Sooooo...you're all caught up on the situation with the animals, right? If not, you might want to skip down to the previos post because it will make this one oh-so-much-more-meaningful.
The new goat - goat/dog. He seems to be settling in alright. Hubby and I did manage to get to the store for another 300 feet of fence which we hope to put up this weekend. Because you know, nothing says "The Lord Is Risen!" like installing fence.
In the mean time, he is still in the kennel. Which is holding him just fine.
Sort of.
He has actually warmed up to the dogs and is pretty happy when they are in the kennel with him. However, as goats are herd animals, he's not too crazy about being alone when we bring the dogs in. Not a happy goat. At all.
At first he would just kind of trot around doing the "Baaaa-aaa" thing.
Back and forth, back and forth.
"Baaaaa-aaaaa!"
Back and forth...
"BAAAAAA-AAAAA!!!"
When we built the kennel, we put it right off the back of the house so we could just open the back door and the dogs could run right in. It's great on those bitter cold winter nights - not having to actually walk the dogs out to a kennel. Just open the door and boot them out.
The downside of this, of course, is that, when you have a lonely goat in the kennel, sooner or later he is bound to realize that he can stand up and look through the window of the door. It's an old door and has four big panes in the top half - just perfect for lonely goats who want to peek in on the family.
In the morning at breakfast...
"BAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAA!!!!"
Sitting at the kitchen table trying to pay bills...
"BAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAA!!!!!"
In the evening, having a nice family dinner...
"BAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!"
We would all try to ignore the cacophony and carry on a fractured conversation.
Me: So, Daughter, what did y-
Lonely Goat: BAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Me: What did you d-
Lonely Goat: BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Me: What di-
Lonely Goat: BAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Me:...
Lonely Goat:...
Me:...
Lonely Goat:...
Me: Wha-
Lonely Goat: BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!
Me: WHATDIDYOUDOATSCHOOLTODAY???!!!!
Lonely Goat: BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!
And so on.
It is hard enough ignoring him but he stands up and looks right in the windows at us.
"BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
I finally told hubby we need to get the fence up and get another goat to keep him company before I lose what little bit is left of my mind.
Because just when you think it can't get any worse...
The other night - the night when the temperature dropped from the lovely mid 60's to something like 20 below - I reached my breaking point.
I had an unusually long day at work and didn't get home until around 7:00 or so. Just enough time to feed all of the animals before darkness really settled in. I had been in a real hurry that morning and ran out the door without my lunch so, by the time I got home and fed everyone else, I was really ravenous. I foraged around in the freezer to try to find something quick and easy.
Aha! Pierogies and Sprouts de Brussels in butter sauce. Perfect.
I put some water on the stove to boil...
"BAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAA!"
...sliced up an onion and put it in a pan with butter...
"BAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
...cut a small slit in the bag of Sprouts de Brussels in butter sauce and popped it in the microwave...
"BAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!"
...checked the water - it's boiling - time to put the pierogies in...
...
...stir the onions and butter, careful not to burn them...
...
...check on the Sprouts de Brussels, oh good, the goat finally settled down...
...
...stir the onions and butter again...
...
...check the pierogies, uh oh, looks like one popped open, better get -
SMAAAAAAAASH!!!!!!
BAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!
"WHA-? HOLY CRAP!!!"
Pierogie flying through the air.
It's funny how, in life, your priorities can shift in an instant. One minute you are happily stirring your pierogies, the next minute you have a goat smashing through your window in a hail of flying glass and, out of some sort of primitive fight or flight reflex, one of your precious little potato pockets is sailing through the air to land Splat! on the floor where it is promplty gobbled up by a beagle.
It's funny how that can happen.
All of a sudden like that.
And those tender little Sprouts de Brussels in buttery sauce, cooked to steamy perfection, now sit in your microwave, slowly giving in to the Canadian cold front that is now blowing around your kitchen as you plod around out in the garage, looking for a drill with a fresh battery and some screws and a piece of plywood and the circular saw because God forbid you find a piece of plywood that is remotely near the size you need to cover the now missing window of your door through which first came a goat and now a Canadian cold front, congealing to a gross yellow mass what was once a warm buttery sauce on your now pitiful Sprouts de Brussels.
Funny how those things happen.
The goat, you will be happy to know, is no worse for the wear.
I, on the other hand...
