The Homesteading Hussy

A Letter to Langdon

2012-01-14T10:52:00.004-05:00

My hockey friend Susie just had the baby that was inside her body

come out.

This dog named Briggs was her first baby.

But now she has a real one. His name is Langdon, which I love. I was trying to come up with nick names for this one but it was tough. His middle name is Thomas. So, I think I'll call him L.T.

Hey L.T.,

Welcome to this world. You came into the world during a tough time- politically, economically, globally- but I'm not one to talk about that kind of stuff so we won't go there. I'm just glad you're here. And I'm glad you're big because big is better, generally speaking.

Now, I realize that you're just a few days old but you're probably an old soul and you probably already understand a few things. So, despite this, I'd like to offer you up a few suggestions. I did this for your Dad but I'm not sure he listened at all. You probably don't have to either. I mean, who the hell am I anyway? I'm sorry, I'll try not to swear. I realize you're all brand new and shiny.

So first off is this sleep shit (stuff). You're going to suck at it at first (maybe) because your body digests breast milk after only 90 minutes so you gotta eat and all that. So, we'll give you a break at first but then you gotta be smart about it. Because honestly speaking you don't want to see your Mom exhausted and tired from getting up every two hours- that's just ugly. You want her to be happy so that you're happy. So be good.

Now, to go back to the eating thing. Be good at that too. You can suck at it later, if you want, and make your parent's crazy with your pickiness but for now just eat and digest. Suck at it really good. As in, suck hard and suck strong so that you're not at the breast for, like, 45 minutes because that just sucks for your Mom. I know all that sucky stuff is confusing but you'll figure it out. I believe in you.

More important in some ways than being a good sleeper and a good eater is being a good pooper. Don't keep that shit (stuff) in- let it out. Poop all you want, whenever you want, wherever you want. You can fart too- that's not bad but we want some really good ass blasts from you. We want you to shock your parents. We want good blow outs. We want up the back, through the sides, over the top. It's all good. Just remember...pooping is good.

Now right off the bat, because you can't talk yet, I want you to have different cries for different things. It's difficult sometimes as a parent to figure out what you need- so don't make it hard. You're a smart kid, I can already tell from the pictures so don't screw up your parents by having one cry for any need you have. You must have a different cry for when you're tired, wet, hungry, or need to fart. It's simple. I believe you can do this.

You're probably going to love the water because you wanted to stay in that hot tub of your Mommy's belly for so long but just so you know your tubs are going to be short lived if you poop in them. So don't poop in the tub, it will only make your mommy and daddy upset that they have to drain the water and start all over. Just relax and enjoy this part of your life when you have someone actually scrubbing you down. It all ends in five or six years so live it up.

Okay, you're going to get sick one of these days- let's hope it's not until you're 7 or 8 months old. But whatever you do don't eat your snot. It's gross. And when you have the dexterity to stick that finger up your nose, don't eat your boogers. It's gross and the ladies won't like it.

And speaking of being sick, when you get the stomach bug please have the where-with-all to vomit somewhere besides on your body or on your parent's bodies. It's gross. I believe in you.

Now, when you start walking and talking there are few things that you need to do to your parents that may seem mean but in reality it's actually teaching them a few good lessons. You must at some point in your toddlerdom: 1)have a nightmare and climb into their bed but don't ever ask or expect to sleep with them on a nightly basis, 2) jump in mud puddles in your nice shoes, even if they tell you not to, 3) throw a tantrum at the grocery store, 4) eat sand in the sand box, 5) refuse to put on your winter jacket, 6)be adamant about choosing your own clothes, 7)wipe your dirty hands on the walls, actually go further and draw on the walls, 8) poop in your pants when you're potty training, 9)refuse to try new things to eat, and 10) say no. All of these things will teach your parents lessons in patience, self control and more importantly they will all make your parents realize that they have no control what so ever, which is exactly what you're supposed to be teaching them all along.

So, just a few more things. 1) Love the dog. He's crazy and wild but don't ever hurt an animal, unless you go fishing with your father and then you can hook all the fish you want. 2) Smile all the time. I heard once that happier people live longer. Help make your parents go the distance 3) Love hockey- it'll make your life a lot easier. 4) Eat your mother's food (even though I told you to not try new things- you'll be missing out), your mother is an amazing cook. 5) Dream big. The bigger you dream the farther you'll go. 6) Get out of Vermont. I think your parents met here in high school, married here in their high school, and are here and have never left here so GO. 7) Read a lot. I can't make my kids read a book, so I'm telling you to because you might actually listen to me. Reading makes you smart. duh. 8) Dance. A lot. 9) Wrestle with your dad and get good at it so that some day you can whip his ass (butt). 10) Love. Love a blanky, a color, a food, a grandparent, a word, anything. Just love.

And we will all love you back.

Can't wait to meet you- you brand new shiny thing.

Much love,
The Hussy

1/2/12

2012-01-02T20:27:00.008-05:00

Happy One Two Twelve friends. It's a brand new year! I thought I would share my wish list for MORE this year while at the same time looking back at the lone photos on my digital memory card that were not uploaded because a) they weren't good enough or b) there was no story attached.

Here's a photo of the kids I took on 1/28/11. They had built a fort in the living room. My wish is for more forts, more camaraderie, more reading in forts built with the foundations of more camaraderie in 2012.

Paul Bunyan took this photo of Timmy on top of the red car on 3/7/11. It felt like a record snow storm that day. I remember climbing on my parent's blue Volvo station wagon after the storm of 78'. I hope Timmy remembers this day.

I wish for gigantic snow in 2012- snow that goes up to the window frames and doesn't melt until all the ticks have frozen to death in March and April.

I took this boring photo of Sydney in her favorite hang out spot under the side porch. She digs a hole, pisses in it, and then lies down in her urine like a good dog who has genetically inherited a wolf's way of life. I need as much as I can of Sydney in 2012 because I know she's not much more for this world. She still ceases to amaze Paul Bunyan and I as she spryly jumps over fallen trees in the woods and continues to pull food off the counters like she did when she was a pup.

On 7/15/11 Claire and her best friend Maggie ended a life changing week at art camp. We need MORE MORE MORE of this in 2012. With only a half hour of art during her school week I can't get enough of art out of school...I think it fuels her fire and we need more (!) to stoke that shit up.

On 8/15/11 the boys turned 7. They got a trip to the water park for their birthday. I need MORE of them in 2012 before they grow so fast I won't be able to pick them up or wash their bodies in the tub or hug them in the mornings when they come out from their bedroom. Soon they won't let me even rub their heads.

This is Paul Bunyan on 8/15/11 before he turned into a skinny bastard after working his ass off at Crossfit. I need MORE of Paul Bunyan since he's lost 30 pounds but that's hard to come by. We'll work on weekends away in 2012 before he physically fades away.

9/12/11...I'm pretty sure I'll have plenty of this in 2012 but I need MORE good behavior and less puppy behavior, please and thank you. Oh, and let's hope for NO ticks in 2012.

9/13/11. Let's hope for more growing of teeth and less losing of teeth in 2012 because that tooth fairy shit is hairy business. Very stressful- especially if you wake up the NEXT morning and realize you forgot. I don't have the nerves for it. Please and thank you.

10/7/11. I look forward to more moments in time with Claire. This was a moment in time when the butterfly made us both stop. I hope for more moments when the stars and moon and birds and bees make us stop and share something between the two of us. Because I know that those moments will, also, be harder to come by.

10/8/11. MORE dinners with friends. Outside. Sunset. Candles. Fresh tomatoes. MORE MORE MORE.

10/26/11. MORE traditions. MORE fun. MORE of the same year after year. It's okay with me if is has to do with love and laughter because that's the best medicine.

Here's to MORE of what you want, what you really really want, in 2012.

Christmas Card Bloopers

2011-12-24T09:01:00.013-05:00

Happy Holly Days to all of you- the three readers that you are. I have a perfect photo for you that I want to share of Paul Bunyan posing for this year's Christmas card. But first I need to give you a little history. I've posted our old Christmas card photos before (with all of their captions) but I haven't ever shown you some of the outtakes.

Our first photo had a few funny takes but I wasn't going to dig through all my old negatives in the basement, take them to the photo store, and have them transferred to disk. Sorra.

And then for a few years we started to just use a photo that we had taken from our adventures during the year, add a caption, and let that be that.

"The stockings were hung by the chimney with care."

Claire's buns at Arnold's Lake.

I maybe should have used this one in 2002. Grandma Simmons thought my usage of the buttocks was bordering pornography.

And then, and then when we started thinking about/planning for a photo things got a little more complicated. With this photo, which in my opinion is the best one yet, there were no outtakes. Paul Bunyan had one chance and one chance only. With water at freezing temperatures, there was no way in hell he was going to try to attempt this stunt again. And besides when he hit the water he dropped the bike and it spent the whole winter under the ice.

Now this photo in 2004, also one of my favorites, was an easy one. I just had to make the Santa hats for the boys.

This was another photo from that session. I think the expression on my face shows just how tired and exhausted I was.

Thinking about and actually taking the Christmas photo became, after these two photos, very stressful. It is always very hard to come up with a funnier idea than the last one. To start, we always think about what has happened to us (or in politics) that year.

This is the year Paul Bunyan bought the alpacas.

I soon realized that taking pictures of animals humping is far more difficult than one would think. Actually making anyone or anything do what you want for a Christmas photo is harder than one would think.

And okay, so maybe I make my children endure a few things just for the photo.

And okay, so maybe I make my husband endure a few things just for a photo. (I wish this one were in focus...I know you do too)

But, in essence, I do this all for you.

This is the year Paul Bunyan built and raised his post and beam shop/garage/mother-in-law apartment. This photo was Claire's favorite, but in this outtake I'm pleading with Auggie to stop sucking his thumb.

And in this outtake Claire can't seem to take flight. And the lighting is all off. And baby Jesus is looking at the Virgin Mary. And one of the wise men is looking at Paul Bunyan, whose robe fell off. And this was the first year we started bribing our children with candy to sit and do what we're telling them to do and to not put up a fuss.

Bribes are okay- it's hard to get everyone looking at the camera at the same time.

It's also hard sometimes to get the moose in the right spot. It's also hard when people don't get your jokes (or political innuendos). Ya, you betcha.

In 2009 we were celebrating a fresh rump roast. In this outtake Auggie is crying. I wanted to have this photo taken as we were driving down the highway. But that would have required me to hire a driver so I could take the photo. I also wanted everyone to have deer heads on (not antlers) but that would have required a lot of money, props, or sewing on my part which was just not in the cards. So, thus, a failed attempt at what was originally a funny idea.

I couldn't afford to buy any more takes of this photo shoot. Sears is expensive, I tell ya. There were a few good ones but they've been deleted into the ethereal atmosphere of the digital air. Oh, and by the way, Claire was not acting in this shoot.

Well, this year Paul Bunyan has been shedding pounds like a Burmese mountain dog on a hot day in Spring and so it just made sense for him to be the star of the show. I came up with the idea to paint his whole body like Santa but we could only find face paint- I don't know if body paint even exists but he was adamant that we don't hire a professional. I think maybe he was a little self conscious of his sweater vest. Anyway, we had about a 30 minute window of time together that we could do this photo shoot while it was still light out. The shot doesn't look like we painted him- many have suggested I photoshopped him. But no, this is paint with a little brightening from my I-photo editing. I peed my pants when I thought of the idea but seeing it on paper just wasn't as funny as I had hoped. But this outtake that came out of the photo shoot was far funnier than any I have ever seen.

We like to laugh in this house.

We like to make you laugh when you open your holiday card.

We don't always succeed.

But we try.

The kids are not really wanting to be involved anymore in the whole holiday picture taking process.

But maybe someday their ideas will be funnier than their parents.

I sure do hope so.

Anyway, are your ready to see the photo that should have been our card?

Are you ready to see the photo that really made us pee our pants?

Are you ready to see how things, sometimes, go when we make people do things that they don't really want to do?

Are you ready to laugh so hard you pee your pants?

Are you sure?

Because you can go back out now, if you want. Seriously.

Okay,
well
here
it
is.

Merry Christmas everyone!

poor Santa

The Bread and Cheese Strke Again

2011-12-16T09:30:00.007-05:00

The Charlie Brown Christmas tree went up with only a few fist fights this year. Paul Bunyan likes colored lights. I like white lights. He would have sat here for another hour trying to fix the string of colored lights but the kids had to get to bed and I won the ro sham bo.

They wait semi-patiently until they can rip into the boxes of ornaments. And then there is:

"You can't put that many on one branch doofus."
"You can't put two of the same kind on one branch bird brain."
"You can't put those too low numbskull."
"You can't put that one up it's too fragile."

And then there is me and you know my history of loving this tradition:

"Turn the music down."
"Stop ripping open the boxes."
"Timmy, I told you three times that Bee will eat those if you put them too low."
"Claire, those get tied on last."
"Don't play with the star it's broken."
"Auggie, did you hear me? I just told you not to play with the star; it's broken."
"Auggie, I've told you three times now NOT TO PLAY with the star."
"TURN DOWN THE CHRISTMAS MUSIC."
"The Grinch is in the house."

Despite his superior listening skills, Auggie got to put the broken star on top this year.

And there she be. All ready for the Wombat's arrival last night.

It was time for fondue.

Things can get pretty hairy when you mix cheese, bread, wine, and a bunch of vaginas together. Every time the ladies leave and I'm left with the caked on cheese to scrape up- I'm in such disbelief about what just transpired. It baffles me that we can have so much fun.

This year we included a fun twist. Everyone had to bring a picture of themselves at their senior prom. And IF you had it, you had to wear your dress.

We had a few shiny ones.

So, the fondue recipes stay the same every year, but the rules of the game are always changing. We usually have a pow wow before anyone starts picking out gifts. This year we decided that if you got your gift stolen you could steal someone else's (usually you just had to take a new one from under the tree). And so this added for more stealing, and more "tricks". The tricks, generally speaking, involve showing some body part usually (but may not be limited to) the breasts. And one may or may not have to hold something (possibly, but may not be limited to, a wine bottle) up with that said body part. I made that very vague for anyone who might be offended. It's very hard to make it through the night without either peeing yourself or laughing so hard you shoot out a tampon.

It's my very favorite night. Three hours of utter delight. And as far as I'm concerned the Christmas tree can come down now because I'm ready to tell the kids there is no Santa. Do you hear that kids? There is no Santa. Santa doesn't bring I-Pod touches. Santa doesn't bring I-Pads. Santa brings homemade wooden toys with pull strings on them.

You did hear me say the Grinch is in the house. Didn't you?

My Wheel.

2011-12-08T15:31:00.003-05:00

I miss using my hands to make things.
I wrote this last year for a writing competition.
I did not win.
Which is why I'm changing diapers and folding laundry.
But I miss using my hands to make things.
And using my brain to write things.
You don't have to read it.

My wheel sometimes makes a clicking sound when the knot in the string hits the pulleys, but I don’t think that was what was making Mr. Lucy entranced. I’m fairly certain he was mesmerized by the drive wheel and how I was making it move with my feet on the treadles. I imagined him with his head in a tractor immersed in the same kind of studying. His interest in the nature of how my spinning wheel worked implied that he tinkered with things with wheels, and pulleys, and shafts. We had a common ground somewhere on the floor of our town’s library that snowy day in November.

I was trying to sell my wares at our small town craft fair, as if I were at market and had walked there (or had my oxen pull me there) and I was using my time wisely by making more wares. I spin fiber shorn from the backs of the 11 alpacas we own. I’ve only just recently learned how to do this. That doesn’t mean I’m bad at it. It just means I’m new. But I’m not sure he could tell this about me as he stood not two feet away and studied my hands for many minutes. As far as I was concerned he thought I was a professional. And so, for his sake, I pretended. I didn’t stop my show. I just kept my feet moving as my fingers fed the twisting fiber into my spindle shaft. All around me were my skeins of wool, resting on the sides of wooden peach crates. They looked like wet wool socks draped over a drying rack in front of the woodstove. Browns, whites, and rose grey. And at my feet, too, were boxes of un-spun colored fiber that I had dyed with natural things from my land. Goldenrod. Elderberry. Black walnut. This, too, piqued his interest.

He asked questions. Simple ones. About the process. I answered. But mostly he stood and watched, with his rough, overworked hands clasped simply in front of him. On top of his head was a ball cap, weathered with sweat and sun and years of pulling up and down and on and off. The hat had a tractor brand name on it. I can’t remember if it was Case, John Deere, Ford. He had mentioned knowing a family in town who are dairy farmers. His hat and associations made me assume he had worked and reworked the land. But that story, and the one about the moose, and the one time in the woods, and the spring the sap ran so much they couldn’t…. they are all the stories I have yet to hear.

Mr. Lucy moved further away to the circulation desk, but he continued to watch me turn my wheel. He finally introduced himself to me after he bought me and my family some raffle tickets. The library was trying to raise money for its ailing walls and was raffling off an oversized handled basket of Lake Champlain chocolates. He handed me the ticket stubs and thanked me profusely for sharing my art with him. And then he reached his wrinkled hands into his trouser pockets and pulled out a few squares of dark chocolate. He shyly handed them to me and said, “these are for your children.” His smirk implied a little embarrassment at sharing his secret passion with us but I understood at that moment that his gesture of generosity and his trust with divulging his vice only implied that he liked me very much.

