I have recently received a partial diagnosis for what ails me (ie: why I feel like smashed carp all. the. time.) I have a severe case of anemia where my body tries to procure much needed red blood cells by pulling immature red cells from my bone marrow. (!) This action results in too many immature red blood cells floating about and terrible bone pain. (!!) It seems I also have no Iron stores to support the growth of those immature little cells. (!!!)
My wonderful-new to me-Naturopath has prescribed a remedy. It is a remedy that shall go down in the history books of Calamity-ville as being momentous. It will be deemed "The remedy that did Mom in". The monster in question will be forever hailed as the demon Black Lava.
I am to ingest a heaping TABLESPOON of Organic Unsulphered Blackstrap Molasses morning and evening with meals.
To say that a spoonful of molasses is horrid is an understatement. While I try to psych myself up for the task I wonder if the cure is worse than the disease. I soon start to second guess my aliment..."Do I really feel so bad? I mean seriously, people accomplish much with lesser diseases than this... Mommy?" I put my lessons in Lamaze breathing to work. I breath several sharp, quick, shallow breathes before even opening the jar. Pfft. Pfft. Pfft. Once the lid is ajar, I spoon the globby mess towards my face. Pfft.Pfft.PFFFFFT! Very quickly I stuff the spoon into my mouth, not wanting to drip the gooey mess all over self or kitchen. It takes me a few moments to pull the spoon away, thus releasing the mass upon my tongue. I grimace. I squint. I stamp my feet, while trying to muster the chutzpah to actually ingest this wonderful goodness. Quickly I notice the bitter sting and wanting it gone, I accept my fate and swallow down The Lava. Immediately, my face and body become uncontrollable. My tongue falls right out of my mouth seeking refuge from the torture I have inflicted. My stomach starts to rumble. I feel the mouth sweats beginning. My body starts to convulse in what can only be likened to "The Elaine Dance". It is a sight to behold.
Once in the morning... Once at night... People?!? I should start a comedy show and charge admission. Perhaps I'd make enough money for a better cure.
Showing posts with label I don't make this stuff up. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I don't make this stuff up. Show all posts
Late night blues
So, it's 11 p.m. and I am only awake for the sole purpose of forcing a load of laundry through my washing machine. I have been at this since 9:30, actively. The load went in sometime in the late morning and I have been fiddling with it off and on all day. Being faced with yet another soured load I thought it necessary to try hard to get the clothes through before heading off to bed.
Ugh.
While trying hard to choose the best, newest machine we could (not) afford we scoured the net for reviews. We choose what we thought would be the best for our family. Alas, our supposed super-high-powered-most-awesome-ever washer was a lemon to start with. We were stuck. This washer should be dubbed the Million Dollar Baby for all of the $$ we have dumped into the blasted machine. This one tool to make my mama life easier has caused such stress and financial drain as to make managing a NFL football team look easy-peasy.
Right now I just want to take a hammer to the dern thing. Then trot off to my cozy bed not thinking about my sheets that need washing, or the towels festering in the bathroom basket.
I should mention that my washer is one of those super fancy front loading types. The type that spin at the speed of light or something totally ridiculous and sound like a Cessna engine while doing it. It spins so fast in fact that it shakes its own brains loose. To help alleviate said shaking my super smart hubby made a sling out of a bicycle inner-tube, in which the brain can sit gently swinging whist the machine prepares for launch. This sling works wonders but due to its bulky nature prevents the top of the washer from remaining in place during launch sequence. Mmmhmm. The bottom hatch of the washer is also aloof as it makes for an easier clean out when you loose socks down the open porthole atop the machine.
Mercy.
I try hard to be thankful for this crazy mixed up washer but honestly I think that moving to Africa would be an easier task. In Africa I would not have as much laundry. In Africa, my janky, redneckified washer would be cool.
Currently I am receiving the F-11 code which states that the door lock is malfunctioning, IE; your clothes are likely to fly forth from the machine during launch phase, be prepared.
Earlier I was faced with the F-02 failure code which implies that the pump is no longer working and a new pump must be installed by a trained professional immediately. Seriously? Immediately?
It's beeping again...wonder which code it will have this time.
Ugh.
While trying hard to choose the best, newest machine we could (not) afford we scoured the net for reviews. We choose what we thought would be the best for our family. Alas, our supposed super-high-powered-most-awesome-ever washer was a lemon to start with. We were stuck. This washer should be dubbed the Million Dollar Baby for all of the $$ we have dumped into the blasted machine. This one tool to make my mama life easier has caused such stress and financial drain as to make managing a NFL football team look easy-peasy.
Right now I just want to take a hammer to the dern thing. Then trot off to my cozy bed not thinking about my sheets that need washing, or the towels festering in the bathroom basket.
I should mention that my washer is one of those super fancy front loading types. The type that spin at the speed of light or something totally ridiculous and sound like a Cessna engine while doing it. It spins so fast in fact that it shakes its own brains loose. To help alleviate said shaking my super smart hubby made a sling out of a bicycle inner-tube, in which the brain can sit gently swinging whist the machine prepares for launch. This sling works wonders but due to its bulky nature prevents the top of the washer from remaining in place during launch sequence. Mmmhmm. The bottom hatch of the washer is also aloof as it makes for an easier clean out when you loose socks down the open porthole atop the machine.
Mercy.
I try hard to be thankful for this crazy mixed up washer but honestly I think that moving to Africa would be an easier task. In Africa I would not have as much laundry. In Africa, my janky, redneckified washer would be cool.
Earlier I was faced with the F-02 failure code which implies that the pump is no longer working and a new pump must be installed by a trained professional immediately. Seriously? Immediately?
It's beeping again...wonder which code it will have this time.
Begging pardon
“Excuse my unburdening myself. My worries travel about my head on their well-worn path…”
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society
Beginning and Ending
The year twenty-eleven was fraught with death, dismemberment, chaos, and overeating. The year was chock-a-block with comings and goings, which brought heartaches and joy and more overeating. The price of gas rose as did my grocery bill. Our farm lost some trees and more animals. I found a few gray hairs.We waved goodbye as dear friends left us behind. We cried selfish tears for loved ones who went Home to Jesus ahead of us. Life was one hard (and expensive) day after the next.
Happily, we said good-bye to 2011.
Thoughts of years gone by flooded my brain...times when all were happy to see the end of the year and times when it felt as if things were just beginning. There are markers in time, snippets posted firmly in my memory bank, of simpler times. Times when life seemed to trip lightly along. Time where we saw no death of loved ones; animal or human. Time when fueling the Suburban did not induce cardiac arrhythmia. Time before Wii. Time before Teens and Terrible Two's . There was a time when I sat with my wee-bitty babies and thought life was most glorious and all in the world was good. Time before so many worries occupied my brain night and day. Time when I couldn't wait for the New Year to open the next chapter in my life. Time when I could not wait to add another year to my belt as it stood for wisdom gained: Another year wiser.
The start of twenty-twelve finds me hopeful. And weary. Also, ready for an exercise regime. I am happy to have a full year of resolution (woke-4:30 in summer 5:30 in winter-with my husband every work day, save for a few sick days) under my belt. I am contemplating this next year of resolution and thinking it will involve my blog....my poor, sad, neglected blog. I am still pondering my one little word for 2012. There is much to mull over. There are pictures to be taken. Memories to be stored. There is life to be lived, pounds to be shed and tears to be swept away. There are doors ready to be closed and new beginnings waiting to be discovered.
Good-bye crappy year. Hello bright shiny New Year.
Happily, we said good-bye to 2011.