Friday, April 06, 2007
Monday, April 02, 2007
Welcome to Identity Crisis Acres!
Where our motto is "Ummm...what am I again?"
So, I think you are familiar with the chicken. If not, you can read a bit about her arrival here. When she first arrived, she was pretty sure she was a cat. She ate cat food, she hung out with the cats. Now, however, she is a goat. At some point after we got
Rhubarb, she decided she was no longer a cat but, in fact, a goat. She now eats the goat food, grazes with them when they are out of the pen, and sleeps with them and night. The only essential difference between her and the goats is that, when they all come out of the goat house in the morning, there is sometimes an egg in her spot.
Here at Identity Crisis Acres, we feel it is important that each creature explore all the possibilities of livestock lifestyles. Take time to explore you!
I also think I might have mentioned that we are in the process of getting two more goats.
I'm having a little trouble on the angora end but we did have success with the boer - or beer! - goat. Hubby and I went to the farm last Saturday and picked him out. The only problem with that was that they have an awful lot of goats right now. Like hundreds. And they need to move them out. So they could only hold ours for us for a week.
This would be the week hubby worked every day. It would also be the very same week that I took son to look at a college. The long and short of it is that we didn't really have a place to put him.
Now, you might say "Well, just put him in with the other goats." And that, eventually is what will happen. However, we aren't quite ready to breed just yet so we need to keep him away from the girls. Or, probably more appropriately, keep the girls away from him.
I had to work on goat pick-up day so the task was left to hubby. We decided that the new goat could just go in the garden for now since it is a nice, big, fenced in area. Hubby went to the farm to pick him up - in the station wagon, hee hee - and deposited him in the garden. All was well.
Was being the key word.
At about 3 o'clock, I finally wrapped things up at work and I was on my way to see my children in their first track meet of the year. As I was putting the last of my items in the car, my cell phone rang. It was hubby.
Hubby: Hey.
Me: Hi. What's up?
Hubby: Our new goat?
Me: Yeah...?
Hubby: It's done gone and runned off.
Me: CRAP!
So, instead of seeing my children in their first track meet of the year, I was instead canvassing the neighborhood for the errant goat. We both drove around for a while with no luck, checking back at the house every once in a while. Eventually, I passed hubby on my way out of the driveway as he was on his way in. I told him I let the girls out in hopes the new goat will see them and just hang out with them.
Then I headed down the road and made a turn on to a small road with a few houses. The last house on the road is the one that borders our property to the east. It was sold about 1 1/2 years ago to a youngish couple but I never really met them as of yet. Not because I didn't want to be social or anything - it's more a case of just not having, or making, the time. I was just going to go past this house and continue on to the dirt road that goes on to our property when I spied one of the neighbors in front of the garage. I stopped, sighed, and turned the car toward the garage.
I could tell he was on his cell phone. He hung up as I got out of the car.
Me: Hi! I'm your neighbor. Did you...
Neighbor: Hey! Hi! Are you missing a goat?
Me:...yes.
And that is how I finally got to talk to my new neighbor. And then hubby showed up and we really had a grand ol' time chasing the goat around his yard.
We still weren't having any luck so I went back to the house to get one of the girls in hopes of luring new goat home. While I was away, the goat trotted off through the woods towards the highway.
Now, imagine yourself and your spouse (who happen to be other neighbors of ours who live a little bit further down the road) driving along, minding your own business when, from out of seemingly nowhere, you see my husband leap off a cliff from the woods onto the road below on the heels of a goat.
I wish I could have seen it. Hubby said he was running kind of sideways and backwards trying to hold up his hands to stop traffic when he realized the people in the one car were our neighbors laughing hysterically.
He eventually was able to run down the goat, catch it, and carry it up through the woods where I met him with the car.
We brought the runaway home and, having nowhere else, put him in the kennel.
At Identity Crisis Acres, we offer a wide variety of living arrangement to suit your individual needs. Not happy with your current roommate? We'll find a perfect match for you.
So, you see, things are a bit odd here. Now, you might be thinking "Well, at least things worked out ok with your horse." And, for the most part, you would be right.
Remember the horse? How's about a little picture to refresh your memory?
Isn't he getting big? Isn't he cute? Doesn't he have a lot of legs?
...
So, as always, here's the story.
When we initially picked out the horse, it was pretty much by a photo on-line. Fine. The horse shows up and all is good. I was so happy with him, I put his baby picture - the very first one I ever saw of him - on my computer as the desktop background.
