. Wonderful. Just friggin wonderful. We both decided to head to the house, watch from the window, and have my cell phone ready to dial the vet. Thirty minutes after that, and I knew it was time to make the call. Calves can't take much labor. After an hour things get sketchy. Two hours, and all bets are off.

I called the emergency large animal vet over at The Oaks...I love them. Strong, kick-ass women with awesome attitudes. This was the second call I'd made in as many weeks. And I didn't want the same result as the last. Unfortunately, the vet was an hour-and-a-half away from my home. Fabulous. There was a possibility she could save the calf. I really didn't want to go through delivering a dead animal again. It's just not my style. So I asked her what I could do.

5 minutes old. If it's blury, it's because I was still shaking.

"Anything you can do with your hands and body strength won't hurt either one of them," she explained. "It's when you start using chains and come-a-longs that you can get yourself into a mess."

Fabulous. But that wasn't the best part...Jasen wasn't home. I dialed his cell. At least an hour before he'd roll down the driveway. My first thought? The f-bomb. Damn it! I am SO not cut out for this.

And then I looked out the window and saw Buttercup, mooing in pain, pushing for all she was worth, with no progress.

So I traded in my comfy pants for a pair of Levi's and slipped on my barn boots, which I wear maybe once a year. If it snows. Of course I forgot socks. Because who has time to run upstairs? Not me.

I decided I was going to do this full-out, or not at all. So I rolled under the hot wire. Rolled up my sleeves, and slowly walked up to the Daisy.

Here's something to know about Daisy. She's friggin huge. A good 1500 pounds of pregnant, heaving, mooing bovine. But she's calm.

Big John

The bull, on the other had, was not. He immediately trotted through the ditch with curiosity. I waved a stick at him. Yeah right. Big John is a ton of fun. Literally. He weighs a ton. I'm in the field, between a laboring cow and her 2,000 lb baby daddy, and he's dancing around me, trying to get to the action. So I ripped part of a 3-inch tree out of the ground, chased after him, and threw it at his head once he crossed the ditch. And wouldn't you know it...I hit square on. He shook his curly fat head, bucked and kicked and turned his fat ass around. Phew.

Daisy was standing. So I inched up behind her, and knelt down. Luckily cows can only kick to the side. She bent her head around and sniffed me. It's important to note something about a cow's nose at this point. It's not cute and cuddly like a horse. It's wet. And drooly. And snotty. And I didn't care.

Buttercup and her Little Man the night he was born.

She heaved down to the ground with the next contraction, and I grabbed hold of the hooves. Holy slipperiness. She tried to get up, so I patted her hip, and spoke to her like I would an injured dog. And she understood. She began to push, and I began to pull. And nothing moved, except me. I pulled so hard on the slippery suckers that I flew to the ground, on my ass, in cow crap. Excellent. I needed a towel. But was wearing a shirt. Good enough.

I wiped the hooves while she relaxes. Dug my boots into the ground, and sat. The next contraction, I effing pulled. And a little came out. So I wiped with my shirt, and pulled again. Inch by inch, wipe by wipe, I got to the knees.
And all progress stopped. Fabulous. Without thinking, I dove into the abyss. Up to my biceps in cow whowho. I grabbed on behind the knees, and heaved them out after the next set of contractions. But the head was stuck. She'd pushed so much with no problem that her cervix was swollen. I'd learned this from What to Expect when You're Expecting. It creates a ring, and the head can't come out.
Okay. So I knew what the problem was. And I knew how to fix it. The how to was what freaked me out. But what the hell. She'd pooped on me, I had amniotic liquid and goo on me, and I was sweating like a pig. No going back now.
So I stretched and rubbed and massaged while she relaxed, and pulled her open, allowing the tongue and nose to come through. The tongue sticks out because the contractions are so strong. I took a break, and noticed that the tongue was blue. And licking its lips. Holy cow...the cow was alive. I shouted to Grace, and the adrenaline kicked in full force.
I shoved both arms in to my biceps again, put my heels against her ass, and friggin pulled like I've never pulled before. She mooed and pushed. I growled and pulled. And talked to Buttercup like she could understand me. This calf was alive. I was not going to have the vet turn up with it dead. The head came out, and the next thing I knew, the body, up to the back hips, slithered out of her, on top of me. I was laying in the field with a baby calf covering my entire body. His head in my arms, on my chest.
He was covered in white goo ... the sac, and staring at me like I was an insane person. Which, let's face it. I was. He gasped his first breath, and Buttercup flopped her head to the ground. I got up, pulled the rest of the calf out, and Daisy lugged herself onto all fours. She was licking and grunting at him. And me. I guess she figured since I smelled like her baby, I needed some cleaning, too.
Another thing about a cow...their tongues. They are a slab of muscle covering in 10 grit wet sandpaper. Very strong. And exfoliating. I rubbed the calf, shooing the flies, and she cleaned.
And then it happened. A true adrenaline rush. I was shaking from head to toe, and crying with pride and amazement. I called the vet, and we both squealed in delight. I called Jasen, and I'm still thinking he doesn't believe me. I just kept talking to Grace. A play-by-play I tell everyone I see. Partially because I'm so proud of myself I just can't stand it, and partially because I still can't believe I did it. I even called Jasen's dad.
I sat in the field, propped against a tree, for hours. Helping him scramble to his feet. Begin to nurse, twirling his tail like a windmill in delight. Morph from this flopping sack of goo to a dry, adorable, giant deer-like calf. Jasen estimates he weighs a good 85 pounds. Huge.
He's limping a bit, but healthy and happy. I'm thinking the limping comes from me putting so much pressure on his knees that my hands don't work today. The joints in my fingers have never worked so hard. (Three days later, and they're still not working just right. And the little man is still a little wobbly.)
I've never been nastier, but I've also never done something like this disgustingly beautiful. I told everyone giving birth felt like being Wonderwoman. Seriously. We women rock. We grow a baby, and them shove them out. How awesome is that.
This was another Wonderwoman moment. I pulled an 85 pound calf out of a 1500 lb cow. With my bare hands. I am Wonderwoman. Seriously. Wonderwoman.

Buttercup, with A LOT of milk on Saturday...three days after the calf was born.

Girl POWER

2011-05-31T15:50:00.001-04:00

DISCLAIMER: This story is surely about girl power. Overcoming what appears too difficult to attempt. Women kicking ass and getting it done. But...it is also about delivering a dead calf. It's gruesome, gory and not for everyone. But it's part of being a Redneck's wife. For those of you who choose to read, enjoy. For those of you who skip this post, I don't blame you. I wish I could get the images out of my mind.

Our cows deliver one calf each year with no problem. We have the occasional calf die, but that's nature. Yesterday I came home to find a cow trying to deliver her first calf. I decided to record it. That's one tape I'll be rewinding and recording over.
She pushed for about 45 minutes, and I decided to call Jasen over. Much more than an hour of labor will kill a calf. The hooves were barely visible, and the cow wouldn't lay down in one spot for more than a few contractions. We decided to lead her into the pen, and try to help.
Helping a cow deliver is not easy. It's slippery, and hot, and sometimes needs a come-a-long. Jasen put his hands inside of her, grabbed onto the hooves, and pulled. Nothing. Except that he seriously pissed off the cow. She bolted, kicked sideways and thrust her lowered head at Jasen. Not good. We tried that route a few more times, and decided to let nature take its course. It was after hours for the vet. And like I said, we've never had problems with deliveries. I figured we'd go back out, and everything would be over.
Two hours later, at 9 p.m., Juni was snoring in his bed, and Jasen and I were again at the barn. I'm in my nightshirt and Birks, Jasen in his underwear and coveralls. With a flashlight. And lots of bugs. My job was to shine the light at the cow's whoowhoo, while Jasen tried to put the rope around the hooves and pull. Nothing doing. Except that we both needed showers afterward. At 11 p.m. we decided to again let nature take its course. The cow was soaked with sweat, breathing rhythmically, and pissed. But she was eating and drinking. We knew the calf was dead. It had been too long. But cows aren't like humans...it takes weeks for infection to set in. I'd hoped she'd pass it during the night.
This morning we checked at 6 a.m. The cow was in the same standing position, and in the same ornery mood as the night before. Jasen went to work and I called the vet.
I didn't know what to expect, other than a fight with this cow. The vet arrived at 10 a.m., and got out of the truck. First of all, it was a she. About 5'8 and maybe 130 lbs. And absolutely beautiful. She had an assistant. Also a woman, and shorter than me.
So I'm thinking this is a lost cause. We don't have a shoot for the cow's head. We have three women in 95 degree heat. And a very uncomfortable, aggressive, 900 lb cow. I'm not seeing good times ahead. I'm seeing cuts, and bruises, and heat stroke.
But within 5 minutes, the vet had roped the cow, tied her to the fence, and had an extra gate shoving her into the corner. Unbelievable. And just the beginning. She slipped her arm, up to her pit, inside and said "Holy shit. Holy shit! The calf is absolutely huge! I mean, seriously gigantic."
There was no way the calf would have been delivered without a C-section. And at this point, there was no way the calf was coming out whole.
At first I started to cry at the thought of butchering a calf before its birth. But then I remembered...it was already dead. And this was the least invasive way to save the cow.
The vet and her assistant began by threading a wire inside, wrapping it around the neck, and working the wire back and forth. The vet kept her arm inside, holding the body in place. She used every ounce of her weight to keep the cow stationary.
Twenty minutes later the vet put both arms inside, dug her boots into the concrete, and pulled. With every muscle of her body. The cow squirmed, but didn't make a sound. And then it came.
A head. The whole head. And nothing but a head.
I didn't realize they were severing the neck. I also didn't realize that was just the beginning.
The vet said by the look of the body, the calf died before labor began.
The cow relaxed after the pressure of the head was removed. She relaxed, and peed. Gallons. The urine came gushing out in spurts. As did the poop. And amniotic fluid. On the vet. She took a sip of water and kept working.
She took out each front leg. The lungs and heart. The sternum. Each half of the ribcage. Each hind leg. And the placenta. Piece by piece, goo by goo, hour by hour. At 1 p.m., three hours after we began, the calf was out, the buzzards were circling, and the vet was covered, head to toe, with innards and sweat.
The hair on her arms was matted with feces. She had placenta dripping from her clothes and hands. Her boots were soaked through with urine, fluid and diarrhea. Sweat dripped from her nose. And her hair was perfect, tousled on top of her head.
Through the entire ordeal, I was half horrified by what we were doing. And half amazed at the power these women held. Their muscles bulged. They didn't give up. They said they can do anything that they put their mind to. They used leverage instead of the strength only men have. And they smiled the entire time. Pure determination.
From what we can tell, the calf weighed a good 100 lbs. The average size of our calves is 50 lbs. The vet said it was the largest calf from a grass-fed cow she'd ever seen. And it's sitting in a pond of its fluid, waiting for Jasen to bury it. I'm too tired, too drenched with sweat, and too emotional.
It didn't bother me, taking out the calf. It's how the cow acted afterward. She wouldn't leave. She sniffed the pieces in confusion. A blur of instinct, and no baby to nurse.
The vet finally had to take a board to her head. Repeatedly. And finally, she slowly walked away, across the barnyard, and into the pasture. She didn't understand. She's grazing now, like nothing every happened. She's pumped full of antibiotics to deter infection, and medication to stimulate contractions to flush her system.
The vet's clothes were soaked through to her skin. She showered with the hose in our barn, scrubbing her arms with a wire-bristled brush. And drove off to her next appointment. It still amazes me that I was her first stop of the day.
Tomorrow, I'm putting the bull, Big John, up for sale. I can't have him breed this cow any time soon. And when she comes into season, he will literally run through the fences and hot wire to get to her. And I can't send her to the hamburger mill. I'm going to start over with the bull calf in the field. I'm going to do this right. Ethically.
C-sections, from what the vet said, are common in cows now. The bigger the calf, the bigger the profit. That's not for me. I want healthy, happy cows in my field.
I know this was a freak accident. Odds are it will never happen again. And I'm incredibly thankful for that. There's no way I could go through this day again. It's going to be a long time before I can walk by the pen and not see visions of what happened. Smell the stench of gasses, fluids and death. Hear belches, slurps and gushes. Feel the heat and disgust.
But with each word that I type, I feel a little better. A little more cleansed. A little more energized to raise these cows the natural, caring way. Despite the hardships, I enjoy the cows. And I enjoy the physical work I didn't think I was able to do. And I enjoy knowing that my cows are happy while they're here.
Being a Redneck's Wife is difficult. It's work, in every sense of the word. And sometimes, it's downright nasty.

The High School Nightmare

2011-05-28T06:40:00.000-04:00

Everyone has their recurring high school nightmare. I'm relatively lucky in mine...I'm fully clothed. Unfortunately, I've returned to high school after receiving notice that my diploma, and those that followed, don't mean jack unless I take a few more courses. A glitch in the system wiped out part of my school records, and my diploma is now rendered null and void. Lovely.
My friends in high school were amazing. They were brilliant. And beautiful. And successful. I keep in touch with some, and everyone is blooming. I feel lucky to have had them. They helped pull me out of my shell.
Last night was different than my normal high school nightmare. I didn't just return as an older student with the same personality I had as a teenager. I returned with my adult views and voice. It. Was. Awesome.
I told myself to suck it up and take my Ritalin. That I wasn't an idiot. Just attention-deprived.
I told myself to look up when I walked. That it was okay. That I could wear shorts, because my legs will never look better.
I told everyone that I wasn't a bitch because of the car I drove, or the house I lived in. That I was shy. And scared. And crying inside.
I told the uber-knot in my tummy to take a hike.
I told my senior boyfriend that I was not an idiot. That I was smart enough to study with him. That money would not make him happy. That he was the most self-righteous, pretentious person I'd ever met. And that cheating on someone because you don't know yourself is not okay. Lying is not okay. Breaking people down is not okay. And running up your girlfriend's credit card for her parents to pay off is not okay.
I told myself to not be embarrassed by not saying the right thing in every social situation.
I told myself to breath.
I also cried and yelled at the top of my voice the whole time. But no one listened. No one noticed. A true nightmare.
The only positive to last night's dream was that I woke up with a smile on my face. Waiting in the parking lot for me was not my teal mustang...it was a maroon Porche. The perfect ending to a perfect dream.

Passing of the Cow's Guard

2011-05-17T11:50:00.000-04:00

Jasen's grandfather Buddy has raised cows on our land since he bought it in the 1960s. He's now 86, and watching him operate the tractor is like waiting for a train wreck. Jasen rigged the tractor so it won't start. I grew tired of constantly looking out the window, waiting to see the tractor running across the field, Buddy laying in a ditch.
Buddy still comes out daily to feed the hungry beasts, but apparently forgot the other day. I know this because we arrived home to find every single cow standing in our back yard, tromping their tons of weight into the saturated ground, splattering pies as they ate and leaving behind ankle-breaking holes.
It's important to note here that I love the cows. They relax me. But I'll get to that in a moment. Jasen, on the other hand, despises them. The fences, the feeding, the babies. And most of all, the escapes.
This time, they might as well have eaten cash out of his money clip. they devoured an entire bale of hydromulch, and a bag of rye seed after bursting through the barbed-wire fence protecting Jasen's new barn addition. Pissed does not begin to describe my husband.
Sadie rounded up the cows and had them waiting at the red gate within minutes. But the damage was done. I was donned the new caretaker of the cows. And I've got to say, I don't mind.
As long as I have a decent pitch fork and tractor, the cows relax me. Here's why:
1. Feeding them in the winter is like meditation. They don't chew...they grind their food. Which sounds like water lapping upon a bulkhead. I lay on top of a roll and just listen. And then they begin to digest. Burps from stomachs one and two aren't so bad. But when they reach three and four, it gets a little hairy. And by hairy, I mean smelly. Then they begin to pee and poop. On each other. While they eat. Time for me to jet at that point.
2. The hay smells wonderful. Fresh and comforting. And when we serve peanut hay, the raw peanuts are an awesome snack.
3. A cow looks like a deer. Especially the young ones. They're sweet, and kind, and stupid beyond belief. The bull has eyes that bulge from his eye sockets. That freaks me out a bit, but Big John isn't so bad. He also isn't full grown just yet, so we'll see if I feel the same about him in a few years. The calves hide behind their mothers, or nurse while they eat. I love how they wag their tails like a windmill and lift their heads, milk drooling from the sides of their mouths, froth dripping from their noses.
4. Cows pick their noses. With their tongues. Gross, but cool. And cute when it's a calf.
5. Cows give birth silently. It amazes me. I've seen one birth from start to finish. Daisy's first calf. I saw her contracting in the field (arching her back away from the herd) and she followed me into the pen we had at the barn. I spread out straw, and she paced. With two little black hooves sticking out and kicking. Insane. Then she laid down, humphed with each push, and 25 minutes later had her little calf, which I named HotRod. She was exhausted and clueless, so I freed him from the sack, cleaned his nose, helped him up and watched him try to nurse. Unfortunately, she didn't have enough milk. So I bottle fed that calf for three months. One half-gallon every three hours until her mild came in. Insane! Her milk is wonderful now. She has a healthy bull calf in the field, and he's huge for his age. He can't stay, because cows are just so stupid they'll breed their mothers. I'm not a fan of line breeding. But he's adorable while he's here. And feisty as hell.
6. It's carrying on Buddy's tradition. I love Buddy. And he loves the cows. He'll stand at the pasture, watching them eat. So do I. After dinner, I go outside, and they slowly wander to the fence, sniffing and bowing their heads, trying to figure out just what I'm doing.
And honestly, what I'm doing is paying tribute. They're wonderful animals. And they deserve respect. They feed us. And my son realizes that. It's important to understand where the grocery store comes from. The earth and the animals. We personally don't eat our cows...they have names. And I don't eat things that I name. But they will eventually be on some one's plate. Until then, they're my pets. They're spoiled. And they're food for my soul.

Cow Poop Soup

2011-05-17T11:26:00.000-04:00

Yep. Jasen and Juni make cow poop soup this year. It's brewing and drawing flies in and giant blue bucket in the garden. I thought they were nuts.
Apparently, they're not. They're organic! This year, I bought three Guinea hens to eat the bugs out of the garden. No Sevin Dust for us. It's always freaked me out anyway.
And I used to cal Jasen a cheap-ass when it came to taking care of the cows. He wouldn't buy them grain. He bought cheap hay that wasn't fertilized. We didn't fertilize or spray our fields, or spray the cows for flies.
Well, come to find out, my Redneck Husband is on the cutting edge. Grain-feed beef apparently is all the rage. Who knew?
Even cow poop soup is in style. Too bad it smells exactly as it sounds.

Boundaries

2011-04-23T19:01:00.001-04:00

Yesterday I passed the site where a 13-year-old girl, Kelly Valentine, was killed while crossing Cedar Road in Chesapeake last week. Young teenagers held each other, wiped each other's tears, and had news cameras not more than two feet from there faces. The scene has nagged me for 24 hours now.
Don't get me wrong. I was trained as a news reporter. At Virginia Tech I would do anything to get ahead and impress my editor. I called the father of Mindy Summers, a girl who fell out of a dorm window and died. I called the roommate of a student who jumped off the back of Lane Stadium, rather than take his engineering final. I called the family of a boy who walked onto Rte 460, put his hands on his hips, and waited for a semi to smack slam into him, crushing both of his legs almost beyond repair. I called them hours after his first of many surgeries. While they were still standing vigil at the hospital.
I'm not proud, but I did it. Sometimes, those call are necessary. They're for the greater good. Unfortunately, Mr. Summers hung up on me. But the Lane Stadium story brought to light the stress of exams, and services the university provided students to cope. And the story of the kid on Rte 460 made people realize that college students face depression, anxiety, and very real stress. It was his second time attempting suicide. It put the signs of suicidal students in the minds of roomates, professors and parents.
Several years ago I wrote a story about Colin Stealey, a soccer star at Indian River who died when his car plowed into a tree and exploded. I went to the school from which I graduated, completely determined to keep the interviews professional. I tried to remember what I'd learned. Years of writing for a community paper had softened my hard edge.
But when faced with six grieving students and three choked-up coaches, I cried with them for an hour. My mascara ran. I couldn't finish my questions. I could feel their pain. I put down my list of questions, and we just talked. They talked about their grief. Their memories. Their healing.
The next day I got a call from my editor, asking me to grab my camera and run out to the accident site. Kids were gathering, creating a shrine. The mainsheet wanted pictures. They thought I could use my history with the kids to get close. At first, I was scrambling to find the correct lense, and matching shoes. And then I stopped. These were the same kids I'd cried with the day before. Their pain was raw. Real. Uncensored.
It was too close. I said I didn't feel it was right. He understood, and the mainsheet sent out some random photographer, who ended up being cussed at by a grieving 17-year-old. They still ran the shot of the teenages, huddling by the scorched tree. I think about them every time I drive past the now faded, tattered memories they laid at the site that day.
Watching the cameras surround those kids yesterday reminded me of just how motivated I once was to work at a large paper. The editor who had me call all those grieving families now works for the New York Times. He's ridiculously successful. And to be honest, every now and then I feel a twinge of jealously. That could have been me.
But yesterday I realized something. The Times doesn't write about the soccer star teenager. Or the waterboy who wants to play baseball like his big brother. Or the old man down the street with a story to tell. But those are the stories I want to write.
I want to write stories that make a difference. A few months ago I received a voicemail about a story I wrote seven years ago. It was a standard, 12-inch feature about a kid who played basketball. He wasn't a great student, and to be honest, I don't really even remember him. But he remembered me. And so did his mother.
She left the message to make sure I knew I had changed his life. He turned his grades around and sneaked into college. This May, he will graduate with a master's degree in education. The mother said the story was a turning point in this young man's life. He realized he was special. That he could be somebody.
I cried, and realized that I truly miss reporting. When Juni begins kindergarten this fall, I plan on calling the new editor at the Clipper (the Chesapeake city insert in the Virginian-Pilot), and ask the new editor if I can't wiggle my way back onto the correspondent list. At one time, I wrote more than any other of their correspondents. But once Juni came along, I faded into the background, and eventually disappeared. Writing is good for my soul. I need it like other people need air, water and food. It also gives me something. It gives me power.
But not the kind I once wanted. It's not the kind that comes with the New York Times. It's the kind that comes from a community paper. The kind that causes a mother to keep your phone number for seven years, leave a message, and make you cry.

Here's a link to the Colin Stealey story...
http://findarticles.com/p/news-articles/virginian-pilot-ledger-star-norfolk/mi_8014/is_20050306/indian-river-students-mourn-loss/ai_n41280655/

For Harold Higgerson

2011-04-13T15:50:00.002-04:00

A good friend of ours passed away this week. Harold Higgerson. His death marks the first time I've known someone who literally died of pure old age. He was 96.

Harold began Higgerson-Buchanan Inc.; at one time, his company was the largest earthmoving company on the eastern seaboard. They completed the site work for Greenbrier Mall. The Rte 168 bypass. I-64. Every time I see one of their sunshine yellow, pristinely polished dump trucks barrelling down the road Juni smiles and says "Mommy! That's a Don (Harold's son) truck!"

Jasen loves the Higgerson family. They have taken him under their wings, taught him, loved him as one of their own, and supported him and our business. Without them, Jasen says he would be no where. I don't know if that's particularly true, but you get the idea. The work they pass along to us is our bread and butter. These are loving, giving people. Whom I love, as well.
Jasen and I had been married about a year when I met Harold. He was 90. He'd given the reigns of the business over to his sole child, Don, and lived with Don and his wife in their mother-in-law suite.
I felt like I was going to meet The Grandfather. Jasen had so many stories of this hugely successful man I actually felt butterflies stir. What was I going to say to this man? Seriously...The Grandfather of sitework. And ridiculously good at it, too.
So imagine my surprise when I walk into the house. Here is this bear-of-a-man with hands the size of dinner plates. Swollen from years of work. He's sitting at the kitchen table, a paper towel tucked into his shirt. And he is literally devouring an entire Styrofoam box of Pollard's Chicken's liver and gizzards. Yellow grease drizzles down the creases of his chomping jaw. A pile of poultry bits is gathering on the floor, in his lap, and on his shirt.
He's hard of hearing, so I'm practically yelling "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Higgerson!" "Huh?" He says, his chicken treats spewing from his mouth. "You Jasen's wife?" "Yes, sir! It's nice to meet you!" "Nice to meet you too, young lady. What the hell are you doing with this kid?"
I love this man instantly. My grandaddy worked quite a bit with Harold, and always told me how much he respected him. My dad will attend the funeral tomorrow. As will probably 500 other people.
Juni will be in school, unaware that his Daddy is probably crying under his sunglasses. As will I. Anyone Juni loves, I love. He calls Harold "the old guy who rode the tractor and fell asleep in the shop with all the dumptrucks." Perfection.
I look at Harold's life as an ultimate specimen. He worked hard. Smiled hard. Came from literally living in a tent with his newlywed to owning one of the largest, most respected companies this area has ever seen. He oversaw the business and drove his tractor around the grounds less and less in his twilight, but people knew he was there. They listened when he spoke. They respected him. They loved him. He was burly and brash and lovely, all wrapped up into a working man's body.
And he died, peacefully. On his own terms. In his own time. Goodbye, Mr. L Harold Higgerson. You will forever stay in my family's hearts and minds. May you enjoy an endless supply of chicken liver and gizzards. You surely deserve them.

http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/pilotonline/obituary.aspx?n=l-harold-higgerson&pid=150238047

A Shitty Situation

2011-04-02T17:16:00.000-04:00

Literally. There was a day that I fell into shit. A lot of shit. It's funny now, but believe me. At the time, all I could do was cry.
I was 12. Not exactly the easiest time in a young girl's life. My parents say I had baby fat. Me, I just say it was fat. I couldn't wear makeup yet. Or shave my legs. Or pierce my ears. Or figure out how to wear my hair so it didn't look like a rat had taken up residence. Basically, I was an insecure mess.
So this day didn't help.One of my best friends growing up lived in a historical home that was registered with the historical society. All that means is that the house must remain preserved, and that all repairs, additions, changes, whatever have to go through the historical society.
I'm sure the family resented not having total domain over their home, but I'm also sure there's no excuse for what happened to me.
I fell into their septic tank. Up to my neck. In shit. Shit that was sludgy, thick and sticky. Shit that smelled like nothing I had smelled before. Beyond feces and urine and toilet paper. Beyond rot. The smell was raw. Putrid. Decay. Death. The kind of smell that forces your eyes to water, your nose hairs to burn and your throat to swell and heave.
My friend and I were running through the yard, and the tank had deteriorated so badly and for so many years that alligator grass had grown over top the sewage. Which is why I didn't know I would tumble like a rolypoly Alice into a hole of smelly hell.
I remember not being able to get out. Grasping at the earth, trying to push with my legs. But the sludge was too thick. My friend ran in to get her mom, and they had to drag me out.
Before I knew it, my mom arrived. And she was understandable irate. Not only because of the overall shitty situation, but because they were laughing. That's right, they were laughing. They were f'ing laughing. I still love them both to death, but at the time I'm sure my mom wanted to douse them with their own sewage just to shut their pieholes.
I sat on towels for the ride home, not quite sure what I'd fallen into. But I was 12. Not an idiot. I knew. I just couldn't accept it, or I'd have been covered in shit AND vomit. And that's just unfathomable.
I remember my mom filling her giant tub with the hottest water I could stand, and her washing me. I realize it's not particularly normal for a 12-year-old girl to have her mother wash her. But it's also not normal to be covered in shit, either. Think about this for a moment. Hair. Fingernails. Toenails. Unspeakable places. All covered in shit.
She'd wash me, drain the tub, rinse and repeat. I don't know how long this went on, but I'm assuming it took a while to not only disinfect me, but soothe my mom's very understandable fears. I mean, seriously. Raw sewage? I can't imagine the bacteria chomping away in that crap.
My mom was so enraged she reported the situation to the health department the next day. And I didn't go anywhere near that part of the yard ever again. It was like the corner of death to me.
So from that day forth, I was not only an overweight, broken-out-faced, hairy, bald-eared, insecure pre-teen. I was also the girl who fell into an endless hole of shit.