Thoughts of years gone by flooded my brain...times when all were happy to see the end of the year and times when it felt as if things were just beginning. There are markers in time, snippets posted firmly in my memory bank, of simpler times. Times when life seemed to trip lightly along. Time where we saw no death of loved ones; animal or human. Time when fueling the Suburban did not induce cardiac arrhythmia. Time before Wii. Time before Teens and Terrible Two's . There was a time when I sat with my wee-bitty babies and thought life was most glorious and all in the world was good. Time before so many worries occupied my brain night and day. Time when I couldn't wait for the New Year to open the next chapter in my life. Time when I could not wait to add another year to my belt as it stood for wisdom gained: Another year wiser.
The start of twenty-twelve finds me hopeful. And weary. Also, ready for an exercise regime. I am happy to have a full year of resolution (woke-4:30 in summer 5:30 in winter-with my husband every work day, save for a few sick days) under my belt. I am contemplating this next year of resolution and thinking it will involve my blog....my poor, sad, neglected blog. I am still pondering my one little word for 2012. There is much to mull over. There are pictures to be taken. Memories to be stored. There is life to be lived, pounds to be shed and tears to be swept away. There are doors ready to be closed and new beginnings waiting to be discovered.
Good-bye crappy year. Hello bright shiny New Year.
::Learning::
This intrigued me. What have I learned this week?
The whole concept of growing and learning has been bouncing around in my head for quite some time now. While I have many thoughts and opinions on this topic, I want to keep it simple for today.
::Don't stress about school when the kids are sick. Their brains will not turn to mush.
::Don't make 'Garden Style' spaghetti. No one likes it but you.
::Pink eye-stink eye, you will not get the better of me.
::I have far too many good ideas and not enough follow-through. Must find a way to remedy this problem.
::I love taking photographs.
:: I can make a beautiful loaf of bread. And as the world is "supposed" to end on Friday, (which I might add, I just learned about this morning) I shall eat a whole loaf of it. all. by. myself. AND. I shall slather it in homemade jam.
::Being sick and not having a dishwasher, sucks eggs.
What have you learned this week?
Rednecks live here
You might be a redneck if....
...you wear your seat belt as an accessory (Why yes, officer. I always wear my seat belt) . And you decorate your yard with old tires.
Photo courtesy of Mr. Dailey and his way cool, totally non-Redneck, iPhone.
...you wear your seat belt as an accessory (Why yes, officer. I always wear my seat belt) . And you decorate your yard with old tires.
Photo courtesy of Mr. Dailey and his way cool, totally non-Redneck, iPhone.
Calamities anyone?
It's been awhile since we had a good calamity post around these parts so, I thought; Why not? Who can't use a little calamity fun every now and again? Of course I would have enjoyed, as I am sure you dear reader would have too, adding pictures to this post but alas (or alack?) my card reader has gone missing. So, for today we shall have to make do. We shall have to use our imaginations. I think I had one of those imagination things once....how about you? But wait, let's not hop down that rabbit just yet, I have calamities to discuss.
As to the whereabouts of afore mentioned card reader, I am bewildered. I am positive I stuffed it into the camera bag so that I would be assured of finding it the next time I needed it. It was not here ...it was not there. I could not find it anywhere. I could not find it Sam I am. IT can't be found of this I'm sure. (Sorry, too much Dr. Seuss) Even the children tout, "It was Notme!" Seriously, if I get my hands on Notme there will be words. Lot's of words. I am pretty sure the culprit is the youngest child and that the card reader is living out a second life as a weapon of some kind. In the dirt no less.
The most recent of tragedies is the strange and as yet, undetermined loss of the use of one of my fingers. (Could that have been a more confounded sentence?) The middle finger of my left hand to be exact. Yesterday, upon waking I found it lying limply on the pillow next to my head. It stared up at me, all swollen and slightly cocked to one side. I tried to move the finger and it refused. It continued to refuse to work for the rest of the day. When my darling husband came home and I cried over the loss of my finger he told me "It looks like its out of the socket. Pull on it." (Yes, he actually told me to pull my own finger.) I looked down at that pathetic little-ish finger and decided against pulling. What if it was broken? What if I ruined my own finger? I decided to baby it instead. Today, my finger is still swollen and slightly cocked to one side. Today, my finger still hurts like the dickens and is a funny purpley color. I don't think its dislocated. Stupid finger.
My finger can take comfort commiserating with some of my other recently maimed body parts. Why, just the other night as I was putting the house to bed, I was assaulted by not one but three calamities. See if you can keep up......In the kitchen, the light switch is on the far wall as in; you have to walk clear through the kitchen to turn on the lights. This kitchen was designed by a man. In my kitchen darkness+Katie=injury. And so it went. I walked through the kitchen and turned off the lights, turned to walk out, tripped over a cooler, fell over a huge box of food, scrapped my shin, sprained my ankle and cussed a little in the process.
I limped my way to the wood stove to shut the dampers. I grabbed hold of the cast iron damper with my bare hand, at which time I heard my flesh sizzle. The thumb of my right had was actually stuck to the cast iron and I had to yank it free. I jumped back on my freshly injured ankle and cussed some more. I considered rushing to the kitchen for ice but decided the bathroom was a safer alternative.
After dousing my crispified thumb with cold water I proceeded with my bedtime routine; tooth brushing. This activity may not be as harmless as it may seem. I have just had a crown place over a broken tooth. I have had many, many, far too many visits to the dentist over this new tooth. At present the crown is too short, meaning part of my raw, ravaged, sawed off tooth is still hanging out. Standing at the sink, with tears in my eyes I gingerly began to brush. My leg is throbbing. My thumb is throbbing. I brush past the short crown and actually get the bristles of my tooth brush caught in the gap between crown and gum. At this point I let out a cacophony of cuss words that would make a sailor blush. I turn, get tangled in a towel, loose my balance and grabbing a hold of the shower curtain for support, I rip said curtain from its moorings. I cuss some more. And stumble off to bed.
It was like a Charlie Chaplin movie with a Three Stooges flair.
So, today I am trying to take it easy. I have my poor finger to consider. And darn near the whole rest of my body for that matter.
As to the whereabouts of afore mentioned card reader, I am bewildered. I am positive I stuffed it into the camera bag so that I would be assured of finding it the next time I needed it. It was not here ...it was not there. I could not find it anywhere. I could not find it Sam I am. IT can't be found of this I'm sure. (Sorry, too much Dr. Seuss) Even the children tout, "It was Notme!" Seriously, if I get my hands on Notme there will be words. Lot's of words. I am pretty sure the culprit is the youngest child and that the card reader is living out a second life as a weapon of some kind. In the dirt no less.
The most recent of tragedies is the strange and as yet, undetermined loss of the use of one of my fingers. (Could that have been a more confounded sentence?) The middle finger of my left hand to be exact. Yesterday, upon waking I found it lying limply on the pillow next to my head. It stared up at me, all swollen and slightly cocked to one side. I tried to move the finger and it refused. It continued to refuse to work for the rest of the day. When my darling husband came home and I cried over the loss of my finger he told me "It looks like its out of the socket. Pull on it." (Yes, he actually told me to pull my own finger.) I looked down at that pathetic little-ish finger and decided against pulling. What if it was broken? What if I ruined my own finger? I decided to baby it instead. Today, my finger is still swollen and slightly cocked to one side. Today, my finger still hurts like the dickens and is a funny purpley color. I don't think its dislocated. Stupid finger.
My finger can take comfort commiserating with some of my other recently maimed body parts. Why, just the other night as I was putting the house to bed, I was assaulted by not one but three calamities. See if you can keep up......In the kitchen, the light switch is on the far wall as in; you have to walk clear through the kitchen to turn on the lights. This kitchen was designed by a man. In my kitchen darkness+Katie=injury. And so it went. I walked through the kitchen and turned off the lights, turned to walk out, tripped over a cooler, fell over a huge box of food, scrapped my shin, sprained my ankle and cussed a little in the process.
I limped my way to the wood stove to shut the dampers. I grabbed hold of the cast iron damper with my bare hand, at which time I heard my flesh sizzle. The thumb of my right had was actually stuck to the cast iron and I had to yank it free. I jumped back on my freshly injured ankle and cussed some more. I considered rushing to the kitchen for ice but decided the bathroom was a safer alternative.