Then, I took some more photos. I would open up the photos on the computer and compare them to the baby picture, oohing and aahhing at how big he was getting.
And then...
Once in a while I would wonder "Gee, he has a bigger white sock now than he did when he was a baby. Unless..... Nah." That little feeling was always there but, really, what were the odds that I wouldn't have the right horse?
Then, about a month ago, I got a call from the rescue coordinator.
Me: Hey! How are you? We LOVE our horse!
RC: Oh. I have to talk to you. I don't know how to say this...
Me: What?
RC: You have the wrong horse.
So, apparently the odds are pretty good.
As it turned out, there were three colts that were almost identical. The one we got had the right ID tag but it was the wrong horse.
So, what other choice did we have?
So, I think you are familiar with the chicken. If not, you can read a bit about her arrival here. When she first arrived, she was pretty sure she was a cat. She ate cat food, she hung out with the cats. Now, however, she is a goat. At some point after we got
Rhubarb, she decided she was no longer a cat but, in fact, a goat. She now eats the goat food, grazes with them when they are out of the pen, and sleeps with them and night. The only essential difference between her and the goats is that, when they all come out of the goat house in the morning, there is sometimes an egg in her spot.
Here at Identity Crisis Acres, we feel it is important that each creature explore all the possibilities of livestock lifestyles. Take time to explore you!
I also think I might have mentioned that we are in the process of getting two more goats.
I'm having a little trouble on the angora end but we did have success with the boer - or beer! - goat. Hubby and I went to the farm last Saturday and picked him out. The only problem with that was that they have an awful lot of goats right now. Like hundreds. And they need to move them out. So they could only hold ours for us for a week.
This would be the week hubby worked every day. It would also be the very same week that I took son to look at a college. The long and short of it is that we didn't really have a place to put him.
Now, you might say "Well, just put him in with the other goats." And that, eventually is what will happen. However, we aren't quite ready to breed just yet so we need to keep him away from the girls. Or, probably more appropriately, keep the girls away from him.
I had to work on goat pick-up day so the task was left to hubby. We decided that the new goat could just go in the garden for now since it is a nice, big, fenced in area. Hubby went to the farm to pick him up - in the station wagon, hee hee - and deposited him in the garden. All was well.
Was being the key word.
At about 3 o'clock, I finally wrapped things up at work and I was on my way to see my children in their first track meet of the year. As I was putting the last of my items in the car, my cell phone rang. It was hubby.
Hubby: Hey.
Me: Hi. What's up?
Hubby: Our new goat?
Me: Yeah...?
Hubby: It's done gone and runned off.
Me: CRAP!
So, instead of seeing my children in their first track meet of the year, I was instead canvassing the neighborhood for the errant goat. We both drove around for a while with no luck, checking back at the house every once in a while. Eventually, I passed hubby on my way out of the driveway as he was on his way in. I told him I let the girls out in hopes the new goat will see them and just hang out with them.
Then I headed down the road and made a turn on to a small road with a few houses. The last house on the road is the one that borders our property to the east. It was sold about 1 1/2 years ago to a youngish couple but I never really met them as of yet. Not because I didn't want to be social or anything - it's more a case of just not having, or making, the time. I was just going to go past this house and continue on to the dirt road that goes on to our property when I spied one of the neighbors in front of the garage. I stopped, sighed, and turned the car toward the garage.
I could tell he was on his cell phone. He hung up as I got out of the car.
Me: Hi! I'm your neighbor. Did you...
Neighbor: Hey! Hi! Are you missing a goat?
Me:...yes.
And that is how I finally got to talk to my new neighbor. And then hubby showed up and we really had a grand ol' time chasing the goat around his yard.
We still weren't having any luck so I went back to the house to get one of the girls in hopes of luring new goat home. While I was away, the goat trotted off through the woods towards the highway.
Now, imagine yourself and your spouse (who happen to be other neighbors of ours who live a little bit further down the road) driving along, minding your own business when, from out of seemingly nowhere, you see my husband leap off a cliff from the woods onto the road below on the heels of a goat.
I wish I could have seen it. Hubby said he was running kind of sideways and backwards trying to hold up his hands to stop traffic when he realized the people in the one car were our neighbors laughing hysterically.
He eventually was able to run down the goat, catch it, and carry it up through the woods where I met him with the car.