The following week I received something in the mail from Ken. His hand written note contained letters scribed in the most perfect penmanship I had ever seen. The D in Dear placed him back in time for me to a small school house, one in which he may have had to walk to. With every correct swirl in his capital T’s I saw his obedience and a strict school marm looking sternly over his shoulder. Every precise third hump on lower case m’s suggested attention to detail. That kind of penmanship is a lost art and it made me want to dig out my very finest paper stock to write back. He had sent me an article from Northern Woodlands magazine about dyeing fiber from wild sources in the forest. I pictured him thumbing through his back copies, piles of them on the floor next to his favorite reading chair, to find this one article he remembered reading years ago. I saw him shifting his weight to dig in his trouser pockets to find a knife, matted in color. His calloused fingers pulling the dulled blade open in order to use it to meticulously cut the article out of the magazine along its bound edge. His crooked body bending over the table to fold it into three.
I practiced my letters first in rough draft form before feeling like I could send a presentable reply. I was sure to mention my gratitude for his thoughtfulness. And that he should, please would he come, to meet our fury friends. I invited him to come for shearing day, which is always set for the first Monday in May. I told him that I liked his penmanship and he wrote back to me,  
Hi Mary,
Well it was away for the holidays. Then away again to help someone. Now it’s back to be a Vermonter.
Your letter was nice about meeting your animals. When it’s time for them to get trimmed I’ll show up. I think that would be a great thing to take in. And you mentioned meeting and touching them especially if I have some chocolate (ha ha) with me.
I’d like to pay a little in advance with this package.
Thanks again Mary for inviting me to enjoy your animal friends. And for learning about your art.

Bye for now,
Ken Lucy

With this note came more chocolate in payment for a future date. And then as life often does to us, it got away from me. I never called Mr. Lucy to make sure he ‘showed up’ at our farm to touch our animals on that warm May Monday. And even though he never came, I kept my eye out for him, as my booth sat directly in sight of the library door, this snowy November at the craft fair. I kept my feet pedaling and my fingers busy, hoping for Mr. Lucy to come and slip some chocolate from his trouser pockets. But I’m selfish. I want more than dark chocolate and hand written notes. His life’s stories are some that I would work for. I could spin by his wood stove. I could catalogue his magazines for him. Chop wood. Dust the shelves. Make dinner. Anything for love letters, fading photos, artifacts not yet buried, things to write down. Yes, I will spin for stories. I will send chocolate too. Tomorrow. As deposit.

Some of my Skillz.

2011-11-25T14:14:00.007-05:00

I missed my twentieth high school reunion this summer. I was driving. In a car. To International Falls, MN. And I was sad. Because we had some good times in high school. Dave, and Denny, and Doug, and Eric, and Bobby, and Boozie. Twenty years is a long time ago but I remember a few things I learned back then.

I remember in 9th grade I learned how to make an omelet. It's one of the most important things I learned how to do in high school. I mean seriously, it's the one thing besides typing that I use almost every day. And speaking of typing it definitely is the single most useful thing I learned. We had an old school typing teacher back then and she would walk up and down the rows, her nylons swish swish swishing, and her beady eyes looking condescendingly over your type writer to make sure you weren't looking at the keys. I've never ever regretted learning to type so quickly.

I also had to learn how to sew. I made a lined canvas tote bag that I gave to my grandmother Mary. She used it to keep her crosswords in. After she died I got it back and now I use it to hold my knitting needles. I also acquired her old Singer sewing machine. I used it to make these Halloween costumes a few years ago:

Arg!

I mean seriously, how professional is that?

Okay, so I haven't tried to sew anything nearly as sophisticated as this since.

But my skillz came in handy.

I remember calculus and AP History with Juice and Mr. Hutter's English class. And I definitely remember German class with Frau Crocker. Well, I don't use any of the crap I learned in those classes anymore- I mean, I don't remember any of that crap. But the thing that I learned in high school that I use every day, many hours (sometimes) a day, is how to drive a vehicle.

Now, being that we live where we live it takes us a good half hour to get anywhere good. Half hour to work, half hour to hockey, half hour to dinner out in Burlington, half hour to friends, half hour to life off the mountain. So, I'm in my car A LOT. And I like my car. And I don't mind driving.

I learned to drive a VW Rabbit. And I've been a good driver in my life as a driver. One small speeding ticket RIGHT after I got my license, but it was a total speed trap and it wasn't my fault. But in college my teammates and I drove my little Honda Civic to Steamboat, CO and New Orleans for spring break. NO issues. I drove across the country with Paul Bunyan. NO issues. I drove all over Philly for three years. NO issues. And then. And then I got this car:

It's my beautiful silver tank of a mini van. I had no qualms about getting and/or driving a mini van. It's a wonderful wonderful thing- the mini van is. It's a total swagger wagon. And you could never understand this until you drive one, so don't knock it. Well, not too long after we bought the swagger wagon in 2005 I came around this corner a little too hard and hit the mail boxes at the bottom of our hill.

This scratch was the result.

Not too long after that I dented my bumper fairly significantly by backing into this:

which I've done more than once.

I've shut the garage door on my opened back gate. I've backed into the Tundra, denting that detrimentally.

In June, Paul parked the car right between the yellow power lines to the left and the wooden posts on the right so essentially what happened when I pulled out of the spot was his fault.

Because who parks in a spot like that? I mean how was I supposed to see the posts on my right? Seriously.

In our little town it's common courtesy to pull to the side and stop to let the person approaching this bridge first go across on his/her own. There are no signs saying you must do this. It's just common knowledge. You WAIT for the other person to cross the bridge before going. So that is exactly what I did. I pulled over to the right (very close to the guard rail) and waited....just like I'm supposed to do.

It wasn't until I pulled away that I realized I was a little too close to the guard rail.

I've stopped getting upset over all this. I mean, it's a car. And I'm not hitting anyone else's car. Which, you know, we should all be thankful for. I probably should revisit some of the rules of backing up that I learned in high school. You know, like, looking behind you and around you. Who knows, this all may be a factor of me being IN my car more than I ever have in my life. It may be the factor that I'm usually late for wherever I'm going and that I probably should just slow down. It may be that it's hard driving such a big vehicle and that when I don't need the mini van anymore, I'll be back to my good old ways. Oh wait, I did back that VW rabbit into my mom's jetta in the driveway. It's been so long, I forgot that story too.

Well, here's how I look at it: by the time Claire gets the van we won't worry if she beats the shit out of it. She just better not back into my brand new Golf TDI.

Twindom

2011-11-10T16:05:00.020-05:00

Hellooooo. Are you still there??? I know. I totally wowed you with my mattress story and now you're all like, 'Where has she been? We can not wait for another life altering lesson from the Hussy'. Well, I've been wading through the murky mire with these twins:

Scarlet

And Magnolia.

And so besides doing dishes, laundry, diapers, and bottles over there I've been smelling the dead leaves. And because all of those things are filling up my days, I haven't been able to think about you. Well, I've been thinking about you, about how I've abandoned you, but then the dishes, laundry, vacuuming and homework nazi is needed around here when I'm not smelling the dead leaves or doing dishes, laundry, diapers, and bottles over there. Now you're understanding... right?

Well, here has been my train of thought lately, which is just as unimportant as my mattress story and quite frankly if you leave me for good after this, I would completely understand.

The boys are trying to decide if they want to try wrestling this winter. Now, if you know anything about anything you know that IOWA is known for its wrestling program. I didn't know diddly squat about wrestling until I went to Iowa and then when the wrestlers, carrying each other on their backs, passed us on the stairs in the basketball stadium while we ran up them two by two to get into shape I sorta started to see the picture. But I became a huge fan, needless to say, and rooted for these twins during my four years there:

The Brand brothers. They dominated the sport at Iowa. Won multiple National Championships. Set crazy school records. Were the toughest athletes I've ever known.

Now this is a crazy commitment for my boys, every Tuesday and Thursday evenings for the months of January and February. I'm willing to sacrifice. Because just imagine!!

The boys are also contemplating hockey again this year. I'm a bit late with the registration thing and although everyone and their mother thinks I'm a crazy fool for starting them on this road, I just can't help myself. Especially, especially, after I watched these guys last year during the Stanley Cup.

But seriously, imagine!

Last Tuesday I went to see Brandi Carlile in concert. A-M-A-Z-I-N-G. It was her first time playing solo without her boys. And, still, all she could talk about were these twins:

The Hanseroth twins. And so when I got home and you tubed them, I was in awe. And all of the sudden the inner Santa in me said absolutely NO to the I-pod wish lists and a Definite YES to brand new guitars and lessons for the twins this Christmas.

But what's great about all this is that I get to dream. I get to dream. Because I'm good at that.

They might be good together, they might be fine apart, BUT (BUT!) they may be great together.

Just maybe.

One Tiny Tale and One Small Request

2011-10-30T08:20:00.015-04:00

Bee hesitantly walked out onto the front porch this morning. Something did not seem right. She slowly approached the white stuff on the first step. Bent down to smell it. Stuck her tongue out to taste it. And instinctively tucked her butt and flew off the porch into an excited rampage of butt tucking. I don't know what it is about snow that does that to living things. I wonder if the birds wake up in their nests and flit around in a flurry of excitement on the morning of the first snow of the season. Like my children did this morning. Where are my gloves? Where are my snowpants? Where are my snowboots? I grumble- still in the crawl space.

It took a little more coaxing for Paul Bunyan to make his way out to the bath this morning.

Of course, he is approaching 40.

This mattress is meant for the dump. But I'd like to tell you a little story about it. Because it sits so forlornly this morning in the wet goop. Because I know you're dying to hear about this mattress. And I know you're also ready for a short story that has little to no significance.

This mattress was purchased by my Pop Pop, my father's father, in the year....well, I don't know.

Here is a picture of my Pop Pop holding my fat butt. My grandmother, who I never really knew because she died of lung cancer when I was in first grade, sits next to him. It looks like we're celebrating my fat brother's third birthday. He got himself a new view finder. And by the way, my parents still use that table as their kitchen table. And I'm pretty sure my dad, who you can barely see, still wears that plaid shirt.

Well, anyway to go back to the saga about the mattress...it sat on a box spring that was custom made for this bed:

When my grandfather died in or around the year 2000, and I won't specifically specify whether or not he did or did not die on this mattress, Paul Bunyan and I lived in this house:

in a neighborhood right outside of the great city of Philadelphia. This house looked just like the one next to it, which looked just like the one across the street from it, which looked just like the one next to that one.

The heirloom bed was in our guest bedroom- the bedroom upstairs on the right. It's a double bed and so no one really slept in it because most of the very few guests who came to visit us stayed in our other guest room, which had a queen bed in it. Makes sense right?

The bed and mattress came with us to Richmond when we moved there in 2002. It sat there, too, in a second guest room. The only significant thing that happened to this bed and mattress while we lived in our dream house is that Sydney decided that she was going to curl up and die under it when she went into her second pancreatic attack on New Year's Eve 2003. Obviously she didn't die, but I was certain it was going to happen that night, like I've been certain the five or six times it's happened since.

In May of 2004 when we downsized and moved into our current Japanese pagoda the bed got shoved into the crawl space and the mattress and box spring got stowed vertically against the wall in the basement.

In October of 2007 I went ahead and drove over to the Crown Point bridge to meet a woman who was GIVING AWAY FREE KITTENS. I know, who does that, right? So I gots me two. Because they were free. And because my house was infested with mice. AND I HATE MICE.

awww. Sweet sweet kittens. Quarantined to the basement. Those rascals decided to make the very top of the mattress, which sat vertically against the wall, their sleeping spot. So the mattress, theoretically, became their gigantic scratching post because as they climbed to the top those very same claws that I needed to murder the mice that co-inhabited our house shredded the shit out of the mattress.

It was apparent that I wouldn't be using a) the mattress again, or b) the bed again. So I sold the heirloom antique bed that my Pop Pop may or may not have died in to an antique dealer in Massachusetts who specializes in wooden sleigh beds. It was a beautiful bed. Not practical. But beautiful.

I think we may have gotten $400 for it. Maybe $425.

Well, a few years ago, maybe 3, possibly 4, we hosted the first friends Thanksgiving. We've had them ever since (Mud and I switch off every other year) because sometimes a friends Thanksgivings is better than a family Thanksgiving. Just sayin'. Well, that first year we hosted I was trying to picture our Japanese pagoda swarming with children, who now at this point outnumbered adults. We needed a space for them to play, away from us. I asked Paul Bunyan to make us some monkey bars, to hang playground equipment from the rafters and to fasten the $50 punching bag I procured from Craigslist to the ceiling. We built a picket fence around the furnace, added a couch from my parent's house, and hooked up the t.v. we bought at Walmart when we first moved into an apartment together in Frisco, CO in the fall of 1997. I painted a hopscotch court on the cement floor and called it good.

And then Mud said, "hey, I'm gonna sue your ass if my kid falls off the monkey bars and cracks his skull open on the cement floor." And then I said, "hey, no problem. I'll just put this nasty mattress on the floor and they can fall on it, jump on it, or do whatever they want on it." And then Mud said, "fine, whateva."

So way back in the summer of 2011 I got myself a puppy. She's a good little dog. But she pees in the house every now and again as puppies are want to do. But so does my geriatric dog so we're just all living in one big Japanese pagoda of piss. Well, Bee decided that that great safety mattress was a perfect place to pee and poop. And well, frankly, it isn't. So it's going to the dump. Sad as it is, the custom made box spring is going too.

I don't like throwing things out.

And this whole saga has had me thinking about the mattress that I die on. Now, because Paul Bunyan's father taught us that we should buy nice shoes and mattresses (because you spend half your life on your feet and half your life on your back) we've done just that. We've gone through 2 mattress so far (none that have been just right). But now that we have the real (and not an impostor) Tempurpedic I know we'll have this one for the next 20 years. And so maybe we'll have one more and it'll be that one that I'll probably die on, unless (of course) I die in a car, plane, train, or tractor. But here is a request to my children, or grandchildren, if you are the ones to inherit my king size mattress and heirloom Pompanoosuc Mills bed: I hope the bed serves you well but at the end of the mattress' life please don't let a dog piss all over it. Here are a few options for things I'd love for you to do with it: a) cut it up and make 6 cozy dog beds. Have someone (or better yet you) sew covers for them and donate them to a shelter who has homeless dogs who could use them. b) cut the foam up into tiny pieces and donate them to the nearest foam pit- most likely your nearest gymnastics gym, or possibly a ski jumping training facility. c) make wooden living room furniture and cut the mattress up to use as cushions for the couch and/or arm chairs. d) make some sort of art out of it. e) be creative and come up with some way to use it as a butt cushion for young kids who are learning how to ice skate. f) find a way to turn it into fuel for your car (of course, you'll probably all have electric solar powered cars). or g) come up with your own creative idea.

Just don't send it to a landfill.

Please.

Thank you.

The New Cavernous Ravine

2011-10-16T14:36:00.017-04:00

The trees are turning on their vacant signs. Things are falling to the ground all around me. My children's teeth included. We're talking in lisps here so we can understand each other- that or the boys sign to me. A quick decisive cutting with the fingers to imply that they would like me to cut their apples up because they can't bite into them. It's all new. Last year they were doing this at soccer:

This year:

We're making great strides.

In completely other news I am now her:

It's been hard for me to get my head around this new title. I've never transitioned into the nanny role for a doula family before. I think I like it but mostly I'm just missing being home. Missing being with Bee. Missing being with me. But mostly, mostly missing being with Paul.

Because when you peel back the banana peel it looks a little something like this:

Monday I'm there and Monday he's here and Monday night he's going to go there starting tomorrow and Tuesdays I'm there and he's sometimes here but every other Tuesday he's here. Wednesday I'm there and he's here but Wednesday night I go here. Thursdays I'm there and then he goes here. Fridays I go here in the morning and he's here except every other Friday when he's here. He's here every other Saturday and Sunday too, but I'm here every other Sunday night when he's here.

So it's every other Tuesday evening, every other Friday afternoon , and every other Saturday and Sunday we get to look at each other. That's it. And when you break it down like that it seems less than it already seems. Like a cookie split into quarters when one cookie wasn't nearly enough to begin with. And that cookie was a perfectly warm ooey gooey chocolate chip, right out of the oven. Definitely not something you want to nibble.

And our relationship has become a dialogue in notes scribbled on scrap paper left on the counter. "Going here then, picking this up there, don't forget to get that there." I mumble something when he rolls into bed at 2 about please checking on chickens. I knew I would forget to write it on paper in the scramble we call getting everyone out the door in the morning.

And at lunch dates every other Friday, between bites and reconfiguring orthodontic appointments and hip hop classes, we talk about how we might work together in the woods someday, or breed hairy pigs, or possibly grow potatoes to distill into vodka. How can we see each other's faces more than a handful of hours every week? How can we be more than notes scribbled on paper? More than "I miss you" at 2 a.m.?

Not too many couples can work together day to day. And I'm not sure we could. But I know this. I know that when he goes that way and I go this way the ravine in the middle seems really cavernous. And I also know that it's only when we work side by side that I feel like there is no ravine. And that even if perchance it feels like there is one, it's really easy to cross because Paul Bunyan has built this really cool zip-line from one side to the other.

I miss you Paul.

I know we'll meet again,
Babe

Mostly Because I'm in Love with Him....

2011-10-04T14:19:00.001-04:00

Yeah, because also I'm in LOVE with Him:

A Wedding in a Roundabout Way.

2011-09-29T10:49:00.012-04:00

This is Hole. She was number 14. Our sweeper. At Iowa. She played with her heart. And it was big. Now she is head coach...as in, the one in charge. For the Dartmouth Field Hockey team. She's been doing it for 12 years. Yes, I know. I haven't done anything for twelve straight years- except breath. And even that I sometimes suck at.

I saw her yesterday. Her team lost to the University of Vermont with 54 seconds left. I saw her pacing, not wanting to watch that last corner shot. I saw her down on one knee for ten minutes after the game talking to her team, debriefing. I saw her being someone....to them.

As I was walking out with Auggie, who luckily still holds my hand (even at school) I said, "I used to be one of them. I was good. I was better, actually." He smiled up at me...like I was joking.

And that's what it's been for me lately. "I used to be this." "I used to do this." "I was once that." I've lived in these phrases like a batch of old t-shirts. They say: division 1 athlete, teacher, scholar. And every time I say it I think to myself, "what is wrong with who you are today that you have to rely on telling everyone who you were then?"