After dousing my crispified thumb with cold water I proceeded with my bedtime routine; tooth brushing. This activity may not be as harmless as it may seem. I have just had a crown place over a broken tooth. I have had many, many, far too many visits to the dentist over this new tooth. At present the crown is too short, meaning part of my raw, ravaged, sawed off tooth is still hanging out. Standing at the sink, with tears in my eyes I gingerly began to brush. My leg is throbbing. My thumb is throbbing. I brush past the short crown and actually get the bristles of my tooth brush caught in the gap between crown and gum. At this point I let out a cacophony of cuss words that would make a sailor blush. I turn, get tangled in a towel, loose my balance and grabbing a hold of the shower curtain for support, I rip said curtain from its moorings. I cuss some more. And stumble off to bed.
It was like a Charlie Chaplin movie with a Three Stooges flair.
So, today I am trying to take it easy. I have my poor finger to consider. And darn near the whole rest of my body for that matter.
Listing
Speaking of the listing, I made a random list of funny stuff that has popped out at me over the last several days. It might not be that funny in reality. I am sure its just the cold/sinus meds talking, but you can judge for yourself. I have been sick for so long I have to take the joy where I can find it.
:: Silkie chickens' fuzzy little bottoms are the funniest thing to watch. If you don't have Silkie's, get thee some. 'Nuff said.
:: Strange things you don't want to hear out of your 8yr old girl-child "Hey Mom! LOOK! I built a b*mb."
:: The Pioneer Woman's Sour Cream Noodle Bake is fabulous, amazingly simple, infinitely adaptable and a sure crowd pleaser.
:: One of my Best Girlfriends told me that I reminded her of the Pioneer Woman. (P-dub, call me. I think we were separated at birth.)
:: Chickens are like crack to me. SERIOUSLY, people! I need a 12 Step Program for Chicken Lovers. I luff, love, lurve my multi colored flock of chicks and chickens. The puffy cheeks...The fluffy bottoms...All the different color/pattern combinations send me right into a tail spin. I can't resist. I must buy more chickies. The soft fluffy cuteness of chicks is too much for my farm-girl self to bear. Don't even get me started on the eggs. The multi-colored eggs make me so happy I could sing. Everyday is like Easter around here. Easter everyday, how great is that?!
:: Chicken Crack. Buwhahaha! Seriously I need help.
:: Wondering what to make of my soon to be 7yr old son sliding across the kitchen floor ala Tom Cruise in Risky Business (underwear, and air guitar included) singing "I'm on'a hiiiiiiwaaaaay ta helllllll!" followed with a fairy dance and the vocals "La-la-la-la-laaaah". Boggles the mind doesn't it?
:: When you have guests over the last thing you want to find in the Loo is poo in the pot with no paper. Sorry about that one. Blame the cold meds. But wasn't that some great alliteration?
:: Have you ever been "schooled" in what is "lame vs.cool" from your 15 yr old man-child? If not you are missing out! I learned things I never wanted to know about Mario Bros., Star Wars, and about being a Dweeb/Geek/Nerd in general. It made my brain hurt.
::We are studying Countries of the child's choosing for a Co-op project due this week. When I told the kids to get on it one morning, my youngest child informed me that he "doesn't wanna be a Japanese boy" any more, he wants to be a farmer boy. I told him that Japan was a country and farmers were people and that we are studying Countries. He replied with his hands on his hips, " Farmers are from the country". Alrighty then.
::I was singing in church this last Sunday and everyone around me kept turning to look. I didn't comprehend at the time why they might be looking at me. This perplexed me most of the afternoon. I checked my crazy hair when I got home. Checked my teeth. Did the sniff.... but couldn't sniff. Then I remembered that my ears are plugged. Yep, I was singing my heart out and couldn't hear a thing. I can only imagine the joyful noises I was making. I think though, I experienced true worship for the first time in my life. Thanks be to my mucus filled head.
Livin' la vida gluten free
So, I think that I might be gluten intolerant. How does one determine such nonsense? Well, you stop eating bread for a few months, feel absolutly maaaavalooos daahling for said few months, then eat your self a sandwich. And feel like crap. No, much worse than crap: Crappy Crap.
In an effort to eliminate wheat and wheat like substances from my kitchen I have been shocked out of my wits. What does one eat, when one has no freakin' bread? Well, this very question is why I find myself sitting at the library at 6pm on a rainy Tuesday night. Research people, research. So far I have done more blogging/reading than actual "research" but hey, I am working toward that end, just slooowly. Slowly because I really don't want to know what to eat instead of the nice fluffy bread I have been pulling from my oven lately. No, that oatmeal cinnamon swirl bread is neither gluten free nor on my actual diet, but....
Life is stressful and eating a slice of bread slathered with homemade butter just makes life better somehow. Right?
So, I guess that I don't really feel that bad after all.
In an effort to eliminate wheat and wheat like substances from my kitchen I have been shocked out of my wits. What does one eat, when one has no freakin' bread? Well, this very question is why I find myself sitting at the library at 6pm on a rainy Tuesday night. Research people, research. So far I have done more blogging/reading than actual "research" but hey, I am working toward that end, just slooowly. Slowly because I really don't want to know what to eat instead of the nice fluffy bread I have been pulling from my oven lately. No, that oatmeal cinnamon swirl bread is neither gluten free nor on my actual diet, but....
Life is stressful and eating a slice of bread slathered with homemade butter just makes life better somehow. Right?
So, I guess that I don't really feel that bad after all.
Friday Freak Out
One Friday a few weeks back.
As is the norm for us, Friday is freak worthy. Most every Friday we have an in home tutor come to help out with spelling drills, math and science. On most Fridays my little family spend the morning trying to get ready for the tutor; clearing off the dining room table, sweeping, you know the "company's coming" kind of cleaning. There are books to be found, lunch to be scarfed all with just a moment to spare before the tutor descends upon us.
This particular Friday is no exception. The morning brought one disaster after another. Broken glass shattered across the kitchen floor as the children fought over the "good" cereal, you know the stuff you never buy. Milk splashes clear across the house. Tears burst forth as the middle child is sure that she will get none of the sugary stuff. Clean up of this mess takes way too long and half of the moring is already over.
After the children are fed, they are sent off to do the morning animal chores. Frantically trying to find clean clothes, I am met with a mountain of dirty things and not one decent clean outfit. So, proceeding through the morning frenzy in my jammie's, I start to pick up the living room, only to be met with the most disgusting odor. Seeking out the source, I move from room to room, shuffling piles to and fro'. Not finding where the vomitrosious smell is coming from.
Upon entering the hallway, the source becomes painfully obvious; both physically and via nasal airways. I plant my foot in the largest pile of nasty, fowl & odiferus dog poop ever known to man. Now mind you, I am NOT dressed to shoes, as the Flylady encourages us to do before starting our morning chores. I choke back my cereal. Swallowing very hard, again and again, I hop to the bathroom at the end of the hall to cleanse the pooh off of my offending appendage. I am gaging and crying the whole way down the length of the hall. Cursing under my breath that the dog will be shot! Again! (this is a story for another day)
As I near the bathroom I can see water glistening on the tile floor. This causes my blood pressure to rise even more. Hobbling into the bathroom proper, I scan the room for the source of the water. It's the toilet. We have a smallish bathroom so I prop my disgusting foot on the side of the tub, leaning over to see what has obscured the flow to the throne. I find that the pot is full to the brim with Pull-Ups. YES, packed completely full of the most enormously swollen Pull-Ups. Now you can only begin to imagine my state of mind. To say that I was fuming would be an understatement. I am lucky that I didn't have a heart attack. So, turning to wash my foot of its festering mass. I find all of the soap has been dumped out in the bath tub. Let me tell you how beautiful it looked. The entire bottom third of the tub was full of liquid gold. And blue. And pink.