Must we Mention Shelby Every Other Day?

2011-03-03T11:21:00.000-05:00

As per a previous post, we all know I ran over my beloved Shelby last September. It was a horrific event. I'll never forget it. It sucked. I had to call in reinforcements at the emergency vet, a.k.a. my mom and sister. The trauma of that night still hurts. I loved Shelby. Always will.
But here's the thing with kids. Not only do they not forget, they mention it. A lot. Here are a few examples, most of which take place in the car.

"Mommy? Remember dat time you ran over Shelby?" "Yes, Juni. I remember." "I loved my Shelby, mommy." "I know, Juni. But she's in puppy heaven, with Maddie." "I know, Mommy. But Mommy? The next dog we get, after Duchess dies and goes to puppy heaven...I wanna name dat dog Shelby, too." "Umm...yeah...I don't think so, Juni." "But why? I just love my Shelby." "Juni...Juni, let's talk about something else."

"Mommy?" "Yes, Juni." "I can tell you something?" "Yes, Juni." "I never gonna not love my Shelby." "I know, Juni. Me neither." "You runned her over, you know." "Yes, Juni. I realize this."

"Mommy?" "Yes, Juni?" "I love our new puppy Sadie." "I know, Juni. She's cool, isn't she." "Yeah, she is. But you know what? She not catch the Frisbee in the air like our dog Shelby." "I know, Juni. But she's only 18 months old. She's a puppy still. We'll teach her when it's warmer outside." "Okay. But you know you runned Shelby over, right?" "Yes, Juni. I still realize this."

"Mommy?" "Yes, Juni?" "When Nanny and PaPa die, can we put black balloons on their rock (headstone)?" "Yeah, no, Juni. How about white, since they're going to Heaven?" "Yeah, dat's better. Mommy, will Shelby be in their Heaven?" "Yes, Juni. She will." "You runned her over, you know." "Yep. I absolutely realize this."

"Mommy...I found that stuffed animal you have that looks like Shelby that your Mommy gave you when you in college." "You did, huh." "Yep. It hidden." "Huh...I wonder why." "You know what Mommy? Now I can play with Shelby any time I want! It not the same, though, Mommy. I think I'll sleep with Shelby stuffed dog tonight." "That's nice, Juni. Let's go outside and play with Sadie, okay?" "Yeah, let's do that. But Mommy, you know what? You runned over Shelby." "Yep. got it. I killed the dog. I'm a certified dog-killer. You know what Juni? I'm not a fan of these conversations."

Juni Turns 5

2011-03-01T15:16:00.001-05:00

My little man is five. It's hard to believe it. The parties went great. Perfect. Good friends, good food, the most amazing cakes ever.
But that night, I crashed and burned. I took out his baby books. And watched video footage from when he was 2. I knew better. I knew what would come next.
Pure, pathetic, panic. The bad kind. The kind that makes my heart race. My body flush. My mind race. This was not just my run-of-the-mill anxiety. It was a full-fledged panic attack.
Fun times. So I took my meds, and poured a skinny girl margarita. And then the tears came. In the shower, at dinner, During tv time. Just asked what was wrong with my eyes, and I said it was allergies. That satisfied him. Jasen said I was insane. Not shit, Sherlock.
But I'm also a mom. A mom who is 33, and who has maybe 7 years of good eggs left. What an appropriate reason for a second child? Because Juni wants a "brober?" Because, in my anxiety-ridden mind, if anything happened to Juni I couldn't survive, but if I had a second child I would have to carry on for the younger sibling? Insanity. I know.
And what are the appropriate reasons to not have another child? I actually almost barely like my body the way it is? I don't want to go through the anxiety like before? I'd have to stop taking my new meds, and wing it with therapy alone, risking a complete breakdown?
The answer, of course, is that I don't know. And I don't want to think about it. Not yet, anyway.
So I let the emotions rush through me. I decided that for just that night, I would mourn the loss of my preschooler, and begin calling him a soon-to-be kindergartner the next day.
That night, I passed out in his bed. He slept with his arms around me all night. I woke up, sweating from the plastic mattress cover, barely able to move from the still mattress, and with a killer headache. And had to listen to Jasen bitch about me not coming to bed.
But it was worth it. It was worth it, because in what will seem like minutes; seconds even, Juni won't want me to read to him at night. He won't want to cuddle before bed. He won't need me to help him in the middle of the night. And he definitely won't want me crashing in his bed. Which makes me absolutely crushed, and absolutely excited for what his life holds.
Being a Mom is an absolute roller coaster of emotions. I don't want out of the Mom deal...that rocks. But I would like off of the roller coaster, please. I've never been a big fan to begin with.

Soup with the Redneck

2011-02-28T11:41:00.000-05:00

My husband is a phenomenal cook. He can pile what looks like a load of crap into a pot and onto the grill, and out comes a culinary masterpiece. Last night, it was soup made from leftovers. A delectable, refrigerator-cleaning bowl of yumminess.
Problem is, eating soup next to Jasen is anything but a masterpiece. Juni couldn't wait for dinner before his bath time, so it was just Jasen and I perched at the bar. At first, I felt elated that he scooted next to me. Usually, Juni plops down in the middle chair.
It began with the seasoning. Pepper so heavy it lofted my way and made my eyes water and burn, and sneeze. I'm estimating about 3/4 of the pepper actually made it into the bowl. The rest landed on the bar. Waiting for me to sponge it off. Lovely.
Then began the actual eating. I swear, it was like the man hadn't eaten in 32 days. Noodles slurped into his mouth, spewing chicken broth droplets on the side of my cheek. And of course on the bar, again, waiting for the sponge.
I'm quirky. I know this. One of those quirks happens to be hearing people eat. As a child and teenager, I couldn't eat cereal near my mom. She crunched too loud. Jasen brings an all new meaning to loud eating. He slurps. He sips. He moans and groans in glutenous happiness. Makes me laugh and drives me crazy, all at the same time.
Later that night Juni passed out on the couch before his bedtime. I don't know what I was thinking, but I thought it would be nice to eat orange slices in bed with Jasen. Yeah...not so much. I thought eating soup was loud.

#26

2011-02-26T14:10:00.000-05:00

There's a No. 26 to my previous 25 revealing things. I believe that being honest about mental health helps to educate people, and that if sharing my story can help just one person in my situation, then it's worth it. When I told people I struggled with depression, they shared their stories. When I was diagnosed with the panic disorder, More people asked questions and revealed their own struggles to me.
Well, as luck you have it, I am officially a mess. I've always been a happy person. Sometimes too happy. So excited that I'd grab Jasen and shake him too hard. Drive too fast. Spend too much. Or do things that were completely out of character, like sewing (which I hate), or staying up all night. Running on no sleep. Little Food. Little thought process. My life would fly by like a movie...without me participating, but as a spectator. I would feel like I wasn't myself. Think thing that I normally wouldn't think. Consider things I normally wouldn't consider. And occasionally, the happiness would get so out of control, my brain, and actions, were out of control as well.
After years of struggling to hide what I knew was Bipolar disorder, I hit another manic phase. A bad one. Some people spend money, drink, have sex, leave their lives, or use drugs to get through the high that is mania. I did none of these things. But I did put relationships at risk with behavior that is totally not like me.
My official diagnosis? Bipolar I with a lower-level of disassociation, non-psychotic episodes and no hospitalization needed. I know...a long-assed diagnosis. Which at first scared the petunias out of me. Basically, it means that when I'm manic, there are risks. For me, it's to relationships. Because I act in ways that aren't true to my self. I'm irrational. I don't think about what I'm doing or saying. And that hurts other people. Disassociation means I literally feel like a different person. I don't remember some of the mania. I act out of character, and don't understand why or what I've done after it's over. It's not multiple personalities...I'm not that crazy. It's hard to describe, but it's been researched, and does exist.
There's a cycle to Bipolar. Ups and downs. Mine are far and few between. A "dangerous" mania once every 4-5 years. They last a few weeks, and I'll either do something out of character, or be the happiest person you've ever met. Like I'm jumping out of my skin with elation. I don't cycle through the lows because I was already on antidepressants. Some people cycle several times a day. I don't envy them.
This is part of the reason I've decided to do a total mind, body and soul renewal. I'm in semi-intensive therapy. I'm seeing a new psychiatrist every 6 weeks. I'm taking a new medication (Lamictal, which regulates my brainwaves to stop the manias. It's not quite a mood stabilizer like Lithium). I've lost 20 pounds, and take better care of my body. I try to look in the mirror and not gag.
I'm working on my marriage more than ever and trying my damnedest to fix what I've almost broken. And I'm learning about my condition as much as possible. A second child may not happen, because the risks are too much with my new meds, and a mania could be even worse with the pregnancy hormones. So that's a downer. But other than that, things are slowly getting better.

A friend of mine told me a few weeks ago that "I wish I could spend one day in your body...In your life. You're so lucky."
Yes, I am. I lead an extremely charmed life. My husband is supportive, forgiving, an amazing provider, and is helping to change our relationship. My son rocks. My house rocks. My family rocks. And I'm not totally unattractive.
But step inside. First I spend my childhood and teen years not knowing I was having panic attacks. Then I spent years trying to dig myself out of depression. I've spent years hiding my mania. Thinking there was something seriously wrong with me. Nervous. Scared. Terrified someone would find me out. Hiding within my mind.
I look in the mirror and don't see what others see. I see cellulite. Huge pores. Bulges. And a woman who has struggled to love her mind and body ever since I can remember. I've been on accutane three times. I was on facial antibiotics more times than I can remember. I was on Retin-A for countless years. And I have the internal, and external scars to show that acne is a real bitch.

I know there's a stigma assigned to Bipolar. And it's there for a reason. Some people are completely out of control. And I feel for them. It's hard to give up a high that is so amazing I can't find the words. Finding words is my thing. And the depression some people feel are so deep, so dark, that suicide is their way out. They become desolate. Homeless. Obese. The statistics are terrifying.
That's not me. I'm not a threat to anyone. I'm a good mother. I'm a good person. I'm a good friend. And I'm not scared anymore of who I really am. I'm crying right now as I write this, but that's just because it's freeing to finally reveal something I've spent so long denying.

We can't hide from who we are. We can't change our chemistry. If you looked at my brain on an MRI during a manic episode, it literally looks different than yours. I can't help that. But I can help myself control the urges and phases. I can take my medications. I can talk to my therapist. I can ask for help. I can be more honest. And maybe by making myself vulnerable, a target for the jokes and stigmas, I can help someone else. We are who we are. And some day, everyone must face that fact. For me, I hope to accept it and maybe even embrace it.

25 Things

2011-02-25T14:00:00.000-05:00

This was a viral on Facebook a while back. Thought you may enjoy it...

1. i can tell when it's going to rain because the bunion on my left foot starts to throb.

2. doctor's wanted to break both of my feet and do reconstructive surgery because of said bunyons. my mom said no because i would have had two full leg casts and wouldn't have learned how to walk on time. she said no. i wish she'd said yes. if i have the surgery now i'm looking at months on crutches and in a cast.

3. my husband was my first "real" boyfriend. i was 15. he tracked me down 9 years later and the rest is history. we met at the skating rink.

4. i watched my sister give birth 6 weeks ago. it was one of the most amazing moments of my live.

5. my sister helped me give birth almost 3 years ago. that was the most amazing moment of my life.

6. i almost died when i was 5. something called epiglautitis, where your throat closes for no apparent reason. they flew in a surgeon from richmond to chkd and he put a tube down my throat. i remember pretty much everything. i came home on christmas eve.

7. i'm terrified of tongue depressors. result of doctor jamming depressor down my closed throat, vomiting, and choking.

8. i can put my fist in my mouth. comes in handy when a doctor presents a tongue depressor. much easier just to flip-top my head.

9. i'm double jointed. which comes in handy sometimes, but also hurts. my joints pop out while i swim, sleep, stretch...

10. i was the editor in chief of the collegiate times, virginia tech's newspaper, my senior year. it was great and horrible at the same time. way too stressful for me.

11. i still have the tab from blackburg from my 21st birthday. i drank 22 drinks and was sick for 3 days.

12. i can't drink much anymore. more than a glass of wine gives me a panic attack.

13. i have a relentless panic disorder. i've been on medication for years.

14. i have ADD. i took medicine in college and grad school, but struggled in high school.

15. i usually feel very out of place during social situations. the most moronic things will come out of my mouth for no apparent reason. i usually end up feeling like an idiot.

16. my son didn't sleep for more than 45 minutes at a time until he was 9-and-a-half months old. that means i didn't sleep for more than 45 minutes at a time until he was 9-and-a-half months old. he still wakes up several times a night, and i usually end up in his bed by morning.

17. i had night terrors and insomnia as a child. they did a sleep study on me.

18. i still count on my fingers.

19. my favorite tv shows are My Name is Earl and House. i think they both reveal sides of the human condition. I've also added Grey's Anatomy, and pretty much anything having to do with housewives.

20. i stare at imperfections on my face every night while sitting on my bathroom counter with my feet in the sink. not comfortable or sexy in any way. It's an unhealthy obsession.

21. i have nightmares just about every night, mixed in with two or three other extremely vivid dreams. i sometimes mix up my dreams for reality.

22. i once covered the supreme court.

23. my most recurring dream is that i'm back in the dorms with paula, but am married and have juni, so i have to commute. it SUCKS.

24.i have 11 cows, 10 chickens, 2 dogs, 2 cats and quebert, my goose, with his wife and six kids from last spring living in my back yard. i have a big back yard.

25. my biggest fears are 1. something bad happening to juni and 2. growing old.

What in God's Name is the SOUND?

2011-02-24T11:21:00.001-05:00

I do not throw up. Okay, wait. That's not entirely true. I've thrown up once in the past 25 years. I had a stomach bug a few years ago, as written in a previous post. But, I did manage to make it through my 21st birthday, sick as a dog, rocking back and forth and not throwing up for three days. Not an ounce. I made it through pregnancy, dry-heaving for months, lurching over the toilet, toting my big blue plastic bowl around the house. Nothing. I even made it through Juni's projectile vomit without one drop of sympathy puke.
I will pray to whatever power will listen to not throw up. I'll sweat, cry, plead and beg. I realize no one enjoys throwing up. But I absolutely despise it.
Jasen, as in basically other aspect of our lives, is the polar opposite. No, he does not enjoy throwing up, but he'll take a good Pukefest over feeling the least bit queasy. A bit too much Jack Daniels and he's on the front steps, leaving his dinner for the dogs. A steak he let get a little too green and he's on the back porch fertilizing the roses. Stomach bug? Not for long. You get the picture.
I don't mind it when Jasen looses his lunch outside. It's when he's inside that there's an issue. The other night proved a classic example.

My Dad prepared his absolutely delicious mussels in wine and butter broth. Tasty does not begin to describe this dish. Jasen had not so much as swallowed a single mussel for about eight years, since the last time my dad made them. That time, he used butter. A lot of butter. I'd venture to guess Jasen ate a good pound of mussels. And an even better pound of butter. Later that night, he puked a good pound of mussels, and an even better pound of butter. After the other night, I'm thinking Jasen is allergic to mussels.
I've reached my un-scientific diagnosis because this time was different. There was very little butter. They were delicious in every way. My stomach welcomed every tasty bit of shellfish delight.
So imagine my surprise when I hear Jasen puking at 2 am. Everyone's husband pukes. I realize this. But here's what makes mine different:
When Jasen really has a good puke, it lasts for hours. Two, in this particular instance. Two hours of puking. Two hours of torture for him, and me.
And here's why it's torture for me. The sound in insane. There are no words to describe. But I'll try. The volume jolts me out of a dead sleep. Even a Klonopin-induced sleep. Granted, I'm a light sleeper, but this sound causes me to sit straight up in bed, terrified there's an earth quake. Or some sort of alien invasion. Or an airplane headed straight for the front yard.
It's like he's puking from his pancreas. Hoo-waa, Hoo-waa...similar to Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman. Only in a demonic voice. I've witnessed the event with my eyes only once. It freaked me out so bad I'll never walk in again. He pukes with his entire body. Muscles I didn't think he had bulging. His hair on end. His face tomato-red. I asked him once why he was so violent with the event. I thought maybe he had some sort of exotic disease that caused his puking mechanism to go haywire.
"I want to get it all out. When I'm pukin', I'm not playin'. You sit there crying over the toilet. I'm not into that. I want that shit out, man. You gotta just get it out."
Gotcha. So he's forcing the contents of every internal organ out through his mouth. I get it. The other night, I drifted in and out of sleep after asking him if he needed anything and he replied "ugh...hoo-waa...no, babe...hoo-waa. I'm fine. Don't come it. F'in mussels. I'm never touching f'in mussels again in my life. hooooo-waa." Flush.
Here are some other choice phrases that woke me up.
"Oh, my God. I though mussels smelled bad before they were digested."
"These f'ers taste f'ing horrible."
"Damn. Damn! Hoo-waa, hoo-waa." Flush.
"Ohhhh...lord. Hooo-waa. I have to get up in two hours. Hoo-waaaaaaa." Flush.
Apparently, he decided at some point to gargle some of my mouthwash to try and mask the taste of mussels, bile and our accompanying dish, spaghetti. Yep. Spaghetti. Everyone's favorite food to expel. the mouthwash was a version of Listerine meant to help whiten teeth. Which means it contains peroxide. Foaming peroxide.
"Oh holy Hell. What the Hell is in the shit? Jesus. I'd rather taste the puke. Oh God...it's drizzling down the back of my throat...Hoo-waaa. Hoooooo-waaaaa....HOOOO-WAAAA." Flush.

And then, just as abruptly as it began, it was morning. Towels from wiping his mouth were in the hamper. There was no sign of the nightmare that was the night before in the bathroom. His eyes featured circles from the lack of sleep. He bitched about the mussels ad nauseum. His skin boasted a bit of a green tint, but other than that he seemed fine. He even took out the trash he'd forgotten the night before...mussel shells and all, without missing a beat.
I hadn't realized until later that day that he'd drizzled a bit of vomit on the toilet. After Sade licked the toilet for 30 minutes while I got ready that morning, and then gave me a love lick on my calf. Now that I realize she was licking the remnants of puke, I'm not so happy about that bit of affection.
Jasen came home that night, walking a little funny. I didn't say anything until later that night, when he got into bed.

"Umm...Honey? Is something wrong? You're not quite as frisky as usual."
"Yeah, well...I'm pretty sure I pulled something last night while I was puking."
"Pulled something?"
"Yeah. I'm seriously never eating mussels again. Don't even bring them into the house. I definitely pulled something. Something important. Damnit."
"Ummm...okay...you're not giving me much to go by, here, babe."
"I think I pulled, you know, my love muscle. Is that possible?"

Oh...Good...Lord. My husband is hilarious.

14 Inches...

2011-02-22T14:09:00.000-05:00

of snow. Get your minds out of the gutter.
I love snow. Juni loves snow. Jasen loves snow. It's beautiful, serene and just plain fun when you have acres to trek, sled, build snow families and flop down for snow angels. I love snow cream, cuddling on the couch. Shooting pictures. I. Love. Snow.
I do not, however, appreciate 14 inches of snow. I learned real quick that there's only so much one can do to keep their 4-year-old child and 34-year-old husband occupies. They get bored. Quick. And I get agitated. Extremely quick.
Also, the Chesapeake snow removal sucks ass. Seriously. They can kiss the fattest, most cellulite-ridden part of my ass. Our road remained treacherous for a full week. So they can bite me. But anyway...
Jasen spent the days we were snowed in pondering what he could do, and coming up with nothing. Well, not nothing. He did manage to drive me crazy. Literally crazy. We're talking having to meditate just to make it through the day crazy. Juni decided the cold just wasn't for him. He'd go out, play a bit, and come in crying because his fingers felt like they would fall off any second. Fun times. I spent my time cleaning up after my men, and bitching about it. And cooking. And cleaning some more. And giving myself facials. And anything else I could do to not go even more crazy.
I've decided I'm ready for summer. Stay tuned...in six months, I'll be bitching about sweating and sticking to my car's leather seats...

Buying a Red Cedar Log from a transitioning Transgender Person

2011-02-20T14:57:00.000-05:00

I consider myself an accepting, politically correct person. I teach Juni not to stare at anyone. To celebrate our differences. Realize it's those differences that make this world beautiful and interesting.
So imagine my surprise when I found myself stumbling over my words and struggling to peel my eyes from a person different from me.
Jasen had lusted over a gigantic red cedar log in the front yard of a blue house on the other end of our road. I know the question...what would one do with such a log? The answer is simple, if you are a proper Redneck. You take it to your buddy, who happens to have a mobile sawmill, and make boards. Then you dry the boards for months, then you create furniture. My husband crafts some of the most amazing furniture. He's a perfectionist, so he'd argue with me, but I love what he creates. But, as usual, I digress.
I wrote down the number for the person selling the log, and called. The man who answered said his name was Julie. Okay. A little odd, but who am I to judge? Juni isn't exactly on the top 100 list of names for 2006.
We talked price, and I told him I would drop by and pay him that day. And then he kept talking. About what I'm thinking are inappropriate things for someone you've never actually met. His divorce. His kids. His job. His age.
Shit. He's going to flirt with me when I get there. Not a good situation. Especially with Juni in tow. But Jasen had his heart set, and I knew I had to suck it up, grow a pair, and knock on the blue house's door. I saw his neighbor in his yard, so I felt safe. Plus, I told my ginormous tree guy, Dallas, where I was. Just in case.
I walked up the steps, and knocked. The door opened, and my jaw dropped. I couldn't move my eyes. I couldn't think of words, or get them out. This is not going well. Not well at all.
Here's what opened the door: a person towering over me at a good 6 feet tall. Man feet, without shoes or socks. The largest hands I've ever seen in my life. Larger than Jasen's, my Dad's, even Dallas'. Short, permed hair. A hot fuscia, short sleeved, mock turtleneck sweater. Makeup from 1985...we're talking blue eyeshadow, hot pink lipstick, and enough blush to cover four faces. Perfectly smooth skin.
And yes...my eyes had to check to see if there was a package. Nope. But, as my sister informed me, there is such a thing as tuck and tape. Who knew? Julie also had giant boobs. Perfect boobs. Obviously fake boobs.
Did I mention this person had the deepest voice I'd ever heard? Yep.
"Ummm...I'm looking for Julie?"
"That's me. Hold on just one sec. I'm giving my mom a perm."
"Ummm...Oh. Oh. OK."
Internal thoughts "Oh my friggin lord. This is insanity. If Jasen only knew. Oh holy Hell. Dallas has to come over here and get the log for me. Geeze. Can he handle that? Poor Dallas...such a good 'ol boy."
Juni noticed nothing but the old dog and kitty inside the house. No mention of the obviously transitioning Julie.
So I paid the money, got in my car, and dialed Dallas. He said he'd be there in 45 minutes to check out the situation.
The situation, as it turns out, is that Julie liked Dallas. A lot. His name used to be James. And how he is becoming Julie. Dallas was obviously being hit on. He couldn't figure out why.
But I could...he's a tree man. And his truck's license plate says...wait for it... okay, this is so good you have to again... his license plate says...

LUVWOOD

The Unforgettable First Date

2011-01-15T13:45:00.000-05:00

Jasen and I originally dated in high school. He was my first "real boyfriend." The first boy my parents let me ride in a car with, yadda yadda yadda.
The first time he picked me up in his 1973 white-with-blue-interiour220D Mercedes I felt smitten. I loved that car already. It smelled like vanilla sex wax. With maybe a hint of beer.
Young redneck took me to a nice restaurant, Carvers, in Greenbrier. He ate like he'd grown up with 12 older brothers, guarding his food like a pit bull. I was half-way through picking at my food when he sat back, grabbed his non-existent belly, and let out the loudest belch I'd ever heard.
It's important to note a little tidbit about my upbringing at this point. I took manners classes. We're talking enough silverware to make you dizzy, walking with a book on your head, and learning the exact way to cross you ankles and let your server know you're finished with the salad plate. Insanity. But educational.
So imagine my surprise when my date, the boy I'd stared at for years, burped, and then smiled "Sorry. Had to make room for more." He then took my plate, and scarfed it down. Nice.
Before we left, Jasen began eyeing the leftover bread in the center of the table. "Hey. Put these in your purse."
Who IS this guy? "Are you kidding me? You must be kidding me. Absolutely not!" I remember the tingling heat on my cheeks. The urge to run away. No wonder my dad took one look at him and handed me a $5 for a taxi home.
Apparently Jasen didn't need my purse. His pants would suffice. He stuffed countless rolls down his Ralph Laurens, left some cash on the table, and hobbled to the door. Lovely.
It was chilly that night, and the car wouldn't start. He was the first person I knew to have a cell phone. That sucker was so big it pulled the back of his pants down. But he refused to call my dad.
"It's no problem. Listen...I'm going to spray some ether under the hood. You hold this button until the car starts." Excellent. We're going to blow ourselves up, right here in the parking lot. And I'm freezing in this skirt.
Apparently, I didn't know when to let my finger off of the button. He yelled at me. My dream boy friggin yelled at me! After that night I realized no one in perfect. Even the boy I stared at. He wasn't perfect. Best date ever.

Perspecitve

2011-01-13T13:43:00.000-05:00

Gaining a bit of perspective seems to whack me in the head when I least expect it. I spent last night tossing and turning, worrying like only a mother can about Juni's impending upper GI study this morning at CHKD. I worried that he'd be scared, wouldn't drink the chalky goo, and what they'd find. I was worried we'd oversleep.
He's had tiny, intermittent belly aches for months. The pediatrician wants a definite diagnosis of reflux before he begins treatment. Not a big deal.
I rushed into the childrens' hospital, and stopped dead in my tracks. The first hallways read oncology. Then a sign for the neonatal ICU. My life, and my child, it seems, is charmed in comparison. We headed to radiology.
Juni bounced off the walls, alone in the waiting room. My worries erupted into stress about Juni not behaving. I know. Ridiculous. Before his appointment a 5-year-old girl entered, grasping her mother's hand while she struggled to lift her toes off of the floor while she walked. She pushed a hand-me-down wheelchair. She was waiting for a CT.
Another mother came in with an infant; maybe four months old.
A father brought his son, a teenager, who couldn't speak.
Juni had an 18-month-old little girl attach herself to him. I don't know what procedure she and her parents waited for, but Juni and I could both hear her screaming down the hall.
All Juni had to do was drink apple-flavored chalk goo. And watch it go through his tummy. He thought it was cool. For Juni, it was a special trip. For many children, it's their way of life. Hospitals. Rehab. Worry.
I left CHKD with a new perspective: I am now unequivocally grateful that my child can talk to loud, bounce too much and move too many toys in the radiology waiting room.