******

Steve and Kate got married. Hitched. Tied the Knot. The Mothership is in disbelief that a) Dirty got married and b) that he married a woman as good as Kate. Dirty is vastly under-appreciated. What I love most about weddings, besides the free food and drinks, is that sometimes (to strangers) I get to pretend that I am someone I'm not.

When I was up to my ears in baby shit (seriously, washing it from their tiny bums, spraying it off cloth diapers into the toilet, and every other day washing dirty diapers in the washing machine with boiling hot water that I had to add to the mix) I always wanted to tell people (if they EVER asked me what I did for a living) that I was in the shit business. And then I pictured myself walking away and letting them come up with their own conclusions as to what my "shit business" entailed.

I've pictured myself lying about being a writer (one that got paid), a fiber artist (one that got paid), a forester (I own, okay well, lease-to-own a friggin' forest), a homesteader (like one that doesn't ever ever go to the grocery store), and a wall-tent bed and breakfast owner (someday). I've never lied about being any of these things, mostly because I don't think anyone has ever asked but even if they did, I'm sure I said "stay-at-home" mom. blah.

Well, these hoodlums, 5 of the 9 Mothership members, stood up next to Steve. Steve's brother is on the far left.

And these fine Harvard graduates stood up next to Kate.

And well, she's the gorgeous bride. And he's the Dirt.

And she's changing the world. And he's changing hers.

And he's on the stock exchange. And she's a dermatologist resident.

And I don't know who she is or what she does, but he's a super hero.

And she's a wedding planner in Manhattan. And besides being a grump, he's a 5th grade teacher.

And seriously, I don't know what he is. But he married someone who is someone.

And so did I.

At the reception, Paul Bunyan and I were talking to a couple from Vermont about their lives. He works (from what I could gather) out of the home and she, when we asked, didn't say anything. She couldn't come up with anything. Not even stay-at-home Mom, which she is. But how fun- seriously- could she have had if she said surgeon, gardener, garbage collector for that matter? How fun would it have been to have seen our faces? We gave her the perfect opportunity but I guess she didn't see the fun in lying, or more likely the need.

*****

My newest doula family is neat. How is that for trite? They're neat people. They do neat stuff. They have neat stuff. They wear neat stuff. C'mon you know what I mean. Well, their three year old was going to a super hero birthday party yesterday. So Mom gets out the bag of fabric in the basement and pulls out the good ol' sewing machine. She whips up this cool aqua cape with a yellow lightning bolt on the back. It was sweet. Zealand decides he is the kind of super hero that shoots lightning down to start fires to scare the villains away. She then decides to make the birthday boy a cape for his present. It was red with a big C on the back- "C" for Charlie. It was neat- seriously. Then she decides to make a cape for herself and for her husband and for the twin girls- they're all going to be super heroes for Halloween. Seriously.

*****

This was the last Mothership wedding. It's all over Rover. I'm sure they'll be some more weddings in our future- just not as crazy as they get when the Mothership gets together. And that's a good thing because Paul Bunyan and I could barely get out of bed Monday morning from all that dancing. On the way down to Newport on Thursday I finished knitting myself an alpaca capelet (as it's called) to go with this dress I designed. I'm not cool enough to sew, but the dress was a lot of fun- mostly because I made sure it had POCKETS! I'm excited to wear it again sometime, especially with my super hero cape. And now that I have the idea, I'm excited to see the expression on the person's face who asks me what I do for a living and I say, "I'm a super hero. I fly down and save the mother's who are about to go crazy from sleep deprivation and over exhaustion from having to feed the human beings they pushed out their vaginas or had ripped from their bellies." And then I fly away with my arms pointed to the sky, sparks coming out of the bottom of my dress, toes pointed to the ground. Mmm hhhmmm. That's right.

Remembering Summer...I think it's gone.

2011-09-08T16:53:00.002-04:00

If only you have 3 minutes and 24 seconds with nothing else to do:

Lost and Found

2011-09-01T09:54:00.006-04:00

In the whirlwind of Irene and the week before school I have lost track of myself. It's somewhere in this mess. I'll find it. Everything shows up at some point around here. And besides, I'm good at finding things.

We lost power for 31 hours. That's it. We didn't lose a roof, a road, or even a house. Not even a basement full of crap. We may have lost a few trees, but Paul Bunyan says that just saves him gas for his chain saw.

Bee lost in the house training game on the day of the storm.

But in the last couple of days Timmy lost his front toof. Paul Bunyan and I lost about $200 bucks at the fair last night (oh, wait, no. We didn't lose that. We spent that). Auggie lost the stuffed dog he won at the dart game. I lost my shit at the Demolition Derby, or more likely on the Storm ride. Claire lost her battle with lice. The lice are winning. I'm going to win in the end...but for now they're winning.

We tried to extend summer so long that I was taking off the boys' nail polish THIS morning. Yea yea, they got their nails painted at Claire's spa. You wanna make somethin' of it? You would have wanted to too. She can get pretty nasty if you turn down her free services. Of course, in hind sight, I'm now wishing the boys had turned down that shampoo and style.

We tried to extend summer so long that waking up and going to school this morning was something we hadn't really even talked about. I hadn't even gotten back packs out of the closet until this morning. Of course, procrastinating is my trademark. Someday I'll learn, but even waiting until yesterday (the last day) to pick blueberries didn't even teach me. They were definitely not as sweet.

So not thinking about this:

was probably a good thing because when Timmy went to the left and Auggie went to the right, I almost lost it. It's the first time in seven years that they will be separated. Seven years!! Will they come back together at recess today? Will they say 'hi' at lunch? Will they want to spend all their time after school together? Will they still want to cuddle on the top bunk every now and again? Will they miss each other? Will they tell each other that they missed each other? I'm losing it right now (in a different way than I lost it at the Demolition Derby).

And so as I sit here in this quiet house with them gone and Paul gone and the Bee snoring and me wondering where to start searching again for my lost self and how to go about dealing with this loss of summer....

I'm reminded that sometimes finding things after they've been lost is a joyous joyous thing.

Filling the Hole.

2011-08-21T08:21:00.013-04:00

When I was in ninth grade in my podunk little middle school (our high school was 10, 11, 12 back then) I had this sweet CB windbreaker. You might not have been familiar with the CB brand but I was wicked, wicked cool because my windbreaker had CB in big big letters on the back. It was red and navy blue and like I said I looked wicked, wicked cool. I looked so wicked, wicked cool that someone stole (STOLE, I tell ya) that awesome windbreaker out of my podunk little locker.

I cried for days. Days, I tell ya.

And because I am the way I am, I tried to replace that wicked, wicked cool jacket with the SAME exact one. I have a very hard time losing things and if I do, I have this tendency to want to replace them with the very same thing. I've done it with earrings, sheets, running sneakers....well, you get my drift. I don't like change.

So when I finally dusted my tears off and dried myself up I went right back to the store that I had bought that cool jacket at and tried to find another exact wicked cool jacket, with the big CB on the back. Nu-uh. No such luck. Not only was there NOT one there in navy blue (only royal blue), that royal blue jacket also did NOT have the big CB logo on the back. I remember struggling with the decision on whether to buy that second jacket, which was not, definitely NOT as cool, or do I go without a CB jacket, which was also definitely not cool, AT ALL.

I took the replacement.

If only I had the internet back then.

It was definitely NOT as cool. I distinctly remember feeling NOT as cool.

I was remembering this story on my way home from Arnold's Lake last Wednesday. I got to bypass the very fun (depending on your viewpoint) boy's birthday celebration at Splashwater Kingdom and drive right past the crowded cest pool of piss and shit because I had Sydney dog (who wouldn't be able to hang out in the parking lot for 8 hours). So, I drove straight up to Plattsburgh on 87 to pick up this wicked cool thing:

Something (the universe) stole my very favorite wicked cool dog on Mother's Day this year. And as I drove that northern NY thruway, I struggled with the thought that I was trying to exactly replace that wicked cool dog. Now, I'm not stupid, although some people might think that because, well, because I sometimes do stupid shit. But I'm not. And we definitely were NOT going to get another black lab. But there was this black hole that was not getting filled by Sydney dog who a) doesn't wag her tail when you walk into the room, b) doesn't come running when you drive up the driveway, c) doesn't really give a shit about where you are or what you're doing. AND because a) Paul Bunyan's colleague bred her beautiful beautiful chocolate lab with her beautiful beautiful yellow lab and they had 9 beautiful beautiful black lab puppies, 2) and 6 of those black lab puppies were females, 3) and 2 of those puppies had white patches on their chests (just like Liebe), 4) and 1 of those puppies had our name on its butt when it was born, it all seemed so just MEANT TO BE!

So there I was with a little dooper dog on my lap and an angry 12.5 year old bitch in the back of the van as I crossed the ferry into VT wondering if this was the right decision. I mean seriously, no one will ever be my Liebewitz again. What were we thinking?

When I pulled into my weedy weedy yard I let out the dooper to let her sniff around her new home and I went up the hill into the green barn where the mice have congregated to get away from Hunter's malicious murdering sprees and I lifted out Liebe's old kennel. The dooper watched me scrub the nine years worth of cobwebs out and then she climbed in and claimed it as hers.

I was waiting for both the birthday boys and Claire to return and also for my brother and his family to arrive and so I sat on the front porch steps to shuck some corn for dinner. The dooper dog came from inside the house and sat down right next to me. I looked down at her and she looked up at me and I realized at that moment that the hole was filled.

And it felt wicked, wicked cool.

Twofers

2011-08-16T08:35:00.002-04:00

The two for ones are 7 today. I am in denial that some day I won't be able to pick them up.

Ima Belcher, Not a Fisherwoman

2011-08-09T15:51:00.005-04:00

My grandfather Ike used to have an old wooden row boat. It was originally blue. And then we painted it white. And for the longest time it was blue and white. And when it was my turn to bail the sucker, I would squeeze bits and pieces of lead paint from the sponge right into the crystal clear waters of Arnold Lake.

I'm not sure if I've told you the story about when my father rowed me down to the other end of the lake in that said rowboat and took me fishing. I may have been 6. Possibly 7.

He made me bait my own worm.

And then we would sit. for. what. seemed. like. hours.

And if we did catch something, I had to take that slimy sunny off the hook myself.

My father would belch and fart. And I would cry to have him take me back home.

He must have been cognizant of the fact that he was ruining any sort of love of fishing that I might have ever had.

He's not a stupid man.

And I know he really loves fishing.

But I don't really think he ever anticipated me....

coming to some day love the belching and farting thing. That completely backfired on him.

These boys might not remember enjoying the walleye fish fry. They may not remember not having to bait their own minnows. Or not having to take any fish off of any line.

But I am 100% sure...

they'll remember how fast that Mercury 225 hp engine went.

Wombat World Meets Ricker Pond

2011-08-04T20:14:00.001-04:00

Only if you have 7 minutes with nothing to do:

Flight of Adolescence

2011-07-24T18:01:00.006-04:00

My baby got on a jet plane all by herself today and flew away. Away up in the sky. Alone. That's like, without me, or Paul.

She's 9 (nine). And this pin was the only thing that yelled out to the world that she needed to be taken care of. Because she seems all of 19 to me. Except the part about where I have to tell her to hang up her wet bathing suit. And also how to be nice.

But she's headed to the border of Canada to learn how to become more of a strong spirited woman. Not sure we really want more of this strong spirited thing, but as long as she comes home with a greater sense of who she is, then all will be well.

We got new gear. We got iron-on labels. We got a new headlamp. New dry bag. New sleeping bag. New dop kit. New travel size hair brush, body wash, shampoo, toothpaste, tissues. Yup.

And still, the ripped Converse made it in.

We woke up in the dark and pulled quietly away from a sleeping house. We talked about who she might meet, what she might do. We bought candy at the Gulf station. She ate half of it before we made it to the United desk. We made it through security. We waited to board. I gave her away.

She sat next to a man named Stan. He was very nice. I later noticed that he had a very big nose. I only noticed this because everyone had to get off the plane. They were on "hold". Everything in and out of Chicago was on stand still.

We sat and waited patiently. She ate the rest of her candy. It was 7 a.m.

At 8 a.m. this woman had to tell all the people on the plane that their lives would be wrecked, ruined, destroyed for that one day. The flight was canceled. But she didn't know the disappointment that my daughter would feel.

They turn you away and say there is nothing we can do. But camp is waiting, we say. I'm sorry they say, there is nothing available out of Burlington for two days. Two days?? we say. Yes, but you can drive to Manchester, N.H. and leave tomorrow. But camp is waiting, we say. I'm sorry they say. But they're not. You can tell.

And so we go home. And make plans. And find alternative places for boys who would not like this adventure (thanks Spin!). And we drive 2.5 hours south to an empty, vacant house stuffed with a month's worth of stale air. The house I grew up in. We throw open the windows, pop a bag of popcorn, watch an instant movie, turn on the fan, and fall asleep on a bed without sheets. I wake at 3. It's time to send her away. Again.

We drive 20 minutes to Manchester. Buy 2 maple frosted donuts. Drive over a curb. Buy more candy. Half of it's gone by 6. Wait for more paperwork.

Please would all unaccompanied minors board the aircraft at this time. She is first. I am not ready. I don't even have my camera. Bye Mom. Bye Mom? She jumps up and goes. Ready yesterday. Even the day before yesterday. I am not ready yet. I am not ready for you to be okay without me. I am not ready for you to fly. But she goes.

I leave without her. The windows down. The sun is rising. It is starting to sprinkle. I look around the car and realize that she's left something behind.

Her childhood.

Summerary

2011-07-12T21:47:00.006-04:00

Air conditioner in van is dead. Hand out the window, rolling with the wind. Hot. Humid. Muggy. I feel it in my hair. Big storms comin' through. Dog in distress. Breathing. Breathing. Breathing. Heavy. They are here. She is there. We were here:

I'm making a movie about it. I bet you can't wait.

They ate a lot of these.

We drank a lot of these (and ate a lot of those).

We dug a lot of these.

And rode a lot of these (we is a relative term here).

We've been doing some of this.

And lots of this.

And we've even gone so far as to claim one of these.

Seriously.

We've eaten a ton of these.

And now we're packin' for this (we is a relative term here).

How is that for generalizations. Generalizations haven't ever been so much fun.

Sold! One Great Idea.

2011-06-24T19:43:00.012-04:00

Paul Bunyan likes to play. He plays hard. But he works hard too. There is very little sitting. Unless he's at work and there is no one dying. Then there is some sitting. But last week right after he got home from playing very very hard with the Mothership in Chicago, he started taking a class here. Now, be mindful that Paul Bunyan would like to retire tomorrow if he could but that wouldn't mean he would stop working less, especially in the woods. He just wouldn't be saving people's lives. He would, in his dreams, buy (or better yet, build) a 50 foot sailboat and sail sail sail.

We went to the British Virgin Islands in the winter of 1998 with 12 other Breckenridge ski patrollers. I was the only girl with 7 other guys on one of two 40 something foot sail boats. This picture is the only one I have access to of that trip. The others can only be viewed on an old school slide projector. I have one of those but that would mean you would have to come sit on my couch and watch my slides. But then you would see how messy my house is and that there are dead carpenter ants in every corner cobweb. And then I'd have to make you pop corn. So you'll just have to believe me when I say that trip was AMAZING.

So, I think Paul Bunyan has it somewhere in the back of his bald head that he'd like to actually do that again. Well, more than do that again; he'd like to actually live that again. Like, as in, live that way for a few months out of the year. So...he's in preparation mode.

Included in the price of this first step sailing class was a sunset cruise captained by a licensed for real professional captain. So we went. Last Tuesday. The official first day of summer.

We started out at dinner time.

But we had blue blue skies littered with only a few clouds.

And while Paul Bunyan helped rig the lines,

the kids and I sat and snacked. I imagined how this might go on our boat some day. Me sitting and watching and snacking.

And sure enough he was putting everyone to work.

I know, I know it's all about team work.

Claire was at the helm for a bit.

And Auggie took a turn too.

But it was Paul's day to shine...even though there was no (little to none) wind.

Claire wanted to be under the water instead of on top of it. And we decided that this is how she's supposed to be.

But I started telling her about all the incredible things she could do when she came south to visit us on the boat during her college vacations. How she could swim with the bioluminescent fish in the dark of night, actually carry air on her back to swim under the water for hours, swim to the bars and restaurants, swim with the sharks, swim in water the color of Timmy's life jacket, just swim all day every day.

And I told him he could pee off the boat whenever he wanted.

And I told him he could actually poop in the water if he wanted.

And I think...

I think that's all I needed to say.

For Pop-Pop on Father's Day...

2011-06-19T21:02:00.006-04:00

My Dad and Mom took us to a New Hampshire Fisher Cats game last weekend in Manchvegas, N.H.

I think Pop-Pop had high hopes of teaching the boys the science of baseball and the ins and outs of how to keep score (officially). He taught me in the bleacher seats at Fenway. I remember being interested and I'm not really sure why.

I'm sorry Pop-Pop that they didn't watch the game, couldn't sit still, wouldn't listen to your insight. That they didn't care about the dog who retrieved the bats, but more about the hot dogs and pop corn and cotton candy doesn't mean that you failed. It just means that they're not ready yet. They will be one day. And then you and me, we'll take them to Fenway and teach them the way with DP 6-4-8, 1B, 2B, 3B, HR, RBI's. I promise you.

But even then, even then if they're more interested in the Cracker Jack's, I'll keep score with you.

Her Heart Song...for now.

2011-06-15T09:30:00.010-04:00

After seeing my mother commemorated (what a weird word) the other night, I've been thinking about what I'm supposed to do with my life. Oprah's last show made me think about it. Watching Happy Feet made me think about it. Reading The Dirty Life has made me think about it. Watching Diner's Drive-ins and Dives has me thinking about it. Making scones people like has me thinking about it. Killing carpenter ants has made me think about it. Well, okay maybe not the last one but that's what I've been doing lately.