I am considering hanging the kids out by their toenails, to say the least. When.....
The doorbell rings. It is the tutor, his is on time for the first time all year. Can you imagine his nerve? Couldn't the guy see the fumes floating out the windows? Couldn't he smell the poop from miles away? Couldn't he just go home and let me continue clean myself up? And get dressed for crying out loud??
"Hello," he hollers as one of the offending children escort him into the house.
Hell.........O! Indeed.
As is the norm for us, Friday is freak worthy. Most every Friday we have an in home tutor come to help out with spelling drills, math and science. On most Fridays my little family spend the morning trying to get ready for the tutor; clearing off the dining room table, sweeping, you know the "company's coming" kind of cleaning. There are books to be found, lunch to be scarfed all with just a moment to spare before the tutor descends upon us.
This particular Friday is no exception. The morning brought one disaster after another. Broken glass shattered across the kitchen floor as the children fought over the "good" cereal, you know the stuff you never buy. Milk splashes clear across the house. Tears burst forth as the middle child is sure that she will get none of the sugary stuff. Clean up of this mess takes way too long and half of the moring is already over.
After the children are fed, they are sent off to do the morning animal chores. Frantically trying to find clean clothes, I am met with a mountain of dirty things and not one decent clean outfit. So, proceeding through the morning frenzy in my jammie's, I start to pick up the living room, only to be met with the most disgusting odor. Seeking out the source, I move from room to room, shuffling piles to and fro'. Not finding where the vomitrosious smell is coming from.
Upon entering the hallway, the source becomes painfully obvious; both physically and via nasal airways. I plant my foot in the largest pile of nasty, fowl & odiferus dog poop ever known to man. Now mind you, I am NOT dressed to shoes, as the Flylady encourages us to do before starting our morning chores. I choke back my cereal. Swallowing very hard, again and again, I hop to the bathroom at the end of the hall to cleanse the pooh off of my offending appendage. I am gaging and crying the whole way down the length of the hall. Cursing under my breath that the dog will be shot! Again! (this is a story for another day)
As I near the bathroom I can see water glistening on the tile floor. This causes my blood pressure to rise even more. Hobbling into the bathroom proper, I scan the room for the source of the water. It's the toilet. We have a smallish bathroom so I prop my disgusting foot on the side of the tub, leaning over to see what has obscured the flow to the throne. I find that the pot is full to the brim with Pull-Ups. YES, packed completely full of the most enormously swollen Pull-Ups. Now you can only begin to imagine my state of mind. To say that I was fuming would be an understatement. I am lucky that I didn't have a heart attack. So, turning to wash my foot of its festering mass. I find all of the soap has been dumped out in the bath tub. Let me tell you how beautiful it looked. The entire bottom third of the tub was full of liquid gold. And blue. And pink.
I am considering hanging the kids out by their toenails, to say the least. When.....
The doorbell rings. It is the tutor, his is on time for the first time all year. Can you imagine his nerve? Couldn't the guy see the fumes floating out the windows? Couldn't he smell the poop from miles away? Couldn't he just go home and let me continue clean myself up? And get dressed for crying out loud??
"Hello," he hollers as one of the offending children escort him into the house.
Hell.........O! Indeed.
Just Nuts...
I said to myself the last time I was blogging from the library... 'just nuts'. Some of you may remember the sweet gal I met the last time I posted via the library computers.
You are what you eat...
Good day Citizens, today's guest blog is brought to you by Progressive policies, First Amendment Protection Insurances, and the letter Y.
Y is Dick Daring daring to trespass on Katie's divine blogosphere? Because she told me to. And I always do what she wants. That makes me a genius.
Now that my status as a Genius has been irrevocably established, I can now feel free to engage in Socratic Philosophy with My Fellow Citizens.
Y use the philosophy of Socrates?
Because (I know I must never begin a sentence with because, Mrs O'Fallon, but, (Mrs. O'Fallon being the Spirit of my 8th, 10th and 11th Grade English Lit teacher,
who severely disapproves of parenthetical writing, and I'm sure putting parenthesis in parenthesis has really got her bunched) anyhow I am not writing in True Paragraph Form, and that makes it OK)
because, Socrates always answered a question with a question; and in so doing avoided answering the question. Genius!
Y has my own Blog languished of late?
Y would Dick Daring dare be relegated to wacko fringe status by asking questions and or criticizing our newly, duly elected; by an overwhelming 52% majority of my fellow citizens, Obama Administration?
Who could oppose His message? Not I. Who can fault His rhetoric? Not I. I want to believe. I choose to submit to his leadership.
He opposes the demands by Corporate systems for little government intervention, opposes Wall Street's unequivocal support of free trade , opposes the super rich Elite's support for free international movement of capital, and opposes capitalism's support of individual wind fall profits.
However, I REFUSE to submit my intellect and my Liberties. Subvert them if you will, take them if you can, but Iwillnotsubmit.
Y would anyone advocate for less freedom? Y have free people throughout history chosen to live with fewer liberties? The answer is always the same, you know it and I know it.
Safety. Security. Painful realities deferred. In my ever so daring opinion, fear.
We cede our liberties on a daily basis. Little bits, nothing worth going to war over. I don't fight my managers when they say my freedom of speech does not exist at work, since anything I say at work can be construed as official policy. Stuff like that happens to us all the time. And we allow it.
Enough about me though, Katie asked me to Blog today because at breakfast I was attempting to put some perspective on $1,000,000,000,000.(I think I got that right, lets see six o's for a million, three more for billion, and then...).
As in the Bush Administration initiated, Obama Administration advocating, Trillion dollar stimulus plan.
Came up with some interesting things while researching this.
A one thousand dollar bill, laying on the side walk in Tokyo would not be enough to buy the space it occupied. It was once said that Bill Gates generates so much wealth every moment that he would lose money taking the time to stoop and pick that $1,000 bill up. One Trillion dollars is equal to $1,000 bills, stacked one atop another to a height of 72 miles.
Or altitude, since Space is only 6 miles away!
Ladies, consider this- (if I haven't already lost you as an audience). Think about spending $1,000,000 a day.
Every day. Since Christmas. Could you finance your own island paradise, complete with complacent manlings to do your every bidding?
Oh, and by the way, I don't mean last Christmas, I meant to say the first Christmas, in Bethlehem, 2,008 years ago. One million dollars a day, and coincidentally, 70 years left in the old check book.
I love America! All that money is generated by good old honest folks, going to work, doing their business, every day. And paying their taxes. Which, apparently, the architect of our $300,000,000 Bailout (buyout?) of America's 'to big to fail' banks, chose not to do. Still, our new Treasury Secretary is the only person in America capable of distributing $1,000,000,000,000.(I think I got that right, lets see six o's for a million, six more for billion, and then...) Because his plan worked so well on the first plan called TARP: you know Troubled Asset Relief Plan.
I think they called it tarp 'cause that's what you need to cover up such a stinking pile of manure!
Time to face reality folks.
Government control of the financial markets, setting up a Bank of the United States, (in addition to the Federal Exchange Commission) Government purchasing controlling interest in corporations and then setting controls is FASCISM.
I know that's not what our brilliant people in our government and media call it but that is what it is. If fascism, or socialism or an Island Paradise, is what you want in America, lets debate that, choose a new path and get on with it.
Don't package it as something else,tell me to swallow it whole, and hurry up about it so we can all save ourselves from ourselves.
Uber genius G.W. Bush says we need to abandon the principles of capitalism to save it. Riiight. Obama say's it's time for a change. All of this crap has been said and done before. Awe inspiring government spending didn't end or even shorten the Great Depression, but WWII sure did. Anyone up for another one of those?