The Top 10: A Couple's Resolution

2011-01-08T10:19:00.000-05:00

The Redneck and I have made a resolution we can stick with: Eat at the Hampton Road's Magazine's Top 10 Restaurants. Both of us love to eat. And cook. And eat some more. So why not combine eating with a relationship renewal? We decided to begin at No. 10 and work our way up.
Last night we declared game on with Salacia, in the oceanfront Hilton. Here's what dining at the No. 10 restaurant is like with a partially reformed Redneck...

It began by Jasen climbing into my 4Runner with three beers down and one in hand. Twenty minutes later we're stuck in unmoving traffic headed from Chesapeake to the beach. Not exactly the best beginning with a man whom cusses at someone driving a half-mile under the speed limit.
So we ditch the interstate and opt for Shore Drive. I can't help but think about all of the fatal accidents on that road, and wonder why. Jasen decides he has to pee. Immediately. I tell him he's a 34-year-old man, and can hold it for 10 minutes. Our reservations are at 6:30 p.m. We're 15 minutes away from the Hilton. It's 6:28 p.m.. You do the math, because apparently he couldn't.
Apparently my husband cannot hold it, because he takes my perfectly good bottle of Dasani and dumps it out the window, preparing it for a true Redneck potty break. I will absolutely not have my husband urinate in my water bottle, in my new car. Especially after he's lost the top.
So I pull over. And he hikes it into the woods. Nice. Predictable. Hilarious, and much better than the last time we visited the Hilton for a formal event, where he peed in the parking lot. And on his suit. But I digress.
we're a bit late, but no worries. We're sat between two couples. Jasen has no idea the matre' d will place a napkin in his lap. Too funny. I'm pushing him to try the Kobe. But at $65 for a piece of meat with no sides, he's just too chicken. So cowboy steak it is. I'm up for the rockfish, since I'm still trying to lose a few pounds and really don't cook anything but salmon at the house. I, too, am a chicken every now and then.
One absolutely, perfectly indulgent martini later, and I'm a happy girl. the couple to my right receives their appetizer, and Jasen begins to lean over.
And when I say lean over, we're talking crossing the 3-foot personal space line, here.
"Whatcha got?" "Jasen, let them eat their dinner." "Babe! Let me talk. I wanna know what they got." I blush, and he continues. "Whatcha got? Whatja order? Whya here...what's the occasion?" Good lord. Here we go.
This lovely couple is wearing a Christmas tie, and Christmas sweater. They're here because they have $65 in coupons. I'm looking at the menu, and wishing I had $65 in coupons. And they're awesome.
Before I know it, the younger couple to my left has their dinner. The wife is talkative like me. Her husband, quiet, staring down, his face inches from his plate. Obviously blind. Unfortunately, not obviously blind to Jasen. Wait for that one to bite me in the ass later.
"Whatcha got? Whya here?" "Jasen! seriously! What the hell, man?" "Babe! I'm just making conversation!"
Again, this couple rocks. The wife actually hands Jasen a plate with a bite of creamed spinach on it. Which he later orders. They're from Connecticut. Her father has had a stroke, and they're taking a break from the hospital.
By the end of the dinner, I have shared my swordfish with her, hugged her, and told both couples about my grandparents, how Jasen and I met, and know so much about each couple I feel like I've known them for years. it didn't matter that my fish wasn't the best I've ever had. That my S'mores cake was absolutely awesome and now sitting on my thighs. That the check was $135. Our dinner was one of the best we've ever had, because my husband didn't listen to me. We had a party of six. And it was amazingly unforgettable.
We're all ready to leave, and the couple to my left, the younger one with the quiet husband, get ready to leave. She hands him his folded cane, which Jasen doesn't notice. He whips it into place, and my husband basically jumps into his new friend's lap. "What the hell is that? What the hell are you gonna do with that?"
The wife chuckles "he's blind." "Seriously, Jasen. Good lord." But the husband smiles sweetly. And say they love us.
They leave, and the couple beside us burst into laughter. The wife knew he was blind. The husband, no idea.
We picked up Juni, and both of my men were asleep before we hit the interstate. I drove home, smiling and listening to Enya. It was a perfect night. And worth every penny, because of my Redneck Husband.

Reflect

2010-12-31T14:09:00.000-05:00

I've never been a huge fan of New Year's. When it comes down to it, it really is just another day. Resolutions are made. And inevitably broken. Gyms become flooded. And then desolate. But maybe there is something to be said for reflecting on the year that was, the day that is, and the future that lies ahead.
This year was beautiful and ugly. Exciting and stressful. Wonderful and miserable. All wrapped up into one messy package. Such is life. Especially mine.
I've come to believe that whatever package life comes in, it's a gift. My life has always been especially charmed. whatever issues I may have, they're nothing compared to the pain and suffering others face. I'm lucky. I know this. There are mothers who wrote obituaries for their babies. Lovers who signed divorce papers. Children who went hungry. Soldiers whose flags were folded into boxes. Life is hard. It sucks. But the difficulties we face make the positive that much more beautiful.
My son is healthy, beautiful and smart. He makes me smile, makes me laugh, makes me scream, cry and dance. He makes me see life from a child's view. And that view is pretty damned good. Juni makes me proud. Basically, raising Juni makes me feel every human emotion, every day. It's a roller coaster. And it rocks. My husband is successful, loving and forgiving. My family is supporting, happy and ultimately hilarious. Comic relief is always welcome. My friends are understanding. the people in my life hold me up when I fall, wipe my tears when I cry, and hold their stomaches when we laugh so hard it hurts.
My body is relatively healthy, and my mind...well, I'm making strides. I envy people who live their lives, make their decisions, and don't look back. I envy people who don't take pills every day to keep their minds in check. I envy people who have unbreakable faith. I don't understand them. But my self-described borderline-insanity is what makes me who I am. Mental health is a challenging bitch sometimes. But I'm taking steps toward mind renewal. Life renewal. Relationship renewal.
Everything takes work. Relationships, health, happiness. It all takes work. Simply surviving takes work. For me, I'm working toward a healthier mind, feeling more comfortable in my skin and brain, and what I want out of my life. I'm trying to lift the fog and see the path in front of me. Make decisions instead of just walking blind. It's a journey, and I'd like to be present. It's a beautiful, ugly, exciting, stressful, wonderful and miserable journey, and I'd like to genuinely experience every second. Not just exist within my head and world, but contribute.

My Proudest Moment

2010-12-27T15:01:00.001-05:00

Each year before Christmastime my parents helped my sister and I organize our toys into two piles: keep and give away. It took us an entire afternoon to find each piece to each puzzle. Each card to each game. Each outfit for each baby doll.
A truck driver from my dad's borrow pit would come and pick them up, beaming from ear to ear. We helped give another child Christmas. And it made us feel good.
I tried to find time to sort Juni's toys for weeks to no avail. Life just got in the way. So the day before Christmas Eve, I found myself with a few extra hours to kill. I told Juni the plan, and tempted him with an early Christmas package to tear open. The deal was on.
Three hours later, Juni had boxes upon boxes of toys. I'd venture to guess he decided to give away one-third of his toys. We made signs, and drug them all to the end of the driveway. I felt bad that I didn't have time to take them by the CHKD thrift store, but I figured they wouldn't make it to the shelves in time for Santa.
Juni began to pick his present, and we heard the dog barking. Someone was at the end of the driveway. Juni dropped his gift and darted to the window.
"Mommy! This is going to be the best day eber (ever)!"
"Why, Juni? Because you get a present early?"
"No, Mommy. Because another boy will get my toys on Christmas and play with them and love them."

I hear parents say they take pride in their children every day. And of course I am always proud of my son. But I can honestly say I've never felt the pride that entered my heart that day. It was like the Grinch...my heart grew 10 sizes.

Tree Trimming Tears

2010-11-27T13:33:00.001-05:00

I think it's safe to say I'm a highly emotional person. Especially now. My life is one giant ball of stress. And it's the holidays.

I usually decorate the house and tree the day after Thanksgiving. Juni had other plans. He just couldn't wait to set up the tree. So we woke up Thursday morning, and began trimming. And I began crying. Each ornament brought memories. The Grinch that reminded me of my Grandad. Granny's old ornaments. Ornaments from my childhood, my engagement, my college. It was endless. Finally, Juni asked "Mommy! Why you crying?" The only thing I could think to say was "I have no idea, Juni. Your Mommy is a mess today!" Juni answered with "Yep. You a mess every day Mommy."

This one actually didn't make me cry. I made it from a goose egg, and I love it.

I took piano lessons for 10 years. My teacher gave this to me one year. She was extremely patient with me, her least-practicing student.

I made this one from sand and shells I found on my honeymoon in Turks and Caicos. I created it during Hurricane Isabel while watching Hokie football. I cried because my honeymoon was wonderful, and Tech lost that game.

This one makes me cry because it smells. Jasen insists on putting this lobster tail on the tree year after year. Yuck.

Juni's hand from school last year. Of course I cried...who wouldn't?

One of my Granny's ornaments. I cried because I miss her every day.

This one started the whole crying spree. I made it for Shelby when she was a puppy.

One of my Mom's ornaments hung underneath one of Granny's. And you guessed it...more tears!

I'm assuming my Mom made this one. It's from forever ago.

Christmas Decorating at the Norge House

2010-11-24T08:15:00.001-05:00

Napping after a morning of chasing cats.

As of this morning, Christmas has officially puked in my house. It's nice out, so the front door is open. The dog is chasing the cat. The kid is chasing the dog. I'm sweating. And bleeding from an unfortunate snow globe incident in which the snow globe won. There's dust everywhere. And glitter. And pieces of fake green stuff that the mice chewed and spit back out. And insulation from the attic itching my feet. Oh...and did I mention the incredibly sappy and sad Christmas music playing? Yep. We're talking balls-to-the-walls decorating festivities here at the Norge house.
How the heck am I supposed to find the one friggin' bulb on this strand that doesn't want to work? You have got to be kidding me. A job saved for Jasen. As is dragging the full-sized tree from the barn, adding the extra lights and fighting with those.

We decided on a fake tree last year after six years of me picking a tree that was too tall for our living room and leaving sap trails on the white ceiling. I miss the smell and experience of picking the perfectly too-tall tree, but not the needles, watering and ceiling stains. Which, by the way, can only be removed by a new coat of paint. Which I haven't performed yet.
Juni, Sadie, Max the Cat and I were so busy decorating that I forgot to eat lunch. So by 12:30, my blood sugar plummeted, I began to shake, sweat more, and dry heave. Excellent.

My Hokie Tree

I'd love to decorate the outside of my house, but honestly, I just don't have the stomach for it today. I realize when the chaos of finding every decoration, hanging every bulb and checking every light is over our home will be cozy and warm. But right now, it's just plain hot in here.
If you don't hear from me, it's because Christmas kicked my ass before I could even make it to Thanksgiving.

Me and Juni

The Upside of Stress

2010-11-23T08:40:00.000-05:00

I've learned something over the past few weeks. An overload of stress is a great way to loose weight. I've been trying to loose a bit before the holidays, and I squeaked away with a 13 lb loss just in time to gain it back in turkey and stuffing. So I'll take that and smile. Any upside to stress is welcome at this point...

A Revelation

2010-11-13T19:51:00.001-05:00

I watched Evie, my nearly 2-year-old nice, for my sister yesterday. Let me start by saying that Juni and Evie are absolutely awesome together. Evie trots after Juni all day while he protects her like a mother goose. It's wonderfully adorable. Here's how I have a new-found respect for multiple-children families, and came to my newest revelation...

Evie showed up at 9 a.m. We had a playdate at the park at noon. Somehow I'd managed to NOT get dressed, brush my hair, or my teeth. And Juni was still in sleepy pants. No biggie, you'd think. And just like me, you'd be wrong.
I began brushing my teeth, and heard the Lego tub being dumped onto the floor in my bedroom. Beautiful. Every three seconds Evie toddled into my bathroom, asking "Oh No! Where's Mommy?" So every time I'd answer "She's riding her horse, Evie. But Aunt Frances is here, and we're going to have fun today. Once I get dressed, we're going to the park!"
After 30 minutes of this routine, she just started calling me mommy. Which made Juni jealous. And remind her that her mommy wasn't here. In which case she responded by saying "Oh No! Where's Mommy?" And stick out her adorable bottom lip in a false-pout.
It took me close to an hour to get dressed, between Jasen calling 3 times to see how things were going...and asking me to haul two kids to Home Depot to look at a new fridge. Excellent.
Juni knows he has to pick up his toys in my room before we leave for the day. And at least create a path in his room so I don't bust my butt over a tractor.
Juni was so proud of how he and Evie cleaned his room. But apparently, Evie wasn't finished yet. And Juni was. So two minutes later, I'm finally putting on clothes and Juni says "Mommy! I did it! I cleaned my room, and Evie can't get in!" I reply "How'd you do that, buddy?" Juni says "I locked the door and closed it!" and so I ask "Ummm...Evie's not in there, is she?" Thank God the answer was no.
But...crap...I have no idea how to get into his room. And Juni realizes this, begins crying and asking about his clothes, his toys, and how long the fish can live without food. If Juni cries, Evie cries. So I know have two crying children. So I explain that Daddy with find a way in, and that we have to to clean up and get the heck out of the house, or we'll miss our playdate at the park. Because now, we don't just have to get lunch a go...we have to make a decision about an over-priced refrigerator we don't need, but Jasen wants because he doesn't like our ice maker anymore.
I go into the bathroom to turn off the light just as Evie flushes the toilet...full of, legos? Maybe. Toilet paper? Definitely. The water is threatening to pour over the side and soak the floor. Excellent. But it's also something that will have to wait...at this point, we're definitely running late.
So I get the kids downstairs, stuff all of their crap into bags...and Juni alerts me that Evie stinks. Bad. Of course she does! So I hold my breath and gag while Juni laughs. Fun times.
NOW I'm ready to go. Except that Juni wants to bring his bike to the park, because his friend Landon is bringing his bike. Which means I have to figure out how to reattach his training wheels, because there is no way in hell i can run after him and carry Evie at the same time. With tools I don't understand, two dogs hovering over me, and a toddler who doesn't like my two dogs, I'm trying to rig this bike so that my kid doesn't end up in the emergency room this afternoon.
I get the wheels half-ass on. Luckily I circle my car around the back (because otherwise his bike would be a crushed pile of metal) and get down the road. Without his helmet. Three-point turn it is.
Half-way to Home Depot, Juni says his tummy hurts. I'm guessing Halloween candy. Throwing up is definitely a possibility, and Evie is back to asking "Where's Mommy?"
Hitting my limit here! We're late. The kids are hungry. And loud. And Evie thinks kicking the back of my chair is frigging hilarious. She's also babbling about shoes, and a book she keeps dropping on the floor for me to barely pick up with my arm. I'm drowning, here. Seriously, seriously drowning. I'm just about to have my breakdown from just too much chaos.
And then it happens...my revelation. I'm white-knuckling the steering wheel, eyes bulging, heart racing, and I pass the little cemetery by our house. And there's an excavator digging a grave. And you know what? I'm alive. I'm not six feet under. I can breath, and feel the sun on my face, and soak up the sunshine around me.
So I laugh. And turn on Simon and Garfunkel's "The Boxer" louder than the kids. And even though our day is pretty darned stressful, it's a wonderful. Because we're alive, and breathing, and smiling.

Body Comparisons, Juni Style

2010-11-11T21:47:00.001-05:00

I laughed until I almost wet my pants today. Here's why: Juni's best friend came over today while his mom was at work, since school was closed. The boys absolutely love each other. They played at the swings and in the sand pile. They created a bird's nest out of leaves, sticks, acorns and mud, and then used even more mud to glue it to the back porch handrail (thank you for that, PBS) They took the dog for a "walk" and visited what they call Mud World. Mud World is really just the ditch behind out house. But believe me, the name fits.
The two mud daubers trotted up to the back door and stood in my kitchen, dripping with deep, dark, gray goo. They were stripping off their clothes with grimy hands, and laughing hysterically. Completely naked, covered in mud, and laughing.
I grew up behind a borrow pit, which is basically one giant mud hole. I couldn't get mad at them, but I also couldn't hose them down, either. All I could do was laugh.
I put clean socks on one, and carried the other straight upstairs to the bathroom. The second the water began filling the tub, it turned brown.

While the tub filled, Juni's best friend's mom showed up to take him home, and we searched for Sadie, who apparently still had her leash attached. It's unlike her to not come when called. But I found her, drenched in mud, pouting in the front yard, still attached to her once hot-pink but now completely muddies leash. Poor little pooch. As a side note, I have no idea how she managed it, but she came inside later that night, completely clean, dry, and smelling nothing like mud. Amazing.
When us mommies returned upstairs we found the boys, 85% clean, and towelling themselves off. And this is when the fun really begins...
Juni "Mommy...he has a little bellybutton, and I have a big bellybutton."
Friend "Yeah! I like my belly button."
Me "Yes, Juni. Everyone is made different. And both of your belly buttons are adorable."
Juni (pointing to his friend and examining himself) "Mommy...he has a short, skinny pee pee. Mine is long and fat."
Friend "Yeah! And mine is fat right here (lower belly)."
Other mother and I: Absolutely, positively speechless. Not because we couldn't think of anything to say, but because we were both laughing so hard it was physically impossible to speak a single syllable.

Hands down, the best Wisdom Teeth Story Ever

2010-11-08T22:09:00.000-05:00

I fully intended to spend tonight making fun of Jasen for being completely terrified of getting his two wisdom teeth pulled today. I've spent the last three weeks explaining to him that it's really not a big deal, since they've been fully erupted for years. Not to mention there are women who have babies literally cut from their abdomens. And heart transplants. And colonoscopies. I mean come on, I had my wisdom teeth dug out of my jawbone. And developed dry socket a whopping three times.
You'd have thought Jasen was facing each of these procedures. In a single day. In a third-world country.

But in my conversation with my sister this morning explaining that I doped Jasen with Xanax just to chill him out, I was trumped. Big time. Her wisdom teeth story is the most hilarious, disturbing tidbit ever. I actually had a hard time driving straight while listening, since I laughed so hard I literally cried.
My sister's husband reminds me a lot of Jasen. He's just so sweet. He's country, handsome, funny, and just a great guy. He had his wisdom teeth taken out several years ago. Apparently, his dentist presented Jamie with an envelope containing said teeth. I personally think that's absolutely disgusting. Reminds me of a serial killer keeping trophies. But to each his own.
The point is, CeCe had no idea that her husband had kept his teeth. Until one day a few months ago.
My niece is adorable. She's almost two, and just the cutest girl in the world. Seriously. She's smart, she's curious, and she has learned that when anyone puts an open palm in front of her mouth, she is to immediately dispense the contents of her cute little mouth into said hand. She is, after all, a toddler.
So when Evie trotted into the kitchen one morning, she wore that look on her face that means she has something icky in her mouth that needs to come out. CeCe held out her hand, and out clinks four gigantic wisdom teeth. Yowsa. I actually asked my sister if she'd just made up that story. Nope. Completely true. And completely insane.
I'm pretty sure CeCe was more than a little freaked out. I mean, seriously. Evie could have choked to death on her father's wisdom teeth. I'm pretty sure that would be a first. And I can't even imagine the headlines. But I digress, as usual. She called Jamie, and asked why the hell anyone would want to keep their teeth. His answer? "They're my teeth. I want them."
And so now, like any good wife, CeCe has kept Jamie's teeth in a more toddler-safe place. On her desk. Again, gross. But whatever.
Jasen was actually pretty disappointed when he realized our dentist didn't send him home with two souvenirs. Then again, I don't have as strong of a stomach as CeCe. If Evie put Jasen's teeth in her mouth, She'd spit the teeth in my hand while I vomited in the other.

Twinkle Toes

2010-11-07T10:55:00.001-05:00

I am such a girl.

I remember in grade school having a closet for school clothes, a.k.a. dresses, and a drawer full of play clothes. I wanted my hair in braids every day. And Barbie polish on my nails.

Even now I have play clothes. And I like to braid my hair. And I love makeup. And shoes, when they don't hurt my bunion. And of course I love anything that sparkles. Diamonds, glitter, and apparently, shoes.
Every time I buy Juni a new pair of shoes I notice these adorable little gems winking at me from the little girl isle...they're called Twinkle Toes (I think). They're too cool...flowers, glitter, sparkles on the toes. And they're not heels, so my bunion could be nice and happy. Bunions suck for girls who loves shoes, by the way. But I digress. Twinkle toes are just plain adorable. All of the fashionista preschoolers in Juni's class have them.
And now...so do I. I know. Laugh if you must. I pray it's not a mid-life crisis, because death at 64 would just plain suck.

I'm a 32-year-old woman, and today, I'm sporting my new Twinkle Toes, thanks to the geniuses at Rack Room that decided you're never too old to remember you're still a little girl. You're never too old to spot something shiny and say oooohhhh....pretty.

Is it just me, or is Halloween just plain stressful?

2010-11-05T10:16:00.001-04:00

I love Halloween. It's my excuse to wear too much makeup, false lashes, and (when I'm not feeling like a tub of lard) show more skin than any respectable mommy should, unless she's standing on the corner waiting for her john.

But here's the thing I learned this year...Halloween is friggin stressful! First, my sexy Dorothy costume made me look like a stuffed sausage. Let me rephrase that. My size LARGE Dorothy costume made me look like a stuffed sausage. I realize I have curves. Some good, some bad. I am not a stick figure. Therefore, I ordered a large. Am I plus-size? No. Do I shop a Lane Bryant? No, even thought their clothes totally rock. I did everything humanly possible to shove myself into this costume. Snipped the sleeves so I could raise my arms past my shoulders. Shoved my extra tire into the tightest, highest pair of Spanx in my secret drawer that Jasen isn't aloud to snoop in. Added an underskirt to hide some of the cellulite. Short of a girdle, it just wasn't happening. So I opted for an impromptu cowgirl. Turns out, it was a good decision.

Juni went as a tractor. I'd estimate a good 15 woman hours went into the Case International creation. Of course it was huge. He could barely hold it up at the school parade. Jasen said "Hey baby. How about next year you use more duct tape, make it bigger, and make it heavier?" My response, of course, was "bite me, jackass. How about next year you stop bossing and bitching and actually help?"

So I was up for 3 hours that night cutting the entire costume in half, trimming away width, length and weight, and re-duct taping the whole thing together.

I will say this...my kid's costume was cool. It had working headlights. The candy went into the gas tank. And on Halloween, he totally rocked it.

The problem for me with Halloween is that we don't live in a neighborhood. So the first stressful decision is always where to go. My vote? Juni's 81 and 86-year-old great-grandparents' home. Sure, the neighborhood is full of old people. But it's completely safe, they refuse to drive at night, and let's be honest...they deserve it. They raised their son, and all three of their grandchildren.

So my mom (aka Spongebob), her husband, my dad, my sister, my brother-in-law, my niece (aka devil in disguise), my mother-in-law, her boyfriend, my husband, Juni's best friend and his parents all walked through the neighborhood. My parents and step-parents are SUCH troopers. They just go with the flow...even if Mom had to waddle around as a giant Spongebob complete with makeup to make Juni smile, and Dad toted Evie when she got too tired.

My son in 4. And he's not an idiot. He realizes it's just not worth it to get the crap scared out of him for a Snickers. I can respect that. But Kyle's poor mom was literally run over by a Case Tractor when he high-tailed it back out of the scariest house I've ever seen. We're talking smoke, music, larger-than-life monsters, lights, the whole nine yards. And I'm guessing a few thousand bucks, too.

After that it was strictly the benign houses, and me keeping my cool when some of the adults joked on my kid because he's not a fan of fright.

Then there are the pictures. I have a great camera, and manage to work it pretty darned well. But of course, and understandably, everyone wants a shot of Juni. In the dark. With the anticipation of free candy waiting for him. Needless-to-say, it ain't gonna happen, folks. Let the kid do his thing. So there I am, appeasing everyone, saying that yes, I will send pictures. And that no, there's nothing I can do to make a $100 camera take pictures like my semi-pro get-up.

And then there's what direction to take. And which kid gets tired when. And if it's too cold. I remember just about sweating to death on Halloween. It's 60 degrees outside, he's wearing two shirts, jeans, boots and 10 pounds of duct tape encased. And he's running. And probably sweating bullets.

Me, I'm the type of person that must make everyone have a good time. But I decided something this Halloween. It's not about me. It's about my son, and my niece. If they're happy, I'm happy. If they're puking chocolate 3 hours later, I'm cleaning it up. Fun times.

A Juni-ism I just have to Share

2010-10-31T22:07:00.001-04:00

Yesterday afternoon Juni got a mad splinter in his heel. This thing was one for the record books. I'm sure it hurt. And of course it took 2 hours and a lot of bribery for him to let Jasen finally dig it out. Before Jasen removed the infamous splinter, Juni had a hard time hobbling around the house...

Mommy...I need a crotch.
A crotch? Really?
Yep. A crotch. (Juni then grabs is stick horse, turns in on its head, and begins using it as what we would call a crUtch.) See? I need crotches. I need lots of crotches, Mommy.

My sister was there picking up Evie. First thing out of her mouth? "Yep, Juni. So does your Daddy."

Zoo Boo: Fantastic and Craptastic, all wrapped into one

2010-10-30T22:07:00.000-04:00

Last week Jasen said he wanted to take Juni to Disney World some day. After our outing at the Zoo Boo today, I'm beginning to think we may not be the Disney type of family. Here's why:

We waited to get into the parking lot for 20 minutes and bitched the entire time. What we didn't realize was that the parking lot was full. People were parking in the field and walking to the zoo. We're not a fan of crowds. Or lines. The day was not looking good.

We faced a 10-minute walk to the entrance gates. Within 30 seconds I stumbled into a hole and tweaked my back.. Lovely.

We waited in line to get tickets. More bitching. But Juni and Evie danced in circles the whole time.

We waited for the costume contest, and, you guessed it, more bitching. At this point Juni had grown tired of his tractor costume and decided to join the bitch-fest. We'd brought a wagon, thinking we could pull him in his costume. Nope. Juni didn't win the contest, started to cry, and I realized the judges couldn't even see him with the fat-ass standing in front of us.
I have a confession: I may have wanted to win the contest more than Juni. I'm an adult, I can see my faults. Ridiculous competitiveness is one of them. And I still believe Juni's costume totally rocked out more than the mailbox that won. Seriously...a mailbox?

We decided to see the zoo. With Juni in the wagon, and me toting an over sized Case International tractor costume made out of multiple cardboard boxes and four rolls of duct tape. Was it cumbersome? Absofrigginlutely. Was it light? Nope.

Juni spilled his juice in his wagon and sat in it. Lucky for us he really didn't care that his left butt cheek was soaked in red sugar water.

Jasen pulled Juni in the wagon most of the time. At one point, he turned around, began walking and made roadkill out of Evie, Juni's (almost) 2-year-old cousin. She wasn't hurt, so we all laughed. Of course Evie cried out of embarrassment. And Jasen grovelled to get back into her good graces.

Juni wanted to go on the train ride. Of course we had to wait 40 minutes. At this point Jasen was so over the situation that he hiked back to the car. And called 23 times wondering why it was taking us so long. After the 2 minute train ride, Juni and I headed to the front gates.