I simply don't know what my heart song is. And I want to know when it is going to show up? I ask you.

I know some people are born with it. They're destined to be one thing in life: musicians, artists, doctors, lawyers, pig farmers. They know this from a very early age. I'm not sure if this knowing is easier or not, but there must be a certain comfort in it. I also know some people are not born with it and that they have to discover it. With some work in searching.

Claire is trying to discover if hip hop is her thing. Well, I'm not going to comment either way because if she's having fun doing it, then who is to say it's not what she's supposed to be doing? Right? And who am I to say anything really, because at 38, I'm still searching and I'm afraid my song is getting fainter. That, or I'm going deaf.

Claire is in a brown tank top. You'll have to excuse the bootleg version. Someday, when she's famous and she gives us big chunks of cash, I'll be able to afford the professional copy.

Retired.

2011-06-11T07:31:00.006-04:00

Gone. Absent. Missing. Retired. Well, that last one isn't me it's my Mom. I'm in my home town, sleeping in the bed I grew up in- literally. The house is starting to smell like an old person's home. But I guess that's what happens when your parents get old.

Twenty years is a long time. To do one thing. I'm finding it hard to do any one thing for more than half an hour, like weeding. It's good to keep that in short spurts. So, I'm very proud of my mother. She started teaching math in my high school during my senior year. If you do the math, because I know you're better at it than I am, you'll know I'm celebrating my 20th high school reunion this summer. Eee gad.

Anyway, I didn't get a chance to speak at my Mother's retirement party last night, which is fine because I'm not the one who has spent the majority of the last 20 years with her. But if I could have this is what I would have said:

I thought it would be fun to give you a picture of my mother before she was a teacher, although she has always been a teacher in some way. I'm still baffled about how my parents, who are two very left brained people could breed a right brain child. I mean my brother is left brained too, far far left brained. So I was an even more shaggier black sheep in the family than most black sheep. I hated math. I loved writing. So when I was a young girl I wrote my mom many a crappy poem, and she taught me the times tables. And as I wrote my mom many a crappy short story, she taught me long division. And when I made her these beautiful heartfelt homemade cards (which always made her cry) she taught me how to balance a checkbook. Please don't tell her I do all my banking on-line now.

My mother was an accountant before becoming a teacher. She has always loved numbers. My father built her an office in the basement. She would spend hours down there with books and pencils and paper and pens and calculators. It was an awful space with a drop ceiling and florescent lighting. The only time I remember spending down there was on the night that my appendix was about to burst and I was rolling around on the floor in pain, trying to convince my mother that I was really sick. She kept working, telling me that I was fine and that I just had the flu. She kept working until I told her that I was going to drive myself to the hospital.

I'm glad I got my mother out of the office that night and I'm glad (and I'm sure many of her students are glad) that she decided to get herself out of that office.

My mother is not done working with numbers. There are inches to measure on quilt squares, and stitches to count on alpaca hats that need to be knit, and 1/4 cups to be measured as she bakes with my children. And there is definitely my daughter's math homework she needs to help her with. Because I can't do it.

Mom, I'm so very proud of you. My only wish for you for the next 20 years is that you don't have anymore insubordinate students and bureaucratic crap to deal with and that you continue to teach us all about how to live this thing called life, with its numbers and all.

Memorializing Wombat Love

2011-05-31T22:01:00.007-04:00

If we were to have formally celebrated Memorial Day...

we would have worn red poppies.

We would have visited a cemetery.

And put flags on all the gravestones.

We would have attended a parade. And bowed to the veterans.

Visited a memorial.

Put the flag at half mast until 12 noon.

We would have stopped doing what we were doing at 3 p.m.

And stood for a moment of silence.

Or had someone play taps on the trumpet.

But no.

We celebrated informally.

By meeting new wombat love.

By being (just being) with each other.

We played hard.

And celebrated the sun...

and the official beginning of summer.

Sweet sweet love.

A Sunset Cruise through the Desert. Wanna come?

2011-05-22T16:07:00.007-04:00

What with deluge after deluge after deluge and grass up to our knees. What with black flies the size of house flies taking chunks (FOR FREE) from the napes of our necks. What with a fox waltzing into my homestead and stealing (FOR FREE) chickens in the middle of the afternoon. What with all this...I'm ready to go back to the desert.

It's Time...

2011-05-17T12:07:00.005-04:00

I think about her when I put my two feet on the floor in the morning. When I tuck myself in at night. When I pull up the driveway. When I open the front door. When I come up the basement stairs. When I sit on the porch. When I walk to the garden. When I walk anywhere in the yard. When I make pop corn. When I make eggs. When I make dinner. When I fill the dishwasher. When I empty the dishwasher. When I get the mail. When I walk over a culvert (she used to love going in one end and out the other). When I hang laundry on the line outside. When I see her short gray hairs still on the passenger's side door and her nose marks on the window.

But Sydney says it's time. And Time says it's time...to move on. I've vacuumed up her hair, mopped away her footprints, scrubbed up the sludge from her mouth which stained the slate floor every time she ate. I've washed the drool from the bed sheets, packed away the wet food she didn't eat, folded up her collar. Everyone says it gets easier with time. And I will trust that because they've gone through it before. But forgetting is something I refuse to do.

So Sydney, Paul Bunyan and I went on an adventure yesterday to honor our bestest buddy.

To buy Liebe a tree. So we won't ever never forget.

It needed to be something sweet. Well, because she was.

There were lots of good choices.

But Sydney kept going back to the pears.

And I found this fitting.

I also found it fitting that you need three of them so they will pollinate each other. So Liebe will have three trees planted in her honor because she was that much of a love. And we'll have three times the juicy fruit to remember her by.

And now dear readers, that will be all about Liebe. I thank you to all who have given hugs and words to help and pictures to remember and advice about how to fill the hole she has left. I thank you thank you thank you from the bottom of my heart, especially to one of the anonymous commenters who said that our animals shepherd us through certain eras of our lives. When we are ready to turn the corner and make it on our own....they let us go.

I don't know if I'll ever be ready to ever fully make it on my own but Liebe helped me get really really really close.

Lucky Lady's Miss Liebe- November 16, 2002-May 8, 2011

2011-05-09T08:52:00.014-04:00

For the past few years I've been making a morbid list of things I wanted to write about Sydney when she died. Her barking at the moon and sun and air. Her trembling fear of thunder. Her joy at a good butt rub. Her inability to ever conclude if she were black or brown. I contemplated her quick death and where I would bury her garbage loving soul. She was going to be the first to go- at 12.

But no, life has a way of always reminding you that you can't control it.

My Mother's Day started the way any mother's day should. Breakfast in bed, flowers, home-made cards, home-made puzzles, a dog resting its head on my tray begging for pieces of egg. I had ruminated about Liebe's illness all morning. I brought myself back to the very beginning, a year ago, when the signs showed something going wrong with her salivary glands. I shot up in bed and turned on the computer and plugged in salivary gland issues in dogs. Boom. I figured it out. She had a salivary gland stone. It all made sense. These stones are brought on by chewing bones, which is what she was doing when she started to get sick. I had been feeding her raw chicken backs. Some of the symptoms are ulcers in her mouth and large amounts of bloody drool. She also had a lump on her salivary gland. I Skyped with my parents, clapping into the camera like a young school girl, excited at the prospect of Liebe recovering fully after her 'stone' was removed with a simple surgery. I pointed the camera at my sickly dog lying next to me. But I think they knew.

Liebe lay on her bed most of the day, even though we were out and about in the yard. She ate her two fried eggs I've been making her for her midday snack. And at 3 we left the house to go for a family bike ride. When we returned at 5:30 she didn't get up to greet us. She walked out to the pond, took a long drink, and sat down in Sydney's spot on the bank. Sydney went out there and barked. I called them in to dinner and Sydney came running. Liebe sauntered over but for the first time in her short 8 and a half years, she wouldn't eat.

We got into the car to go to the Emergency Vet. I had no idea she was this close to death. On the way her breathing slowed, her lower jaw hung open, her eyes were at half mast. She was hanging on and I was imploring her to keep trying, to make it a little longer, we're almost there, we're gonna get some biscuits, you can do it love. I carried her into the vet and left an hour later without her.

She had cancer in her heart. And probably all throughout. But her heart? Really? She was my LOVE. Why did it have to attack her there? We got Liebe on Valentine's Day in 2003. She was destined to be ours. The breeder told me that she was supposed to have someone come buy her earlier that day. But that person never showed. And Lucky Lady's Miss Liebe was ours. She came with no pedigree papers- just a promise to be a good dog. We named her Liebe, which means love in German, because it was Valentine's Day and because that's what I needed. After two miscarriages, I needed something to love and to love me back. And that's all, in the end, she ever did give.

Liebe should not be remembered for her sledding etiquette. She would dig her sharpened canines into my hand and not let go, running down the hill next to us, sometimes pulling us across flat areas at the mercy of my hand. She should also not be remembered for pulling things off the counter, in particular butter. I think she learned this from Sydney, so I'm not sure she's fully to blame. But she was a lab, after all. She should also not be remembered for tipping over trash cans and filtering through their contents. If we lived in Puritan times she would have worn a scarlet TE on her chest for 'Trash Eater' and I would have made her walk around town in complete and utter shame. She should not be remembered for pulling on Sydney's collar every time we went for a walk, almost choking her to death before we set off. We probably shouldn't recall how great of a beggar she was because that only implies we let her, making us irresponsible pet owners. But this also may be the fault of her genetic makeup as a lab. I'd also like to forget her fondness for cat shit.

I would love to remember her for her quick kisses. She found a way to plant one on you, right on your lips, when you were least expecting it. The kids learned to deal with this. And Paul Bunyan learned to love how she would lick his bald head. And because she listened so well she rarely was on a leash and never had a collar on, so I'd like to remember her as a naked dog. I'd love to remember how polite she was. For in the morning she would ask to join me in bed, always waiting for my hand to slap the covers to invite her to snuggle. And then when the alarm sounded she would flip to her back and ask for a belly rub. On mornings she didn't want to snuggle she would come up the stairs and ask for a back rub while I peed. She always, always said "Good Morning."

She wasn't aggressive. She wasn't dominant. She wasn't a 'bad' puppy. She wasn't a loner. She wouldn't take off. She always came when you called her. She was always sweet. Always full of love. Always by my side. Always by my side.

As I filtered through photos I rarely came across a photo of just Liebe. That's just the product of being a second dog, a life form arriving in the middle of toddlers, and part of every day life. So the photos I did find are filled with pieces of Liebe and sometimes she's in the foreground and sometimes in the background. You might have to look for her but she's there. She was always there...my copilot in life, helping me navigate through all of it.

My Little Liebawitz, I will love you and cherish you until I die. I believe in some way that you were put into my life in order to help me through it. But you were also there to celebrate life and love with everyone and every dog whoever came to know you. Pop Pop and Gramma loved you dearly, as did all my friends. And all the dogs from Kozy, Boon, Moses, Zola, Sadi, Georgia, Mazie, Ty and all the other dogs who you let smell your ass, you will be missed. And as for Sydney, she still pretends to be aloof but I'll tell you a little secret, she was looking for you this morning. You're going to come back to me in a few weeks and I'll put you snugly at the base of my bed, where you'll always and forever keep my feet warm. My sweet sweet thing, I love you.

The Beasts are Naked and Shivering

2011-05-04T10:43:00.006-04:00

Well, we didn't have the comic relief of last year. So it sure was quieter this year. However, we had four less helpers, two less alpacas, and one new shearer.

But things went swimingly. Besides it being the kind of job that leaves you with dirty boogers and the scent of shit under you skin, Paul Bunyan and I feel cleaner after shearing day. All toenails are cut.

All teeth are trimmed.

Which is by far the very worst part of the day.

By far. By far. By far. But the smell of burning bone may have seemed worse this year because I had not eaten for two days.

And today is my fourth day of not eating.

I'll tell you about it some day.

But my hope and dream is that I feel cleansed.

And renewed and refreshed and refurbished and rejuvenated and restored. There is a lot of that going on around here. I can't wait to share it with you when it's all complete. Spring can be a glorious thing. I'm very glad, however, that I'm not a naked alpaca shivering in this damp winter weather, which is clinging to our legs like a naughty toddler.

In honor of blue skies and big air...

2011-04-30T11:33:00.004-04:00

Because...

2011-04-26T14:02:00.006-04:00

Because I took a hundurd pictures in and of the desert I'm going to include just a few here. Because I love ya more than mud I'm not going to make you watch a slide show of all of them. And because I can, I'm going to comment on all of them. Why?

Because it's just more proof that I still can't figure out how to make two things in the same frame in focus. Because this flower blooms once and is done.

Because Timmy fell backwards onto this cactus and poked his ass. Because I was a mean mom and laughed.

Because new growth is always worth documenting and commenting on. New growth? I hope you're experiencing it- except not on your face and/or muffin top.

Because I love seeing Paul Bunyan flip the spawn in the air like pancakes.

Because Paul Bunyan loves the water more than a polly wog, I get to lounge in a lounge chair. A lot of times. Uhm, all the time.

Because somehow a mermaid was ripped from my body 9 years ago.

Uhm.

Because sometimes you CAN play too hard.

Because, well, his ass is tight.

Because, at least, it was fast enough for him.

Because Paul Bunyan likes the cold spa and Auggie doesn't.

Because three hours in the pool just wasn't enough.

Because skidding out can use up many many many hours.

Because some professional photographer was taking a picture of this 'blooming' saguaro with a lens as thick and as long as my left leg.

Because I didn't have a lens as thick and as long as my left leg.

Because sometimes there is beauty in death.

Because last year when we went to the desert, everything was in bloom. This year, it was slim pickings. But somehow, in the desert, things still bloom without water.

Because I'm used to looking up at the undercarriage of a poplar.

Because shade is hard to come by in the desert.

Because we made it the 2.5 miles to 7 Falls, where the falls weren't really falls, but the water was still cold.

Because Paul Bunyan has to swim in every single cold body of water that we come by. Even if he can only do a push-up in it.

Because the Easter Bunny got the memo to come on Saturday (because Sunday we were going to be rolling out at 5 a.m. from a hotel room to catch a 7 a.m. flight). Because he brought lollipops in the shape of saguaros.

Because my 9 year old daughter still believes despite every hint given to the truth. It takes a lot of work to believe that wholeheartedly. I'm sweating just thinking about it.

Spring's Official Arrival

2011-04-17T13:33:00.004-04:00

I know you've been waiting impatiently for the official announcement that Spring has finally arrived here on the homestead.

It's been a long time coming. Considering this day came on March 24th last year.

The ice, Paul Bunyan is saying, is at the other end of the pond. He was bummed to have missed jumping through it.

But on Monday he had to wake up in the dark to go to a class.

And on Tuesday he had to wake up in the dark to go to a class.

And on Wednesday I had to wake up in the dark to go to a class.

So on Thursday, because it was convenient for us, Spring arrived.

So...now you know the pool is open. We'll be waiting.

Celebrating Mud on her 40th

2011-04-14T08:44:00.002-04:00

Climbing the stairs to E’s old apartment, I was in no way prepared for my first steps through the Wombat’s force field. I was enwrapped in E’s strong arms. Maybe. Not sure if that actually happened. But it felt like she squeezed me tight and lifted me a bit off the ground. She placed me on a couch that sunk a wee bit in the middle. She gave me a glass of wine. And then I had the honor of watching Mud’s hands. I watched her dice tomatoes, mozzarella, basil, bread. She shuffled that shit like a deck of solitaire cards.

Mud sat cross legged on the floor, that night, untying the rat’s nest that had taken hold in her knitting bag. The mice have since built a high rise Sandals beach front resort in this bag, but she lets them live there rent free. Two days (or more) after my first ever stitch and bitch, our destinies would collide like two gay lovers at a straight bar. She called me to find out how the shedding of a fetus might feel.

And then, while we smelled the daisies and drank margaritas, we discarded the insides of our uteri like chickens who molt in the fall. We raped our husbands with creamy egg whites still fresh on our fingertips, wanting more spawn instantly. It was a good lesson for us both- our continually losing the genetic malformations taught us that control was something that existed only in our heads.

After all the boys were born two weeks apart, and after I was reborn, and after I lost a piece of my own mother, I enlisted Mud. She was the summit- the thing I looked to when I was in the ditches. When I was convinced that both boys would never talk and that they would hit their heads against a wall for the rest of their waking hours Mud said, “We’re going.” And on a dark cold winter morning she picked me up as I walked down my hill toward Tortolla. She made me drink rum and hang out with younger sexy men. She made me chase hairy spiders and big black men. She made me lift women’s skirts and feed the sharks. She brought me back. Back.

Since then it’s been me crying on her shoulder (about pretty much everything) and her not minding all the slobber. And I still can’t understand why.

There is little need on Mud’s part. There is, however, a need for instant gratification. There is Christmas Tree Shop and screen doors NOW from Home Depot. There is milk for dinner and absolutely no dessert. There are only gin and tonics and hot baths and smutty magazines and the goal of a clean house.

There is an undying need to help people; no, to save people. People who are dying on the side of a mountain, who are walking around with lost appendages, who are left for dead in the ditch. You have saved me.

There is a constant positive attitude and sometimes it’s mixed heavily with a strand of annoyance, but that’s only with her children. And always when there is a sun set worth watching, she watches. And when there is an owl in the night worth hearing, she listens.

Mud comes from this grand place that we hear little of. Big lights. Famous faces. Hot dog stands on every corner. And yet she comes from a place that taught her that life is too short to wait around for it. That there is always more fun to be had, more dogs to be found, more cats to be saved, more cushions to be purchased, more plants to grow, more frogs to be discovered, more wolves to chase. I’m just grateful that she won’t ever stop believing that there are more people to dig out of ditches. So I can continually be saved.