Our economic slide is not Obama's fault. Nor is it W's. It's ours. We borrowed the money, got the interest only loans and refinanced our homes to buy vacations and Ski Doo's. WE ate too much and and now WE have a bellyache. Pepto and time will cure it. Instead we want to mortgage our childrens future to pay for the doctor to give us a stomach pumping, or tracheotomy, or a new lawn on the Capital mall. Anything to end the suffering.
My parents survived the Great Depression. So can we, if we must.
.
The question is, what kind of bitter pill are we willing to swallow so we can avoid it?
Truly and Sincerely yours,
Dick Daring
All photos courtesy of Google
Y is Dick Daring daring to trespass on Katie's divine blogosphere? Because she told me to. And I always do what she wants. That makes me a genius.
Now that my status as a Genius has been irrevocably established, I can now feel free to engage in Socratic Philosophy with My Fellow Citizens.
Y use the philosophy of Socrates?
Because (I know I must never begin a sentence with because, Mrs O'Fallon, but, (Mrs. O'Fallon being the Spirit of my 8th, 10th and 11th Grade English Lit teacher,
who severely disapproves of parenthetical writing, and I'm sure putting parenthesis in parenthesis has really got her bunched) anyhow I am not writing in True Paragraph Form, and that makes it OK)because, Socrates always answered a question with a question; and in so doing avoided answering the question. Genius!
Y has my own Blog languished of late?
Y would Dick Daring dare be relegated to wacko fringe status by asking questions and or criticizing our newly, duly elected; by an overwhelming 52% majority of my fellow citizens, Obama Administration?
Who could oppose His message? Not I. Who can fault His rhetoric? Not I. I want to believe. I choose to submit to his leadership.
He opposes the demands by Corporate systems for little government intervention, opposes Wall Street's unequivocal support of free trade , opposes the super rich Elite's support for free international movement of capital, and opposes capitalism's support of individual wind fall profits.
However, I REFUSE to submit my intellect and my Liberties. Subvert them if you will, take them if you can, but Iwillnotsubmit.
Y would anyone advocate for less freedom? Y have free people throughout history chosen to live with fewer liberties? The answer is always the same, you know it and I know it.
Safety. Security. Painful realities deferred. In my ever so daring opinion, fear.
We cede our liberties on a daily basis. Little bits, nothing worth going to war over. I don't fight my managers when they say my freedom of speech does not exist at work, since anything I say at work can be construed as official policy. Stuff like that happens to us all the time. And we allow it.
Enough about me though, Katie asked me to Blog today because at breakfast I was attempting to put some perspective on $1,000,000,000,000.(I think I got that right, lets see six o's for a million, three more for billion, and then...).
As in the Bush Administration initiated, Obama Administration advocating, Trillion dollar stimulus plan.
Came up with some interesting things while researching this.
A one dollar bill measures about six by three inches.
A one thousand dollar bill is ironically the same size.
A one thousand dollar bill, laying on the side walk in Tokyo would not be enough to buy the space it occupied. It was once said that Bill Gates generates so much wealth every moment that he would lose money taking the time to stoop and pick that $1,000 bill up. One Trillion dollars is equal to $1,000 bills, stacked one atop another to a height of 72 miles.
Or altitude, since Space is only 6 miles away!
Ladies, consider this- (if I haven't already lost you as an audience). Think about spending $1,000,000 a day.
Every day. Since Christmas. Could you finance your own island paradise, complete with complacent manlings to do your every bidding?
Oh, and by the way, I don't mean last Christmas, I meant to say the first Christmas, in Bethlehem, 2,008 years ago. One million dollars a day, and coincidentally, 70 years left in the old check book.
I love America! All that money is generated by good old honest folks, going to work, doing their business, every day. And paying their taxes. Which, apparently, the architect of our $300,000,000 Bailout (buyout?) of America's 'to big to fail' banks, chose not to do. Still, our new Treasury Secretary is the only person in America capable of distributing $1,000,000,000,000.(I think I got that right, lets see six o's for a million, six more for billion, and then...) Because his plan worked so well on the first plan called TARP: you know Troubled Asset Relief Plan.
I think they called it tarp 'cause that's what you need to cover up such a stinking pile of manure!
Time to face reality folks.
Government control of the financial markets, setting up a Bank of the United States, (in addition to the Federal Exchange Commission) Government purchasing controlling interest in corporations and then setting controls is FASCISM.
I know that's not what our brilliant people in our government and media call it but that is what it is. If fascism, or socialism or an Island Paradise, is what you want in America, lets debate that, choose a new path and get on with it.
Don't package it as something else,tell me to swallow it whole, and hurry up about it so we can all save ourselves from ourselves.
Uber genius G.W. Bush says we need to abandon the principles of capitalism to save it. Riiight. Obama say's it's time for a change. All of this crap has been said and done before. Awe inspiring government spending didn't end or even shorten the Great Depression, but WWII sure did. Anyone up for another one of those?
Our economic slide is not Obama's fault. Nor is it W's. It's ours. We borrowed the money, got the interest only loans and refinanced our homes to buy vacations and Ski Doo's. WE ate too much and and now WE have a bellyache. Pepto and time will cure it. Instead we want to mortgage our childrens future to pay for the doctor to give us a stomach pumping, or tracheotomy, or a new lawn on the Capital mall. Anything to end the suffering.
My parents survived the Great Depression. So can we, if we must.
.
The question is, what kind of bitter pill are we willing to swallow so we can avoid it?
Truly and Sincerely yours,
Dick Daring
All photos courtesy of Google
Frontier House
I am a big fan of the PBS "House" series'. Frontier House being the hands down favourite. I have watched the "Frontier" families struggle and swear, triumph and toil, over and over again for the last several years.
I turn this viewing into a big homeschool event during the summers. We "camp out" and watch TV. Ironic I know but my kids love it. We wrap ourselves in the cloak of history, teeming with adventures unknown. We snuggled up with good books and one great reality TV show. We have "camped out" and experienced the hardships of living in the dirt. But. None of my past experiences or readings have prepared me for the frontier life quite like Frontier House.
A little over a year ago my family had to move back home. We had to admit defeat; that our little wagon trek to the place of our dreams, the Napa of the North, was a failure. Moving back into my old home was very difficult. Settling back into the old way of life became drudgery. It was as though I was a reality TV participant, I was lost in my current reality...I longed for the frontier from whence I had come. I dreamt of those good old days living 3 doors down from my sister in crime. I longed for Dutch Bros runs, Sunday suppers and Church Socials. And for light switches....that work.
One of the interesting things about Frontier House is that it takes modernized people back in time to stake a land claim in Montana during the 1800's. They build their houses and privies from trees they themselves cut and hue. They grow their own food. For all intents and purposes they are living in 1860. Except that, they reach for that blasted light switch every time they enter their cabin.
Travel forward in time with me to October 2008.
Katie heads to the privy and hits the light switch. The light bulb makes a terrible hissing, then a pop and the light goes out. This little event is annoying but Katie is sure that a new light bulb will remedy the dark situation. Upon replacement of old hissing bulb with a shiny new one, shiny new one performs the same action. Katie is befuddled. Katie employs the talent of live in handy man. Handy man is also befuddled. Handy man says: screw it, use the light on the other side of the room.
Travel forward January 2009.
After flipping that blasted light switch for three months with no result, handy man has had enough. One afternoon of struggle, and some cursing....viola! The magic of modern living is restored.
Katie and family are still in shock when the switch responds with illumination. (It's only been a week folks.)
In Yahoo news this morning, thousands of families are predicted to be facing "frigid, light-less nights" till mid-February. MID-February!
I think it's time to "camp out" and watch a round of Frontier House. With the lights on....
A little calamity madness
Let me just say that I repel technology. The fact that I was born in the wrong century may or may not have anything to do with this fact.
So.