Of course Jasen couldn't pick us up in front, so we started walking. Less than 100 yards from the zoo, Juni announced he had to pee. Bad. I laughed. I couldn't help it. My feet were aching from my boots (part of my cowgirl costume), I had a headache, I was starving, and just generally whipped. We made it to the car and made an emergency stop at Wendy's.

We hit more traffic in Norfolk and, yep...more bitching. I decided I needed Skinny Dip frozen yogurt. But here's the thing about dressing up with your kid. If they decide to ditch their costume, you're left looking like an idiot dressed like a cowgirl with pigtails in her hair. Wonderful.

I got home, cut the grass and began renovations on Juni's costume. I basically had to cut the thing in half, take out some width and length, and use another roll of duct tape to put it back together. I actually liquid-nailed the wheels to the side. At this point I don't care how tired Juni gets tomorrow night. He's wearing the friggin costume. I don't care if I have to hog-tie the kid into his wagon and pull him myself up and down the streets. He's wearing the costume.

I realized we truly are not the Disney type of family when my sister Cece made an observation about my Redneck husband and I. She said we were fine apart. Laughing about the crowds and people not watching where they were walking. But once you put the two of us within spitting distance, we fed off of the other's frustration.

The thing is, the day wasn't that bad. Sure, we waited around. And sure, I could not have possible made a larger costume for Juni (as Jasen pointed out continuously the entire day). But all-in-all, Juni and Evie had a blast. They danced, smiled and played.
Jasen asked why anyone would enjoy something like the Zoo Boo. My answer was simple: Because their kids enjoyed it. And that's really what it's all about. The smiles on Juni's face. And hopefully, that's what we'll get tomorrow night. As long as he wears the friggin tractor costume, I'm all good.

My Finger-in-the-Cheesegrater Story

2010-10-18T17:48:00.000-04:00

It's seven years ago. Jasen and I are newly married, and I'm still in that perfect wife mode. Our friend David was over for dinner, and they guys were in the garage drinking beer.
I decided to make a carrot cake. From scratch. I know. Ambitious. But keep in mind, this is before Juni.
The batter is made, the oven is preheated and it's time for the carrots. I pull out the oldschool cow bell-shaped contraption, and get to some serious carrot grating. Unfortunately, I tend to not pay complete attention while I'm cooking. Knives are constantly slipping and I'm always burning myself. On this particular night, it was my index finger versus the grater.
The wedding gift grater pulled my finger in so far that the skin literally became lodged in its razor-sharp holes. I was stunned. I couldn't get my finger out. Shards of thick, clear skin were peeking through the underside of the grater.
I ran to the garage door and told Jasen, completely calm, that my finger was stuck in the grater. And then I looked down to see the trail of blood and steady flow of bright red drops plopping on my newly mopped white kitchen floor. It was like a scene out of Dexter.
David pulled my finger out while Jasen help my arms steady. I made it to the bathroom before turning pasty white and dizzy. I remember running water over my finger and seeing the skin fall through the grater.
And then I tumbled to the floor. The next thing I remember is Jasen wrapping my finger and holding a cold cloth to my forehead. I have no idea who cleaned up the blood, but I'm pretty sure David cleaned the grater and finished the carrot cake.
It was a damn good cake, considering the circumstances. The grater met its final destination in the trash bin the next day. I am definitely not the type of person who can be left alone with sharp instruments.

Up at 4:45 am because of the Fire Alarm

2010-10-15T17:46:00.000-04:00

I despise our smoke detectors. I realize they serve a very important purpose. Jasen's childhood home burned to the ground because its renters drank a case of beer and left the grill on while they made a run to 7-11. But despite their purpose, our smoke detectors drain 9v batteries, and only beep that ear-piecing ring signaling a dead or dying battery in the middle of the night. Of course I never remember to stock 9v batteries since the detectors are the only devices that use them, and we end up listening to the beep for half a day. I thought that was bad. Until yesterday morning.

The smoke detectors went off full force.At 4:45 a.m That's right. It was still dark outside. I woke up immediately, and gave Jasen a swift slap to the side to wake him up. The alarms screeched for about 30 seconds and then stopped. Huh. We still can't decide if it was one or all of the alarms, but at 4:45 a.m. it not only doesn't matter where that sound is coming from, but I also did not possess the consciousness to differentiate between such possible origins.
Both of us sat straight up in bed and began to climb out just as the alarms quieted. Curious. They beep once every 10 minutes when the battery is weak. And if there was a fire, you'd think they'd scream for more than a half-minute, considering the repercussions. After a few minutes of debating its source and reason, the alarms sounded again.
This time, Jasen popped out of bed and began to walk toward the bedroom door. They stopped again. Jasen, naked as a jaybird, now stands underneath the fire alarm, his hair standing straight on end, eyes bloodshot, and the sound of his stubby fingernails dragging across his hairy legs as he scratched himself irritating my ears like wet sandpaper to skin.
I couldn't help but laugh. It really was a sight. A sight to see, now that's debatable. But nonetheless a sight. Jasen peeked in Juni's bedroom and found him still sleeping soundly. He then tapped the guest bedroom doorknob (like they teach you in elementary school) to see if it was hot. I keep this door strategically closed because inside lays a massive disaster of crafts in progress.
The alarms keep going off every few minutes. Jasen pulls on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, trudges downstairs and checks every room and the outside perimeter of the house. There is definitely an absence of fire. I'm laughing so hard tears are streaming down my face when I point to the attic.
Jasen stomps outside to get the ladder, waking Juni into a terrified screaming fit. The only thing I could think to do for him was to cover his ears with my Hokies ear warmers to muffle the sound. He's now yelling "Daddy! Don't get burned in dat attic! Dem loud fings say there's a fire!"
So now Juni is wearing earmuffs and yelling about his Daddy burning in a fire, Jasen is flipping through the fire detector instruction manuals, and I'm asking if we should call the fire department. I realize there's no fire, but I also realize these alarms are hellbent on ruining my morning and I'm honestly out of options and ideas at this point.
And then the noise stops. Just like that. Crisis over. Charred remnants of house averted. The alarms blasted one more time at 8:45 a.m. and Jasen changed the batteries that afternoon. They've been silent ever since. But I still bought 16 9v batteries at Home Depot. Just in case.

The $1600 Duck

2010-10-11T21:37:00.000-04:00

My husband owns the reputation of driving incredibly slow. I'm sure that's partly due to his vehicle - an F450 dual-wheeled, diesel, extended cab, flatbed truck. It's basically a tow truck with a full backseat. Doesn't get much slower than that. But it's also due to the fact that my husband is a tight-ass. He doesn't want to spend his money on anything intangible. Which I tend to agree with.
Jasen rarely gets speeding tickets, and I don't think he's ever had an accident. I, on the other hand, have dings along my car and have racked up a few tickets through the years.
But the $1600 hunting ticket my husband and brother-in-law both received a few years back wipes the slate clean. Even at two speeding tickets a year, It'll take me a good 5 years until he can bitch. And that's not happening any time soon, especially considering the $200 I just paid for him speeding back to work last month.

Jasen insists on keeping a gun cabinet filled wit shotguns in the living room. I hardly remember it's there anymore. Neither do I think about the gun propped next to our bed. Jasen rarely shoots anything. He began to think twice about hunting after he shot a raccoon in our barn, and then noticed her babies. He came into the house that night with tears in his eyes. He'll shoot an aggressive snake or annoying bird periodically, but beyond that he's relatively docile. And I am simply not a gun person. They scare the hell out of me. And I'm fairly certain that if I ever did decide to shoot a snake on my own I'd end up with one less toe.
For whatever reason, he and my sister's husband decided to go bird hunting last fall. Of course neither of them thought to actually buy a hunting license. Or the federal bird stamps. Or the lead-free bullets. Or check to make sure their guns were up to code.
He and Jamie drove to a friend's farm and proceeded "to shoot at everything that flew by," as Jasen explained. They killed a few ducks, two geese, and then realized the game warden truck at the end of the dirt path near Jasen's truck. Not good.
My brother-in-law took his spanking like a man. My redneck husband, on the other hand, apparently chucked his gun in the ditch and turned around. This did not please the game warden. Again, not good.
It's important at this point to explain my impression of some game wardens. They think they're badass. They're like animal control, with guns. Barney Fife would be proud.
This particular game warden decided to smack my husband with every charge he could render. Hunting without a license. Hunting without a federal duck stamp. No plug in the gun (Jasen decided to take that out for some reason), and using lead shot. Brilliant.
In addition to the charges, the game warden decided to subpoena Jasen to court. In Richmond. On a weekday. All because he chucked his gun in the ditch, and I'm sure used some choice words to describe his impression of Mr. Fife.
Jasen missed the class on temper control, so it was up to me to get him out of the court appearance. I'd rather pay the fine than pay the bail. I called the Virginia Department of Hunting and Fishing to get the whole story. The warden wrote in his report that Jasen ran from police.
Ummm...yeah. Again, something else important to note. My husband does not run. Under any circumstances. I've seen him walk through a hurricane, walk to the house when I was in labor, and walk to me when I got my finger stuck in the cheese grater.
I explained this to the prosecutor. I also explained that my husband and brother-in-law do not possess the best judgement when together. And that he probably did give the game warden lip. And that I would punish his crime with more vigor than any judge in Richmond.
The prosecutor agreed. He signed off and allowed me to pay the fines without Jasen appearing in court.
The $1600 ticket is well worth the price. Unless I find myself in a high-speed chase with the police, it's pretty unlikely I will ever rack up enough moving violations to compete with the 45 minute hunting trip.
The ticket makes for a wonderful ace in my pocket. And with a husband like Jasen, that's priceless. And just in case you're wondering...no, we did not have duck or goose for dinner. The game warden, I'm assuming, did. I hope he chipped his tooth on a nice leaded shot.

Dr's Orders

2010-10-09T20:51:00.000-04:00

I love my psychiatrist. He gets me. He's a tall, fat, balding older man who has seen and heard everything, and nothing I say or think could ever surprise him. He literally yawns at least 10 times during out sessions. Which only last about 15 minutes.
During the last visit he asked about my marriage, and I mentioned that, like all couples married for more than 23 days the romance was a bit lacking. Our sex life is wonderful, our child is wonderful, our life is wonderful. But I said I'd like to be wooed every now and then. He laughed. And then he gave me advice:
Dr. Y "Well, every marriage is different. Men, in general, are not big into romance. They're visual. But, if you give him a bit more of what he wants, odds are he'll be more willing to give you what you need."
Me "Okay."
Dr. Y "Some couples have a night where one goes to the male strip bar, and the other goes to the tittie bar. (yes, my highly respected, expert-in-his-field doctor said tittie. I'm blushing just writing the word, and I'm sure my mom is, too). It's imperative to have boundaries, but that can spice things up a bit."
Me "Ummm. Yeah. that's not gonna happen. No way do I want my husband looking at perfect women and then coming home to me."
Dr. Y "Well, that kind of thing isn't for everyone. What about a trip together to that store, Banana Boat?"
Me "Ummm, yeah. I'm thinking you mean the Pink Banana? You've met my husband. He's a redneck, remember? Not really his kind of place."
Dr. Y "Understandable. What about spontaneity? Pop in a movie for the kid and invite him into the shower."
Me "Okay. That may actually be do-able. I'll give that one a try. Thanks for the advice. And can we never talk about tits again? I think my cheeks are going to catch fire."

So...tonight was the night. Juni was watching Tom and Jerry. I'm taking a shower, and Jasen pops his head in to see how long I was going to be.
Me "Not much longer. Wanna join me?" Jasen "Are you serious? Hell yeah!" It's not like this is the first co-shower we've taken. But since we've have a child, things change.
He tried to get out of his boots and pants so fast he almost fell on the bathroom floor and broke his nose. After what happened next, that may have been the better route. He gets in the shower, wets his hair, and then blows his nose. In his hands. You may need read that again. He BLEW HIS NOSE. IN HIS HANDS.
Let me make this perfectly clear. Jasen blowing his nose sounds like a goose being goosed. And showers echo. There are literally snot rockets flying through the air, landing on the tile. Dripping from his fingers. And I'm sure in my hair. And he's smiling. Proud and what his nose has produced, I'm sure.
I say "are you friggin kidding me? What the hell, man? This is supposed to be sexy! And you're friggin snotting on me? Seriously. If you ever do that again...I don't even know what I'll do. Vomit, probably."
He replies "But babe, that's what I do in the shower! I have to clean out both sides." "Yes, honey, I realize this. I have to scrape your buggers off of the tiles every morning. Thanks for that, by the way. But don't you think it's possible to break the routine for one night? I mean, seriously, honey. Snot in the shower? Really? I'm a woman. not a tissue."
Before I can finish my thought, he's emptying the other nostril. Snot rockets abound. I'm dumbfounded. And pissed. "Okay. Seriously, Jasen. What the hell is wrong with you?"
I was dried and dressed 39 seconds later. Spontaneity my ass.

Granny's Diamonds

2010-09-24T20:56:00.000-04:00

My Granny had the most beautiful, amazing collection of diamonds I have ever set eyes on. Perfect clarity. Perfect sparkle. Perfect color. They were priceless. There were too many to count. I miss them every day.
Granny's diamonds were the reflection of the sun on the Little River, where she and my Mom's dad, Grandad at the River, lived in Weeksville, NC. Every time we visited Granny and Grandad at the River, we admired her diamonds.
She said she didn't need expensive jewelry, cars or vacations. She had her diamonds on the river. Not a day goes by that I don't think about and miss my Granny, and her diamonds.
My Granny was wild. She was awesome. In high school, my friends and I would make the hour-long drive to visit her and my Grandaddy to fish, swim and relax. It says something about my grandparents that high school kids wanted to hang out with them.
Granny's house always smelled like food. A lot of food. A lot of rich, fattening food. It's a wonder why I wasn't the poster child for childhood obesity. Every time we visited it was an almost unimaginable amount of food. Prime rib. Peach pie. Macaroni and cheese. Pecan pie. Gelatin mold salad. Candied yams. Greens. Lobster. I could go on and on. She made everything from scratch. Right down to the buttery-crisp waffles for breakfast. My grandfather had an amazing garden, and much of the vegetables came from right out the back door.
I still remember the smell of her skin, slick and soft after she smothered it in cream before bed. I love that smell. It brings a smile to my face and lump to my throat.
Granny could sew anything. Her style was always ahead-of-her-time. She didn't know it, but she's definitely my fashion icon. She had jet black hair, pink cheeks, an infectious smile and fuscia lipstick. She insisted on driving a red Volvo too fast. And high heels. Always high heels or shiny leather boots. And hats! Not just at Easter, but any day.
She loved the Golden Girls. And when my family spent the night. She found pleasure in just living her life day to day. In watching her diamonds, planting her flowers and cooking her meals. She dressed up to "go to town" for flowers and turned heads everywhere she walked.
Her yard bursted at the seems with color. Flowers so healthy and so fragrant it made me dizzy. I don't quite have her green thumb, but I definitely have her love of flowers. And I actually have many of her irises and ginger lilies in my yard.
My Granny sang and danced while she cooked. She dove off of the dock in her seventies. She could water ski and jet ski. She fished, and she painted.
I have dozens of her paintings, several framed and hanging on my walls. I love them. They're amazing. Giant flowers with color bursting in thick oils.
I hope I'm feisty like my Granny. She wasn't afraid to be different and stand up for herself. She lived her life the way she saw fit, and didn't give people's opinions a second thought. She emanated self confidence, and with good reason. She was absolutely stunning.
It's difficult for me to describe just what made my Granny so special. I can't put my finger on it. There was just something about her. She was wild, smart, innovative and artistic.
Without a doubt, she was my most influential grandparent, and I miss her daily. My best dreams revolve around Granny. I love dreams where I'm at her house. I wake up with a smile on my face and the smell of her face cream in my nose.
My Granny passed away while I was in grad school. When my mom moved the hospital bed into the house, she made sure to face Granny where she could see her diamonds in her last days. In the end, that's all she wanted. To see her beautiful, perfectly gleaming diamonds on the river.

Just like my Mom

2010-09-24T20:26:00.000-04:00

My mom rocks. She's the best mother I know,and my parenting hero. She embodies PTA. Was the star parent in every classroom, cooked every night, built the best indoor forts, threw the best birthdays and had carted our friends around. She was SuperMom. I strive, everyday, to strive to her example. With one exception.

I was young...maybe six or eight. We were walking back from feeding the horses at the barn in the pitch black night. "Mom, look! And owl!" "No, Frances. That isn't an owl. It's too big. It's just part of the tree, honey." "No, mom...I think it's an owl. It even has horns!" "No, that's not an....ahhhhhhHh!"
It was in fact an owl. A very large, horned owl. And it was flying straight toward me.
I use the word me purposefully, because my SuperMom literally ran me over in the gravel driveway to get to safety. She ran over her daughter. And I've never let her live it down.

Thankfully, I have a 50/50 chance of Juni not remembering me trampling his Monday afternoon in the park. We were walking in the woods with Juni's friend Kyle and his mom Grace. Of course we were all totally unprepared, wearing shorts and flipflop. So when I stepped on an unsuspecting green snake, he proceeded to wrap his slimy, slithery body around my ankle.
And that was it. I was out. I squealed, and the next thing I knew, Grace cam hobbling out of the woods balancing a boy on each hip.
"Did you see the snake, Juni?" I asked. Grace laughed and said "I'm thinking no. The only thing that kid saw was the dust from your flipflops. You left him so fast he had no idea what was happening!"

History once again repeated itself. I ran over my child. Hopefully, history will again repeat itself, and Juni will think of me the way I think of my mom...SuperMom.

A Redneck Wedding

2010-09-13T22:57:00.000-04:00

Jasen and I took Juni to his first wedding this weekend. It was perfect. Here's why:

Dallas is a redneck. He's an extraordinarily brauny man that climbs and cuts down trees for a living. A real live lumberjack. I would not want to face him in a bar fight. Dallas' heart is just as big as his physique. His bride, Adele, keeps him in line. She's fiesty, strikingly beautiful, and exceptionally grounded.
I first knew this wedding was going to be unique when I first asked Dallas about the dresscode. His reply was "If you're wearing clothes, we'll let you in." Alrightly then! Sunday best it is.
Jasen insisted on bringing a tie, depite my reassuraces that it was unneeded. He would have looked like an idiot. Espcially considering most of the men were in shorts and flipflops. A few of the women were, too.
The wedding was outside, on the Currituck Sound, and absolutely breathtaking. And not just because the groomsmen were beside the house smoking. The weather could not have been more perfect, the sound of the water and wind mixed with the smell of roses was amazing.
So was the fact that just about everyone had a beer in their hand. During the ceremony. It was absolutely hillarious, and only got better.
Adele's oldest brother performed the ceremony. The newlyweds officially tied the knot Wednesday, so this was just for show. And a show it was.
I have decided I absolutely adore Adele's brother. He wore black pants, a white shirt, and shiny, metallic-esqe royal blue jacket. Did I mention the folded printer paper with words to repeat? Yup. He pulled out a piece of paper and recited it, almost word-for-word. When he digressed, Adele had to remind him that she, too, got to repeat after him and place the ring on Dallas' finger. Priceless.
The reception was again outside and on the water. Dallas' dad cooked barbecue, and we ate off of paper plates. The wedding party drank out of altered wine glasses ... wait for it ... the stem resembled a candle stick and the cup ... this is great ... was a mason jar. Absolutely wonderful. The glasses were from the couple's favorite local bar.
The kids danced the entire night, ate pigs in a blanket, and played at the stocked kiddie table. The adults drained the self-serve bar and laughed at Juni while he cut the literal rug placed over part of the grass as an impromptu dance floor.
I absolutely loved this wedding. And not just because Juni had such a blast and the people watching was impeccable. I loved this wedding because Dallas and Adele stayed true to who they are. They didn't fall into the trap of spending too much, inviting too many and letting the whole ordeal take over.
This wedding was about love. Not about how much money the father of the bride dropped, or where the reception was at or "who" the bride was wearing.
It was refreshing to see a registry where the most expensive item was a $150 set of pots and pans. I loved that the newlyweds arrived at the reception via their pontoon boat.
This was a wedding I will never forget for many reasons. Juni danced for hours and passed out on the way home. Jasen and I spent the night watching and laughing with him. But it was more than that. Juni's first wedding showed him what a wedding should be about - two people wrapping their lives together. Two people taking an awesome risk with each other. Two people that will stand together and fight with and for one another, hopefully forever.

These two people didn't go into debt just for one day. They celebrated their relationship by letting us in on the party. And the wedding was just as beautiful as they are, and as beautiful as their marriage will be.

Car Conversations

2010-09-02T22:55:00.000-04:00

Juni and I spend a lot of time in the car. That's what happens when you live on the outskirts. We rock out, we roll the windows down, and we talk. Some our best conversations take place in the car. Questions abound. "Mommy, what my finger made of?" "Mommy, when I gonna get bigger?" "Mommy, you do dat when you a girl?" "Mommy, you know daddy when he a boy?"
Some questions are better than others...

Mommy.
Yes, Juni?
Everybody die?
Yes, Juni. Everybody dies.
(short pause) Mommy.
Yes, Juni?
Everybody die when they get old?
Yes, Juni. Everybdy dies when they get very, very old.
(longer pause) Mommy...Nanny and PaPa very, very old you know. They gonna die aday (today)?
No, Juni. Not today.
(pretty long pause this time) Mommy...when you gonna die?
No time soon, baby. Mommy's not old yet.
Mommy...you old, you know.
Thanks for that, son. Seriously. I'm not old.
(a minute later) Mommy...Shelby die, you know.
Yes, Juni. I know.
I miss her, you know. I love my new puppy Sadie, but I still miss my old dog, Shelby. I miss playing with her, you know.
I know, Juni. I miss her, too. (now I have a lump in my throat)
You ran ober (over) her with the car, you know.
Okay! Enough talk about death. Seriously, son. At this point, I'll talk about anything else. Politics? Religion? Where do babies come from? Take your pick.
Mommy...I already know where babies come from, you know.
Um...Okay.
Mommies get big bellies and den (then) poop dem (them) out. Just like the chickens poop out eggs and cows poop out baby cows.
Um...okay. who told you that, baby?
Daddy did. Mommy...when you gonna poop out your baby?
Excuse me? I'm not pregnant, Juni. I'm not pooping out any babies any time soon. Can we maybe talk about death again?
Alright, Mommy. But you do have a big belly, you know.
Thanks, Juni ... Okay! Unbuckle your belt...we're here! Thank the lord...

Stretch Marks

2010-08-24T22:02:00.000-04:00

I've had stretch marks since puberty. They're light an faded, or so I though. Until today.

I'm weeding in a pair of shorts, bending over and feel something tickling the back of my booty. I, realizing it's not a curious bug, jolts and yelps : "Juni! What the heck, man? That tickles! And it's actually a little inappropriate."
Juni says: "I not mean to tickl you, Momma. I just lookin'. Momma. What dem lines on your legs?"
Me: "Huh?"
Juni: "You know, dem scratches on your legs."
Me: "Juni. What in the world are you talking about?"
Juni, touching my legs again: "These, Momma! Cat scratch you?"
Me: "No, Juni. Those are stretch marks. Thanks for noticing."
Juni: "What stretched your legs, Momma?"
Me: "You did, son. You did."
Juni: "Oh. Okay, Momma. Sorry I did dat."

I hate my legs, but I absolutely love my kid.

Waffles, Bacon and a Rotten Egg

2010-08-17T20:12:00.001-04:00

Sunday mornings are nothing short of glorious in our home. Juni plays trains while Jasen cooks breakfast, and I sleep an extra 15 minutes.
Jasen always concocts something amazing. This morning he presented Belgian apple waffles, bacon, omelets and a rotten egg.
The rotten egg put a serious damper on our morning.
Jasen and Juni pick the eggs. Occasionally, they forget one. Which is fine. As long as the egg isn't refrigerated, it won't go bad for quite a while.
Apparently, one of the eggs Jasen decided to put into his omelet somehow turned bad. Very bad. Green, actually. He cracked it open, and immediately began gagging. He threw it in the trash, and realized he needed to take the entire can outside to rid our kitchen of the rancid smell. Even that didn't work. He's running the dishwasher, with the omelet pan inside. Wiping the counters. And gagging. Every few minutes he darted out the porch door yelling he was going to puke.
All I could do was laugh. And hide. I've never smelled a rotten egg, and decided that it was completely possible for me to take one whiff and never eat another poultry produced protein morsel in my life.
I screamed at him to spray some air freshener. But of course he was too busy with omelet number two.
Jasen eradicated the kitchen of the green egg (feeding it to my now very gassy and smelly pup) and sat down to eat his omelet.
And smelled his fingers. Not good. He ran from the living room, gagging and diving for the sink. Three washes later, and he still dared me to sniff his pinkie. No way. Today I learned that one negative to having fresh eggs is, every now and then, there is bound to be a rotten one in the bunch. The rest of the carton is still sitting in our fridge, awaiting its fate. Apparently, the smell was so bad that Jasen can't decide if he wants to risk a nasal disaster again.

Juni-ism

2010-08-15T20:12:00.000-04:00

I love the honesty in children. From day one, they make no excuses. If they're hurt, they cry. If they're tired, they sleep. If they're hungry, they eat. That honesty amazes me daily.
Juni is beautifully, brutally honest. Like the time when he said "Mommy...I love your big fat belly. It's just so warm and soft. Mmmmm."
Thanks, son.
Yesterday, my grandmother Corky asked Juni if he had to potty, since his hands were grabbing his crotch. "No. I just scratchin' my balls."
Excellent. Thank God my Corky didn't hear or understand him. She's the most uber-conservative, ultra-mannered woman I know.
Juni is slowly learning social etiquette's, which makes my job less embarrassing. But at the same time, it makes me a little sad. He's learning to not be completely honest at every moment. He's learning not to speak his mind every chance he gets. He'll learn the cool dance moves instead of moving his toddler body so freely to the music. In short, he'll grow up. Which is wonderful and sad mixed together. But at least he won't be telling his grandmother about scratching his balls.