The Green Mountain Girls Take on Detroit

2011-04-07T00:03:00.004-04:00

Do NOT watch this video if:

a. you have less than 23 minutes
b. you get car sick
c. you hate driving in a car for 27 hours
d. you like movies made by an amateur

Watch this video if:

a. you are curious
b. like good music
c. care about how the Green Mountain Girls did at the National Tournament
d. you like movies made by an amateur

Green Mountain Girls Meet Detroit from on Vimeo.

peace be with you,
the Hussy

No Differing Opinions Welcome Here Today

2011-03-22T20:26:00.011-04:00

My dad gets me a subscription to Reader's Digest every Christmas. I think it's super cheap. But I don't think that's why he keeps on giving it to me year after year. I think he gifts it to me because he wants me to share in his love of reading it while on the John. I don't read it on the John. I don't read it near the John. I read it right before I turn the light off. I can't ever make it through a chapter. In a book. Those things with hard covers. Some have soft covers. Yea, can't do it. Too tired. So the articles in Reader's Digest are just right. Sometimes I just read the jokes. Sometimes I read about what my pilot won't tell me. Or what my lock smith won't tell me. Or what my mail carrier won't tell me. Or what my doctor won't tell me. I always practice the Word Power and I never read the drug advertisements. Just so you know.

And generally speaking I'm a pretty easy going gal. I rarely disagree with you or anyone. I hate confrontation and debate and disagreement. I know it's what makes up the backbone of this great nation. But I'd rather everyone just have a little hug and kiss and maybe a pat on the ass. I don't spout my beliefs here, mostly because I don't have any. I mean I do, sometimes, but it's rare. But today, right now, I'm on the attack. Because this topic is very near and dear to my heart.

In the September 2010 Reader's Digest there is an article entitled Laughterpedia- An alphabet soup of what cracks us up. So under the letter D for 'Defense' is an excerpt of something Ross McCammon wrote in Esquire magazine. Now, I don't know how the authors of the Laughterpedia thought this was funny but here is the excerpt reprinted in Reader's Digest:

"People give 100 percent real maple syrup as gifts. They take their kids to a farm to see it being collected and cooked. In the Northeast, it's extolled. Which is strange because it's not as good as Aunt Jemima or Mrs. Butterworth's, its mass-market imitators. First of all, syrup shouldn't run; it should ooze. Real maple syrup runs. The mass market stuff- the stuff you grew up on- that stuff oozes. It has viscosity. So instead of going straight into the pancakes, like water into a sponge, it maintains their integrity. And the taste: Mass-market syrup is sweet. Real maple syrup is a beguiling combination of sugar and resin. Which is authentic, sure. But bark is authentic. Is there anything else we eat that tastes vaguely of trees?"

Now, I realize that people can have their own opinions. But I'm sorry, this is one area where that's not allowed. No one is allowed to think that imitation syrup is better than real maple syrup. If you think so, then stop reading my blog. Please. You are not welcome here. I'm not accepting arguments (for the sake of argument) at this time. I don't care about your opinion if it's different than mine. I usually do, because you can usually persuade me (easily) to think what you think. But this time...NO.

So last night I was reading a more current edition of Reader's Digest and came across an article about the importance of writing an 'ethical will'. The author reminded us good readers of Professor Randy Pausch's 2007 "The Last Lecture". You should listen if you haven't already. And on a similar topic a woman named Jo Kline Cebuhar has written a book, So Grows the Tree: Creating an Ethical Will, in which she proclaims that leaving behind life lessons, wishes, and dreams may even last longer with loved ones than financial reward. Which is great because I'm pretty sure the spawn will only be receiving a forest of maple trees when Paul Bunyan and I pass on to greener pastures.

To my spawn,
So here lies my ethical will (this blog). I've been creating it. I will continue to create it. I will not stop creating it until I die and lay under the pine trees at the crest of my mountain. The topic for this entry of my ethical will (wishes, hopes, life lessons, dreams): maple syrup.

I wish that the trees in our woods will always leak their sap into buckets for your lifetime and for your children's and their children's lifetimes. They say the world is warming and that the trees won't do this forever. I hope they are wrong or that we can do something to make a change.

My wish is that you'll always remember how your father awoke from a long winter's nap with a smile on his face when the sap began to flow.

My dream is that every March you'll meet up with good friends.

And stoke a big fire with wood that you've collected and split from our forest.

My dream is that you'll never experience anything better than the sweet steam opening up the pores in your face as you stick your head over the evaporator.

And that you realize the importance of the 'ways' of sugar making.

And how they have been passed down from generations to generations.

My hope is that you'll feel the love.

Of Friends.

And mud.

And beer (well, unless you're an alcoholic...then I don't wish that on you at all).

But more importantly, I wish that you get to reap the rewards of collecting water from a tree.

And just by adding a little heat to it.

And boiling it to just the right temperature.

You'll find that with a little patience,

you'll have created the sweetest thing ever known to mankind.

Put it in your coffee, on your ice cream, in your yogurt, on your cereal, in your frosting, on your rice, in your pot roast, on your pancakes. Bring it with you when you leave the state. Pack it in flasks. Hide it in coat pockets. Swig it straight in the dark.

I imagine that I won't have to tell you all this because you'll already know it. But just in case someone tries to convince you otherwise, that some woman named Aunt Jamima might have something better to offer you, I just wanted you to know that this sweet maple stuff is in your blood and let's hope that it'll be in your children's blood too and that they have the chance to dip their dirty little fingers into the sap before it's syrup and sip the cloyingly sweet sugar straight out of the evaporator when it's done.

I'm Telling You...It's God's Will

2011-03-17T18:02:00.013-04:00

Helloooo? Are you there God? It's me Margaret. No seriously. Where have you been? I've been waiting here for you, for like days. But you kept not showing up. And so I was all, like, 'whatever.' And so I took off and became stuck like a piece of beef jerky. Up all inside the space between my teeth. I tell ya, this living life stuff is hard work. So...how have you been? I've been good. I've been good. I'm sorry, I just had to say that twice. But seriously, I've been good.

I'll explain why. I have this neighbor. She used to work for a homeopathic vet and so she's really a wealth of knowledge in the homeopathic remedy field. She has offered to help my garbage guzzling Lab when she's had a pancreatic belly ache. But it didn't seem to work- she still dug herself a hole in the dirt to crawl into and sulk. Kelly has spritzed her Rescue Remedy at foaming alpacas who are stretched flat out on their bellies getting their hairs clipped. But they still spit anyway. She has most recently sent down a tiny brown bottle full of tiny white balls of something called Merc. V. It was supposed to heal Liebe's red ulcers on the roof of her mouth. But what Liebe really needed was a $600 tooth extracted and a few doses of prednisone to get her immune system in check. Kelly kept hoping that something would work immediately and that all pain and suffering would be cured from the moment the tiny white balls hit the saliva in the mouth. And that I would be sold on the benefits of homeopathy.

I have to be honest.
I was skeptical all along.
Until now.

After 8 months of antibiotics, I finished my last dose of doxycycline at the end of February. As I approached the finish line I was taking 400 mg every day. And I was scared shitless because I still felt the symptoms in my spine- mostly a numbing pain. I knew that it took only about 3 weeks of being off antibiotics (in early June) for the spirochetes to spread from my joints, into my spine, and up into my brain. So, needless to say, I was very frightened of being back where I was last June...unable to talk, write, think. So I was grasping for any doctor who would give me more. MORE! But I had exhausted all my resources and so was wondering where could I turn. No doctors in the area will treat this disease as it should be treated and so I was considering heading out of state. But I wanted to try something first, something I had heard about from another sufferer who had beat Lyme with an herbal remedy.

And so I took a risk, always thinking positively that if she could win this battle (along with thousands like her) with this remedy, then I could too.

Here's my line-up. I'm not really sure what's in it. Maybe frog's feet and crow's balls, but whatever it is I've been told it's God's Will to Heal and that everything that makes up the remedy has been harvested with prayer, so I'm feeling a little more confident that He's backing me here.

And here's the thing. I've never felt better (well, since the f-ing tick bit me). But the shit is working. Knock on wood because I'm still in disbelief and I don't want to jinx myself. So now if I follow the protocol I need to do a few coffee enemas, lots of saunas, a few Epsom salt baths, and possibly a 7 day "fast" where I only eat maple syrup and juice. Hhmm. Yea.

We'll see.

But there are some other positives. Here I am on my last day of Doxy:

I mean really- look at that honker. I was like Rudolph for 8 straight months....even with 100 block. Every kid who came near me pointed a nasty dirty finger in my face and said, "hey. You have a red nose." No shit Sherlock. I've burnt fingers and toes and ear lobes.

And another positive is that I got juices back. Ladies, you all know what I'm talking about. Praise the good Lord I Probably Should Believe In Right About Now.

Sooooo now I'm on an herbal remedy kick.

I got ass cracks in my fingers. A hairy chin. A daughter with an attitude. If it's God's Will to Heal, then bring on the healing. There must be a remedy for any of it. All of it!

There has got to be a remedy for this Spring Rite of Passage.

How can we heal this ugly Mohawk illness?

And what about my propensity to eat a whole bag of potato chips in one sitting?

Or what about the nail biting habit?

Or how to fix his baldness? Oh wait, I find that really sexy. Never mind. Well, we need to find a way to stop the head from sweating at night.

And how to stop making the dogs eat trash?
Or (at least) how to stop them from eating cat poop?
And how to make the spawn all kind and considerate to each other?
And how to get rid of anxiety?
And how to make me less lazy?
And how to help me quit mayo?

There's got to be a good remedy for it all- harvested with prayer from Mother Earth.

I know. I know. Let's get real. So seriously, if a lightning bolt struck me down tonight...

and burned the shit out of my skin, I've got an aloe plant growing on my windowsill.

I Got Nothin'

2011-03-08T22:19:00.003-05:00

I've got a sliver of a moon belly up on the horizon. Right now. Out my window. And a sleeping dog at my feet. But I feel like I've got nothin'.

I've got a frayed t-shirt on from 1997. Right now. And a sleeping dog at my feet. But I feel like I've got nothin'.

I've got snowbanks higher than our roof right now. And a sleeping dog at my feet. But I feel like I've got nothin'.

I've got an epic ski day. Today. And a sleeping dog at my feet. But I feel like I've got nothin'.

I've got a road trip to Nationals to figure out. And a sleeping....Wha? You said Wha?

Yes, I said I've got a road trip to Nationals. What did you think I said?

You're going to Nationals? With the same team that lost almost every game in every tournament you played in this season?

Yes. I said we're going to Nationals in Detroit, Michigan.

Like, to play teams from Minnesota and Wisconsin?

Yes. To get our asses handed to us by teams from Minnesota and Wisconsin. Wanna come?

No. I don't wanna come.

Why not?

Why would I?

Because, it'll be fun. We're going to drive.

You're what?

We're going to drive.

You're going to drive? To Michigan?

That's what I said.

How long is it going to take?

I think 12 hours. Maybe 13.5 if I go with the girls who are driving in the US instead of Canada.

Are you fucking kidding me?

No, I'm not kidding you.

Why are you doing this?

Because we just won.

But you lost every game up until that point.

Who cares. We still won.

So, do you want to come?

No way.

Why not?

Because I have a sleeping dog at my feet.

That's your only reason?

Yea. That's my only reason. Why are you going?

Because. Because it's somethin'. And I've been feelin' like I got nothin' lately.

Okay. Well, good luck then.

In One Month

2011-03-01T21:12:00.007-05:00

One month ago Mud's daughter Addy turned 9. She had a birthday party at Pizza Putt. I'm still washing the germs off of me. I'm not crazy. I might be a germ-a-phobe, but that's all. Timmy's fever last weekend was definitely caused by a germ from Pizza Put that clung to the inside of his fingernails for this whole month. How did the germs get under his fingernails you might ask? Because, duh, he clung so tightly to the handle bars of the motorcycles in that motorcycle game. I'm telling you, I'm not crazy.

Later that night Mud made us happy chicken bathed in cream. And the children, they ate it.

And then they called to the baby inside Katy's belly. And they said, "Hey baby, you must come out now."

And Miss Cally said, well, she said, "look at me while I eat this homemade ice cream standing up on a chair."

And then that next morning while Cally dreamt about the indoor play gym at Pizza Putt Katy went into labor and with four short pushes and absolutely no drugs out came Hazen.

And then. Well, and then there came a day (Claire's birthday) when something happened like the time Paul Bunyan climbed to the very top of an extension ladder with his chain saw and cut a branch only half way through, which caused the branch to swing around and knock him off the very top of the extension ladder. And he had metal surgically inserted into his wrist so it would some day work again. Two weeks before the twins were born.

Or like the time I let Auggie stand and lean on the back of a kitchen chair, which inevitably fell because of the weight of his body and how when I tried to slow his fall with my pinky finger, which (in fact) only made me pull the chair out from underneath him, which (in fact) only made him fall directly onto the slate floor, which (in fact) made him break his arm in two places. Yes, something like that happened to the Abbotts.

We don't necessarily have to go into details. It involved a little her person on the back of a dad person, who happened to have skis on, skiing down a small slope with snow that was soft and hard and everything combined.

But now the sweet pea, the little peanut, is in a cast up to her chest.

And Mom and Dad have to lift her from here to there.

And they have to turn her like happy chicken in a cream sauce, every four hours.

And they have to make sure she doesn't get bed sores. Or infections down each of her leg casts.

And they have to feed Hazen. And rock Hazen. And change Hazen. And bath Hazen.

And they have to do the laundry, the shopping, the dishes, the vacuuming, the making of breakfasts and lunches and dinners. Oh, and the work, too.

But there is one thing that they don't have to do. And that's make this cherub smile. She was born with this propensity. I'm glad it's as contagious as the germs at Pizza Putt. Because after tonight, we're all infected with it.

Nine

2011-02-22T21:55:00.007-05:00

The spawn are on vacation this week. They're overbearing. Like the smell of lobsters boiling.

Claire turned 9 on Sunday. She was born 2/20/02 at 2 p.m. ringing in at 20 inches long. Don't know what kind of stars had to align for that to happen and whether or not that means that she's destined to be greater than the sum of her parents. We'll find out.

She didn't get to decide what to do for her birthday. Mostly because her controlling mother didn't want to throw her a birthday party. Mostly because her fretful mother worried that if she had a birthday party over the vacation no one would show up and then there would follow a fit of self despair like none we've ever seen before. Mostly because I (her controlling mother) thought that a little quality time with just me and her father would be the best birthday present. So we drove South. To my parent's place.

And gramma, being the best gramma there is, baked her a cake. And gramma, being the best gramma there is, provided us with tickets to see Mary Poppins at the Boston Opera House. And Pop-Pop, being the best Pop-Pop there is, told us which bus to take and where to go when we got off that said bus. And Pop-Pop, being the best Pop-Pop there is, watched two rambunctious boys for 24 hours.

And so on this said bus, we didn't talk about issues with school work and math. We learned to knit.

And so in this crazy city, we didn't talk about how to deal with friends and gossip and the no-nos of talking behind backs. We got a first time ever manicure.

We didn't talk about how (maybe) we could (maybe) be a little (sorta) nicer to our brothers. No, we wore new birthday clothes and leather pouches full of dreams.

We didn't broach puberty.

Nope, we rode the subway for the first time.

We didn't tackle responsibilities around the house.

We ate Chinese in Chinatown with the Chinamen and Chinawomen.

We didn't tell her there wasn't a Santa.

Nope. We made deposits in the bank. For later.

I don't think she was mad that I made these plans. That this all happened instead of a bowling party.

I liked that it was us. We. Before them. Again. For her to remember what that felt like.

I think she liked it too.

I think I Won.

2011-02-14T21:58:00.014-05:00

My brother used to womp my ass at Rich Uncle. It was a musty game in an old collection of moldy ones at my grandparent's hunting camp in upstate New York. This game, in particular, had to do with money. And in the same likeness, he would beat the shit out of me in Monopoly. And then, after giving my ass a good old fashioned whooping, he would gloat; and although I can't remember the direct manner in which he gloated, I can only imagine that he might have stuck his index fingers straight in the air and then pumped them up and down in the manner one might take to milk a cow. I remember the distinct feeling of dejection. It tasted like salt water.

Now these games had a strategic element to them. And it might make sense that he, being the older, smarter sibling, should kick my ass. But he would take me to the cleaners in such games as Go Fish, War, Chutes and Ladders, Candy Land and any of the sort of games that required only the right LUCK to win. He would still kick the crap out of me.

But I continued to try. I would continue to try to race him around the house, only to come huffing and puffing three minutes behind him. I would continue to try to win at PIG at the basketball hoop, only to spell PIG before he even made it to P. He asked and I never gave up.

I was remembering this when I drove the 4.25 hours home from Augusta, Maine this weekend. The Green Mountain Girls had a tournament. We lost all of our four games. All of them. Now the last one and first one were close...so we may have had a chance and that makes playing any game worth it. But in the second one I felt no more useful than an orange construction cone. And in the third, we just plain sucked.

And so on that long and tiresome and lonely ride home I contemplated this suckingness. As I passed lumber yards and general stores and church parking lots full of Sunday's best, I looked back over my life and saw all the losses, all the close ones, all the images I have of my own fallen head, slumped shoulders, thrown sticks, maybe even a few tears. As I passed ponds littered with ice houses and snowmobile trails running perpendicular to paved roads and abandoned houses and alternately houses filled with shit up to the ceiling I considered why I drive all these miles to play these games with these women only to lose.

I play because she plays her heart out. Even with a broken hand or bum knee. She plays even when a whole team has her number and is out to get her.