The washing machine has gone tits up AGAIN!! (after spending 150 bucks to fix it just a month ago) the dishwasher was broken then magically replaced by the dishwasher that fell from heaven (PTL), the toaster only works when its in the mood, the blower on the wood stove sounds like "The Vent" from hell AND now the refrigerator has decided to die. Mind you, this is not a dodgy old fridge but a five years young little number. I guess I should have paid more attention to the signs. The thing has been bleeding for awhile now.
Like the day I came home to find that my trusty food preserver turned Old Faithful was gushing a milky substance all across the kitchen floor. Wha??
Since that fateful day, my good ole Whirlpool has been well, pooling.
Whhhhyyyyyy!?!
Last night-after grocery shopping no less-I returned home to a friendly aroma. Ode to spoiled milk? Parfume du soggy broccoli? Ah, the heady nose of Onions Ala Room Temperature, plus all of the above.
Rather than actually deal with the situation at hand, I amcomplaining blogging lazily contemplating a course of action. What the... freak and frack am I going to do with all the groceries I just bought!?!
It's calamity madness I tell you!
So.
The washing machine has gone tits up AGAIN!! (after spending 150 bucks to fix it just a month ago) the dishwasher was broken then magically replaced by the dishwasher that fell from heaven (PTL), the toaster only works when its in the mood, the blower on the wood stove sounds like "The Vent" from hell AND now the refrigerator has decided to die. Mind you, this is not a dodgy old fridge but a five years young little number. I guess I should have paid more attention to the signs. The thing has been bleeding for awhile now.
Like the day I came home to find that my trusty food preserver turned Old Faithful was gushing a milky substance all across the kitchen floor. Wha??
Since that fateful day, my good ole Whirlpool has been well, pooling.
Whhhhyyyyyy!?!
Last night-after grocery shopping no less-I returned home to a friendly aroma. Ode to spoiled milk? Parfume du soggy broccoli? Ah, the heady nose of Onions Ala Room Temperature, plus all of the above.
Rather than actually deal with the situation at hand, I am
It's calamity madness I tell you!
Playing nice
Today, I wasn't in the mood to play nice. I am grouchy. I just want to have my interweb back. I want to blog and read blogs. Blog, blog, blog! Despite my crappy attitude I just have to say: Hoooraah for the library! Today I had to travel 20 minutes to my not so local library for interweb access. ((sigh))
In the parking lot I met a sweet young gal who immediately pressed in closer than was comfortable and asked me how my day was going. I replied that I was having a fine day and how would her day be going?
"I am frikkin' awesome" she replied. "I just called my boyfriend a p*ssy!"
Well now. Really??
She proceeded to follow me into the library and continued on with her chatty ways. The only computer available to me was one directly next to her. So down I sat and on she went.
Upon reading her newest Myspace message she found that her brother who just finished a tour in Iraq had gotten himself a new "tat". A tattoo that he himself had designed. On and on this girl went with her life story and the story of her brother and how efffin' cool this and the other thing were.
After about half an hour of nothing but effin' mind blowing conversation the girl stood up got right into my face and asked me my age. Well, I faltered. Then told her " I am 33." She took a step backwards exclaimed "wow, you look effin' great! I am 21 and I thought you were younger than me! My name is Ariel what's yours?"
Reeling slightly from the flatteries dumped upon me, I gave her my name and wished her the best of luck with her effin' life.
After Ariel had left the building the librarian came over and pulled up a chair. She thanked me for taking the time to invest in Ariel, she is not well. She is mentally lost and homeless.
I told the librarian that it wasn't any problem. I didn't mind talking to the girl, in fact she told me I looked great! I thought she was a sweet kid! Heck I had contemplated taking her home with me! The librarian laughed and told me what a good person I was. I thought: you areeffin' right! I am a nice person.
Rather than do my blogging like I had been dying to do, I sat and patiently chatted about life and love with a mentally unstable homeless girl, who claimed that life was good. Effin' good!
Well reader, life is good! Did you play nice today?
In the parking lot I met a sweet young gal who immediately pressed in closer than was comfortable and asked me how my day was going. I replied that I was having a fine day and how would her day be going?
"I am frikkin' awesome" she replied. "I just called my boyfriend a p*ssy!"
Well now. Really??
She proceeded to follow me into the library and continued on with her chatty ways. The only computer available to me was one directly next to her. So down I sat and on she went.
Upon reading her newest Myspace message she found that her brother who just finished a tour in Iraq had gotten himself a new "tat". A tattoo that he himself had designed. On and on this girl went with her life story and the story of her brother and how efffin' cool this and the other thing were.
After about half an hour of nothing but effin' mind blowing conversation the girl stood up got right into my face and asked me my age. Well, I faltered. Then told her " I am 33." She took a step backwards exclaimed "wow, you look effin' great! I am 21 and I thought you were younger than me! My name is Ariel what's yours?"
Reeling slightly from the flatteries dumped upon me, I gave her my name and wished her the best of luck with her
After Ariel had left the building the librarian came over and pulled up a chair. She thanked me for taking the time to invest in Ariel, she is not well. She is mentally lost and homeless.
I told the librarian that it wasn't any problem. I didn't mind talking to the girl, in fact she told me I looked great! I thought she was a sweet kid! Heck I had contemplated taking her home with me! The librarian laughed and told me what a good person I was. I thought: you are
Rather than do my blogging like I had been dying to do, I sat and patiently chatted about life and love with a mentally unstable homeless girl, who claimed that life was good. Effin' good!
Well reader, life is good! Did you play nice today?
Vent::
Ah, yes. The word vent.
To me, not a choice word to open up the flood gates of emotion but a strange opening for which to vet the odors from the 'Loo.
In all my growing up years our homes bathrooms were without a vent. I was never worried about steam vapor fogging up the mirrors or other vapors polluting the air because there was noting to be done about such things. We were a vent-less family. I was unaware that such a thing even existed. Really.
My first meeting with the vent was when I went to meet my fiance's family for the first time.
It just happened to be Thanksgiving weekend and all the family was gathered to celebrate. As was fitting, I was schooled in vent etiquette. I was shown the inner most workings of the vent. I was shown the switch and told to use it, lest all the world should suffer.
Being a very shy and unassuming girl, I made my way into the facilities of my soon to be in-laws home.
Having not actually had the opportunity to flip the switch, I was shocked and slightly amazed at the sound that began to rumble from the small box embedded in the ceiling. At first it began a slow warm up, just a soft rumbley jangle. I had business to attend to so, I thought nothing of it and sat down. At which point the vent began its joyful chorus.
Clackety...Burp...vroom....BANG...whoosh.....bamBAda....Flaaarrrp...
...WHACK...whack...rattle....RAttLE ...bang
Mortification. Sheer and utter, mortification. And, it gets better...
Upon finishing my, ahem, business, I quickly made my way out of the bathroom only to run smack dab into every male member of my fiance's family. They had heard the ruckus and come to 'check it out'. They were all planted in front of the door, WITH SNACKS!!! like I was the Sunday matinee. Each one congratulating me on a great performance and giving me a pat on the back.
I stammered, red faced, that the noises weren't ME! 'Right, right! Sure.' They all agreed.
'It was the vent. I tell you!' I threw back at the mob. 'The VENT!'
To this very day, I have never lived in a house with a bathroom vent.
To me, not a choice word to open up the flood gates of emotion but a strange opening for which to vet the odors from the 'Loo.
In all my growing up years our homes bathrooms were without a vent. I was never worried about steam vapor fogging up the mirrors or other vapors polluting the air because there was noting to be done about such things. We were a vent-less family. I was unaware that such a thing even existed. Really.
My first meeting with the vent was when I went to meet my fiance's family for the first time.
It just happened to be Thanksgiving weekend and all the family was gathered to celebrate. As was fitting, I was schooled in vent etiquette. I was shown the inner most workings of the vent. I was shown the switch and told to use it, lest all the world should suffer.
Being a very shy and unassuming girl, I made my way into the facilities of my soon to be in-laws home.