We brought the runaway home and, having nowhere else, put him in the kennel.
At Identity Crisis Acres, we offer a wide variety of living arrangement to suit your individual needs. Not happy with your current roommate? We'll find a perfect match for you.
So, you see, things are a bit odd here. Now, you might be thinking "Well, at least things worked out ok with your horse." And, for the most part, you would be right.
Remember the horse? How's about a little picture to refresh your memory?
Isn't he getting big? Isn't he cute? Doesn't he have a lot of legs?
...
So, as always, here's the story.
When we initially picked out the horse, it was pretty much by a photo on-line. Fine. The horse shows up and all is good. I was so happy with him, I put his baby picture - the very first one I ever saw of him - on my computer as the desktop background.
Then, I took some more photos. I would open up the photos on the computer and compare them to the baby picture, oohing and aahhing at how big he was getting.
And then...
Once in a while I would wonder "Gee, he has a bigger white sock now than he did when he was a baby. Unless..... Nah." That little feeling was always there but, really, what were the odds that I wouldn't have the right horse?
Then, about a month ago, I got a call from the rescue coordinator.
Me: Hey! How are you? We LOVE our horse!
RC: Oh. I have to talk to you. I don't know how to say this...
Me: What?
RC: You have the wrong horse.
So, apparently the odds are pretty good.
As it turned out, there were three colts that were almost identical. The one we got had the right ID tag but it was the wrong horse.
So, what other choice did we have?
Identity Crisis Acres
Where you never quite know who you are or what the hell you should be doing.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
While You're At It, Here.. Take My Soul
Hi there.
I know, it's been a while.
It's been such a while that I don't even know where to begin.
So, I'll start with the obvious and end with the calamitous.
First -
I was in Florida.
Let me say it again just so I might be able to spirit myself away for one brief, sunny, capri-wearing moment.
I was in Florida.
Sigh.
So, it wasn't like a real vacation because my husband and I were helping as chaperones (Oh! How funny is that?!) for the high school marching band. But, it also coincided with Pennsylvania's last dip into single digit temperatures so Yay! for us. Also, our particular group of kids was awesome and gave us no trouble whatsoever so I suppose it is as close to a vacation in Florida as we are going to come for, oh, another TWENTY TO THIRTY YEARS!
Ahem.
This whole going to Florida thing. This whole Disney thing. It seems so...dreamlike. It was all very amazing in every sense of the word.
Every. Sense.
Like, I mean "good" amazing and "bad" amazing.
The good amazing is everything you would think and more. It is probably the cleanest place - including the emergency room at the local hospital - that I have ever been. And the lengths to which they go to make the imaginable real is really something to behold. I have never seen so much formed concrete in my life.
I guess that last line won't exactly make it into the Disney tourism literature.
As for the bad amazing... Well, there's the whole "lengths to which they go" thing. And it's cleaner than my local hospital emergency room. Which isn't necessarily a bad reflection on Disney.
No, really the worst of it was probably the excess.
And the strollers.
I have to say that I am very proud of hubby and myself in that we made it all the way to the second day before we found each other irksome.
Forgive us. It was overwhelming.
At some point on day two we had the conversation that goes like this:
Me: What would you like to do?
Hubby: It doesn't matter. What do you want to do?
Me: It doesn't matter. You pick.
Hubby: No, you pick.
Me: No, really. It. Doesn't. Matter. You pick.
Hubby: I. Already. Told. You. I. Don't. Care. YOU PICK.
And so on. Until...
Me: Can't you Just. Pick. Something?
Hubby: I told you. I. Don't. Care. How about this - I want to do whatever will make you happy right now.
And that, friends, is when I told him...
Me: You want to make me happy? You Want To Make Me Happy? OK. This will make me happy. Stop saying "What do you think Walt Disney would think if he saw what this whole park turned into? Do you think he'd be happy about it?" OK? Stop saying that. And stop pointing out the excess. Excess food. Excess spending. Excess EVERYTHING! Stop that. Stop being such a downer for the next two and a half days and Just Be A HAPPY LITTLE CONSUMER!!! OK?!!! THEN WHEN WE GO HOME, WE CAN GO BACK TO BEING OUR NORMAL BITTER SELVES!! THAT'S WHAT WOULD MAKE ME HAPPY!!!!!
Hubby: Ok.
And merrily on we went.