I play because she loves hockey so much that this Valentine's Day was perfect because she got a new pair of hockey gloves. And her birthday before she got new hockey pants. And the Christmas before she got new shoulder pads. And so on. And so on. And so on.

I play because the girl on the left has the tenacity of a bull dog and the girl on the right, well we have our moments out there on the ice.

I play because she's just plain sweet.

And because she's just plain good.

I play because, win or lose, we always get ready in the locker room with the idea that we can win. That we will win.

And just in case we don't, I can count on us coming back to the hotel, cracking a few beers, putting on our high heels and our acid wash jeans (well, some of us) and hitting the crazy nightlife that these small New England towns can afford.

We pay extra money for the shows.

The Gun Shows that is.

But the laughter, the laughter is always free.

So with four hours of sleep under my belt and the frost heaves exacerbating the headache brought on by some watery beer called Blue Light, ingested because of some game called beer pong, I went through my life and took stock of my lack of victories. Every sundown the three Final Four trophies on my bookcase, none of them National Championship trophies, shimmer in the pinkish gold setting sun. I refuse to throw them to the sharks in the landfill. I see THAT one tiny step away from the Olympic team. Almost, but not quite. I see professors telling me I'm not smart enough to get a Phd in English. I see teaching failures. I see coaching failures. I see all these things I wasn't victorious at.

And then I turned right on Rte. 302 right outside Bethlehem, N.H. I've been on this road before. It was familiar, I knew where I was. I knew how to get home. It wouldn't be long now.

I pulled up the driveway, unpacked my hockey stuff, said hello to the dogs, sat in a quiet house for a moment. I looked around at the mess...left behind by kids and life and extreme sports. This life. More specifically HIM:

He is my one true victory.

Thirteen years ago he asked me to be his wife. I might have failed at being my best in all things up until that point. But from that eventful Valentine's Day until now Paul Bunyan has made me a better person.

He tells me to go play.

And even though we lose it doesn't taste like salt water.

Just For the Record

2011-02-10T12:07:00.008-05:00

Sydney asked me to go for a walk with her this morning. She asked very politely and waited patiently for me to wash some clothes, so I thought I would join her. That and she's been taking herself for walks all week so I figured I would do the responsible thing and actually put her on a leash.

Because, you know, I'm a very responsible pet owner.

She asked me if I would stuff my camera in my jacket to take pictures of her and the yard and the road and all the snow. And since I wasn't doing much of anything today besides laundry, I thought I would oblige.

I've been wanting to document all this snow. Paul Bunyan doesn't think we've had so much (accumulative) in the yard ever, as in EVER. We never had our annual January thaw this year. Sheesh, I hope I didn't just jinx us.

I love me this winter stuff. I love me this snow. I love me this cold weather. Not sure the chickens do. But they lay anyway.

Paul Bunyan has been one with the tractor these days.

Things are piling up around here.

Perfect for fort building.

Well Sydney took us up the hill and we measured snow banks with my shoulders.

And then on the way down we ran into this guy.

For those who don't live in New England, this grater is pushing back the snow for the more snow that's going to come...Sunday.

I mean we're really only halfway through the winter.

And I'm like a college student not wanting to go home after my semester at sea. I know, it's crazy.

But the snow makes me feel surrounded by insulation. As if my walls are now thick enough to keep my heat in.

And the loaders come to make the piles bigger.

And every time the grater comes to push back the snow for more, I get excited. There is MORE! to come. I've always imagined that our hearts have little graters and loaders. I thought of this when we were about to add two more persons to our family of three. I thought, "where is this love going to fit? My heart already floweth over." And then here came the grater to push back the love to make more room. And the loader just piled the love banks higher.

Sydney and Liebe told me that they agreed there's always room for more love and that they're ready for a new addition. But when I told Paul Bunyan this he threw a banana in my face.

Timmy's Tale Told By Me

2011-02-06T22:36:00.003-05:00

Okay, so I'm exaggerating the size of his helmet. But by gosh am I glad he was wearing one.

And okay, so I might be exaggerating the rail slide. But by gosh he's getting close.

Timmy wanted me to let you know that he had poles too. Yup. First day using them.

Timmy said things went black after that.

And when he came to he felt like he was in a bubble.

He got all these questions wrong.

But I'm glad there was no blood.

Timmy told me the board was blue.

And that they tipped him upside down when he puked Doritos.

But I'm not sure of all the facts. I wasn't there. Which was probably a very good thing. But I did this little exercise to help me visualize. And it helped me realize that we need not think the helmet thing a conspiracy theory by the helmet manufacturers. And it also made me realize that we need to slow the f' down.

Timmy is his punky self again. Already tired of being made to sit down while everyone else gets to jump on the bed. The brain, I guess, has this incredible ability to heal. I just hope it can withstand a few more hits; because I'm fairly certain this will not be its only blow. Be good to us brain. Please.

The Wombats Welcome Mr. Hazen

2011-02-02T08:01:00.005-05:00

I just couldn't get over his hands. All wrinkly from a nine month tub. I pictured stuffed animals, mittens, school bags, cookies, girlfriends (in a gentle loving way), axes (y'know for cutting wood), snow...all things that will be held in those hands.

Some of these photos aren't great, but some show the spots on his nose and the true red of his hair and the newest freshest love of parents and a tired momma, who gave birth three days ago in a quick 4 pushes without any meds. She is beautiful. He is beautiful. And so is he:

Mr. Hazen Arrives from on Vimeo.

We will watch you grow. We will help you grow. We will grow with you.

Our New Project: Preadolescence

2011-01-28T19:13:00.011-05:00

When my boogies was a baby, a six week old baby, I remember her sleeping in her bassinet while Paul Bunyan and I watched a movie. And then I remember looking over at the bassinet and seeing a fountain of puke, at least two feet high, fly straight up to the ceiling. Luckily, for Claire, it didn't land on her face. And luckily for me, Paul was there to calm me down. I thought, for sure, she was dying. She only did it that once. Thank the good lord I don't believe in.

Don't worry, this post isn't about projectile vomit.

When by boogies was a baby, a six week old baby, she got a severe case of baby acne all over her face. Here's a not-so-great picture of her with her acne:

I would go up to my friends, who hadn't seen her yet and say, "So, here (throwing the baby in their face), meet my beautiful baby girl." And then I would slap my leg and laugh myself silly so as not to make them feel uncomfortable at how un-beautiful my baby looked. There is nothing beautiful about acne. Not when you're six weeks old, not when you're sixteen years old, not when your 36 years old.

But don't worry, this isn't a post about acne. It's a post about hormones. Yay! Here is what I'm thinking. My mother passed down the hormonal thing to me, via the genes. Mmmhmm. She got her period early and subsequently I got my period early. 10 years old. Ten. X.

I remember what bathroom I was in. Right outside the art room. I was all alone. First one of my friends. My mother cried when I came home from school. She pulled the big green box from Kotex off the top shelf in my closet. Showed me how to put the mattress pad in my underwear. And how to wash the blood off my sheets in the mornings with Ammonia. I bled like a butchered pig.

Don't worry, this isn't a post about periods. Remember it's a post about hormones. Because I'm trying to figure out how and when they infiltrated my daughter's body. And then I remembered that I probably fucking gave them to her. Like my mother gave them to me. It's a wicked wicked present, especially when they're wily and clever and move in prematurely. My boogies turns 9 next month.

Now she's flying into fits and slamming doors and stomping feet and being the beast that those wily buggers make you be. I have to place blame on the hormones. I have to because I don't want to think we've gone wrong.

So, we've resorted to making lists. On a particularly bad day here are 15 things about my 'stuped' life.

And being the caring Mom that I am, I want to fix it all. MOSTLY the part about her feeling stupid. Because that could just wreck her...forever. So, I've been going over all the possibilities here. Homeschooling being one of the options. I know Mom, it would be crazy. But here's how I'm breaking it down in my head. I can either tell Claire to suck it up and deal with it, which is a great lesson (especially if she has the skills to deal with it) or I can show her that when things aren't going so well, we have the power to change it.

So, of course, I made a Pro/Con list. Told ya' I still do it.

I tried to make the homeschooling look really awful, but in actuality I've spent many an hour of sleepless nights going over all the fun things we could learn, like really learn. All the projects, all the places, all the investigating, all the ways to look more closely at the things that she is just skimming over in school. Could I actually make my daughter love to learn? Could I actually make her inspired to do something instead of just for a grade? Could I actually make her believe that she IS smart? I believe so.

So we've compromised. Because I stay on the trail. I do the normal thing. I follow the leader. I never rock the boat. Here's our action plan. I help Claire see the positives in her day.

Project #1:
Set the alarm clock to go off 10 minutes before she needs to get up. Set it to go off to her favorite radio station. Hope for this song because we like the message.

Project #2:
She takes a photo at the top of every hour. Here's what she took on the first day:

7 a.m. Life in a bowl.

8 a.m. Helping Sue in the main office.

9 a.m. Reading!

10 a.m. paper mache turtle in art.

11 a.m. Math

12 p.m. lunch

1 p.m. science

2 p.m. clean-up.

3 p.m. Off the bus.

Claire was so excited about this. It made her look at her day from behind a different lens. She told me later that night that she realized that she needed to change her attitude. Oh, what a camera can do!!

Project #3
The Power of Positive Thinking Project

Every night Claire writes down on a Post-It Note one positive thing that happened to her that day. It doesn't have to be about school, just something that happened that was positive. So far we have: ate the best apple I've ever eaten, made my own lunch, was given a dictionary. Soon, we'll see how our positive thoughts can fill up a room, can fill up a day, a month, a year, a lifetime. This is a lesson I need to learn too. We're learning from each other.

Project #4
The Davis Studio

Go back to what you enjoy. This is one thing that Claire isn't doing enough of. She used to love this at Bellwether. We all have to go back to what used to make us happy. For me it's potato chips.

My Boogies needs to feel special, different, unique, seen and heard. This could be a product of being trailed by twins, who have always stolen the limelight. However, I think we all need to feel special, different, unique, seen and heard. I know what she's feeling is natural and normal. And I know it may be about her body changing right now, and about school not being the greatest place for her to learn, and about us making errors in parenting. And believe you me, I know a lot of it is her trying to maneuver through the maze of mean girls. And we're going to try to do our best to help. But really. Really. I wish she could just lay back and projectile vomit all this out. Just purge all those evil hormones. A fountain of insecurity and sadness and feelings of being stupid and alone- all those chunks just flying up into the air and landing on the tile floor next to her with a slap. And Paul Bunyan and I just looking on from the couch at the sloppy mess, waiting for the dog to lap it up.

Oh, wait, this post wasn't going to be about vomit.

Booger Freezing Weather

2011-01-25T09:55:00.008-05:00

It is. It's booger freezing weather. Well, today's temps in the 20's feel warm, like a Spring day warm. Compared to the -22 we had yesterday. When I started my car yesterday morning it gave this gag and cough routine, kinda like my kids do when they don't want to go to school. I forced it to go any way. But the gears didn't shift too smoothly. But neither did mine.

So, I froze my little bippy off this weekend playing lots of hockey. But it was for a good cause:

BOOBIES.

Okay, there, I got your attention. I don't do so well asking people for donations. I was never very good at selling girl scout cookies. I don't know what it is. It's not like the people who are donating money are paying me. I just know that people are working hard these days to try to make ends meet. So I feel guilty asking them to raise money. Which is why I only asked my parents for money (thanks Mom and Dad!) and which is why I didn't ask YOU to donate any money.

But every year I go to Middlebury to play in this tournament I am BLOWN away by the amount of money our team is able to raise. This year we made it $12,000! We had one anonymous donor give $5,000. Which is huge! Now, how does this money actually go to the boobies? Well, this is the best part.

IT GOES TO GAS CARDS!!

Well, okay, so not really. But sorta. Because if you have breast cancer (which now 1 in 8 of you do!!) you will have problems paying for things like...your bills, your groceries, your dentures, your dog, your heat. Definitely your heat if it's -22. And that's what is amazing about the Cancer Patient Support Program- your money isn't going to some lab or drug company for cancer research, which is all good and important, but rather it's going to people who NEED it. Because they're struggling.

Well, okay, so we lost in overtime in the Championship game but that's because we're getting old. But we raised the most money and that's all that matters. The woman at the Cancer Patient Support Program said that they are now spending about $12,0oo a month to help patients. That means that we (as a team) have taken care of one month of gas cards, and hamburger meat, and wigs!! How cool is that?

Here are a bunch of photos from our first game.

If you want to save yourself some time, here is a good one of me, because I'm not vain.

It's not too late to donate. If you know someone who has suffered from breast cancer, or any kind of cancer for that matter, and could have used this support, then donate for them. If you need some good karma, do it for yourself. If you don't need any karma, do it anyway. If you've done it, good job. If you have boobies, do it for them. If you don't have boobies, I'm really sorry. My cousin's wife had them recreated from the fat on her stomach. I wonder if you could too?

much much love,
The Hussy

DONATE!

I'm Surrounded By Two for Ones

2011-01-18T18:58:00.000-05:00

I'm embarrassed to admit that Saturday mornings are full of cartoons. Tom and Jerry beating the shit out of each other. Phineas and Ferb pissing their sister off. It's streaming through the house as mom and dad sleep, stay cozy in bed. Especially if dad has worked the night before. There is no jumping up to read; we're not doing math facts at 7:30 a.m. We're also not rushing out the door to catch first chair. Sue us.

Well, last Saturday night when I was putting the boys to bed I went to tuck Auggie into his blankets. "Where's your pillow?" I asked unassumingly. "Well, uh, see, uhm, Timmy. Well, he..." he stammered. "He what?" I pointedly asked. "He, sorta wanted me..." and then he pointed up to the top bunk where Timmy was preparing to throw down the pillow onto Auggie's bed. Auggie was afraid to say what I couldn't really register was happening. But I finished his sentence anyway, "to cuddle??" I tried not to sound sarcastic. Auggie gave me this crooked, shy, awkward, guilty smile. I giggled. I said, "that's what your wawwa's for." (The boys were unable to pronounce 'brother' so it became 'brutha' but it couldn't even become that so it ended up being 'wawwa'). Auggie gave this shy little laugh. And then Timmy said, "well, I still hate my wawwa." "Whatever," I said, like a teenager might say. But I left it at that. I felt like if I made more out of their cuddle session then they would never do it again. But I...was...blown...away.

Now, these boys play well together. They play really well together. They have, from the moment they started moving around this house together, always played well together. It's not something I forced. They support each other, comfort each other, laugh with each other, work with each other. Granted, sometimes they fight. But it's very rare. However, I have not once, not once in their 6.5 years, seen them cuddle with each other. Unless I forced them together as babes. The identical twin thing is a phenomenon.

And I've been lucky enough to witness it lately.

With James and Nicholas.

We can tell James from Nicholas because he has a strawberry hemangioma on his cheek.

But really, same hair, same eyes, same spit up:)

Same schedule.

Same genetics.

And then, then last Tuesday I went to see my gals. My identical gals.

Anabelle. She used to have red marks on her eyelids.

But now they're gone.

And Ahlora used to have a red mark in the space between her eyebrows.

But now that's gone too.

So now everyone knows she is her, or her is she, because her hair stands up straight.

And she's the one who spins around on the floor on her butt. But that might change too.

Big brother Ari will have to be the one who tells everyone who is who. I'm sorry Ari, Claire knows how ridiculously annoying this is. It might make you feel a bit empowered, but overall you'll probably find it totally ridiculous and you may find mixing people up on purpose because it's more fun. Claire did that too.

But in all seriousness, for all the twin babies I know I wish you one thing. Whether or not you play well together all the time, or support each other some of the time, or get along at all, it doesn't really matter. Just give your parents one moment of seeing you really truly loving each other and it will make all this sleeplessness and changing diapers and spit up worth it. Just one moment of love. That's all it will take. Okay?

Drag Racer

2011-01-14T19:31:00.005-05:00

Daddy is so cool.

He builds race cars.

And paints them.

And finds monster truck tires to attach to them.

And straps on Estes rockets to the backs.

To launch them across the pond.

He takes the spawn skiing.

And hucks big air with them.

And buys hot cocoa.

And then, after skiing, he takes them swimming.

And hucks them into the air.

He lets them stay in the shower afterwords as long as they want.

He buys Fig Newtons for the ride home.

Mom?

She tries. But she usually forgets her wallet.

In One Week.

2011-01-09T09:09:00.004-05:00

The first week of 2011

Cons:

Older dog continues to take herself for walks. On Thursday she made it into town.
Younger dog may have a fatal autoimmune disease called TEN- Toxic Epidermal Necrolysis. A biopsy is scheduled for the 18th. It cost me $50 to determine she needs the biopsy. And that's just the beginning.
I got bit by a dog. Not one of my own.
I had such a horrible Healing Touch appointment because of the spa owner's 45 minute conversation she was having right outside my 'relaxing' room.
Paul Bunyan and I spent all day on Tuesday running errands.
I drove over 550 miles in 1 week.
I prepared and cut 32 Lego waffles.
I had one daughter so tired from a sleepover she was talking about killing herself.
Mini van was in the shop to have the muffler fixed because it sounded like Momma's Monster Mini Van. The kids thought it was cool.