Having not actually had the opportunity to flip the switch, I was shocked and slightly amazed at the sound that began to rumble from the small box embedded in the ceiling. At first it began a slow warm up, just a soft rumbley jangle. I had business to attend to so, I thought nothing of it and sat down. At which point the vent began its joyful chorus.
Clackety...Burp...vroom....BANG...whoosh.....bamBAda....Flaaarrrp...
...WHACK...whack...rattle....RAttLE ...bang
Mortification. Sheer and utter, mortification. And, it gets better...
Upon finishing my, ahem, business, I quickly made my way out of the bathroom only to run smack dab into every male member of my fiance's family. They had heard the ruckus and come to 'check it out'. They were all planted in front of the door, WITH SNACKS!!! like I was the Sunday matinee. Each one congratulating me on a great performance and giving me a pat on the back.
I stammered, red faced, that the noises weren't ME! 'Right, right! Sure.' They all agreed.
'It was the vent. I tell you!' I threw back at the mob. 'The VENT!'
To this very day, I have never lived in a house with a bathroom vent.
O' Look.....
...more crap! Yes folks, that would be another broken item. And yes, this one was also broken by the boy who shall remain nameless.
This one just happens to be an antique Watkins spice bottle. The large kind. No scratch that, the extra large kind. And it just happened to be full to the brim with organic garlic powder.
*sniff-sniff*
MMMM, can't you just smell that?? O' I can. I am sure I will be smelling itforever for awhile.
Let us all just bow our heads so that I can regain my composure and not scream like a banshee for a moment of silence.
A-hem.
This one just happens to be an antique Watkins spice bottle. The large kind. No scratch that, the extra large kind. And it just happened to be full to the brim with organic garlic powder.
*sniff-sniff*
MMMM, can't you just smell that?? O' I can. I am sure I will be smelling it
Let us all just bow our heads
A-hem.
Calamity
My latest calamity involves a giant spider, baking soda and vinegar, and mystery shoes.
Last night whilst helping Fidget make her bed I was bitten by this monster of a spider. It felt as though I had been stabbed with a needle in the hand. This biting sent me into full on panic attack mode. My heart started palpitating, my mouth went dry, I started to sweat, my vision blurred, basically I suffered death and death like symptoms.
The mother in me decided that now would not be the best time to give in to the death spider so I dug around in the blankets, to see if I could find the culprit. This massive spider is what I found.
My hand started to swell and the pain started traveling up my arm. Then my hand went numb. At this point I called Miriam. No answer. Called hubby. No freaking answer. Called doctor's office, they would have to call me back.
Ack! I was going to die and no one would know! I had the sense to plaster my hand with baking soda and just to be extra disgusting, vinegar. My rationale was that these things would draw out the poison now taking the fast track toward my brain and heart.
So I managed to get Miriam to answer her phone and whined about my dying. She sympathized. Then the doc called back.
According to the nurse on call, I was only freaking out. I would in fact not die, but just to make sure I was to come to the office to have myhead hand checked out. This involved the locating non-phone answering husband and shoes for 4 kids and myself.
Enter mystery shoes.
These babies were lurking in the bottom of my closet. I had assumpted that they belonged to my shoe loving husband and had given him a hard time for owning two pairs of white court shoes, that he never wore. In fact these puppies are not his size and he had assumpted they belonged to moi. Being to large for even my size 9 tootsies, they must belong to the Headstrong one. But no, these would be too small for a growing boy of 12. No one in our house has any idea where these shoes came from. This is the story of my life.
Back to the dying:
Thank the heavens above for the mystery shoes, without which I would have gone to the doctors office unshod, as I could not find two shoes that matched. (I have two little girls who play dress up with my shoes and NEVER put them back)
I managed to make contact with hubby, filled him in on the death and death like symptoms and told him to beat feet homeward.
Now a trip to the doctor's office for us, involves a 60 mile trek, one way. We just happened to be out of fuel. In both vehicles. And we are broker than broke. We used our last pennies at the pump to get just enough fuel to skate our way to town.
After waiting for what felt like hours, I was told by the smartest doctor on the planet (who had to Google 'spider identification') to say that I will in fact live and if I was lucky, my hand would not rot and fall off. You know what saved my life?
The baking soda and vinegar.
Last night whilst helping Fidget make her bed I was bitten by this monster of a spider. It felt as though I had been stabbed with a needle in the hand. This biting sent me into full on panic attack mode. My heart started palpitating, my mouth went dry, I started to sweat, my vision blurred, basically I suffered death and death like symptoms.
The mother in me decided that now would not be the best time to give in to the death spider so I dug around in the blankets, to see if I could find the culprit. This massive spider is what I found.
My hand started to swell and the pain started traveling up my arm. Then my hand went numb. At this point I called Miriam. No answer. Called hubby. No freaking answer. Called doctor's office, they would have to call me back.
Ack! I was going to die and no one would know! I had the sense to plaster my hand with baking soda and just to be extra disgusting, vinegar. My rationale was that these things would draw out the poison now taking the fast track toward my brain and heart.
So I managed to get Miriam to answer her phone and whined about my dying. She sympathized. Then the doc called back.
According to the nurse on call, I was only freaking out. I would in fact not die, but just to make sure I was to come to the office to have my
Enter mystery shoes.
These babies were lurking in the bottom of my closet. I had assumpted that they belonged to my shoe loving husband and had given him a hard time for owning two pairs of white court shoes, that he never wore. In fact these puppies are not his size and he had assumpted they belonged to moi. Being to large for even my size 9 tootsies, they must belong to the Headstrong one. But no, these would be too small for a growing boy of 12. No one in our house has any idea where these shoes came from. This is the story of my life.
Back to the dying:
Thank the heavens above for the mystery shoes, without which I would have gone to the doctors office unshod, as I could not find two shoes that matched. (I have two little girls who play dress up with my shoes and NEVER put them back)
I managed to make contact with hubby, filled him in on the death and death like symptoms and told him to beat feet homeward.
Now a trip to the doctor's office for us, involves a 60 mile trek, one way. We just happened to be out of fuel. In both vehicles. And we are broker than broke. We used our last pennies at the pump to get just enough fuel to skate our way to town.
After waiting for what felt like hours, I was told by the smartest doctor on the planet (who had to Google 'spider identification') to say that I will in fact live and if I was lucky, my hand would not rot and fall off. You know what saved my life?
The baking soda and vinegar.
Love/Hate relationship
I have issues. Yeah, yeah, don't we all. BUT...These issues are ragged and painful and more often than not get me in big trouble with the man I share my life with.
I am going to share but don't take offense at my opinions, friends, as they are just that, mine. Mine and mine alone. Don't harbor ill will for me if you don't agree, just do as any good girlfriend would do and shake your head and say .....'oh, you poor thing'...MmmK?!
****
I am a pretty easy going gal. I maintain calm on all levels most of the time. There are few things that make by blood boil. Very few issues, bring up the bile. That is, until, you turn on the computer/video games. Let me tell you, I get full on vehement, when the games go on.
My man is a gamer. A game-a-bob. He is passionate about video games. Hewastes spends all of his free time on video games. He flies planes, sails ships, spawns and morphs. For hours on end. Daily. Well, to be fair almost daily.
Ahem.
We are a one computer family and my blogging only suffers a little.
Call me crazy. And hypocritical, really, it's OK for me to have computer time but not anyone else in the family.well yeah That isn't the case really. If my family were writing/researching instead of just gaping at the computer, I wouldn't mind. As much. It's just that I hate, HATE!! video games with a passion. Name anything about them and I guarantee that I abhor it.
Ay, there's the rub.
My hubby loves. LOVES. his video games.
This breaks my heart. My heart, that was born in the wrong century. Obviously.
So, call me old fashioned or technically challenged. Or both. But, the whole idea behind video games, makes me sick. For crying out loud, if you want to "play"(virtually) golf with your kid, then for Pete's sake take the kid out to play golf. You want to fight and kill and sneak around in the dark hunting things.....then get off your a$ and GO do it.