1 Day

2010-08-05T23:33:00.000-04:00

Every morning Juni darts down the hall, climbs into my bed and and asks for chocolate milk and Tom & Jerry. He then proceeds to ask me "Mommy. What we doin' today?" ad nauseum until I answer him with an itinerary for the next 18 hours.
Some days I have a full day of activities scheduled, other days it's errands and work, and occasionally it's just lounging around the homestead. Regardless, Juni wants to know. So I decided to randomly pick a day and record just what I did, so Juni can some day get a feel for what his life was like at 4-years-old.
Juni snuggled into my bed at 6:15 this morning. Yep. 6:15. Not really my time to shine. But by 6:30 we were downstairs, sippy cup filled to the brim with chocolate milk, Tom and Jerry barely audible on the television, and me stirring three heaping spoonfulls of sugar into my coffee.
By 8 am Jasen had made his daily morning call, reminding me of everything he and I had to do, and asking me to do about 10 more things. I did what I do every morning. Tell him I'm tired, I'm working on it, and that yes, I will do whatever favor you need if you will just not call me for another few hours.
By 10 a.m. the house was clean, Juni dressed and me finally awake. I'd also invoiced a job, printed out the financial report to date for the company, checked my personal email and answered the business emails. I'd also built a train track with Juni, helped him feed his fish, changed his sheets and convinced him to not build a train table in the middle of my bedroom, but instead to drag two tables next to Jasen's side of the bed. It's the little things, really, like watching Jasen have to crawl to his side of the bed that give me the most pleasure.
The heat index was in the mid-90s, so I shoved my thunder thighs into the longest pair of shorts I could find, pulled my hair up and headed to the barn.
I found myself wrestling a full roll of silt fence into the back of my 4-runner along with 5 heavy-as-hell and even more awkward bundles of wooden stakes. I was also regretting the sandals and white shirt I wore, and constantly expecting a snake to lunge out of the grass and scare the crap out of me. I fought about 100 yellow flies, and lost the battle. Five got into the car, and I'm thinking about 13 got a great brunch off of my ankles. I also noticed a pumpkin patch from last year's discards and am pretty stoked about the gigantic pumpkin I'll get to carve.
An hour later and I pulled up at the site. Jasen and Mauricio were drenched in sweat and hungry for lunch. Unfortunately, loading the materials meant the seat next to Juni had to house the 34 pounds of pure junk that was resting in the back. Jasen and Mauricio were too hot to move any of it, so I drove down the road with Jasen next to me, Juni in his carseat, and Mauricio in the very back. The entire car smelled like fresh sweat. Not a bad smell, but not real appetizing, either.
The best part of lunch was seeing the smile on a man's face when he heard Juni answer me "yes, ma'am." Point Mommy.
After lunch it was off to the local art store for supplies, the ice cream store (more for me than Juni) and to Juni's great-grandparents house, where I proceeded to try and force 24 hours worth of food down their throats in 3 hours.
Jasen's grandparents are 86 and 81 and completely hilarious. I spent the afternoon begging Buddy not to look for the scissors for another minute, explaining to Gang-Gang that she gets her hair done every week and that yes, I did remember who and where the stylist was, begging Juni not to jump off of the couch and break a bone, and listening to both of them tell me the same stories over and over. I love it.
Their house smells like grandparents. My Granny and Grandad. I took a little cat nap on their couch, and dreamed about Granny and Grandad's house. It was wonderful. With the smells of old people and bacon in my nose it was almost like being at Granny's again. But I digress.
I left their house at 3:30, picked up a payment, deposited it in the bank, called Jasen to tell him that yes, they did underpay us yet again and that yes, they know it and yes, honey, I'll stay on top of them. I picked up toiletries for Jasen and Juni, some candy for Vans care package and lollipops or Juni, since the bank didn' have any.
Juni fell asleep in the car, so I woke him just in time to pull into the parking lot at his Tae Kwon Do class. Mom met us, which was a nice surprise. I spent the next 45 minutes watching Juni spar with a kid 6 inches taller and two belts higher than he, and felt that familiar churn in my tummy. He loves karate class. I'm not so much a fan of the punching and kicking, but I get it.
That night I sliced okra, bathed Juni, cleaned the kitchen, found the cool Thomas You Tube videos, fixed a boo-boo, helped with yet another train set, and guilted myself for not recording more of Juni on DVD. I also figured out exactly what line items our check was short on, sent an email to the company, explained the financial printouts to Jasen, and worked on a project I'm creating for my sister.
After a little Project Runway and watermelon, I'm here, trying to type quietly in bed, and regretting the watermelon choice. I've also just remembered what I forgot to do today: find account numbers for the financial planner, answer some of my personal emails, order some things online, call the estate attorney, contact the corporate lawyer, begin my letter to the DBE and put away the laundry. Damn it.

Bird, Mouse and Cat: Three Doomed Fish

2010-08-01T09:25:00.001-04:00

Juni didn't sleep more than 45 minutes at a time until he was 9-and-a-half months old. To describe those months as exhausting would be a gross understatement. There are no words to describe. At one point I thought he had some terrible stomach disorder. Nope. Reflux. I tried a vibrating crib. One of those bears that emits a heartbeat and sloshing sounds like the womb. I wedge to elevate his head. Then pillows under his crib mattress to elevate his entire top half. Nothing worked.
He slept in his swings for the first six months of his life. And when I say slept, I basically meant cat naps in between screaming fits. At the urging of his pediatrician, we Ferberized him at 10 months. Pitiful, but he did learn to fall asleep on his own, and would stay that way. For approximately 2 hours. And then I had to repeat the process.
I'd fall asleep sitting beside his crib, on the floor, so that when he did scream it wouldn't wake up my husband. I'd fall asleep nursing him in the rocker. I'd fall asleep while he played on the floor. I'd fall asleep just about anywhere.
Even now, at four years old, Juni rarely sleeps through the night. He wakes up screaming for me, saying he's scared. One week it was deers. the next it was the blinds on his window. Or the little closet door. Or just nothing. He'd wake up because his overnight pull-up leaked. Which isn't just a quick kiss and back to bed. It's changing clothes, sheets, pillows. All at 4 a.m.
Sleeping in the Norge house is miserable. Even though Jasen doesn't get up with Juni, it still wakes him, and I have to hear about it in the morning.
Three weeks ago I hit my breaking point. I was falling asleep in his bed again, in the middle of the night. Which just plain sucks. The kid sleeps like a crazy person. I'd wake up, sweating from his plastic mattress cover, his feet lodged in my spine, me tinkering on the edge of the mattress clutching Beary. Sucked. Big time.
And so I resorted to bribery. I am now a full-fledged, card-carrying supporter of bribery. It's amazing, really. One day after the aquarium Juni asks for a fish tank. That night, I bribe him: "you sleep in your bed all night, without screaming your head off, and you can get a fish tank." He's definitely allowed to come into my bedroom if he's scared or doesn't feel well, but screaming like someone's stabbing him with a butter knife is out of the question. As a child who suffered from night terrors her entire childhood, this troubled me a bit, but I also realize how rare night terrors are, and work hard every day to not project my anxiety onto him.
My point is, the bribery worked.The first night he woke up once. Ran into my room, sounding like an elephant, but no screams. I led him back to his bed, and within 2 minutes he was snoring just like Daddy. Friday made three weeks with no screaming. Jackpot! So we headed to the locally owned pet sore.
Three fish later, and we were ready to roll. He named them Mouse, Cat and Bird. Adorable. He fed them, decorated their little tank. and stood on the same wooden stool I stood on as a child, staring at them and talking to them.
It was wonderful. My plan had worked, bwahahaha.
And then, disaster. The yellow fish went belly up. "Mommy...what wrong with that fish? He sleeping?"
I figured Juni could handle it. He's seen dead chickens, cows, snakes, unfortunately, he even saw me run over my dog, Shelby, and reminds me of my murderous act at least once a week.
So the kid understands that animals die. So I told him the truth. "Okay. I get a new one? Not a yellow one, though. They no good. I want a guppy. A whole family, so they can have babies. Alright?" Alright, Juni. I'll go back tomorrow and get you a while guppy family.
And then as I snuck his sleeping body into his bed, I saw it. Three floaters. Damn it! I had single-handily murdered Bird, Cat and Mouse. They were stuck in the plastic plants. They looked like they were sleeping, so I went with it. Told Juni they were so tired from the trip.
I was so upset when I got into bed, Jasen actually sat straight up at one point and said "F*** the f***ing fish! They're f***ing fish for Christ's sake! Jesus! Just go to bed. You didn't mean to do it. He'll get over it." And then has he laid down, rolled over and closed his eyes I heard him grumble "Damn f***ing fish."
Okay. I get it. It was like a cheezy sitcom where the hamster dies and the parents run out, looking for the twin to said hamster. Something I never thought I would ever do.
And yet, first chance I got, I snuck out of the house, found said twin fishes, and bought them. I spent $15 on water conditioners, including one with live bacteria to make their home the perfect fishy habitat. Then I bought two gallons of spring water, just to spoil the little buggars.
And so now, what began as a $30 bribery is now up to $50. But this morning, Juni woke up, asking to see his fish first thing, and I didn't have to lie and say there were napping. They were alive, happy, and waiting to be fed. It's amazing what we'll do for our children. We don't want to see them hurt, even if it is over a f***ing fish We want to see them happy, rewarded, and succeed. And with the newly named Cat, Mouse, Bird, C and J fluttering their happy little fins, I can officially stand at the top of my stairs and shout "Victorious!" I have made fish live! For more than 12 hours! Woo. Friggin. Hoo, baby!

Accountability

2010-07-28T10:10:00.001-04:00

Not a day goes by that I don't complain about my weight. It's like this giant, looming number ready to ruin my day. I don't remember the last time I stepped on a scale.
I also don't remember the last time I stepped in a gym. I get in these spurts where I'll exercise, eat right, lose weight. But I'm friggin hungry! So inevitably, I break down. And eat. And eat. And eat.
And then not a day goes by that I don't complain about my weight. Especially during the summer. Bathing suits are my nemesis. So are shorts. I hate my legs. Always have, always will. And I've got this tire that refuses to deflate around my midsection. Then again, I'm not doing anything to help it go away, except complain, and eat more crap.
I admire those people who are accountable to themselves. They write food diaries. They have a workout partner. My sister has asked me several times to go to the gym, and I honestly don't feel like it.
Today I downed last night's dessert for breakfast. I know. Gross. But soooo good. And then I decided to do sit ups and leg lifts. On the bed. But I do them on the bed for a legitimate reason...my back. My back won't fuss at me if I do them on the bed.
A friend of mine recently made herself accountable for Art Every Day. It's an awesome blog. I look at it every day. I definitely create art every day. It's just in me. But I don't move every day, or eat healthy every day.
I complain every day, but that's pretty much as far as I get. People tell me I don't need to work out. "You have an active toddler. Running after him is enough." But that's just it. He runs circles around me. I don't run with him.
So I've decided to be more active. Sit less. And at least think twice about dessert for breakfast. I'm not quite ready yet to record weights, food intake and exercise, but I'm thinking about it. And at least I've made a conscious decision to move. That's got to be better than nothing, right?

And I haven't forgotten about my commitment to write about my grandparents, either. Each one deserves the best. And I'm at my writing best when I'm inspired. And lately I've pretty much only been inspired to eat dessert for breakfast. But I'll get there...

Mind Games

2010-07-15T13:09:00.001-04:00

I've never been big on mind games. But what my mind does to itself it just plain ridiculous. Anytime I feel boated, or get the slightest nauseated, or feel anything even the slightest bit like what I felt when I was pregnant, I psych myself up into thinking I'm preggers.
And that's not a good thing. The panic sets in, the shakes, the sweats, the not being able to breath. Today I didn't eat enough breakfast before taking my morning pills, and that can upset my tummy. So of course, right before lunchtime I get hungry, and my tummy doesn't feel so good. So I spent the last hour fighting the panic attack. Once I began to sweat and get scared because Jasen isn' home, I realized it was time to take my medication. My doctor lets me decide the dose, up to a certain amount, so I took what I thought would be enough to knock it out. And the medication dissolves on my tongue. Forty-five minutes later, the panic attack has passed, and now the meds are working SO well I'm thinking another baby would be cool.
Today I hate my brain. I know it's impossible for me to be pregnant...birth control, timing, everything is just perfect for no mistakes. But still. I couldn't talk myself out of it. And that's absolutely infuriating to me. I have a master's degree, and can't rationalize and reason with my own brain? What the heck is that?
About and hour after taking my panic medicine I crash, and desperately need a nap. So hopefully, I can snuggle up in the chair with and just catch 20 minutes of sleep. And since he just climbed into my lap and yawned, that's my cue to get the heck off of here and try to rest. I'd just like tell my brain that I'm sick of its mind games. They're not fun. And it's just not playing nice.

Grandaddy at Blackwater, aka Big Dan

2010-07-05T21:57:00.001-04:00

I spent today in the boat with Jasen, Juni, my dad and his wife Kim. I absolutely love the smell of the brown water.It's earthy, fishy and fresh, all at the same time. I love the wind in my hair. As a child, I'd perch in the bow and howl like a wolf into the air.
Today reminded me just how much I miss all of my grandparents that have passed. I think about each of them almost daily, but even more so on days like today. And so I decided to write a little something about each one. This is the first installment about my Grandaddy at Blackwater, as we called him. My Dad's Dad.
Grandaddy was called Big Dan for a reason. He was big in every way. Tall, fat, boisterous. A truly larger-than-life personality. The man had giant hands, like my Dad's, and gave the best bear hugs you
imagine. He would hug me so hard my shoes would lift off of the floor. And he had huge cheeks - jowls, really, that blushed when he laughed.
He had bright blue eyes and delicate silver hair. He used to love it when my sister and I would fiddle with his hair while he drove the car.
My Grandaddy loved his family, food, and life as a whole. I have the feeling he was a little wild in his youth - he was a moonshine runner, drinker, and rumor has it he once took a bullet to the belly.
He worked hard as a young adult, built a hugely successful business, and retired early. Grandaddy took risks. He bought property, played the stock market, dreamed of developing.

Here are some of my favorite memories:
Seeing Grandaddy squeeze himself into my freshman dorm room at Tech. He said it felt like a jail cell, and he started to sweat. "How can you stand it in here, girl? The walls are cinder blocks! And I can hardly turn around in this room. I need some air. Let's go get some dinner."
The way he looked when I graduated college. He wasn't hard to pick out of the crowd, not only because of his size, but because of the enormous smile on his face. I was the first in our family to ever graduate, and it meant the world to me that he made the trip.
Riding in the boat. I felt so safe and secure, even though he drove way too fast with motors way too big. We took Jasen out when we were first engaged. Jasen grabbed the console so tightly his knuckles turned white. "What's wrong whitcha, boy? Scared?" I'm pretty sure only the prop was in the water at that point.
My 13th birthday, when he let 25 newly-dubbed teenagers spend the night in his Shop (which is a house with commercial kitchen, Jacuzzi and pool table). He stepped on grapes the next morning on the floor, and found Elizbeth's very frozen bra in his freezer. "What the heck is this, girl? A band aid?"
His chitterling parties. Women, thank God, were not allowed. Jasen and his grandfather went to the last one he threw before he died, and burped pig guts for 3 days. Grandaddy loved to entertain so much that he put in a commercial kitchen in the shop. I loved t watch him cook. He had huge steamers, pots, knives. It was like being in a restaurant. And the more the merrier.
Being driven to high school in his Rolls. They never drove that car. But he drove me to school in it, and picked me up a few times. They also drove it to Tech once, and I'm pretty sure he just about had a heart attack when he saw the on-street parking.
Spending the night at his house, and having a weekend-long panic attack. I couldn't sleep, so he and Corky would take turns rubbing my head and back all night. When it was Granddaddy's shift I'd know it, because his giant fingers would beat against my head rather than scratch or rub. He also snored. Loud. Even during naps in his over sized La-Z-Boy, the man snored.
His stories. Just talking to this man made me happy. He was loud, with a unique accent, and had the best stories.
His hugs. The best ever, hands down. I could never get my arms around him, but I did manage to snap his red suspenders every time I saw him. He was a financially successful man, but wore a pair of blue overalls all the time, with tan shoes.
His diamond. He bought some crazy diamond - it's over 10 carats, I believe. He kept it in a safe along with some other jewelry that he'd take out and show me sometimes. I remember seeing all of his perfectly pressed clothes and thinking I'd never really seen him in any of them.
When he was sick in the hospital, and I told him I was engaged. "You've picked a good boy, girl. He's a boy that can take care of you." He then turned to Jasen, tears glistening in his eyes, and told him he loved him. I asked him if we could get married on the water at his house and have the rehearsal dinner in the Shop, and we spent the afternoon planning the food. I love that he got to see my house, and know I was going to be well taken care of. He knew Jasen would work hard and provide for our family. He passed away unexpectedly from a massive stroke 4 months before the wedding.
Holding his hand when the doctors turned off the machines. It was definitely a Steel Magnolia moment. All three of his granddaughters were by his side. I remember trying to imprint on my brain just how big his hands were, and how strong his body was. It was a moment I never want to relive, but am so grateful to have had.
Seeing his picture propped above Jasen's head in the gazebo where we were married. A hot tear rolled down my cheek.

I inherited many things from Grandaddy. His bunions. His blue eyes. His round head and pronounced cheeks (Juni is a spitting image sometimes). I even inherited his insatiable appetite and love for food. I love entertaining like he did, and family.

Anyone who met my Grandad never forgot him. You couldn't, really. He was just that cool. I'm sure there are countless other memories I have hidden somewhere in my little pea-brain, but to be honest, I'm getting a headache from controlling my tears. And my face is beginning to burn from the salt. I just hope he knows how much I love him, and how proud I am to be his granddaughter. Big Dan was definitely one of a kind.

As if going to the GYN wasn't uncomfortable enough...

2010-07-01T22:20:00.002-04:00

I love my OB-GYN. He's hilarious. And thorough. His bedside manner is spot-on, and I'm comfortable talking to him.
The problem is, so does everyone else. He's always late. Hours, sometimes. And that annoys the crap out of me. Like my time is worth less than his because I'm not a doctor. But whatever. Doctors are always like that.
My yearly exam is not something I look forward to. Poking, prodding, paper clothes. Stepping on the scale. It all sucks. Big time.
But as if going to the GYN wasn't uncomfortable enough, my dear doctor decided to put a television in the waiting room. And not just any television. This television is one big infomercial for STDs, sexual dysfunction, pregnancy and any kind of discharge you can thing of.
I realized the addition when I sat down in the waiting room, next to an expecting couple. They were adorable. And then the woman on the tube began talking about the signs of Chlamydia. In men. I never knew something could be so disgusting and graphic with no pictures. This poor couple and I turned 14 shades of red. It was horrible.
The television made it's way through every possible sign of every possible STD. Fun times. Then it turned to self-exams for men and women, annoyances during pregnancy, and random sexual issues.
Don't get me wrong. I'm all for education and openness. But in the waiting room? Seriously? Whatever happened to setting out a stack of brochures? I felt like I was in the middle of Crazy Town. Like there was a camera on me, waiting for me to just bust out laughing.
I'm pretty sure everyone else in the waiting room felt the same way as I did. We were all staring at the floor, feeling our cheeks burn, and giggling like a middle-schooler in sex-ed/

The Movie Debacle

2010-06-30T22:19:00.001-04:00

Juni is not a movie-going sort of kid. He's a play in the mud, work in the garden, rearrange the flower bed sort of kid. But we were heading into week two of a ridiculous heat wave, and I decided it was time to try the movie theater again.
Last fall he made it 40 minutes into the Chipmunk's Squeakuel. I can't say I wasn't relieved. That was just a headache waiting to happen.
This time I brought backup - Juni's best friend and his mom. We met at the theater early to make sure we beat the daycare buses to the free movie. It was 85 degrees and 9:15 am.
It's important to note at this time that i do not wear shorts unless it's more than 100 degrees outside and I'm fairly positive I will not see another human being that day. I hate my legs. With a passion. And so on this given day, I chose to wear jeans. Mistake No. 1.
I'm not sure why the heat bothered me so much. Maybe it was the 314 kids whining and squirming and fussing with each other. Maybe I didn't drink enough water that morning. Maybe it was too much makeup. I don't know. The point is, I began to sweat. A lot.
You may think I'm exaggerating here. Believe me, I am not. People were staring. My friend offered to stand in line while I sat in my car. My eyes were burning from the salt in my sweat pouring into my eyes. My chest was absolutely drenched. My entire shirt was soaked, as were my pants.
I have never seen another human being spew sweat from their glands as much as I did that morning. Juni kept trying to hang on me, and I was so irritated I reverted to what I told Jasen while I was in labor "I love you. But please. Stop touching me!"
By the time we made it into the theater I honestly didn't care what people were thinking. I went directly to the napkins at the concessions and started mopping up what I could. Insane.
So I was uncomfortable going into the movie, Hotel for Dogs.
I was surprised when Juni made it through the entire movie. This is not to say he didn't fidget, or squirm, or say he was ready to go home every 23 minutes.
What did surprise me is that watching a movie with Juni is worse than watching a movie with my redneck husband. Jasen is a mindless movie watcher. If the plot is he least bit intricate he's lost. If there's a flashback, he's out.
It drives me insane. He asks me questions I can't possibly answer. I'm constantly telling him "dude. I've been watching this movie as long as you have. I don't have any more information than you do. Now shut the hell up and watch the friggin movie."
As tedious as watching a move with Jasen is, with Juni it's worse. My child asked me questions the entire movie. He never stopped talking. And it's not like Hotel for Dogs is all that hard to follow. He wanted to know where people were going, what they were doing, what was going to happen, why that was going to happen, why, why, WHY?
Forty-five minutes into the movie I turned to my friend and just started to laugh. I didn't know what else to do. No way in hell could I answer one more question. I needed a serious dose of Tylenol.
Juni reminded me of my little cousin that day. Always asking why. But my friend gave me some insight that her younger brother told her the other day. Her younger brother always asked why, and it drive his parents and sibling crazy. But t also hurt his feelings. Apparently, he really did want to know why.
Kids are curious. And intelligent people naturally want to know why. And so I decided after the movie that I'm blessed to have healthy, smart, curious child that can ask why. And while I may sneak in a giggle or roll my eyes occasionally, I'm going to do my best to answer his why.

A Conscious Decision

2010-06-25T22:01:00.001-04:00

Today I made a conscious decision I've put off for four years. Someone wrote this to me in relation to career vs. parenthood:
"I realized that right now, right NOW, i have a gift. These guys are growing up so fast. They're like these brilliant little flowers. And what I can give them right now will be something they have for the rest of their lives. And hopefully, hopefully, what I give them now will be good stuff."
People have told me for four years to stop obsessing about my lack of career. About feeling like I'm wasting my degrees. But something about the way this was put, and the fact that he is in the exact same position as me, made me realize that childhood is but a blip on the radar.
He made me realize that that self-worth is self-defined. And he sent me a link to this poem:

Always in my heart ...

My dishes went unwashed today,
I didn't make the bed,
I took his hand and followed
Where his eager footsteps led.

Oh yes, we went adventuring,
My little son and I...
Exploring all the great outdoors
Beneath the summer sky

We waded in a crystal stream,
We wandered through a wood...
My kitchen wasn't swept today
But life was gay and good.

We found a cool, sun-dappled glade
And now my small son knows
How Mother Bunny hides her nest,
Where jack-in-the-pulpit grows.

We watched a robin feed her young,
We climbed a sunlit hill...
Saw cloud-sheep scamper through the sky,
We plucked a daffodil.

That my house was neglected,
That I didn't brush the stairs,
In twenty years, no one on earth
Will know, or even care.

But that I've helped my little boy
To noble manhood grow,
In twenty years, the whole wide world
May look and see and know.

Author: Unknown

I realize that explaining to Jasen why the house is a complete mess is something I'll never completely master. He personally doesn't get it. But that's okay. I may not have my name in print everyday, but, really, does that matter?
My son didn't have to puke with a stranger. I got to hold him, and stroke is clammy little head when he cried for me. I got to tell him that everything was all right, and that "Mommy's right here." I got to tell and show my son just how much I love him. It may sound completely ridiculous and disgusting, but the fact that I was there to clean up my son's puke was the greatest gift.
When all was said and done, my son knew I was there for him. That I'll always be here for him. And then we got to play in the pool, string shells we collected on fishing line, and watch Tom and Jerry together. When he's 30 I'm sure he won't remember today. But I will.
I'll remember every day since his birth. I'll remember the sleepless nights. I'll remember the diapers, the spit up, the puke and the boo-boos. I'll remember the kisses that make it all better, the snuggles, the zurberts and the laughs. I'll remember how my heart burns to think of him growing even one day older. And the pride I feel as that one day older passes and I see the person he is becoming.
I've been with my son every day since he was born. And that's something that has changed my life, my being, my soul, forever. That's something that when I'm 90 I will remember and cherish.
Today I made the conscious decision to not waste one more second worrying about working. I have my Redneck Husband to do that for me.
Every day since Juni's birth I've thanked God for him, and for the gift of raising him every moment of every day. Today, I made the conscious decision to let go of the remnants of guilt for not working. Because when it comes right down to it, work can kiss the fattest part of my behind. Raising Juni is the best kind of "work" imaginable. And I deserve every minute of it.

PukeFest 2010

2010-06-24T09:28:00.001-04:00

Mothers always tell me that their own kid's bodily yuckiness doesn't make them gag. I, personally, find that what comes out of my child's body can be so vile it makes me dry heave.
Last night was no exception. Juni came home from VBS at 9:30 p.m., totally worked up and singing something about God being his hero. Completely adorable. He fell asleep in my bed, and slept in his until midnight. And that's when the fun began.
He woke up, screaming "Mommy!" Let me explain something - my child wakes up screaming my name several times a week. It's insane. And annoying. But every time, I dash into his room, trying to get there before Jasen wakes up. I call him a sleeping bear at night. "Don't wake the Daddy Bear, Juni! He bites!"
I get into Juni's room in time for him to tell me that his tummy hurts. Uh-Oh. Before I can find the puke bucket, he's spewing half-digested mystery food two feet in front of his body. On the bed. On the pillows. On his pants. In his hair. The smell overtakes he room, and me.
It's at this point that I realize I definitely need backup. I wake the sleeping bear for puke patrol. I'm opening windows, tuning on fans, gagging and dry-heaving. Juni is busy sloshing around his bed in his own vomit.
Once he takes a break, Jasen holds him up by his armpits, and I strip him of his sodden clothes. Bits of goo and mush scatter across his carpet. His white, Berber carpet. Ugh.
Jasen takes care of the bath, and I strip his bed and stuff everything into the wash. I'm giving my lungs a workout, holding my breath as long as I can before dashing into the hallway for fresh air. It's 95 degrees outside, the air is pumping full time, and I don't care. I'm basically just trying to preserve my dinner, which was wonderful going down, but would be completely miserable coming back up.
I actually had to vacuum up bits of barf off of his floor. I thought using carpet cleaner and 7th Generation on the bed frame would help mask the smell. Not so much. It smelled like an elementary hallway when a kid looses their lunch and the janitor covers it in that pink saw dusty stuff. (Umm...yeah...I literally just got the nausea lump in my throat).
To sum up a long night, I'd sleep for an hour, Juni would puke. I'd sleep for another hour, Juni would puke. He's such a good kid...much better than me when I'm sick. He'd use his little bucket (the pink rectangular one you get at the hospital when you deliver), take a sip of water, and go right back to bed.
This morning he puked again, but everything after the initial PukeFest 2010 has been nothing but clear fluid. I have no idea what the kid ate that's made his stomach so pissed off, but at this point he hasn't eaten in more than 12 hours. And of course I'm terrified to feed him. And he's feeling fine. He'll hand me the pink puke pail and immediately ask "Mommy, where we going today?"
Oy...

Is it a Bad thing to want to Shove that {wooden!} gun down my son's throat?

2010-06-17T21:54:00.002-04:00

No trip to the OBX is complete without a trip to a Wings. If you're unfamiliar with Wings, let me enlighten you.
It's filled to the brim with cheap crap. Sand toys, floats, bathing suits, ridiculous t-shirts, coffee mugs with boobies on them, magnets. It's insanity, really. But Jasen wanted to get me another dress, and he wanted a sign for the pool house.
Of course Juni was told he could get a souvenir. And of course, true to my buzzard luck, he picked this wooded gun that shoots out a wine bottle cork, makes a loud popping noise, and then sucks he cork back into the barrel with a shoe string.
It is quite possibly the most obnoxious toy next to the whistle. If I ever find the person who created this toy (along with the inventor of panty hose, waxing, and heels) I will take that gun and beat him to death with it.
The reason I feel so strongly about said gun is this...Juni popped that damned gun in the car so many times that I at one point seriously considered the thought that I may have suffered permanent hearing loss.
The ride home was insane. Juni asked ever 34 seconds if we were at CeCe's house to pick up Sadie yet. Jasen had to stop along the way to put more ice on the 13 pounds of meat he could never eat on the vacation, and he had to buy a very cool hammock swing.
And of course there was the gun. And cop.