Pros:

I still have two dogs who provide me with lots of love. At least one of them is happy to see me when I get home. And neither of them bite me.
I had such a horrible Healing Touch appointment because of the spa owner's 45 minute conversation she was having right outside my 'relaxing' room. BUT I finally stood up for myself, which I've never ever been good at, and I asked her to pay for my session and told her that I wouldn't be returning to her spa unless she could ensure that her 'rejuvenating' space would, in fact, be 'rejuvenating'. I was sweating when I left there. But felt proud of myself.
Paul Bunyan and I spent all day on Tuesday running errands. Any time alone with Paul Bunyan is quality time. He says we're spending every Tuesday from now until June in the woods. He's buying me a chainsaw (pro? or con?).
I might have prepared and cut 32 Lego waffles, but I made myself at least 12 fried eggs, now served on toast with cream cheese.
I had one daughter so tired from a sleepover she was talking about killing herself but now she is entering her 13th hour of sleep. I'm not going to wake her.
I had to get the mini van fixed because it sounded like Momma's Monster Mini Van. But the mechanic said it wasn't what he thought it was and that was good because what he thought it was would have cost us an arm and a leg.
I made French onion soup.
And the best local steak we've ever tasted.
I made the best homemade pizza I've ever made.
I made the best wild rice soup I've ever made.
I made the best brownies I've ever made.
Some of our great friends invited themselves over to skate under the lights AND they brought supper.
We got one cast off!
I wrote one essay to be submitted to a competition. I am starting small.
I scored a few goals.
It's snowing.
On the first day of the year I made spaghetti and meatballs and I got to hear this in my own living room:

I won't subject you to the whole song. Well, I can't because my ancient video camera won't let me upload more than a minute of video. But it's the song Claire wrote with her buddy Isaac. All the words themselves. My friend Jen helped them with it. And I love it. It makes me happy.

When I was debating between attending Michigan and Iowa for college my father recommended I make a pro and con list. It helped me make that life changing decision a little easier. I sometimes use the technique today. I know is seems a bit silly for me to look back on the first week of 2011 to determine how the rest of the year is going to go based on the outcome of my pro/con list. And I know it seems a bit silly for me to assume that I might actually think that I get to choose if 2011 will be a good year for me. Although some would say that I can control that. We all sort of play limbo with destiny and self motivation.

I think I'm hoping that it'll seem like I have some kind of control of the outcome of this year if I make a weekly list of the pros and cons and I start seeing that my pro list is always longer than my con list. And more importantly, that some of the con items could actually be viewed as pro items, especially if you put them in the right light. 2011 will be exceptional. Especially if I continue to get healthier. Especially if I continue to eat good food. And especially if my friends continue to show up uninvited with good food to feed me. So, I'm expecting you this Friday. Even though I don't really know who you are. The lights over the pond will be lit. But you'll need to bring a shovel. Because it's snowing out. And I like chili. A lot.

Reso....Lutions

2011-01-02T11:28:00.010-05:00

I'm leaving 2010 in the dust. Can't you smell the burnt rubber? Done with it. Over being sick. Ready for health.

So, I'm listing some of my hopes and dreams for 2011. And since I've never smoked a thing in my life, not even the big Mary Jane, I don't have to quit that. And since the heavy duty antibiotics I've been on have helped me quit my nightly beer habit, I don't have to quit that. And since too much sugar in my tea is my only real vice, I don't have to quit that because frankly that ain't so bad. Maybe I should quit mayo, but frankly Mayo, I just can't quit you.

So this will be the year of more (MORE!) and not less.

I hope for more of these 11 things....Please (!) more:

1. good food. Like, french onion soup. I need more french onion soup. Made with homemade beef stock. And lots of melted gooey cheese on top. Please.

2. good sleep. Like, no arms falling asleep sleep.

3. more Weeds. Great show.

4. more dog walks. Never seems like there is enough time.

5. more time to shave Paul Bunyan's neck hairs. Never seems like there is enough time.

6. more wombat time.

With good food. And in-house dance parties. And sleepovers.

7. more self control. For this Fall during soccer season.

Because when they do this.

And this.

And most definitely this.

Every bone in my body wants to jump out of my skin and run onto the field and pull them out of this un-animalistic trance and make them run after the f-ing ball.

I'm breathing, breathing.

8. more root vegetables- in my garden. So many onions, potatoes and carrots that I have to build my very own root cellar. Like, my very own. And they last ALL year long until the fall of 2012 when I have mountains of more.

9. more words. written and read. weren't enough in 2010.

10. more hugs. never seems like there are enough.

11. more sunsets on my mountain. it's my favorite time of day. MORE MORE MORE!

I'm going to be greedy for 2011. Ready for some GOOD. MORE of what is right and less of what is wrong. I wish more of the same for you, unless what is good is actually less of something. Hope you can quit that, whatever it may be. I'll quit now, but I hope for nothing MORE than joy for you and yours in 2011. Puns all around. Maybe more of those too. They're all good.

Winter Wonderland

2010-12-28T21:05:00.003-05:00

Despite temperatures dipping into the teens, we've been enjoying the new snow. Well, Paul Bunyan pulled me out of a warm house to document the boys enjoying the new snow. Well, I've been enjoying the views of the new snow from the inside. I'm sorry. I'm becoming a fair weather winter participant. Sue me.

Warning: there is some screaming involved in the filming of this video. But that's only because Paul Bunyan thought I was saying, "NO!" instead of "GO!". It was a windy day.

P.S. This is not our house. We're poaching this sledding hill. But I think it's legal in Vermont. At least that's what Paul Bunyan told me. Of course, he might not say that if someone sues us.

A Chronological Puke Story Cont., in case you're interested, but...

2010-12-27T08:59:00.007-05:00

Charlie Brown Christmas tree found.

Charlie Brown Christmas tree decorated. Without too many fistacuffs.

Five hour traditional cookie baking session complete. Without too many fistacuffs.

Stockings were hung by the chimney with care.

Night Before Christmas read. Check.

Everyone happy. Yup.

Including this Hussy who received this Hussifying outfit, which is exactly what I needed, which is better than any gift I wanted.

And then the vomit. It returned. Christmas night. Like a phantom green and red ghost haunting my Christmas. Twin A and Twin B. At the same time. It stole the spirit from me, although I'm not sure I ever had it. I thought the spirit drifted in during that 5 hour cookie baking session but then I lost a few of my ball bearings and it was gone. It came back Christmas day with skating on the pond and the homecoming smells of pot roast in the oven and the joy of brand new games. And then that ghost.

I puked, vomited, hurled, barfed, upchucked the next day. Just once. But I don't trust this ghost. It's been lingering in our house since Dec. 16th, despite my 3 hour Lysol-ing event on Christmas Eve. Every nob, light switch, door handle, chair surface. And yet my exorcism didn't work.

On this same day, the day after Christmas, Sydney decided to go on a walkabout down the hill to her favorite garbage can. I got in the car to find her and sure enough she was as round as a pot bellied pig. Paul Bunyan and I have discovered that if we pour hydrogen peroxide down her throat, it will induce her to vomit. And so we did this, saving us thousands of dollars in vet bills for emergency pancreatic care. I followed her around the yard, with my shovel, ready to get rid of the piles of vomit, because she's been known to re-eat her garbage. But then it got too cold. I thought I could watch from inside. And sure enough she slinked off. Again. I got in the car to find her. She had puked, vomited, hurled, barfed, upchucked twice, down the hill from us. I put her in the car to bring her back up to the house. She started to retch in the car so I quickly opened the car door and out she jumped, just in time to puke, vomit, hurl, barf, upchuck one last gigantic pile.

This morning, I found her pee all over the floor. Because when she taxes her kidneys like that, she pisses out everything she drinks, without even knowing she's peeing. I'm drowning in it. I can't let her out, because when I do she heads down the hill to eat her own vomit.

I'm retelling this all to you not because I know you want to hear it, but because it will explain why next year I will be pretending that Christmas time is not here. It will be the reason I want to skip it all together. I realize that the spirit of Christmas is about giving to others. But I look forward to the day when my charges stop giving me regurgitated food to clean up and my dog stops giving me a reason to shoot her. I gave this year. Yes, I didn't know I gave you something. But I gave you the stomach bug. Next year, how bout we'll just skip this little holiday and I'll knit you a little something for 2012.

This year's edition.

2010-12-23T09:17:00.001-05:00

Merry Merry Happy Happy to all those not on our mailing list.

A Chronological Puke Story, in case you're interested, but I'm guessing you're not so stop reading now.

2010-12-20T21:12:00.005-05:00

Monday. Just the boys. The pool. The swamp of goo. The thick oozing pond of Christmas crud scum. It seeped in through the cracks. It's my guess.

Thurs. evening: 11:48 p.m. Twin B has first episode in hallway. I step in it on my way to clean it up. Joy. 12:18 a.m. exactly one half hour later Twin A explodes on his pillow. And then nothing. Stomach aches on Friday. Saturday a.m. Twin A pukes on slate. He wasn't sure where he was going. Everyone still wants to go skiing. First day. Saturday 12 noon: Twin A vomits again in van on the way to the mountain. He is wailing, as he is vomiting, "I still want to go skiing." Paul Bunyan abides.

And I guess I do too.

Because we're mean, or nice, or selfish? And pepperoni pizza is perfect for a stomach infected with Christmas Crud....don't ya think? Because we're just plain dumb. You can say it.

And somehow everyone seems to enjoy themselves.

And no one throws up off the chairlift on top of the heads of the skiers below.

And no one has to pull over on the side of the trail to puke in the woods.

And she was happy because she didn't puke when her brother puked in the car. She had her fingers crossed and it worked.

And then Sunday Twin B pukes on the couch and then Twin A pukes on himself and then Twin B pukes at the mall and then jello and popsicles and crackers. And double fingers crossed that Big Momma doesn't get it. Because I'm tired of the annual purge. Ti-red.

Please tell me it ends. Please tell me they make it to the toilet one day. Please.

A Very Confusing Night of Wombat Love

2010-12-16T16:35:00.009-05:00

Every year around this time I put cheese in a pot and tell these random women to bring these specific items:

cath-bread
e-veggies
jen-ham cubes
jenny-bread
jules-bananas
katy-strawberries
lee-brownies
mud-gin
rebecca-apples
susan-pound cake
amy-chocolate 12 oz. of Swiss chocolate

If they complain they have to clean the cheese pot at the end of the night. The woman who was told to bring a pig's butt is going to be putting her own stinky cheese in a pot next year and eating it by herself.

And every year around this time I wonder what to give as a gift to the Wombat's Yankee Swap. I'm still in awe of Supa Cath's personalized cookbook from last year. Which was so beyond cool. And I'm simply over making my signature alpaca hat. So this year I went with chocolate. I made a Ghirardelli triple chocolate cake, wrapped with a crocheted bathroom set which included a rug, a toilet paper holder and a toilet seat cover. Lucky, lucky recipient.

Every year I'm in awe of these women who step inside my home from the snowy cold night and sit on my couch and drink wine from my wine glasses. I'm not really sure who they are or really where they've come from, like where they grew up and what their college days were like. I mean I know who they are. They are doctors and nurses and teachers. But really so much more than these labels too. Funny and smart and comfortable in their own skin. Which I love most.

And I guess that's all that matters on this night.

I'm still confused about what fates were involved in how they got into my life. Or how I got into theirs.

And I'm not sure why they bring their crappy gifts to the Yankee Swap because everyone should walk away happy. But I guess that's why it's so fun.

And some, well, some do odd things in order to steal gifts. It's just a little twist we've added to the Yankee Swap rules. It's our way of making each other look like asses for the sake of a laugh.

But anyway you look at it these female alien-like bodies come up my mountain to dip bread into cheese with sticks and then get all naked to steal each other's gifts...

then they dip pound cake into butterscotch, wash it down with wine and silently slink off into the dark snowy night in vehicles that run on batteries. I'm baffled by it.

And luckily they take their alien babies with them.

Because I'm not sure I could handle this crap lying around.

Here's the cheese sauce I recommend. I don't think you need a fancy dancy fondue pot but I highly recommend long sticks to use to stab your chunk of love bread into heavenly goo.

Three-Cheese Fondue with Champagne

4 teaspoons cornstarch
1 T. fresh lemon juice
1 1/4 cups dry (brut) Champagne
1 large shallot, chopped
2 cups coarsely grated Gruyere cheese (about 7 oz.)
1 1/3 cups coarsely grated Emmenthal cheese (about 5 oz.)
1/2 cup diced rindless Brie or Camembert cheese (about 3 oz.)
Generous pinch of nutmeg
Pinch of ground white pepper

Bread.

Stir cornstarch and lemon juice together, set aside. Combine Champagne and shallot in fondue pot, simmer over a medium heat 2 minutes. Remove pot from heat. Add all cheeses and stir to combine. Stir in cornstarch mixture. Return fondue pot to medium heat and stir until cheeses are melted and smooth and fondue thickens and boils, about 12 minutes. Season fondue with nutmeg and pepper. Serve over candle (whatever) or canned heat burner, or better yet stir the shit up in any old pot and eat it right away, with sticks, like I said.

I'll give kudos for this recipe to a magazine that has the initials BA. And don't ever tell me I didn't give you anything. Eat bread and cheese. It'll make you fart.

A Long Chapter in the Book of our Broken Bones

2010-12-11T08:28:00.006-05:00

Paul Bunyan and I lived next to an old airport landing strip in Breckenridge. It was a brand new loft apartment on the second floor with a washing machine that was also a dryer. Some European model that didn't work for beans. All the buildings on the "strip" were new and as landscaping around new buildings go....that was new too.

It was our third Christmas together and I believe I was aware of the fact that Paul Bunyan was going to go across the street in the secrecy of the dark and cut down a beautiful brand new blue spruce for our Christmas tree, but I'm not remembering being completely against the idea. However, now that I've had time to think of the consequences and complete disregard of the fact that that beautiful tree was one of Colorado's STATE trees and that we probably could have been arrested and fined a hefty fine for the crime we committed, I can't help feeling mad as hell at Paul Bunyan for coming up with the idea. I can hold a grudge, let me tell you.

I think you've heard about my issues with cutting down trees, not to mention Christmas trees. But where was I going? Oh yea, after that Christmas we dumped the tree in some ally and after the snow melted and the last of the hiking and skiing was done for the spring, Paul Bunyan and I bought ourselves each a pair of used roller blades. I made sure that I had wrist guards and knee pads. Don't think I wore a helmet but that has nothing to do with my story. Breckenridge houses a beautiful bike path, which we rode up and down innocently. But if you know Paul Bunyan, you know that just isn't fun enough.

So he bee-lined it to the skate park. And if you know Paul Bunyan, you know that he doesn't always think about SAFETY FIRST. So without wrist guards he drops into the 'pipe' and breaks the shit out of his wrist. I may have, sorta, rubbed it in with a "told you so you stupid f---".

Fast forward a few years and here we were brand new to our funky little Japanese pagoda on the side of a mountain in Vermont. Claire was sleeping soundly in her one room studio, which we would eventually rip the roof off of and use some of its walls to make additional bedrooms for the two babies that were resting in my big belly, which was just at that moment resting on the rim of our kitchen sink. I was watching Paul Bunyan push up an extension ladder as far as its furthest rung would allow. He leaned that sucker up against a half dead tree and climbed to the very top of it. I watched him start his chain saw, which he so dexterously carried up the ladder with him, and then I watched him reach as far as his arm could reach to cut a dead branch from said dead tree. And sure enough I watched dead branch swing around and knock said husband from said extended (as far as it could go) ladder and I watched said nearly dead husband fall straight two floors down, right onto his wrist. I ran out as fast as a 6th month pregnant with twins woman could run and I ran straight for the chainsaw. Because that's how my brain works when there is an emergency. I don't think straight. I was only concerned with turning that thing off and then I stood there in disbelief as I watched my husband roll and writhe around in pain. And then I got pissed, like mad pissed. Because I knew these babies were going to be born in two months. And what he did was SOOOOO stupid. Like so stupid. So I made him drive himself to the hospital. He told me, later, that he almost passed out. But whatever, Claire was sleeping and what he did was just plain dumb. And frankly after the whole "shoulda wore wrist guards" episode, I was done talking about safety first.

Lots of metal commenced. His cast was still on when the boys arrived. But he still changed diapers. There was going to be no excuses.

Fast forward eighteen months. I had survived the darkness of sleepless nights (barely) and my biggest challenge when I was alone with all three was dinner time. I sometimes broke the rules in order to make things go smoothly and one of the things I would do was to allow the boys to stand on the kitchen chairs to help me. Safety first. I know. I know.

Well, Auggie fell backwards after leaning too hard against the back of one of our chairs. I had a plate in my left hand and I tried to catch his fall with my right. I managed to snag a rung of the chair with my pinky, thereby pulling it just barely out from underneath him. Thus, I probably was the reason he landed flat onto the slate floor. I called Paul Bunyan, who was in the ER and said that I thought Auggie had broken his arm. He said, "Nah, I'll look at it tomorrow." And sure enough...

it wasn't his sucking thumb.

And then the lights went out last week for four days. And the boys and the girl played so well together.

They didn't once complain and they scattered with their candles and headlamps and found toys that have been there all along but they couldn't/didn't see them in the light.

And then one day when I was gone. On the fourth and final day. When Paul Bunyan was sitting and watching. They began fighting. They were fighting about fighting. Wrestling about wrestling.

And Claire pushed Timmy down. And then it was a his fault, her fault, his fault kind of day.

And that's how the Chapter in this ongoing chapter in our lives ended. Someone is always to blame. It was his fault. Her fault. My fault.

But accidents happen and bones heal. But I just want us to maybe learn a little lesson, take something away from all this, because my father would want to make sure that we think SAFETY FIRST and not let history to continue to repeat itself.

Yea, some say we're dumb.

2010-12-07T20:39:00.003-05:00

Some say we're silly. No, actually, stupid for getting the boys into hockey.

But what they don't see are team dinners at Chili's.

And they don't see caravans of minivans with GO TEAM! written in paint on the windows.

And they don't see hotel rooms with pools and hot tubs.

And fundraisers. And warm-ups with their names on them. And last minute goals and overtimes and shoot outs and incredible saves and amazing passes and unforgettable tip-ins.

Nah, they don't see any of that because all they see is waking up in the dark for early morning practices and cold ice rinks and too much traveling and expenses and stinky gear and did I say cold ice rinks? Because none of them have a fur coat like I do.

And maybe, just possibly, none of them are as crazy as we are.