Even the argument of getting a Wii is lost on me. Moot.
'It's a workout! You can bowl. You can dance.'
Well then for the love of God... get up and workout, put a freaking bowling ball in that grubby little hand and go to! Turn up the volume and dance till you can't dance no more!!
Every day, as I watch my family stare blankly into the screen, I have passionate visions of massive bonfires in my driveway. Fires in which all of the disks, systems and controllers are all exploding into flames. Then, once the ashes have cooled, I will drive over the whole mess in my jacked up Scout, (the one I look so dang cute driving) back and forth till there is nothing but dust left. Then I will hand out the baseball gloves and we will all live happily ever after....
Yeah, I have issues.
I am going to share but don't take offense at my opinions, friends, as they are just that, mine. Mine and mine alone. Don't harbor ill will for me if you don't agree, just do as any good girlfriend would do and shake your head and say .....'oh, you poor thing'...MmmK?!
****
I am a pretty easy going gal. I maintain calm on all levels most of the time. There are few things that make by blood boil. Very few issues, bring up the bile. That is, until, you turn on the computer/video games. Let me tell you, I get full on vehement, when the games go on.
My man is a gamer. A game-a-bob. He is passionate about video games. He
Ahem.
We are a one computer family
Call me crazy. And hypocritical, really, it's OK for me to have computer time but not anyone else in the family.
Ay, there's the rub.
My hubby loves. LOVES. his video games.
This breaks my heart. My heart, that was born in the wrong century. Obviously.
So, call me old fashioned or technically challenged. Or both. But, the whole idea behind video games, makes me sick. For crying out loud, if you want to "play"(virtually) golf with your kid, then for Pete's sake take the kid out to play golf. You want to fight and kill and sneak around in the dark hunting things.....then get off your a$ and GO do it.
Even the argument of getting a Wii is lost on me. Moot.
'It's a workout! You can bowl. You can dance.'
Well then for the love of God... get up and workout, put a freaking bowling ball in that grubby little hand and go to! Turn up the volume and dance till you can't dance no more!!
Put down the FLIPPING controller and not one gets hurt!
****
Every day, as I watch my family stare blankly into the screen, I have passionate visions of massive bonfires in my driveway. Fires in which all of the disks, systems and controllers are all exploding into flames. Then, once the ashes have cooled, I will drive over the whole mess in my jacked up Scout, (the one I look so dang cute driving) back and forth till there is nothing but dust left. Then I will hand out the baseball gloves and we will all live happily ever after....
Yeah, I have issues.
My cup runeth over
While relating my latest calamity to my friend Miriam, I had a hard time fighting back the
tears. This story finds me starting my weekend off with a bang.
I had just done the big grocery shopping for my 30 day cook. I put the fresh chicken thighs into the (adorable) 1950's GE fridge. Six packages of meat. Family packs. Thursday afternoon, preparing to make a big batch of BBQ Chicken for our dinner, I went to the GE and noticed right away that something smelled funny. Not funny-ha-ha! but funny-odd. I actually stood there sniffing out what I might find to be the culprit....all six bags of meat cutting into my hands...dangling out behind me.
I plopped the heavy bags onto the kitchen counter with a jolly thud. Feeling so proud of myself for having meat to fix for dinner. Humming to myself, I prepared to well, prepare. When I caught a whiff of the smell. Sniffing my own stinky armpit first. (OH, you know I did) Whoosh! Bad but not what I was looking for. This was a sorta rancid smell.
I opened up the first package of chicken.
I was met with the most disgusting, hair curlin' odor. I lunged back. What the heck? I snuck in for a better look and smell. Everything appeared to be fine. No little rainbows on the meat. Meat was still very pink, no graying. All signs, I had been taught to look for. But that smell. So, using a trick I've used with blood shot beef, I placed all the thighs in a large bowl of cold water.
Boy howdy! That bird wasfowl foul.
After changing out the water and giving the meat another sniff I find it was still bad. I was now totally ticked. Ticked at the fridge. Ticked at the butcher. Ticked at myself.
I sulked around wondering what to do. Hubby was home wanting dinner. He frankly didn't smell anything that seemed OFF to him. He would eat it....he proffered.
Umm....
I couldn't handle the loss of the meat. The cost of the fuel to return the rotten meat would be more than the meat had originally cost. UGH!
In a desperate attempt to salvage the meat, Inspector General decides, 'this meat will not go to waste'. It shall be cooked and fed to the animals.
(read: This was solely for my benefit, as he would have just as soon thrown it in the trash or used it as raccoon bait.)
Rancid meat was packed into all of the Crock Pots I own and set to stew overnight.
The horrific odor that greeted me in the morning made me wish for a gas mask. As I strolled into my kitchen to asses the damage, a curious sight met my eyes.
My cup had surely run over. It had overflowed right out of the crock of friendship starter. Spilled right out onto the counter from the crocks of rotten meat and even dripped onto the floor.
I spent the next two hours cleaning up the greasy, rancid, fermented, sticky mess. I think I burned a bit of the skin off my hand with the ammonia. Now that was a smell. The ammonia, flesh eating, need a gas mask ambrosia.
Miriam's response:
You just can't catch a break, can you?
****
No....my friend, my cup surely runeth over.
tears. This story finds me starting my weekend off with a bang.
I had just done the big grocery shopping for my 30 day cook. I put the fresh chicken thighs into the (adorable) 1950's GE fridge. Six packages of meat. Family packs. Thursday afternoon, preparing to make a big batch of BBQ Chicken for our dinner, I went to the GE and noticed right away that something smelled funny. Not funny-ha-ha! but funny-odd. I actually stood there sniffing out what I might find to be the culprit....all six bags of meat cutting into my hands...dangling out behind me.
I plopped the heavy bags onto the kitchen counter with a jolly thud. Feeling so proud of myself for having meat to fix for dinner. Humming to myself, I prepared to well, prepare. When I caught a whiff of the smell. Sniffing my own stinky armpit first. (OH, you know I did) Whoosh! Bad but not what I was looking for. This was a sorta rancid smell.
I opened up the first package of chicken.
I was met with the most disgusting, hair curlin' odor. I lunged back. What the heck? I snuck in for a better look and smell. Everything appeared to be fine. No little rainbows on the meat. Meat was still very pink, no graying. All signs, I had been taught to look for. But that smell. So, using a trick I've used with blood shot beef, I placed all the thighs in a large bowl of cold water.
Boy howdy! That bird was
After changing out the water and giving the meat another sniff I find it was still bad. I was now totally ticked. Ticked at the fridge. Ticked at the butcher. Ticked at myself.
I sulked around wondering what to do. Hubby was home wanting dinner. He frankly didn't smell anything that seemed OFF to him. He would eat it....he proffered.
Umm....
I couldn't handle the loss of the meat. The cost of the fuel to return the rotten meat would be more than the meat had originally cost. UGH!
In a desperate attempt to salvage the meat, Inspector General decides, 'this meat will not go to waste'. It shall be cooked and fed to the animals.
(read: This was solely for my benefit, as he would have just as soon thrown it in the trash or used it as raccoon bait.)
Rancid meat was packed into all of the Crock Pots I own and set to stew overnight.
The horrific odor that greeted me in the morning made me wish for a gas mask. As I strolled into my kitchen to asses the damage, a curious sight met my eyes.
My cup had surely run over. It had overflowed right out of the crock of friendship starter. Spilled right out onto the counter from the crocks of rotten meat and even dripped onto the floor.
I spent the next two hours cleaning up the greasy, rancid, fermented, sticky mess. I think I burned a bit of the skin off my hand with the ammonia. Now that was a smell. The ammonia, flesh eating, need a gas mask ambrosia.
Miriam's response:
You just can't catch a break, can you?
****
No....my friend, my cup surely runeth over.
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