That's right, a cop. I got pulled. I'm laughing at Juni while he's shooting Jasen in the back of the head with the gun, thinking what a wonderful week we've had, when I see those blue lights and ... damn it ... I'm going 12 miles over.
Immediately Jasen is cussing. And Juni is asking if I'm going to jail. And I'm explaining to Jasen where the registration is, and to Juni that no, I am not going to jail, while the cop is peering into the passenger window.
He turns around and spends a few minutes in his car. It's at this point that Jasen gets pissed. And I'm feeling like a jackass who just made a few-hundred dollar mistake, and Juni has begun to again shoot his gun.
The cop comes back with a written warning. It was an awesome end to an awesome vacation. I got to tell Jasen he got all worked up for nothing, and I didn't have to deal with a ticket. Total and complete awesomeness.
This vacation was a complete success. Coming home and getting back into our routine wasn't the easiest thing in the world, but it was so worth it. We're refreshed, we're tan, and we're ready to begin our action-packed summer.

Damn you, you Sneaky Little Shark

2010-06-16T21:54:00.001-04:00

The three of us spent the rest of the vacation on the beach. We decided to drive onto the beach at one point. It rocked. I will never again pay that ridiculous premium price for oceanfront. Our next house will be sound front, all the way.
We fished, we boogie-boarded, we ran from jellyfish, I searched for a shark's tooth to no avail. At one point, Jasen looks at me and says "Seriously, babe, what would you be doing all day if you didn't have shark's teeth to look for?"
I've searched for 32 years for a shark's tooth, and have never found a single one. It's turning into an obsession, really. At this point, the odds of me coming across a shark's tooth are slim to none. And yet I will still gleefully spend hours with my butt in the hair, all the blood rushing to my head, and my eyes going fuzzy staring at millions of rocks and shell pieces.
I ran up and down the beach pulling Juni on his boogie board until he caught a wave. Jasen caught no fish, of course, and drank a few beers. It was a wonderful day. Both of us, I think, realized the benefit in the European vacation mindset. We need to decompress and relax at some point. If we keep going like a machine, that machine will inevitably break.
But after five days I missed Sadie, my bed, and my house. We packed up our bags, the 12 bags of groceries I knew we'd never eat, and headed home. The vacation was wonderful. It was the first time the three of us got away from the stress. It was the first time we got away from a routine. And it was the first time we didn't try to kill each other for 5 whole days. Until the ride home...

To the Beach to the Beach to the Beach Beach Beach

2010-06-14T22:53:00.002-04:00

Juni and I sing all day. We sing about going to the beach, hence the title.
After practicing gluttony during breakfast we worked on laziness for a few hours, watching Juni and Evie play in the living room. The two of them are hilarious. Juni tries to tell her not to do, Evie responds by shouting "No!"
Juni takes a toy, Evie pinches his skin and shouts "No!"
Then Juni takes all of the pillows off of the couch, CeCe makes a tent and Evie shrieks in giggles, flaps her arms like a bird and spins in circles.
I packed up 52 pounds of crap to lug over the ginormous dune in the back yard and rounded up the troops for the beach.
We suffocated ourselves in spray sunscreen. Jasen learned that yes, he should spray his chest because yes, sun rays do burn through hair, and we played with the kids all day. Jamie really took the brunt of the beach duty, digging holes for Juni on command and toting Evie between our spot and the shore.
Jasen tent idea was good in theory, a disaster in reality. The wind ripped through it like God only knows what and sent the fabric and poles inverted and threatening to tumble down the beach taking out clueless sunfried bodies.
So we trashed the tent and baked. After a few hours of digging and running and splashing we headed back to the house for a swim in the pool and hot dogs on the grill.
You'd think we would have passed out on the couches, but decided to suck it up and drive to Ocracoke, which includes a ferry trip.
It probably would have been a good idea to tell Jasen about my irrational fear of ferry boats before our car was packed like a sardine, but I, true to form of having the worst timing in the world, waited until we were indeed packed like sardines to explain why I was planning my escape and rescue of Juni and Evie.
In my mind a ferry boat is a death trap. I picture the boat going down and the cars becoming pinballs. People that don't get crushed by a stray car get yanked down with the wreckage. Game over. End of story. So my plan was to say close to the kids in case of disaster. When the captain came on the loudspeaker and explained we were all destined to rot at the bottom of the sound, I would insist we all jumped ship before getting hit or pulled under. So as I was standing on the ferry, admiring the view, I had to remind myself not to jump.
I know. Irrational.
Of course we didn't sink, nor did I jump. But I did get sea sick. Fun times until the boat rocked the wrong way and my hot dog threatened to come back for an encore.
We spent the rest of the afternoon with Jasen and Jamie getting us lost on the island while driving a golf cart. Juni sat in the middle and navigated, and Evie split her time between perching on Jamie's lap and trying to throw herself off of the back of the golf cart, and playing peek-a-boo with bike riders. Classic Norge/Jarvis fun.
We phoned a friend to find the best places to eat on the way home. As luck would have it, the kids were still awake when we reached destination No. 1, which was closed.
The Mad Crabber was 30 minutes further. We woke the kids up and had dinner. Juni also had his first liquor drink. I'm talking and laughing with the adults when I hear a straw slurp. Before Juni got his drink.
""Um...Juni? Did you just drink mommy's drink?" "Um...yeah. I sorry, Mommy. I just wanted a taste it." "It's okay, honey. We're on vacation. But how you feelin, alky?" "Good. Mommy. you wanna play pool?"
Excellent. My son has learned the proper bar etiquette of drinks and pool.
Juni fell asleep on the way to the house. Evie screamed at CeCe for 10 minutes before pooping out. Day 2 goes down as a success. The only thing missing was, big surprise, a bath for Juni. The vacation smell was beginning to remind me of Sunsucks at this point, but whatever.

Oh, Breakwater, How I Love Thee

2010-06-13T22:21:00.002-04:00

Let me just say our new digs were s.w.e.e.t. Seriously. Five bedrooms, all with multiple pillows and extra blankets. Big, plush couches that I could lounge on. Real glasses and plates. A television that was bigger than Juni's portable DVD player. A private pool. A hot tub. A double jacuzzi tub.
The thermostat read 86 degrees inside the house, but it didn't smell like dead rodent. It smelled like the beach.
I called CeCe. This place rocked. And it had extra bedrooms. Time to get the Jarvis family to take a road trip to Rodanthe!
The only problem with having CeCe, Jamie and Evie coming to the house was that I told Juni too early. Three hours too early. Think of the bit about "are we there yet" and insert "are they here yet? When they gonna be here, mommy? Evie here yet?"

It was awesome. Jasen drank too much jungle juice and tipped over the La-Z-Boy. Juni and I laughed and took pictures.
Juni dumped out his self-packed suitcase of toys and built a train track. I didn't have to spend my time searching for ways to cover couches with blankets and mask hideous smells. It was lovely.
CeCe, Jamie and Evie arrived about 8:30 p.m. Right about The kids' bedtimes. But Juni had other plans. I'd mentioned something about fishing earlier, and that's what stuck in his head. And I figured we were on vacation, so no worries.
We made it to the Rodanthe Pier at 9:30 p.m. Thirty dollars and one hour later and Juni was asleep on Jasen's lap as he fished off of a wooden bench. No one caught any fish but it was wonderful.
The wind in m face, the smell of the ocean, the lights of the other houses on shore. It was magical. I toted Juni back to the 4Runner and headed to the house for a bath in my tub for ten. The only thing missing from this day was a bath for Juni. But I chalked that up to vacation smell, tucked him into his bottom bunk, and passed out beside Jasen.
We all slept like rocks and woke up to the smell of Jasen and Jamie cooking bacon, eggs and serving fresh coffee, orange juice and donuts. Yep. Breakwater rocks my world. Day One goes down as a success.

SunFun Sucks

2010-06-12T21:27:00.003-04:00

Okay. I learned a lesson on this vacation. Don't go for the value. Go for the luxury. I also learned that signs go both ways. It was a sign that the house was available. It was also a sign that the key didn't work. And Juni had to poop. Both signs read "do not enter. there's poop inside."

SunFun seemed great on paper: Two queen beds, one bunk, bedding included; Two full baths, one with a jacuzzi tub, towels included; A short path walk to the beach, A wrap-around deck on the roof with a hammock and picnic table, Bikes. Grills. Games.

What more could we ask for? Well, for starters, how about a house that DOESN'T smell like a dead rat? That's right. You read it. the whole house smelled like a dead rat. Or, as the maintenance guy put it, mold resulting from a leak in the dishwasher that the owner fixed with duct tape.
And it gets better. Apparently we were the only chumps they could find to rent SunFun for quite a while. The house needed some serious help. On top of the dead rat smell it was musty. Stale. Damp. The walls were dirty and in need of a paint job 4 years ago. The couches were wooden and from 1975. Uncomfortable. The bedding consisted of sheets washed 3,000 times and one flat pillow. Juni's bunk beds were meant for miniatures. The rooms were so small I had to crawl over the bed to get to the dresser. The bathtub had peeling stickers in the bottom. The glasses were plastic. The bikes were rust buckets.
And did I mention that in Jasen's rush to pack our entire house that he threw in a rotten onion which exploded, dumped the bag of sugar on the bread, and that the milk leaked everywhere? Yeah. That happened, too. But I digress.
I picked up the phone to call the rental agency, and surprise surprise. The phones don't work. Oh...and one more thing...the path to the beach hadn't been used in about a decade - it was overgrown with prickly cactusy plants that bit juni and stuck inside his comfy pants.
So I call from my cell and head outside for some fresh 90-degree air. I found the shed, and found the grill. Which was pretty much a rust bucket. The grate was rusted and useless. Awesome. I'd vetoed Jasen's plea to bring his Smokey Joe in lieu of my super-cool beach chair that's also a backpack.
So I popped a Xanax to stop the panic rising in my throat from the thought of spending 5 days and 4 nights in this dump, and head to the nearest grocery store for anything to make this house livable. My thought was to buy so many candles that they overpowered the carnage smell. I was going to need a lot of friggin candles.
I called CeCe. I needed to vent. And tell her I may very well be found the next morning suffocated from the smell.
I bought 5 candles, bread, pub mix and a grill grate. Oh...and a light-up plastic beer mug. I needed some sort of parting gift to say "I'm so sorry, honey, for spending our hard-earned money on this place" and the mug was the best I could do in the middle of BFE.
I'm driving back to SunSucks when Jasen calls. The agency had a cancellation, and we're getting bumped up. Really up. For the same price. Jackpot!

Are we there Yet?

2010-06-11T20:55:00.005-04:00

My Redneck husband loves his house. He built his house. He does not like to leave his house. According to him, if he needed something at his house, he would have built it by now.
Okay, Thoreau, when you get back from the pond just let me know. This ingenious literary pun was lost on my husband. Shocker.
It's this reasoning that has left the two of us without a real vacation since our honeymoon 7 years ago. Which, for the most part, has been fine with me. But everyone needs a vacation. I figure we deserve a few days of rest and relaxation. We work hard, we pay our bills, and we need to get away.
So I brought up the idea of renting a house in the Outer Banks a few weeks ago. I realize it was last-minute, but I also realize that's the only way things work with Jasen's work. Work when you've got it. That's how we live.
So of course he blew me off, and said "we'll see." And then I blinked, and it was the Friday before our anniversary. I looked up the house, SunFun, that I'd had my eye on. And it was still available. A sign, I decided.
I ran downstairs, put on my most puppy-like face, popped the question and batted my eyes. And got shot down. The crew wanted the weekend off to go surfing, he had a job to finish, blah-blah-blah.
But I was undeterred. I wanted this as my anniversary gift, and decided to play dirty. I cried. I know, it's wrong. And it's not the way to get what you want. But desperate times call for desperate measures. And I was desperate. And it worked.
And hour later and we had booked our cute little house on the beach, SunFun. We were leaving the next day.

I am a terrible packer. I make list upon list of what I need, but I inevitably always underestimate how many pairs of underwear Juni will need or how many shirts I'll wear. Jasen, on the other hand, always comes back with three pairs of unworn jeans, two shirts still on hangers and six pairs of clean underwear. The man packs like he's going on walk-a-bout.
So for me to pack clothes for Juni and I and food for the three of us for five days and four nights was, to put it lightly, a challenge. But I did it. I had everything in bags, ready to be loaded into the 4-Runner.
And then Jasen comes home that Friday night. Apparently, he'd decided to pack as well. Enough meat for a bomb shelter (Seriously. We're taking an entire roasting chicken, pork ribs, steaks, the list goes on). A rack for the back of the car. A tent for the beach. Fishing polls. Grills. Two 20-pound bags of charcoal. A case of beer. It was insane. I mean, seriously. But whatever. We were going, and I wasn't arguing.
So we stuff poor Juni into his car seat, surrounded by our supplies, dropped Sadie the puppy off at CeCe's house, and hit the road.
I figured Juni would watch his DVD player until Nags head, we'd have lunch, and check in. I figure wrong.
Jasen wanted to "beat the traffic." We left at 8 a.m. Check-in was mid-afternoon. It's a 2.5 hour drive. And we say exactly 12 other cars on the road heading our direction.
Juni made it to Nags Head. We were headed to Rodanthe; another 45 minutes. It started with the boogie boards. I'd promised him I'd teach him to boogie board. He insisted he was ready to surf, but I told him he needed to boogie first. I didn't have the heart to tell him that at 4-years-old he's most likely knock himself unconscious if he tried to surf.
So for 35 minutes at the bagel shop it was "mommy...we gonna get my boogie board now?" And then for 10 minutes trying to find a place with boogie boards it was "mommy...why I not see any boogie boards?"
We found the coveted boogie board, and it was off to the beach. At this point I wish I'd had a dart with tranquilizer. To say the child asked "are we there yet" every 3 minutes would be a gross understatement. It was more like every breath.
And the whole time I'm reminding both him and Jasen that we'll be lucky if we can check into the house within the next 3 hours. But really it was fun. It was fun to see Juni's excitement about his first vacation. It was fun to see time through a child's eyes. A minutes is an hour. An hour is a lifetime. And anticipation kills.

I decided to try my luck and ask if the house was ready. SunFun was ready for the Norge's. We were there. We were headed to our sweet canary yellow beach house. The description on the Internet described SunFun as one of the best values in the OBX, which served me well, since Jasen decided paying less was always more.

Yeah. Let's just say SunFun was not so much fun...

Detour

2010-06-10T20:55:00.002-04:00

Today was a was a stressful day. Unpacking. Getting back into a routine. Paying bills. Making calls.
I met some of my family for lunch, and got caught up on what happened with the Thrashers while I was gone.
And that's when I realized that no matter how hell-bent I am on appreciating life and living for the moment, that the universe can just kick anyone square in the ass.
My step-brother, Van, could have been killed the other day. He's in the beginning of a 12-month Afghanistan deployment with the Army. And early this week, his boss and roommate were blown up two trucks behind his. Five people total died.
I found myself sitting in a Mexican restaurant, completely shocked at how this news seemed like it was just part of his job. Like getting blown up is part of the deal. In my head I realize that, yes, as a soldier he is absolutely putting his life on the line. But I didn't think anything would seriously happen.
And then I wondered...what would happen if it was Van in that truck. I wondered what his wife Tara would tell their 13-month-old daughter Ryleigh about her daddy. Or if my step-mom Kim would ever laugh as loud or smile as wide. Or if his sister Karen would feel like a part of her was gone, too.
The course of their lives, and those they influence, would change forever. Ryleigh would not grow up complete. Tara wouldn't know what to say. Kim would never smile or laugh the same. And Karen would feel like part of her died.
Their nature, their very being, would change. And that would in turn change everyone they would come in contact with for the rest of their lives.
I began going down the list, thinking of everyone who's life would change from one life lost. Everyone. One life lost changes everyone. It changes the course of lives, dreams and futures. The smallest change in each of those people changes their path, and the path of those they meet.
I'm packing a care package for Van this week. I love Van, and want him to know I'm thinking of him. He's a huge Hokie fan, and that's how we bond.
But I just can't think of anything else to put in the box. I just can't think of what you can send someone that came so close to the end. I feel like adding a note to the box of gum, game and deodorant that says something like "Van. Please don't die. Don't change the course of our lives. It's going to good with you in it. And we need you in it."
And so I'm going to bed, sad that five people died. Five people will not leave the complete mark they were left to make. And countless others are changed forever. I'm counting the days until Van is home safe. And I'm counting our blessings that he's safe. at least for one more night.

OBX Bound

2010-06-09T18:11:00.001-04:00

I returned home from my vacation in the Outer Bands six hours ago. Already I've picked up the dog, mowed he lawn, returned business calls, begun the laundry, cleaned the house and started dinner. But tonight, I'm going to begin blogging each day of my vacation, because it was just that good.
Think Griswold at the beach. With a 4-year-old...

A Tale of Two Snakes

2010-05-07T21:51:00.001-04:00

I am not a fan of snakes. They're nasty, sneaky little buggars that exist to make me squeal and squirm. I realize they eat bugs and rodents and the like, but I honestly don't mind a few extra mice in the world.
My Redneck Husband and I have 27 acres. And a LOT of snakes. Rattlesnakes. Copperheads. Green snakes. Black snakes. Garter snakes. Water moccasins. Red-bellied water snakes.
I realize that most snakes are more afraid of me than I am of then. I also dispute this theory with the following Take of Two Snakes.

My friend Tabor died today, and I felt a serious need for some sunshine and Juni laughs. We opened the pool a few days ago, and he's been swimming every day. Today it was sunny and in the upper-80s, so we headed to the water.
I'm crossing the bridge over the ditch in the back yard, and stop to admire my irises. And then I see it. A snake. A big, fat, long snake. He picks his head up, and I catch a glimpse of his red belly. I'd never even heard of a red-bellied water snake until I married my husband. They're not poisonous, but they're also not afraid of anything. In fact, they're actually pretty aggressive.
I stop straight in my tracks and tell Juni to go to the pool. That's when I realize there's another snake, about a foot from the first, lying in the dried ditch.
At this point, I begin to freak out. There are two snakes within 10 feet of my pool. And I'm betting it's not coincidence that they have the word "water" in their names.
So I call Jasen. I'm not sure what I expected him to do from 45 minutes away, but it's not like we have any neighbors. It's at this point I begin regretting my choice to not learn how to shoot a gun. I would have shot both of those bastards point-blank if I'd had the chance.
But as it stood, Juni was barefoot and I was in sandals and shorts. Not the best snake-hunting attire. Jasen tells me to watch them for a half-hour while Buddy, his 85-year-old grandfather, drives over to kill the snakes.
I hang up the phone, and the UPS man pulls in, which of course freaks out my dogs, which causes the snakes to get moving.
And that's when I realize I can no longer see one of the snakes. I'm thinking he's inches from my ankle, of course. But no. He's intertwined with the other snake. Ewe. I've seen this on the Discovery Channel. Again, let me say...Ewe.
They're spinning around, headed toward the pool, Juni is freaking out, the puppy is acting like a crazy dog, and I'm squealing.
Sadie decided it might be a good idea to say hello to the snakes. Not so much. They actually went after her. Lunging,snapping, retreating under a bush.
All the while, I'm looking for something to defend my dog with, and come up with some sort of pitiful rake with only three tines.
The snakes then go into what we call the Red Shed. It's basically an enclosed car port with our giant lawn mower and system for the pool.
Buddy arrives, some sort of 40-year-old wooden bat in hand, determined to beat the life out of these snakes. And of course he spends an hour and can't find them.
Lovely. Jasen gets home, can't find them, and tells me he's going to get some sort of sulphur powder that keeps them away from the house. I'm not amused when he comes bouncing up to the house, yelling that he shot another one at the barn.
That's three sighting in one afternoon. I'm thinking this qualifies as an infestation. And major cause for concern. I'm definitely thinking the Red Bellies are coming. And so are the nightmares tonight. Snakes are a favorite of my subconscious, and today just gave it fuel.
I'm definitely jumpy, and not looking forward to closing my eyes. Then again, I also have a valid reason for not going into that Red Shed, and, therefore, not spending the 1.5 hours it costs me to mow the lawn...

When Get Well just isn't Enough

2010-04-29T23:56:00.001-04:00

A dear friend of mine is laying in a hospital bed fighting for her life tonight. The doctors say it's terminal. Tabor says it's negotiable.
She believes in the power of prayer. She believes in herself. And she believes in miracles.
I hope with all my heart that she's right. I met Tabor as a sophomore in college. She was the managing editor at the paper, and eventually the managing editor for me while I was the EIC. Tabor has spent the majority of her life in school. She's an ordained minister with the African Methodist Episcopal church. She's an African drummer. She's mysterious and intriguing. I don't think Tabor even realizes the depth of her mind. She is a force to be reckoned with. And she's a born teacher. She's the type that teaches without even realizing it.
Tabor taught me to sit down, relax and sing when the nerves hit your stomach like a hive of bees. That's what we did while we waited for the editorial board's decision.

She then taught me composure and grace when I got the job and she didn't. She took me out to lunch, and told me I would succeed.
Tabor taught me that the right decision doesn't always make you popular, but it does make you successful. She taught me to not worry so much about what other people think.
She also taught me that she was not the best pick to have in the room when firing someone. Apparently stressful situations make her laugh. Uncontrollably. At all the wrong moments.
Tabor taught me that being different is beautiful. She would sit in her chair, editing a story on the screen and quietly gaze into space. Contemplating, she'd say. Thinking. Mulling. Very philosophical. She taught me that being weird is good. It's definitely served her well.
Tabor taught me that a look says more than a thousand words. Especially a look from her.
Tabor taught me that washing African-American hair is a weekly ordeal. And takes hours. She also taught me that Ciclids are lovely fish and deserve memorial services when they pass.
She taught me that things will get done. That it's okay to relax, take my time, and work at my own pace. What will be will be. And nothing is insurmountable.
Tabor taught me that Woodchuck on tap is far superior to that which is in a bottle. She tried to teach me to appreciate Bombay Sapphire, but, sadly, it seems that will never happen for "Thrasher" (her nickname for me).
Tabor taught me to block out all the noise. She also taught me a bunch of words I still can't remember.
Tabor is beautiful. And brilliant. She has taken the term "lifelong learner" to a whole new dimension. She's been a student at Virginia Tech since I was in high school, and will receive her most-recent degree, a doctorate, May 14.
Tabor taught me that life is a journey. And we don't have a map. She also taught me that it's more interesting that way. She taught me that thinking is a worthwhile pastime, and that the world, flawed as it is, remains beautiful.
I find myself praying constantly "Please, God. Just let Tabor wear her robes and get that degree. Please." I watch my son play, and wonder what she's thinking and how she's feeling. I watch the birds nest and wonder why her.
She may not realize it, but Tabor has spent most of her life teaching people to think and accept. To question. She certainly has taught me more than I can fully realize. And these words can never do her justice.
I wish I could be there to hold her hand. To tell her to fight. To get a Tabor look and ask her to define half of the words she uses in every day conversation. I wish I could be there to slip some of that Christmas-tree gin into her Slurpee. But I can't.
I know that whether Tabor decides to fly with angels or walk the earth a little while longer, she will bless either realm with a uniqueness most people will never know. She is one-of-a-kind, and she is loved. And she has blessed and enriched more people's lives than she will ever realize. Including mine.

The Amazing Juni Never Ceases to Amaze Me

2010-04-20T21:58:00.002-04:00

My son won a dollar from his Me-Maw for spelling his name Monday night. I told him I'd take him to the dollar store for whatever his tiny heart desired the next day after preschool.
He reached for my hand as we crossed the street to the store, and asked me to hold his dollar so he wouldn't lose it. Juni insisted on carrying his own basket for his one treasure.
He perused the isles, debating bubbles and chalk and jump ropes and coloring books.
"Mommy! I need dis!" He says. I turn around, and his tiny tanned hands are clutching an unpainted wooden cross.
"Ummm...Okay...Are you sure Juni? Remember, you get one thing...What are you planning to do with that, baby?"
"Mommy. I not a baby anymore. I a big boy. Like Daddy. I eat beets last night, and now my muscles grow big and strong like Daddy. I want to paint this at home. I want to paint this fross at home with hearts and put it on my Nanny's head when she dead."
Okay. Let me expand. Remember, Juni is 4. Every day, we drive past a cemetery. A cemetery that seems to have a funeral at least once a week. He understands what a cemetery is, and why people are there. But he insists those people are there for a party, and he'd like to go say hi. He also has a obsession with where his Nanny and PaPa will be buried. They're 80 and 85, and I really do think he understands that they're old and will inevitably die.
So when Juni said he wanted to put the cross on her head when she died, he actually meant that he'd like to leave it at the grave.
"Ummm...Okay...but Nanny isn't dying anytime soon, I don't think. Are you still sure? This jump rope is pretty cool."
"Yes. Come on, mommy. I need to get home and paint. You get my paints for me when I get home? I not supposed to go in your drawer, you know."
"Okay....but how about you spell your name for me real quick, and you can get one of those toys you've been eyeing?"
He sings "J.....U.....N.....I!!! I fink I want dat jumpin rope, mommy. You have one of those when you a gurl?"
We get home and Juni spends 30 minutes painting his wooden cross, which is like 3 weeks in toddler time. He insists I call Nanny and get PaPa to drive her over immediately. It's 3:30 pm, which is like midnight in old people time.
They drive the 28 miles and knock on the door before the paint is even dried. I told her the story, minus the detail that one day that cross will help mark her grave.
Nanny doesn't drive anymore. She quit voluntarily about a year ago. She doesn't visit friends, and is rapidly approaching senility. And Juni is her world. She lives to visit him and play with him. And when he handed over that multi-colored Dollar Store cross, she literally didn't know what to say. And neither did I. I was so proud and touched by my son, that there were no words.

Juni's Scar

2010-04-18T23:18:00.003-04:00

Juni visited the childrens' hospital emergency room for the first time. He'd wanted to "start and fight and play rough" with Mommy, but I'd decided that was not a good idea. He's been stranded in our home for three days because of the storm, and had entirely too much energy to play rough with me.
I startled him when I said no, he fell back, and hit his eyelid on the wooden steps. I scooped him up, said everything was okay, and then started to give the ceremonial kiss.
And that's when I saw it. Blood. A lot of blood. My head spinned, my vision blurred, and I yelled for Jasen to come get Juni before we both hit the floor. I take after my mother in that I do not deal well with blood. After the rush of adrenaline leaves, I hit the floor.
Mixing blood with tears means there was blood down Juni's chest, on the kitchen counter, on Jasen, and on me. After an afternoon a the hospital, the doctor decided to tape the one-inch gash.
I was exhausted. And it was still storming outside. So Jasen drove the car to the front. I opened the door, and turned to put Juni in his car seat. That's when, true to form, the wind gushed and the door crashed into my poor toddler's head.
I couldn't believe I'd single-handily injured my son twice in one afternoon. But poor Juni, he shed a few tears while I latched his straps, and then slapped a Thanksgiving sticker on my hand and rubbed my arm.
"Here's my ticker, mommy. You need dis. You're a good Mommy. I lub you. I get a double hamburger wif cheese?"
At that point, I would have given my little man absolutely anything.