Dark

2010-12-05T19:33:00.005-05:00

Last year at this time Momma Earth sent her Commuter train charging up the valley. This year it was an Express thundering through . And we were four days without power. I made a patch and sewed it to my winter hat. FOUR. Next year maybe FIVE or SIX. As she sends her bigger faster trains our way.

There were snapped lines laying open and gnarled. Telephone poles hanging halfway down...limp. Trees resting on electric lines suspended over the road. We held our breath every time we drove underneath, ducking our heads as if that might help.

Mother Nature is pissed. And we're not listening.

She gave us a message in whipped up root balls and ripped off roofs.

We moved all the refrigerated items outside.
Lit a fire.
Flushed toilets with pond water.
Found headlamps.
Boiled water to wash dishes.
Ate on paper.
Lit candles.
Played games.
Read books.
Slowed down.
Stayed close.
By the fire.
Treated each other nicely.
Until a broken bone ended all the fun. (I'll extrapolate later)

And then the lights came on. The lines are repaired. And life races again. And lights are left on in rooms we aren't even in anymore. The dishwasher runs. The candles are blown out. And somehow I am sad. The darkness feels like deep snow. All quiet and encompassing. And I wish we could live like that. Like our friends Caitlin and Miles, who live in the woods, and go to sleep when the sun sets, and wake up when it rises. I wish the power wasn't so needed, or rather doesn't seem so necessary.

In these times of thanks...

2010-11-27T20:37:00.004-05:00

I couldn't get myself to take photos at Thanksgiving. Weren't in the mood...I guess. It was warm. All of it. I could get all Sappy, with a capital S. But I'm sure you're sick of it. It's oozing around here. Just like the two turkey carcasses sitting outside in pots on my porch. Haven't been able to get to the stock yet.

So, just to honor the day and not be so trite as to give thanks for my spawn and Paul Bunyan and all my wonderful WOMBATS who I was able to eat and get fat with (yawn), and because they already know how much I love and appreciate them, I'd like to give thanks for some of the smaller things in my life.

1. As much as I hate it, I'd like to give thanks for the chicken shit on my stoop. Because the chicken shit on the stoop, although it sometimes enters my house on the feet of the spawn and dogs, represents the freedom and overall contentedness of my chickens. And without content and happy chickens, I wouldn't have such lovely and beautiful all-natural eggs. And without beautiful organic eggs, I wouldn't have such incredible bacon, egg and cheeses. I wouldn't have so many fried eggs in my life. I wouldn't have omelets for dinner. I wouldn't have such delicious huevos rancheros. My life would be eggless. My baked goods would fall apart. My ice cream would be dangerous to eat. My Caesar salad dressing wouldn't exist. In short, my life would suck.

2. I give thanks, every day, for our new DVR recorder. Not only can I watch more t.v., but now I can also watch more of the t.v. that I shouldn't waste my time watching. I give thanks, every day, for being able to watch Jimmy Fallon, whose late night show is normally way too late night for me to watch and now I have a crush on him, thanks to the DVR. Not only can I spend more time watching the t.v. shows I shouldn't be watching, but I can fast forward through the commercials I don't want to be watching. It's absolutely lovely.

3. I give thanks for indoor plants that don't need water. They're not fake, they just somehow survive without water. They miraculously live off the love the in the air. It's crazy. I know.

4. I give thanks for the fact that if you're sitting on the toilet and you run out of toilet paper everyone will drop what they're doing to help you get more toilet paper. It's universal. Everyone knows what it feels like to be stranded and they'll do anything to help you out. You might be stranded on the side of the highway with a flat tire and no one will stop to help you but if you call from the bathroom on the second floor people will scramble to the paper supply in the basement and be there to hand you a fresh roll in a few seconds. Love that.

5. I give thanks for my central vac. I have pipes that run throughout the walls of my house that suck up, through a hose, all the dog hair, cat hair, spawn hair, chicken shit, and tiny Legos and sends them all to a HUGE metal container in my basement. In the container is a gigantic bag that I only have to change out TWICE a year. I love it. It makes my life happy. If only you could experience this love. Maybe you have. I can only hope.

6. I give thanks for caller ID. So I can screen your ass.

7. I really love my floss. I have a space in my teeth that sucks up animal muscle fibers. Don't know what I would do without you floss. I really hate to think about it.

8. I have to thank the gods who created seedless grapes. Every Thanksgiving my dad's side of the family used to serve 'fruit cup' as the first course at dinner. Palate cleaning, I guess. The fruit cup consisted of grapefruit, oranges, grapes, and bananas (sliced fresh before serving) with a dollop of the orange sherbert that looks fluorescent on top. Complete disgrace and scorn would fall upon the person who couldn't cut the seeds out of the grapes properly. It was a very stressful job. And you can bet that my family ate their fruit cup scrupulously. Well, it's been years since I had that kind of stress in my life. It was a gift. The grapes with seeds. This year. I don't turn away free food, but man am I grateful for the gods who created seedless grapes.

9. I am thankful for reaching a point in our lives where I don't have to help anyone with their snowpants, jackets, boots, hats, and mittens. Go! Get! Skidaddle! That's all I have to say. It's blissful.

10. Lip Smackers. Just Sayin'

My Vegas Circus Trapeze Act

2010-11-22T21:05:00.018-05:00

In the Summer of 97' Paul Bunyan and I packed up his leased Nissan Pathfinder with a few essential items and set our compass West. I only really remember the wind in my hair. The music on the radio. The flat grassy places we would set up a tent on the free National Forest lands in the dark. And the majesty of the landscape we would open our tent flaps to in the morning.

See that Motel 8 in the background there? I remember walking out the door of that motel one morning and being mesmerized by the landscape that I looked out upon. A cement company's heaven.

It's been 13 years. It's still quite majestic. In some respects.

And rich with grandiosity.

And arrogance.

For 48 hours I lay suspended in many stratospheres. I walked the bridges that crossed socioeconomic classes.

Evidence of the divide was everywhere.

Where one casino can have caged lions, this one can only offer flamingos.

And giant goldfish.

But it's a classic. The Flamingo....sets itself apart by remaining so retro.

It hosts the Osmond's show.

And across the street Caesars houses Rod. And across the street from that the Paris has Barry Manilow too. I was introduced to these old men on my best friend Meredith's mother's 8 track. Circa 1979.

But I know Holly Madison across the street.

I feel my legs slipping out from underneath me in both directions.

I straddled the possibility of this:

Triple Diamond, Double Double Diamond, Triple Double Stars, Triple Cash! Ding Ding Ding....still ringing in my skin. I wanted to spend my loot. Think of what I could spend with the thousands I would win!!

I put a $20 bill in a slot machine. I cashed out at $32.50. I spent my $12.50 on a hot dog. A chili dog to be exact. My practicality seeped up through my sore feet. Money to be spent on the mortgage given right to the casino owners? Hardly a decision for me.

But I had one free pull to win a MILLION DOLLARS. I saw someone cross themselves before they pushed the spin button.

One push of the button could change your life forever. What if?

I'd go back to Paris. Take a hot air balloon over the city.

Pay the money to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower.

I'd pay for Claire and I to come back out and see Cirque du Soleil "O" again. I'd bring you along too. I may even purchase one of these statues for my garden. Or better yet, I'd feed all the hungry men and women on the bridges.

I'd buy art.

Or better yet, I'd feel more free to make it.

I hung from the trapeze swinging between this crazy world and mine:

I dangled from youth and forty. It's a tough place to hang.

But it was fun to revisit. We retold. Remembered. And at the same time, we heard birth stories for the first time. Wedding stories. Parent's tales. Kids' ways. Future dreams. Possible plans. We stopped for a moment between the then and the soon.

We played.

And giggled.

And howled.

And just for a moment.

We pretended to be back in Iowa City.

Drinking nickle beers at the Airliner.

And yet, we were in the desert.

On the early morning I left Vegas, I left behind the alcohol laced elevators, all the lights blinking and rolling and spinning like the minds of the drunk gamblers. I reflected on the 48 hour window that the universe allowed me to suspend myself in time. Between the past and future, between the rich and poor, between my youth and impending old age. I don't really know how a place can keep you from having reality reel you in. How the mortgage payment can evade you when you're there. How you're wrinkles and extra weight can disappear. How you can, just for a short time, pretend to be someone different. Someone with the chance to win big...even if you don't gamble.

Meet Miss Wishy Washy. Hopefully, She'll Find the Green Grass in Vegas

2010-11-16T20:34:00.009-05:00

One of my biggest pet peeves, well besides when Paul Bunyan refuses to pull back over to the 'traveling' lane after he's passed someone in the 'passing' lane, is when people come flying onto the highway and refuse to YIELD. They expect you to slow down or pull into the passing lane (which would be common courtesy) but sometimes you CAN'T. I once had someone flip me the bird because I didn't/couldn't do either and I was all, like, YOU HAVE THE F-ING YIELD douche. YOU are supposed to wait your turn to enter the highway. SLOW DOWN. douche.

Okay, that was fun. It's fun to say douche. Try it. Or not. You might be at work. I understand.

Well, I'm going to VEGAS. On Thursday. To see two old college friends. Teammates.

CAUTION: YIELD AHEAD!

My life today.
Claire asking in different fonts:
Do you like our house? me: Yes, but I wish we had one more room so if you needed to escape somewhere you could.

Do you like your kitchen? me: Yes, but I wish there was an island that people could hang around when I'm cooking.

Do you like your stove? me: Yes, but I wish I could keep it cleaner.

Do you like your bed? me: Yes, but I wish Paul Bunyan hadn't bought the TemperPedic copy.

Do you like your hair? me: Yes, but I wish I could style it like Alla.

Do you like me? me: Yes, but....

I'm sure she's afraid to ask. I'm Miss Wishy. Always wishing for something better. I've been that way for awhile now. Never content with what I have. It's a tough state of being. I'm sick of seeing the greener grass. And trying to reach my long snout through the f-ing fence.

My life then.

I was somebody.

I mean, not that I'm not someone now. But people used to watch. And interview me. And pay attention. And the grass was never ever greener...over there. I mean, we're talking Iowa folks.

Because I was so green. We all were.

And there was meaning and purpose. In his life, too. Which seemed a miracle in and of itself.

Not that there isn't meaning and purpose now, in my life. But it was clearer then.

And simpler. **

Debbie and I spent four years together. I think we became instant best friends when, at the first preseason practice, we realized we ran at the same pace. It just happened to be slower than everyone else. But we finished together.

We triumphed together.

And failed together.

And with Kristi, we graduated together.

It'll be good to travel down that lane. Although I'm sure the dark corners will come back to haunt me. The places that I almost veered off and slammed into a tree. Miss Wishy is going to revisit Miss Washy and I can only hope that Miss Washy yields nicely into the oncoming speeding traffic because I'm not sure I'm going to pull over for the bitch.

**Miss Nancy, we will talk about you, and all the life you had bottled in that Irish, freckled, red-headed body of yours. We will talk about how you died. How you ran that red light. How you left two babies and an amazing husband. We will talk about Micky's and the places you used to love and how we had so much fun in Michigan at your folk's place. We will remember Colorado and your smile. Definitely your smile. And maybe we'll talk about your third nipple too. I hope that's okay.

Sunday Soundbite

2010-11-14T11:04:00.003-05:00

We don't see much of Hunter. Yes, we have a cat. I'm not much of a cat person. But I'm more of a dead mouse kind of person, so thus...we have a cat. We had two. One didn't survive the predatory labyrinth in our woods.

He sleeps on the top bunk with Timmy. He plays outside all day. He comes and goes as he pleases. Sometimes he looks for love. And then he drools. So we swoosh him away.

Lately, I've been hearing him make these guttural noises in the middle of the night or early in the morning. One time I forgot he was a male and I thought he was in heat. On another night I thought there was another cat in the house. The idea wasn't too far fetched considering we had a skunk visit us a couple of weeks ago. On one particularly early morning, I thought maybe he was growling at his reflection in the window. I couldn't figure out what was provoking him until I saw our neighbor's cat Web come around the other day. He's also a male cat. And then I put two and two together. The ghastly noises coming from Hunter are a threatening war cry to defend his turf. We saw Web again last night, through the window. And Claire and I were the lucky audience members, recipients of his free concert:

Claire couldn't control her giggles in the background. We're not so sure Hunter would win a cat fight if he got into one. However, he sure does sound tough. And I guess that's half the battle.

new

2010-11-09T11:48:00.006-05:00

I don't buy makeup. I don't buy expensive face creams. I don't buy perfume. I don't buy special shampoos or conditioners. I use a bar of shampoo soap to clean my hair. I don't use product in it. I don't even blow it dry. I don't wax my eyebrows or my bush. I don't have my nails done. I like facials, but I don't have facials. I don't like massages, so I don't have massages. I don't spend a lot of money on me.

But I get my hair cut exactly, every, to the day, 10 weeks.

So when last Tuesday I woke up feeling like I looked just like this girl. Same hair and everything. I knew I needed a change. Because that was, like, 20 years ago.

I want to introduce you to my savior. Alla. Alla is from Russia. She zpeaks like diz. I love her axzent. She can tell a very funny story.

Hello Alla! I was introduced to Alla when the good Dr. in the Wombats found her. And then she said to me, you must go. And I went. And Alla was all, "ve must do dis to your hair," and I was like, "uhm, sure." And then there was love. Because she made me feel like a new woman. The Dr. told me that would happen.

And Alla is still making me feel like a new woman. Every 10 weeks. I show up all disheveled and frizzy. From washing my hair before going to bed. I apologize to her every time. And she says, "Oh, paleeze."

Alla knows her stuff. She is dedicated to her clients like a hairdresser should be. When Alla and her team go to conferences all over the country and sometimes into Canada, she always tries to bring me (ME!) back a new haircut. Like, in her bag, just for me. Like if someone could name it the Hussy Cut, they would. She did that a few months ago when she went to Chicago. And so I left feeling her salon so important. Like she went to Chicago just to learn how to make ME more beautiful. Because I don't know how to do it.

Alla also knows how to read her customers' moods. She knows when I just need to sit in peace and quiet and not have chat, or when it's okay to have chat.

She often sits on a stool to do my hair. And I love how she crinkles up her nose when she is deep in concentration. It really makes me feel confident that she takes pride in her work.

And I love love love what she does to my hair.

I even let her put a little make-up on me after. You know, to make her feel like she is completing the package.

She is so very polite. I can only imagine how much she wants to get at my eyebrows.

I hope your hairdresser makes you feel like a new woman or man after you walk out. At least until you have to wash it and style it yourself. I had a few hours. At least.

Hockey Women Lose Big!

2010-11-07T19:50:00.002-05:00

Some old wenches eating before losing; however, consistently having fun.

*this photo was taken with some crazyass new Droid camera phone. mmhmm. not mine.

Please, Just Glow

2010-11-02T16:44:00.009-04:00

Setting: My kitchen. Obvious clutter. Dishes.

PB: So, do you think it's something we've done?

Me: I don't know. What do you think? Have we done something wrong?

PB: I'm not sure. Where can we do better?

Me: I don't know. I mean, we're both present. It's not like we're not around, available.

PB: Do you really think that matters?

Me: Yes! I think that matters.

PB: Okay. Okay.

pause

Me: So what do we do?

PB: I don't know. What can we do?

Me: I don't know. What do you think?

PB: I don't know. What do you think?

***
This is the first of its kind in our house. It was the first conversation Paul Bunyan and I have had about one of our children because she/he did something morally wrong. This time may have been about copying a friend's work at school, but soon we'll be playing the replay button when she steals for the first time, lies to us, smokes pot, gets drunk, has sex before she's married, stays out past her curfew, and generally does everything a perfectly good and morally directed young girl does.

There are no answers. There are books with answers. I've read one. It worked for awhile. But then they change. Those kids, they grow. Their feet grow, legs, teeth, bones, brains. It's hard to keep up.

Even after all this growing my daughter is still good and moral even though she did something wrong, even though she knew what she was doing was wrong. Even though this has broken my heart.

This parenting thing...I tell ya...it's like going on a date with someone who can't make a decision and you get all pissed that you're making all the decisions because you know that when your date is unhappy you get blamed. It's confusing. You want to make the right decision for the both of you and then you come to find out that he doesn't like Thai food, that he is, in fact, allergic to Thai food and then you're all, like, why didn't you say something? And he's all, like, I didn't want to make you mad? Wha? Communication is key, but when your child doesn't talk to you you're always trying your very best to guess what is happening. And guessing doesn't always work.

I bought this mirror for Claire's room even before she was born. At the top it says, "Do the right thing every dog-gone day and night of your life." I wanted it to be her compass. I pictured myself leaning over her tiny body to whisper this in her ear as she was drifting off to sleep so that she would wake the sweetest, kindest, most selfless girl I could ever raise. Without a religious cornerstone, Paul Bunyan and I have known that we are the ones responsible for the moral lessons in our home. So, when Claire does something so "wrong" we question what it is we are teaching our children and where we've strayed from the "do the right thing every dog-gone day and night of your life" dogma.

So what do we do? What do we do? Hmm. I mean we MUST take this parenting thing seriously. It is the the most important job we'll have. The the toughest job we'll ever have. And it never ends. And it always changes. And it's always challenging. And it's sometimes rewarding. And consistently hard. They leave you speechless. Without answers. Especially when they don't tell you beforehand that they don't like Thai.

What do we do? We hug. We are here. We hear. We hope.

We hope:

I am No Longer the Queen Bee

2010-10-30T21:03:00.005-04:00

The Queen is in the haaaa-ouse.

And so if anyone knows anything about overwintering bees, making sure they don't swarm the hive in the Spring, how to split the hive, how I should check to see if they're healthy, what I should wear, how I should act, how to extract the honey, what I need to do that, how to protect my bees from the bears, and anything else this pretend apiarist doesn't know please contact me at:

somedayI'llbearealhomesteader@yayhoo.com