Remembrance

2010-04-16T00:00:00.002-04:00

I remember today for the way I sat silently with my dad and cried.
I remember today for the way my heart ached like I'd lost a family member.
I remember today for the way my stomach churned watching the images of tragedy.
I remember today for the way "massacre" made me dry heave over my toilet.
I remember today because of the way Virginia Tech is home to me in so many ways.
I remember today for the way my fellow Hokies became heroes.
I remember today for the lost futures. The lost sons, daughters, brothers and sisters.
I remember today for the lost sense of security Blacksburg always represented.
I remember today for the pain, insanity, confusion and disbelief.
I remember today. And I will never forget. Rest In Peace, young Hokies.
I remember.

My Ode to Iris

2010-04-15T21:54:00.001-04:00

I started my pottery class today after nearly a year off. I've decided my back will just have to complain...I need the artistic outlet and my friends. The people in my class rock. They're an amazing mix of talented, outspoken women, and Ron, the brave man whom puts up with us all.
Newbies will come a go, but the core group remains the same. Iris was the mother of one of our core. She lived in Texas, but as she aged spent increasing time in Virginia.
Iris died while I was on my pottery hiatus. She collapsed from a aneurysm on her 90th birthday and died instantly in her daughter's hallway. She didn't make it to pottery class to see her party or cake.
Of course I was sad to hear Iris passed, but what landed a lump in my throat was that she didn't see her cake. Iris loved a party. On her 89th birthday, she fell asleep after eating two pieces of cake. She was still wearing her pink cardboard party hat and purple mardi gras beads. We didn't want to wake her, but also didn't want her to face-plow into her plate. So we watched, waited and giggled. Iris would have giggled, too.
Iris snoozed in class a lot. I choose to believe it was her way of telling us she was ready to go. She would sit at the table, listening to us bitch and complain about husbands, children and neighbors and laugh uncontrollably. But she'd listen with her eyes closed. Iris was tired from a hard, long life.
Iris grew up on a farm in Texas. She was no where near even 5 feet tall, but tough as nails. Her husband "wasn't a very nice man," but she didn't believe in divorce. So she endured. She endured until the doctors told her he was developing dementia. She put the bastard in a retirement home the next day and never looked back. Who knows how long ago that was.
Iris buried her son a few years ago after he died of a heart attack playing tennis. She watched her children marry and divorce. She watched her friends die. She watched the world grow.
Iris was an artist. She sculpted and painted and only God knows what else. She saw beauty in the world every day. And she told me she saw beauty in me and my work. She told me one day that my sculptures were art, and I blushed. That meant something to me. And I'll never forget it. She told me to enjoy my youth, but to not fear aging. She told me that every part of life held beauty.
Iris couldn't sculpt or throw any more. Her fingers were curled, her joints bulging from arthritis. And I'm fairly sure she couldn't see more than 2 feet in front of her. But she still painted occasionally in class, or just tagged along with her daughter for company. Iris would peruse the room, humming to herself, watching us work and giving us advice. Sometimes she'd begin talking to no one in particular, say something she found extremely hilarious, and let out the most high-pitched, barbie-esque giggle imaginable.
Iris reminded me of my Granny in many ways: beautiful, artistic, uplifting, feisty. Unique. Like Granny, Iris was a breath of fresh air. And not a class will go by that I won't remember her, or wonder if what I've created that day would make her smile and laugh that tiny laugh. I hope so.

One Deer Carcass and Two Gimps make for an Awesome Easter Egg Hunt

2010-04-15T21:24:00.002-04:00

Every year my parents put on a spectacular Easter egg hunt for my sister and I. They are some of my fondest memories. All of my grandparents, cousins and friends, running around like crazy people searching for plastic eggs filled with candy and coins.
So when Juni turned two, I decided to carry on the tradition. Every year I order a pig, invite everyone I can think of, and stuff way too many eggs. Jasen and I spend the week before getting the yard prepared and planning. It rocks. We've had great weather, great kids, and great memories.
This year was no different, except for two key points. My degenerated disk disease and Jasen's tendinitis foot. Three days before the big event, I couldn't bend down and Jasen couldn't walk. But we were bound and determined to get everything done.
So we hobbled around, cleaning and cooking and trying to get everything done. The morning of the hunt, we realized we needed help. Jasen called Mauricio, who cleaned the garage. Jasen cooked the pig, and I was to cut the grass, clean the house and hide the eggs. Easier said than done.
Jasen could barely walk. He had to prop himself against the pig cooker all day. Mix that with 4 hours of sleep after babying the meat all night, and that makes for one pooped man and one swollen foot.
I walked out to the lawn mower only to find that the battery was as dead as a doornail. I sill insist that it was Jasen's fault. I've decided that he didn't turn the starter completely off. Whatever the case, the lawnmower wouldn't start. And it's not like we have neighbors to borrow from. They wouldn't have a mower big enough, anyway. Our lawn is a a good 1.5 acres of pure grass.
So Jasen put on the batter charger, and I went to curl my hair. That's when I hear it. The skid steer. Jasen had decided to completely redo our driveway at 9 am. The hunt began at 11. Needless-to-say, this was not the best idea. Granted, the drive looks great now, but at the time, there were plenty of other issues to tackle.
Like Sadie's giant poop. I knew I needed to do a poop patrol scan, and that it wasn't going to be pleasant. Jasen, bless his heart, decided to "help" me cut the grass. He got the mower started, and began cutting the back yard. But what he didn't realize is that Juni and I had yet to complete the poop patrol.
Here's a not-at-all-funny joke for you...What do you get when you mix giant Sadie poop and a lawnmower? A big fat friggin mess, that's what. Poop that's ground into the grass like mustard on shag carpet. You get a disaster. You get me pulling out poop-covered grass, gagging and bagging. You get a pissed off wife.
It took me an hour to get the poop and cut the grass. It took me another hour to hid the eggs, and that was with the help of Juni, his friend Kyle, my step mom and my sister. I couldn't bend over, so I just hurled the eggs onto the front yard.
When I got to the minefield that is Dutchess' preferred poop place, I stuck metal bunny signs in the ground as a signal to turn around and called it a day.
As I was hiding eggs, I noticed something odd. Duchess growling at Sadie, hovered over something in one of the front flowerbeds. I inched my way toward her treasure, and just about puked. It was a raw deer leg, no doubt the one Juni and I came across during the snow. It was the entire leg, from hip joint to hoof. And it was hairy. Hairy and bendable. It as the definition of redneck. And I had visions of screaming children running to their parents asking what a carcass was doing in the middle of all of my beautiful eggs.
I couldn't bring myself to touch Dutchess' find. So I asked Jasen to take care of it. I asked him three times. Three times should be enough to get the message through, correct? Of course not.
Two minutes after the hunt finished, I walked past the flowerbed, and there it was. A nibbled deer leg that no one had seemed to notice. Half of the hoof was gone, the remaining hair was dripping with drool, and the bone was shiny and clean.
I chose a few of my friends to share this information with, fussed at Jasen, and laughed it off. The Easter Egg Hunt was perfect. We had 20 completely happy children running through the yard, no poop reported on shoes (even though I did miss a few spots), and no injuries.
It's been three weeks since the hunt. I still find eggs that we hid a little too well, or the random piece of chocolate melting in the grass. Duchess and Sadie have found Jasen's dumping ground for the pig remnants, and drag a giant piece of crackled skin or foot up to the house daily. And there are sections of the pig's jawbone, teeth intact, strewn throughout the front yard where the dogs have chosen to hide them.
And then there's Sadie, giant poops and all. She was a very well-behaved puppy. She still has a limp from pulling a muscle or tendon (making us a family of three gimps). And of course the deer leg. She takes it to bed with her ever night like Juni and his stuffed puppy. Only the femur is left, with just a few patches of hair. It's absolutely the most redneck sight ever, but I just can't bring myself to take it from her.

What I Hate about Working Out

2010-04-13T21:24:00.001-04:00

I've decided that dieting absolutely sucks. There is nothing about it that I enjoy. I'm irritable, deprived, always have a headache, and am just plain miserable. So I've decided to quit. And join the Y.
I love the Y. Juni loves the Y. And I actually enjoy the incumbent bike I ride. I get that high people are always talking about, and it rocks. It's also the only piece of equipment I can use until my back decided to cooperate with the cortisone injections.
But there are some thing I absolutely despise. here are a few.

1. People who wear sunglasses while working out. Indoors. It doesn't matter how cool you are. Sunglasses indoors make you look like a jackass. If there's something wrong with your eye, wear a patch. It's much cooler.

2. Eighteen-year-old bodies. All of them. I hate them. I walk into the Y feeling like I'm in decent shape. And then in walks some girl with shorts up her tanned butt with her perfect highlights in a perfect pony. There's no sign of the cottage cheese. It's so not fair.

Okay, so when I think about it, there are only two things I hate about the gym. No. 2 in particular really gets to me. I'm tired of not appreciating what I have. I'd like to live one day without being so tough on myself and my body. I'd like to live one day where I don't see someone else and think "damn I wish I had her legs."

It's Always Fun until Someone Finds Something Dead

2010-02-01T22:35:00.001-05:00

I have a wonderful memory from my childhood. It was the last big snow in the 757, and my sister, dad, Samoyed Panda and I spent the day playing hide-and-seek in the woods behind our house.
The fun wasn't so much funding my dad, but in following his footprints in the snow. He was meticulous...backtracking, circling, using Panda to throw us off the prints. My sister and I, I'm estimating we were about six and eight, giggled relentlessly and loved every minute.
We dragged ourselves into our warm home, soaked and freezing, to find our mom making hot chocolate and snow cream. It's a wonderful memory. Very Norman Rockwell-inspired. And apparently, just as difficult to recreate and live up to.
Just the same, that's what I'd like my son to have - wonderful memories. So today, when my Redneck Husband left for the day, I took Juni and Sadie into the woods behind our house.
This is when I realized difference No. 1 between my memory and my current reality. The woods behind my childhood home were sparse compared to what sprawls our backyard. Our property spans 20-some acres and backs up against a National Wildlife Refuge. It's dense, swampy, and filled with wildlife.
Sadie took off on the trail of, from the tracks I could count, about three deer. Juni followed.
This would be where difference No. 2 comes into play. Sadie weights 32 lbs. Juni is at 38, and I, well, I weight considerably more. What Sadie and Juni see as solid ice is basically a soaking pant leg to me. A small bump in the ground to them is a deathtrap of sticks and leaves and gunk for me. So navigation was not easy.
And of course the house is a good half-mile away at the point Juni says he has to poop. Wonderful. At that point, Jasen's habit of carrying toilet paper with him at all times seemed less disgusting and more genius. Luckily, after two minutes of trying to decide what to wipe a toddler's butt with, Juni decided "I just jokin."
Sadie was hot on the trail...and we came across some deer poop. Another obstacle not in my memory with my dad. Juni thought that was hilarious. And amazing. The trail ended for us when the deer jumped a barbed-wire fence and ditch in one stride.
So we followed Sadie while she sniffed, dug, ran and repeated. Something caught her fancy, and it took us a good five minutes to catch up.
Sadie was frantically digging through the snow, tugging and digging and tugging some more. Juni pronounced "treasure!" and we bolted for the puppy.
And that's when it hit me. Difference No. 3 and 4, all wrapped into one. No. 3: our woods have big animals. No. 4: Juni is a boy.
Sadie had found a treasure only a canine could love. Something dead. Something dead, and big. Something dead, big, and with its skin and hair still attached. We have coyotes, bears, deer, and God knows what else in those woods. So of course my mind began racing.
Sadie had the hide in her new adult teeth, trying vehemently to pry it from beneath the exposed, and very bare, ribs. It was nasty, matted hair with nasty, rubber-like skin. It was just nasty.
Juni had no problem with our discovery. "Eh, it's just a dead old grandma deer, mommy. Hey...mommy...wanna go to my playset? Come on, Sadie. Put dat skin down and let's go!"
I, on the other hand, got that uneasy stomach that comes along with realizing just what was under that snow. I'm almost positive my Redneck Husband buried the cow and her calf from the fall. He said he did. My best guess is that hunters took the thigh meat and left the carcass, which I find completely unacceptable. But I didn't glance at it long enough to figure it out. I just wanted to get my sore, soaked butt to Juni's playset.
The point is, Juni WILL have a wonderful memory from today. For him, finding that dead deer was nothing short of awesome. As much as it made me uneasy, apparently that's something boys don't seem bothered by.
For me, I'm choosing to remember my own memory of my dad. A wonderful day following tracks in the snow, minus anything dead.

Turnip Dog Farts

2010-01-31T23:29:00.002-05:00

I spent an afternoon following Juni while he played outside. He showed me his work site at the sand pile. The holes he and his Redneck Dad dug in the garden. He showed me his truck flooded in the ditch. And all the while, Sadie the Aussie puppy followed in tow.
I was destroyed when I had to put Shelby down. It broke my heart. It's been four months, and I still can't blog about what happened. But I love Sadie. She loves to cuddle, she loves to learn, and best of all,she absolutely loves Juni.
She trots into our living room at night, picks a chewie, and plops herself as close to me as possible. And then she farts. I've had lots of dogs in my life. And so naturally, I've smelled lots of dog farts. But nothing quite like this. It's pungent. Like something has literally crawled up her butt and died. They remind me of my Redneck Husband's smell after he eats turnips. Turnip nights are no fun for me.
Sadie clumsily ran into the garden after Juni, and I soon saw her tossing something into the air with her mouth, catching it, and tossing it again. And then she started to eat it. A turnip. That's when I realized what was beside the flooded truck in the ditch.
Turnips. Dozens of turnips sunken beneath the rainwater in the ditch. My sweet 7-month-old puppy love to steal turnips from the garden, play with them, and then eat them. And Juni uses them to play fetch with Sadie.
Now I know why the Redneck Husband and Sadie smell so similarly. They both have a strange taste for turnips.

Geek

2010-01-29T23:28:00.002-05:00

Me and computers do not get along. My redneck husband just about has a heart attack any time I start downloading, updating or installing anything on our desktop. This would be because there's pretty much a 50-50 shot something will go wrong. Seriously wrong.
So when our computer started throwing tantrums, it really wasn't a surprise. What happened when I called Geeks on Call, however, was.
Walter, our Geek, has made two trips to our home after two failed attempts by me to fix something I broke. The first visit went pretty much as you would expect. There's a big fat problem with your computer, and it's going to cost you. Sure. Whatever. Here's this week's paycheck.
The next visit took an interesting turn.

Let me begin by describing Walter. He's probably 40-something. I would describe him as sexually ambiguous, although he says he has a "Honey" whom has two children that live with them. He's a large man...I'd say a good 350 lbs and six feet tall. He's wearing a Geek jacket, which he keeps on, and Crocks. Large, tan Crocks. His hair is still wet from his shower, and he smells like Iris Spring.
The best thing about Walter is that he freely describes himself as a "fat geek." He's also a talker.
And, apparently, a singer. While he was reinstalling the programs I'd destroyed, Walter asked me if I watched Glee. Of course I do. Of course I have an inappropriate crush on the cute high school boy. And of course I would absolutely love to score a role on that show. That's just the girl I am. But I digress.
The point is that Walter proceeded to play the music from each and every Glee episode. And sing along. Loudly.
I'm serious. This is no exaggeration. And to this day I wish Jasen and Juni had walked in. He spent two hours in my home. One of those hours he worked on the computer. The other hour (which he did not charge me for) he spent singing the songs from Glee.

I love Walter. I love that he embraces his fat geekiness. I love that he is who he is, and doesn't have any qualms about belting out a rendition of some off-the-wall mashup in a stranger's house. I spent the two hours painting a Hokie frog, and, you guessed it, singing the songs of Glee.

What to Say to a Good Friend

2009-11-28T18:05:00.002-05:00

There's a wonderful man in my pottery class. Any man that spends more than five hours a week with a studio full of women must have something special within his heart. These women talk about everything from hot flashes to arguments with their husbands to nude cruises. And this man listens quietly, laughs occasionally, and always lends an ear and a hug when someone is in need.
He's also talented - he can take a lump of clay and turn it into a functional casserole dish within 15 minutes. And his work has that manly touch - he's not into delicate details or flourishes. For potluck he brings one of three phenomenal dishes - a chocolate cake that's more like fudge, firehouse meatballs from his firefighter days, or fruit salad. He invites his wife to every potluck, and never says or does anything even approaching inappropriate.
I find him refreshing, as do all of them women in my class. We adore him.
A few months ago he walked into class late, which is unusual. His eyes seemed a little puffy to me. He said his sister, Sissy, was sick. Come to find out, Sissy was very sick. Leukemia. She's younger than him, and his closest sibling, from what I understand.
They sent her to Duke. And that's never a good sign. I think we all, including him, knew it was only a matter of time. He and Sissy's husband took her to Duke and subsequent treatments locally. She met her newborn grandson. But several weeks ago she entered the hospital, and stopped eating.
I asked him each week how Sissy was doing. "Not good. But her spirits are good."
I skipped this last session of pottery class because of the holidays. My friend's sister died the next week. And I didn't know. I didn't know in time to attend the funeral like I had planned. And now I just don't know what to say. I'll call my teacher and get his number, and dial the phone. And then I'll probably begin to cry.
And it's not just crying for him, but for my fear of losing my sister.
I'm pretty sure my sister is the missing link to my DNA. She's got the street smarts, common sense and can read people. She can also add and subtract without using her fingers. All of these things evade me like a seasoned common criminal.
She's a second mother to my child, and I love her daughter like she's my own. I know it's clique, but my sister truly is beautiful inside and out, and is an inspiration. The only reason I know I could survive if something happened to either of my parents is because of my sister.
I'm relying on her to help me through life. And to do that, she needs to be here. Basically I'm praying that she outlives me. If something happened to her, I don't know how I would get through it.
So, when I call my dear friend tonight, I'm sure that lump in my throat will be about my sweet sister almost as much as it is about him.

Pickled Pigs Feet

2009-11-16T23:18:00.001-05:00

People tell me I have a heightened sense of smell. My olfactory glands must be directly connected to my memory, because smelling specific scents springs memories to mind. And I think people are correct - I think I do have a powerful sniffer.
That's a good thing. And a bad thing. It's an especially bad thing when cooking something that just down right stinks.
Such as pickled pigs feet. Let me make one thing perfectly clear. I have never, nor will I ever, dine on any sort of foot. No offense, but it just doesn't appeal to me one bit. Toe jam just isn't a flavor I'm up for experiencing.
But Jasen's grandfather, Buddy, loves pickled pigs feet. It's important to understand that this man lived in a home with a dirt floor when he was a child. It was during the Great Depression, and the family hid their chickens under the house so people wouldn't steal them. He ate turnips every night. Pickled pigs feet were a treat.
Pickled pigs feet are not easy to come by. I searched three grocery stores, and never found any. I did, however, find uncooked feet at Food Lion one day a few years back. For some reason I thought it would be a good idea to cook Buddy a big pot of pickled pigs feet.
Yes, it was a sweet idea. But smart, absolutely not. The feet take hours to pickle. And you have to skim scum off of the top of the water every few minutes. Not to mention you actually have to handle a pigs foot.
But those issues pale in comparison to the smell. The smell singes your nose hairs. It creeps through the air, and before you know it has completely invaded your home.
The problem is that the smell invades so slowly that I didn't notice. Plus it was winter, and therefore I didn't think to open a window or door. My sister stopped by for a visit.
My sister doesn't share my olfactory gift. She does, however, posses a fairly strong gag reflex. She dry-heaved for half an hour before we went outside. Once we came back in, I dry-heaved for three days before the stink left.
I'll never cook pigs feet again. Believe it or not, Harris Teeter carries the feet pre-pickled. And so, every few weeks I pick up a jar, vow to the teenager ringing my order that I've never have and never will eat them, and surprise Buddy. He says they're not as tasty as my batch, but I'm thinking that's just too bad. My nose just can't take another pickling session with a swine's toe jam.

The Great Pooptastrophe of 2009 (and other innard exerpts)

2009-11-07T22:15:00.001-05:00

It's amazing how our lives change with children. Whatever seems important in their world at the moment suddenly becomes paramount in our lives. Our everyday lives revolve around these tiny creatures and their entry into the world.
I assumed potty training would go like every other milestone in Juni's life: he'd find a way to make it as difficult as possible, but throw in a few laughs for comic relief and to keep me sane. I was correct.
Juni takes after his dad. No bladder control. And he has taken to peeing outdoors. And I'm not talking about on a tree in the woods. I'm talking about off our front porch. In front of my uber-clean friend, and at the beach on a holiday weekend.
He shows no shame. He once pulled his swim trunks down in front of my germiphobe friend and pooped in the rocks beside the pool. I asked him what he thought he was doing, and he replied "it's okay mommy. Just squirt the watergun up my my butt, and Duchess (our dog) will eat my poop." I didn't even know what to say after that.
Then there was the time he proclaimed "mommy! daddy! Come watch me poop! It's gonna be a big one!" When a potty training toddler asks you to check out his business, you check out his business. And I've got to admit...it was huge. Of epic proportions.
And there was the time he had an accident in his undies, and while in transit from the undies to the toilet the poop took an unexpected detour...to my son's head. It smacked him right upside the forehead. To this day I don't know how that happened, but it did. It bounced off his head and plopped itself right in the toilet. A perfect landing.
After a particularly large sushi meal of avocado roll, my husband once beckoned me into the bathroom to show off his son's prized poop. "Mommy! It's as big as a dragon's tail," Juni proclaimed. My redneck husband was so proud.

But nothing compares to the Pooptastrophe. Nothing.
I'll be the first to admit that the Pooptastrophe was my fault. Mine and Levi Strauss. Whomever decided it was a good idea to fasten a size 4t pair of jeans with a button in lieu of a snap needs to be slapped. Hard. With a large, dead fish. Right in their big, fat, non-toddler-thinking mouth.
Juni was just learning to center himself on the toilet. "I need privacy" became his favorite bathroom saying. And he meant it. The kid likes his privacy. So he'd sneak into the bathroom, and call me when he was ready for a good butt wipe. Never leave the job of wiping up to the toddler. You will absolutely find three results: a great loss of toilet paper followed by a severely clogged toilet, and a toddler with his finger in his ass, telling everyone who will listen that his butt itches. But I digress.
It was early morning, and I was busy checking the business email upstairs. I heard him close the bathroom door, which meant it was poop time. Then I heard him say "mommy! I need you help me peeze..." Of course I assumed he needed a wipe. I obviously assumed wrong. Very wrong.
You see, when a four-year-old boy has to poop, he waits until the last possible moment before leaving his toys. Using the toilet serves no purpose to that four-year-old, other than to interrupt his playing tractors. And so therefore, there is a very limited amount of time between when he begins moving toward the bathroom, and when the turtle head starts to pop out.
I hopped down the stairs about 30 seconds later and was hit in the face with two things. First, the smell of a very ripe bathroom. Second, the sight of my son, his urine-soaked pants around his ankles, a giant turd resting in his underwear, and his hands reaching down to pick it up.
Before I could mutter even the beginning of the word "stop!" Juni had grabbed the log, tossed it in the toilet, and was unravelling the toilet paper.
He'd made it to the potty on time only to find that his new pants didn't have a snap, but a grown-up button. He fumbled with the button, and my bathroom paid the price. I stripped him of his clothes, disinfected his hands, and began to scrub down the bathroom.
Too bad I didn't give him specific instructions to NOT make his own breakfast while I was cleaning up after the Great Pooptastrophe. When I finished the bathroom, I had a box of Nesquick, a bag of cereal, and a gallon of milk to mop off the floor.

Most of my experiences with Juni the Toddler make me laugh. Some make me cry. Others, like the Great Pooptastrophe of 2009, leave me in stitches. I learned something extremely important through the Pooptastrophe: Never ask a potty training toddler, especially a boy, to "hold on just a sec."

Crying Cows

2009-10-29T21:40:00.001-04:00

Cows are amazing, sweet, docile creatures. In the winter, while they chew their hay, I like to close my eyes, smell the hay and listen. It's peaceful. And sounds surprisingly like water lapping against a bulkhead.
We raise gelbeigh cows. They're a large, sweet breed with a tuft of curly hair right in between their ears and large, dark eyes.
Occasionally I'll peek out my window and cuss those sweet creatures for romping across my back yard, chomping my garden or stomping holes in the yard. But they rarely escape, and it's usually the calves that find the way out.
Yesterday we rounded up 12 of our 18 cattle and took them to the market. It took three strong and one 85-year-old wise man to load them into the stock trailers. Cows don't like to be rushed. They don't like change. And they're not stupid. Humane slaughter houses build a maze of walls leading to the end. Otherwise, the cows will refuse to move forward.
Our cows will go anywhere there's grain, since they are mostly pasture-fed. When it was all over, we had one man headed to the hospital for a suspected (but luckily not) broken hand, an exhausted 85-year-old, my redneck husband covered in cow crap, and his brother looking at a two hour drive to the market and back.
Most of our cows will face slaughter. A few of the bulls will go on to wonderful lives as breeding stock, and maybe one or two of the young female calves will join them. But for the most part, by the time they leave our pasture, they're past their prime and have trouble keeping their weight. Some of them can be a pretty sorry sight after 15 years of bearing a calf every 15 months.
The day the cows leave doesn't bother me. I don't name the ones that will leave. I name the ones that stay. Daisy will always stay. I can't find anyone who knows the natural life expectancy of a cow. I'm assuming that's because no one is insane enough to keep a cow as a pet. But I don't care. She may have horns, but she's sweet, and loving, and mine.
It's the night after the cows leave. One of the female cows had her calf leave, and one of the calves we kept lost its mother. And they cry. Nonstop. For at least three days. They only time they stop calling for their mothers and babies is while they eat. Which means they woke me up at 3 a.m. last night, crying outside my bedroom window.
This morning, their cries were a little less loud. That's because their throats become sore from strain. Tonight, they sound like a robotic version of themselves. Their voice wanes in and out. And by tomorrow morning, half of their cries will come out silent. But still, they cry.
Daisy's calf died a few weeks after its birth last spring. It's not unusual, but heartbreaking. She nudged it, sniffed it, pawed at it with her hooves. She cried to it for a day, until Jasen came home from work to haul it into the woods. Daisy charged the ATV, and he had to whack her between her horns with a shovel. He wasn't trying to be mean, but let's face it...a charging half-ton cow with horns is not exactly easy to handle. She shook her head, and kept running after her calf. But she couldn't keep up. Her utters were too full of milk, and she stopped about 10 yards from the gate. She stood there for almost two days, crying for her calf. Searching for a way into the woods.
People tell me I give my animals human emotions that they can't possess. But I don't know. It seems very human to me to cry for a lost baby. It seems very human to me to mourn for a lost loved one. And it seems very human to me to fear the unknown and to sense death.
I feel more pain for my animals because I assign these human emotions. But I think I also find more joy in them as well. And I know we can't keep every cow or save every calf or house every stray. But for the ones we do keep, it's a pretty good life. Especially when they break into the young fall garden.

How King Neptune Kicked my Arse

2009-09-27T12:20:00.001-04:00

Yesterday was one of those days that in retrospect was splendid and torture at the same time. I took Juni to the Neptune Festival - a 45 minute drive down to the Virginia Beach boardwalk. It took 45 minutes to get there, and another 45 minutes to find a parking spot. We ended at 33rd street, where the festival ended.
We watched the parade, played in the sand and surf, ate hot dogs and kettle corn. He ran around and squealed at dogs, and around 20th street we bought a John Deere chair he's had his eye on for some time.
We both planned to see the sand sculptures. These people are not playing around with this sand. They use (literally) tons of sand and creative supplies. It's amazing.
It also began at 12th street. We walked the boardwalk until we hit the sand sculpture. The hike took about 2 hours, but we were lallygagging half the way. He saw a few castles, and then decided to hit the park on the beach. I knew we were flirting with danger ... by this time it was nearly 2 p.m. Time for toddler tantrums and over tiredness. Of course younger child ripped out a huge handful of Juni's hair, and he cried for 30 minutes both from the pain and embarrassment. I don't know where this kid's parents were, but if I ever find them they should run. Fast.
That was the end of the fun. We came off the boardwalk and onto the street at 8th street. Our car was on 33rd street. You do the math. That's a long way, especially after walking from 8th to 33rd (13 blocks with a wooden JD chair in tow).
It's offseason at the beach now. This means no taxis. No trolley. And apparently, none of those guys with bikes that tow you around. So we began to walk.
We made it to 12th street before we suffered our first tantrum. I had one arm to hoist him onto my hip. We'd also acquired a kite, reel and half-full bag of kettle corn to tote around.
The second tantrum began at 13th street and pretty much ended at the car. It sucked. I made the executive decision to make the hike one street off of the main drag so his tantrums wouldn't be quite to horrible without toy stores in sight.
My only option was the scoop and run. I carried this kid from 13st street to 33rd street. Let's do the math again. That a really friggin long way with a chair, kite, reel of string, kettle corn, purse and 38 lb dead-weight toddler. I switched arms as much as possible, and we took breaks.
Desperation began to take over. We were tired. Sweaty. And the Tech game started in 30 minutes. Each block seemed like a mile. I began to fantasize about hitching a ride with a nice, non-homicidal-looking elderly couple, or bribing some kids to carry him part of the way, or hitching a ride in someone else's stroller.
A marine, his wife and daughter were in the same situation. The man had a hurt foot, and hobbled behind his wife who toted their daughter. We'd pass them, they'd pass us, we'd pass them. And we were all three bitching the whole way.
When I saw our car it was like a mirage. That pool of water in the desert. My patience was shot. So were my arms, knees, neck and back. I drove home, listening to Tech whip Miami while Juni napped in the back.
The last time my body felt this sore was when Jasen and I rafted down the upper Gauley river in W. Va. I pretty much feel like I've ran a marathon.
But I'm glad I did it. Juni and I are a team. We have our great kettle corn moments, and then our disastrous tantrums on the corner of Atlantic and 17th. But it's worth it. Life is good.

Who Stole the F'in Cookies?...

2009-09-17T20:34:00.003-04:00

Jasen and Juni did the grocery shopping this week. I was just too much of a wreck after loosing Shelby. They came back with three things: a 3 lb bag of shredded mozzarella cheese, chocolate oatmeal cookie dough, and that frozen cookie dough that is already in the shape of cookies, so you can bake one or 12.

I love cookie dough. Especially sugar cookie dough. I could eat it at least 3 times a day. My husband knows this, and therefore never keeps it in the house. He knows I'd eat it and then blame him for bringing the evil substance into my home.
Jasen and Juni had cookies that night, and I will admit I had two. I also fully admit I ate a raw one just before bed. It was probably midnight or so. The next night, Juni asked for the sugar cookies, and Jasen couldn't find them. He asked me, I said I'd eaten one the night before, and that I'd also returned them to the freezer.
My redneck husband proceeded to tell me that cookies don't just walk away. Someone took them. And that someone was me. He actually accused me not only of eating 12 raw cookies, but then hiding the empty wrapper in the trash, and then lying about it. Are you kidding me? I pretty much shut down at that point. I could care less where the cookies were, and figured Juni had put them someone in a pretend kitchen. I was sure we'd find them by following either the smell or ants in a few weeks.
But my husband, at 8 p.m., actually went outside to the big trash can, and dug through it. Because he thought his wife would actually eat that much and hide the evidence. My feelings were definitely crushed, but beyond that I was just plain pissed. Thirty minutes and 55 arguments later Jasen found said cookie dough in the freezer; it had just fallen under the drawer.
I asked for an apology, and he refused. Said he still thinks it's something I would do. I still don't think he realizes why I've been pretty much silent to him for the past three days. He goes through these phases where he'll just completely become agitated at me for no reason, and then ride my butt like ... well I don't even know what. He's in one of those phases where I'm supposed to cook dinner, cut the grass, do the paperwork for the business, run all the errands, clean the house, be where and do what he needs at a moments notice and ... oh yeah ... raise a human being to be a positive addition to the human race. No biggie...I may not speak to him for another 6 days, but I've totally got this under control...

What's wrong with your eyes?

2009-09-16T20:32:00.001-04:00

My baby Shelby Sue (my Sheltie I'd had since college) passed away last week. It was horribly traumatic, and I'm heartbroken. I'm definitely not ready to blog about that day yet, but when I am, I definitely believe it will help me heal. In the meantime, I'll post some more uplifting stories. Here's one from the day after Shelby died. I'd cried for the entire night, and much of the morning before dropping my son off at preschool and going to my pottery class. I knew I needed to be around people who loved their dogs as much as I do...

The last day of each session we have a potluck for lunch in class. This week, I wanted to bake a cake and decorate it for our instructor's birthday. Ron, a retired fireman (about 60 or so) usually makes a chocolate cake, but I really wanted to try my hand at baking this new recipe. So he let me take the task.
I walked into pottery, and he immediately asked, when I plopped down a Farm Fresh cake on the table "Where's this great cake you promised? I thought you were going to bake and decorate all morning for us?"
Let me make it perfectly clear that Ron is one of the kindest, sweetest men. He's in a class with 10 women ranging in age from 31 to 89, so he's heard it all and laughs every bit of it off. All I could squeak out was "I had a bad day."
I had my back turned to him, so he continued to make fun of me. Until I turned around, tears streaming down my face. He felt so bad that he grinded down all of my sharp edges of my pottery.
My instructor told me the story of when she smothered her favorite bird in a pullout couch, and she cried.

But here's the absolute best story. Definitely the best. Peggy is pushing 80, and the first time I met her, she asked me "so what's the deal with crystal meth?" Like I would know. Then she proceeded to describe the nude cruise she and her husband had just taken. Told me she was tired of private parts right next to the buffet line.
Anyway, Peggy told me the story of her friend, who's husband had passed away. She'd invited a man to live with her, and he was also 80. She was slowly backing out of her garage, when she hit something. Hard. And something big. It was her boyfriend. This woman ran OVER her 80-year-old boyfriend, who had collapsed and passed out from a heart attack.
I asked Peggy if he'd died, and she said "yes. I'm sure it was a combination of both a heart attack and being run over by a car. Either way, it's pretty damn funny when you think about it."

That was the first and only time I smiled that day.

Juni the Toddler goes to School

2009-09-08T11:04:00.001-04:00

Last night I tucked Juni into bed and he fell immediately asleep. I, on the other hand, didn't turn off the light until after 1 a.m. He wasn't nervous about meeting new kids, listening to new rules from new teachers, a new classroom with new expectations, or having his bus moved from the green light on the blackboard to the yellow or (gasp) the red.
Juni didn't have those wasps in his tummy or racing thoughts in his mind. He felt sad that his best friend wouldn't be in his class, but the thought of legos in the classroom hushed that hesitation.
Juni felt no anxiety over beginning preschool. It was me.
I don't think I went to preschool. If I did, I don't remember. I do, however, remember my first day of kindergarten. The Sesame Street toy. Nap time. Play time. Letter time. I remember hiding on the school bus, because I didn't want to go home. I wanted to go back to school. I remember my mom's face after she'd chased the bus back to the school, sick and frazzled with worry about her missing daughter, who was comfortably wedged beneath the seat along with old gummy bears and snack packs.
I loved school. Hopefully, my son will take after me and love school too. Today he would act excited one moment and nervous the next. I was the last mommy to leave the room, but he didn't cry. Hopefully, as I type, Juni is sitting next to his new best friend. Hopefully, Juni is learning that he likes school. Hopefully, Juni is learning that Mommy's anxiety about change doesn't have to transfer to him.
Here's the poem his teacher handed me as I rushed out the door, both happy and sad.

The First Day
I gave you a little wink and smile as you entered my room today. For I know how hard it is to leave, and know your child must stay.
You've been with him for three years now and have been a loving guide, but now, alas, the time has come to leave him at my side.
Just know that as you drive away, and tears down your cheeks may flow; I'll love him as I would my own, and help him learn and grown. For as a parent, I too know, how quickly the years do pass; and that one day soon it will be my turn to take my child to class.
So please put your mind at east and cry those tears no more. For I will love him and take him in when you leave him at my door.

Feta Face

2009-08-26T21:38:00.003-04:00

Our home is filled with smells. Candles, baking cookies in the winter, maybe a nice dinner in the crock pot.
And the smell of my boys. Of course by boys I mean my redneck husband and our son. My son refuses to wear socks with his new "big boy" shoes. He picked them out himself, and has decided it's a fashion statement to either wear just one sock, or none.
I love the shoes. They're skater shoes with a skull and cross-bones on the toe. Very grown up. And so is the smell. Wearing no socks is not a good thing for a boy, apparently. We were driving in the car the other day when he kicked off his shoes. I seriously almost fainted. Jasen didn't even notice the smell, and I'm driving with my head out the window like the neighbor's dog.
I shouldn't have been shocked. He takes after his father. Not that my husband has stinky feet. In fact, he has the softest, best-smelling feet ever. It's just not fair that a man has such silky feet. But when he eats butter, it's a different story.
My husband could grown a full beard at age 14. I kid you not. I took him to my junior prom and people called him Grisly Adams. The man has hair on every inch of his body. Now he has a goatee.
Butter and goatees do not mix. When they do mix, it creates a smell just like that of feta cheese. I know this, because my husband gets what we call "feta face" after eating artichokes dipped in butter, buttered corn, basically anything that would allow butter to get on his hair.
We coined the term a few years ago when we were newly married. He'd never tried artichokes, and I love them. We had a great night, and snuggled in on the couch for some kissy-face. And then we smelled it. I was scared it was me, he was scared it was him. We ignored it for a few minutes, but just couldn't stand it. Both of us blurted out in unison "WTF is that SMELL?" He smelled my hair, I smelled his shirt. We smelled everything around the couch. We couldn't figure it out. Until we kissed again. It was his goatee. His friggin goatee smelled like feta cheese.
Today we have found no remedy for feta face. Dove, Pantene, rubbing alcohol. Nothing washes or strips the smell away. And it's only real butter that does it. If we use a spread, feta face doesn't show himself. So no butter will ever find itself on an artichoke, corn or any other food that could cover his hair. And if my redneck husband does decide to indulge in that wonderful buttery dip, my lips are off limits. Feta Face is not someone I'm big on making out with.

The Worst Pickup Line Ever: Did I Crap my Pants?

2009-08-24T21:28:00.004-04:00

My husband is not the most romantic man in the world. Don't get me wrong...he buys me more diamonds than I can wear in a week. Before we got married, he'd bring home roses for no reason. He picks out wonderful cards. But I'm pretty sure rednecks aren't allowed to be but so romantic.
With that said, I remembered one of our first dates and couldn't help but laugh. He was taking me to dinner. Of course he was driving his obscenely large F350 teal dually. I'm thinking he must have eaten some sort of Mexican fare for lunch, or some other gassy cuisine, because he just couldn't hold it in.
Now that we've been married for six years, he thinks nothing of burning my nose hairs with his ass. But at the time, he tried to keep things smelling pleasant.
So we're driving down the road, and he says to me "I've got to pull over for a minute. I think I just crapped my pants." I reply "are you kidding me?"
Obviously not. He pulled the truck over, stuck his butt in the air, and asked me if his jeans had a spot.
Of course he didn't crap his pants. He's an adult, and adults don't crap their paints, right? Wrong.

Fast-forward about two years. We're newly married, and lying on the couch. I had my head in his lap, and smelled something funky. Being newly married, I didn't say anything, and in the back of my head worried if it was me.
The next night, I took my spot on the couch, my head again in his lap. And there it was. That smell. What the heck is that smell? Again, I went to bed and tried to not think about what it could be.
The next day I was sorting laundry, and came across the offender. His comfy flannel pants that he wore at night. Apparently, someone had crapped their pants several nights ago, and never realized it.
How can an adult NOT realize crapping their pants? To this day I seriously have no idea. What I do know is that I gingerly picked them up by the pant cuff and ran to the outside trash can. That night I started laughing uncontrollably when I explained the smell, my reaction, and my discovery.
And my redneck husband proceeded to ask me why I threw the pants away. "They were really comfortable," he said. Yea. Too comfortable, if you ask me.

Visions of Sugar Plums...and Dead Babies...in my Head

2009-08-22T21:17:00.001-04:00

I've battled a fairly severe panic disorder for as long as I can remember. Pregnancy shoved my panic into overdrive.
Once Juni was born, my panic morphed. I didn't suffer from the never-ending attacks as much. But at night, rocking my new baby, my body aching from less sleep than anyone thought was humanly possible, my panic tortured me in a totally different way.
I began having visions of my baby, dead in my arms. I'm in the hospital, refusing to let him go. I know he's dead, but he's still warm. I can't let go. I can't stop crying. I can't stop talking to him. I can't stop stroking his skin. I can't let the nurses rip him from my protective arms.
Juni is three-and-a-half, and I still have the same vision, with me clutching his toddler-sized, limp body in my arms. It's the worst kind of panic attack. It's the kind no pharmaceutical company can develop a pill to cure. It's the kind of panic attack only a mother must suffer.

Burying Joe

2009-08-21T21:55:00.003-04:00

We buried my husband's great uncle today. The same man who's home I searched for a will.
I met the man only once, but nonetheless cried. The graveside service was short and simple. No tears.
A french horn played Taps. Still no tears. The flag was folded, and my eyes remained dry. But then the officer began to present the flag to Joe's nephew, to whom he'd left everything. The nephew quickly directed them toward Jasen's grandfather, Joe's only living sibling, and presented the 85-year-old with the flag of his youngest brother.
A single tear slid from his eye, and I started to cry. He hadn't expected the flag, and I hadn't expected him to shed a tear. Buddy (Jasen's grandfather) stood after the service, bowed his head and placed his right hand on the casket. I don't know what he said, and it didn't matter. My throat was tight and the tears welled on the lower rims of my sunglasses.
He turned around, and said to his granddaughter that he was all alone; that he was the last of his siblings, and began to walk away from the grave site. He used the casket to steady himself on the uneven ground and clutched the folded flag to his chest. That was pretty much the end of my mascara.

I couldn't help but think of my maternal grandfather's funeral. He passed away almost 10 years ago, while I was a sophomore at Tech.
For as long as I can remember, grandad was dying. His first surgery cut out his prostate and bladder when my mom was pregnant. His chest looked like someone gutted him with a dull fillet knife and stitched him back together with shoe laces.
He fought that cancer for another 20 years. Even at age 80, they continued the surgeries, removing most of his stomach and intestines. Doctors placed him in a drug-induced coma because he became combative with the doctors and nurses. That lasted for almost two months when they began to slowly bring him to consciousness.
The day he died, he asked to see his wife, my Granny, who was flirting with the young doctors in the hallway. They helped him to a wheelchair, and pushed him next to her. He said he wanted a kiss, and she obliged. And then he closed his eyes and took his last breath.
I know it sounds like something out of a romance novel, but that's the story my mom told me, as told to her by my Granny. Completely true or not, it doesn't matter to me. What matters is the thought. That we all need one last kiss from our love before leaving.
At first I didn't want to make the trip to Arlington for his funeral. I'm glad I did.
I still don't think I understand the honor that comes with an Arlington funeral. His grave is within walking distance of the Pentagon, and I know he's loving that, the political buff he was. I still remember my Granny, frail and thin from his long stay in the Naval hospital. For the first time in my life, I realized I was taller than her. She looked so tiny, taking that flag from the officer.
I didn't cry until the horn played Taps, and they began the 21-gun salute. With each ear-piercing shot, his death became more real. The smoke cleared from the gun barrels, and it was over. He was gone.
I don't deal with death well. I don't understand it, I can't rationalize it, and my faith isn't strong enough to lean on. I'm hoping a better understanding and acceptance comes with age.
People who are left suddenly alone seem so small, no matter what their stature. They've been beaten and battered. They've had their spirit broken, and are left to redefine their lives.
I left the funeral today crying not just for Joe and Buddy, but for everyone in my life I've lost, and everyone in my life I could loose.

Juni-Isms

2009-08-20T22:27:00.000-04:00

Maybe I puke tonight: He says this at least 12 times a day. He get's it from Jasen, who says this line after just about every dinner.

You be kidding me: He gets this one from me. I say "Are you kidding me?" at least 12 times a day either to him or Jasen. Jasen farts at least once during dinner every night and blames it on Juni... Are you kidding me? Juni paints the walls with blue Avon sunscreen... Are you kidding me? The calves get out and are staring at me... Are you kidding me? The paint I applied two days ago starts randomly coming off in huge latex-like sheets...are you freaking kidding me???

I want it already: pretty much this means he wants something now, and we're about to have a massive tantrum.

It looks like a dragon tail: his description of a gigantic poop.

I go wish you: I go with you

Is dat an idea?: This would be Juni's bargining tool - is that a good idea? If someone tells him no, he turns on his debate skills.

The Sum of a Life

2009-08-18T19:59:00.003-04:00

I spent much of today rummaging through a distant relative's townhouse. Jasen's grandfather's brother passed away. They didn't get along, but his grandfather is now the final living sibling.
This man lived his entire life alone. He never married, although from what I gather he had his share of women. He was in the Navy. He was a recovering alcoholic. And everything he owned was in this house.
Jasen's grandfather assumed he would take care of his brother's estate, and wanted to find a will. He asked me to help. When I got to the house there was blood on the counter and carpet. He'd suffered respiratory failure, and didn't have anyone looking after him to call for help. He crawled to the phone three days after not being able to move his legs.
This man chose to live a solitary life. I only met him once, and the first think he said was how "fat" my husband had gotten. But I can't help but feel sorry for an 80-year-old man, bleeding and crawling to the phone to ask his partially estranged brother for help. He died five days later in an ICU filled with people on the verge of life and death.
When I arrived at the hospital he was still in the bed, covered with a sheet. There are no doors in the ICU, and he was the first bed on the left. Everyone entering and exiting the ICU walked past this dead man, his life barely out of his hands. And I'm assuming most people had no idea. It happens every day.
I reached his home and searched through his bills, gathering accounts to cancel and services to disconnect. I looked in closets, trying to find a file cabinet or safe that could hold his wishes.
The safe was in a utility closet, sitting atop an old coffee table and under a box with a piece of green outdoor carpet inside.
It took me two hours to find the key. I looked in shoe boxes in the closet, and found veteran papers, love letters, Christmas cards, even a picture of his father lying in his coffin after he shot himself in the family's garage. There was ancient jewelry, presumably his mothers and antique cuff links. A sack of gold coins, Christmas decorations and newspaper clippings of obituaries.
Desk drawers, end tables, dresser drawers; they were all filled with the junk we place in our lives. A deck of cards and old dice. Dog tags from his service. Pictures of an old lover on every mirror and on the phone receiver. Manuals for every piece of appliance thinkable. Dirty magazines. Faded shirts. Vinyl records. Spare change and pocket knives. Things that represented everyday life; pain and happiness.
The key was tucked away in the back of some random drawer.
His safe held his most important documents. Cash from overpaid taxes that he never deposited and never spent. His mother's will. His brother's death certificate. A pocket watch and belt buckle. Diamond rings and pearl necklaces meant for women he never married. And under it all sat an old white envelope with "last will and testament" written on the front in his unsteady handwriting.
There was a piece of paper with the grave plot information. The will was simple. He left everything to a random nephew. Jasen's grandfather's job was done. His brother wanted him to do nothing when he died.
It seemed odd to me that this man left everything he had to a single nephew, but people do strange things every day.
What's haunting my mind now that I've had time to think about my day is what this man left behind. Paid bills from 20 years ago. Dusty gallons of Jim Beam. Old clothes. Old jewelry. Older furniture. A Buick sitting in his parking space. Things that have no sentimental value to anyone except him. And now he's lying in the morgue. His body is all that is physically left. And empty shell.
Did this man leave nothing behind? He lived his entire life alone, and in these last years didn't leave his home much. These possessions will end up at the estate sale or in some pawn shop or some thrift store, looking for a new home. Looking for a new meaning; a new spot in someone else's drawer.
I sit on my couch and wonder what someone would think of me if I died tomorrow and they had to search my home, trying to find out what I'd wanted. I wonder what people would think of my now-divorced parents love letters to each other. The photos of family. The old clothes I can't come to part with. The paintings my grandmother created. I wonder if someone could ever know what these possessions meant to me; what memories they evoke.
I know this man left more behind than what was in that townhome. He left memories in other people's minds, he left a mark on people's lives. But in the end, only a very select few of us leave any tangible evidence that we ever existed. Successful writers, artists, politicians, maybe. But the average person living their average life in their average townhome? That average person, made from the miracle of human existence, leaves nothing.
I carried my toddler son up the steps to his bedroom tonight and I couldn't help but think of this man, 77 years ago, in his mother's arms. What did she hope for him? Is she proud of what he became? I know I will leave something for my son. Hopefully I will leave memories. But if I died tomorrow, would he remember my face 10 years from now? Would he remember our time together? I don't think so. I don't think he would ever know how much I love him, and that's the worst thought that's ever entered my mind.
Hopefully I will live long enough for my son to have endless memories. And with any luck my son will have children, and that small genetic link to me will continue. But I don't know what mark, if any, I will leave on this world. I don't know what purpose I'm here to fulfill.
I do know that I want the sum of my life to be more than what's in my home. I want the sum of my life to mean something to someone other than myself. I want the sum of my life to have met it's purpose.

Bread & Butter Pickles

2009-06-13T16:26:00.001-04:00

I love to cook. Experimenting with food can sometimes backfire, but I otherwise love to try new flavor combinations and recipies.

That's part of the reason why I love my garden so much. It's a heafty workload, but well worth the sweat and bug bites. I love the feel of the dirt in my hands, the sense of accomplishment after you pick a vegetable off the plant you've babies for months. And there's nothing better than crunchy, fresh vegetables.

We always find ourselves with more than an abundance of fresh vegetables. I'll give them away to anyone willing to take them.

But...cucumbers are another story. A few years ago my mom and I decided to dig her old recipe out of her cookbook. it was hand-written on yellow legal pad, tucked neatly into an old cookbook about southern pickles. We decided to see if we'd rather try something new.

Definitely not. Most of the recipes called for us to "remove the scum" off of the top portion of cucumbers sitting in salty water, sometimes after weeks. Yuck. Here is my mom's easy, and awesome, recipe:

Ingredients:

4 qts medium cukes, thinly sliced (i use the long, thin cucumbers)

6 medium onions, sliced

2 small yellow squash, thinly sliced (this is my addition to the original recipe)

2 green peppers, chopped

3 garlic cloves

1/3 cup pickling (or sea, or kosher) salt

crushed ice

5 cups sugar

3 cups apple cider 5% vinegar (or white vinegar with a little extra sugar)

2 tbs whole mustard seeds

1.5 tsp ground turmeric

1.5 tsp whole celery seeds

Combine cukes, onions, peppers, garlic and salt in large bowl. Cover with ice, mix, and let stand 3 hours. Drain.

Combine remaining ingredients, pour over cucumbers, and heat just until boiling.

Spoon cucumbers into mason jars, fill to .5 inches from top and process 10 minutes in warm water bath. Or, if you're going to eat them within a reasonable time, just put them into the jars, wait for the pop, and put them in the fridge.

Mmmm...

Tears of Joy

2009-06-12T21:43:00.004-04:00

My husband may be a redneck, but he's a sensitive redneck. It's one of the reasons I love him. He cried over a good birthday card, a sad movie, and especially over the beauty in our son.
But tonight, Jasen surprised me. he cried at dinner not because Juni said "I love you Daddy" or I gave him a heartfelt card. He cried because Juni loved his babyback ribs.
That's right. My husband teared up because our son was gnawing on a pork rib like a tiger cub after its first kill.

Donkeys do NOT Enjoy Pedicures

2009-06-11T22:59:00.004-04:00

Donkeys are wonderful, gentle animals. I love Bud and JD very much...if they could be cats, I honestly believe they would take the offer.
With that said, donkeys are not called jackasses for nothing. They are indeed the epitome of the jackass. They're stubborn, and smart. They're strong, and tireless. Basically, they're a giant toddler.
Donkeys need diligent hoof care just like horses. Our donkeys have not had this hoof care, and definitely needed pedicures. If their hooves are not ferried every so often, they will turn into what looks like elf feet, and it can become painful.
It took me almost two years to find a farrier to work on donkeys. Most larger businesses refuse to work on donkeys because, unlike a horse, they kick to intentionally injure the farrier. They're faster, they tend to bite more, and they're smarter. Not a safe combination.
I found a young guy, just starting out, who hadn't been hurt enough to refuse Bud and JD.
The first time he worked on the donkeys it took almost four hours, with Jasen holding them. At one point the farrier had a rope wrapped around both him and the donkey, and was holding onto his back leg for dear life. This guy wrestled with that donkey for 45 minutes before he took the first snip at his hooves.
It was terrifying, and amazing at the same time. He never shouted, never hit, and never gave up.
Today was a different story. We sedated the older, ungelded donkey. He doesn't like anyone near the family jewels, and I can't blame him. But that makes it incredibly dangerous to work on his hind legs.
Apparently, donkeys have a unique gift ... they can ignore sedation and fight back. We dosed him again, and tied him to a cemented pole. He rared up, struck his hind legs toward the farrier, and clawed his front hooves up and over the fence. He snorted, even growled. Sweat began dripping off his body, down the farriers nose, and beaded my upper lip.
It was a good 90 degrees today, and painfully humid. The farrier hoisted bud's front left hoof up under his body. That didn't work. He led him in circles and retied him to the post. That's didn't work. He had me hold him. Nope. Nothing. So we gave up.
With the smaller, younger gelding, we opted out of the sedation, because when he was castrated he had an adverse reaction. Last time JD fought for a while, but eventually submitted. This time he knew better and refused.
I'd never had to twitch an animal before. Until today. The apparatus was too large, since it's made for horses. So I had to use my hands. Try to picture this:
Grabbing a donkey's upper lip with my right hand, and twisting. Then grabbing the lower lip with my left hand, and twisting. Then, when they rare back, I don't let go. It was horrible. he was completely pissed, and just didn't give in. I let go instead of hurting him.
My options are basically to let them be (and possibly have pain in their hooves), sell or give them away to be someone elses problem (although they are very sweet, this whole farrier thing is a pain) or to have a vet come out and sedate them to the ground, which is several hundred dollars per animal. Ouch. I haven't decided what to do yet, since all of those options just plain suck to me.
Right now the farrier is licking his pride wounds, and I'm looking at the rope burn on my left hand and wondering just how sore my body will feel tomorrow.
The second we let the donkey's back into the field tonight they ran to the opposite fence, pouted for 30 seconds, and then ran back to me like nothing had happened. That's my definition of Jackass.