I think that little exchange took place somewhere in the middle of Epcot. Or maybe it was MGM. I don't know.
So, Disney. There it is. Amazing. Magical. Not bitter. No bitter allowed.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Second-
So, goats.
Yeah.
We're getting more.
Yeah.
More goats.
Two, as a matter of fact. Two bucks. Boys. Males. Gigolos, basically.
We are getting one boer goat and one angora goat so's we can breed all the girls this fall.
Without getting too much into the whole goat thing - because I will give you updates complete with photos when we get them - I just want to replay another little conversation between me and my better half.
The first thing you need to know about angora goats is that one of the big things you breed for is color. Or colors. The other thing you need to know about angoras is that breeding for color is only slightly more complicated than trying to genetically breed humans that will not only like performance art but will actually financially support the little local theatre that features it.
There are not only genes and chromosomes. There are allels, loci, genotypes, phenotupes (which may or may not reveal the underlying genotype), homozygous, heterozygous, dominant, recessive, epistasis, hypostatic, epistatic,agouti, eumelanin, pheomelanin and white spotting. These are all the things one must try to coordinate to maybe get the color goat one wants out of a breeding. And even then, it's not a sure bet.
So, here I am, merrily shopping around the internet for a goat, emailing breeders and what not. After checking out a lot of places, I kind of had my heart settled on this one particular farm. We were emailing back and forth, exchanging information about our goats, when she informed me that the person we bought our goats from has recessive color goats where as she has dominant color and, were I to use one of her bucks, we would actually lose color.
No, they wouldn't be see through. They would be white.
So, at breakfast I relayed this to my hubby. Bear in mind that I was mainly the one doing the background reading on this and it was the first time he was even hearing it...
Me: I got an email from the one farm that I wanted to buy the goat from and, as it turns out, we probably shouldn't buy hers because we have recessive and she has dominant.
Hubby: And...?
Me: And, we shouldn't breed dominant and recessive.
Hubby: You shouldn't breed dominant and regressive?
Me: Recessive.
Hubby: What happens if you breed a dominant and regressive? What do you get, an obsessive compulsive?
Me: No, you get white.
Hubby: White.
Me: Yes, white.
Hubby: And how do you get color?
Me: Well, you have to breed dominant to dominant or regressive...recessive to recessive.
Hubby: What if you breed compulsive to obsessive?
Me: I don't know. Neurotic?
Hubby: So what do we want?
Me: I guesse we want an obsessive and a progressive.
And so on it went...
So, yeah, goats. I will be on the computer for many, many hours trying to concoct a goat cocktail that will hopefully yield success.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Third-
This is the one the title of the post referrs to.
As some of you may know, our first born will be graduating high shcool this June.
Oh happy days! Oh joyous time of youth! Out in the world! Out on his own!
Out $90,000.
Roughly.
Because Financial Aid?
GAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
I think that is all I can write about this at this time as I now have to call my doctor for some anxiety medication.
See you soon!
I know, it's been a while.
It's been such a while that I don't even know where to begin.
So, I'll start with the obvious and end with the calamitous.
First -
I was in Florida.
Let me say it again just so I might be able to spirit myself away for one brief, sunny, capri-wearing moment.
I was in Florida.
Sigh.
So, it wasn't like a real vacation because my husband and I were helping as chaperones (Oh! How funny is that?!) for the high school marching band. But, it also coincided with Pennsylvania's last dip into single digit temperatures so Yay! for us. Also, our particular group of kids was awesome and gave us no trouble whatsoever so I suppose it is as close to a vacation in Florida as we are going to come for, oh, another TWENTY TO THIRTY YEARS!
Ahem.
This whole going to Florida thing. This whole Disney thing. It seems so...dreamlike. It was all very amazing in every sense of the word.
Every. Sense.
Like, I mean "good" amazing and "bad" amazing.
The good amazing is everything you would think and more. It is probably the cleanest place - including the emergency room at the local hospital - that I have ever been. And the lengths to which they go to make the imaginable real is really something to behold. I have never seen so much formed concrete in my life.
I guess that last line won't exactly make it into the Disney tourism literature.
As for the bad amazing... Well, there's the whole "lengths to which they go" thing. And it's cleaner than my local hospital emergency room. Which isn't necessarily a bad reflection on Disney.
No, really the worst of it was probably the excess.
And the strollers.
I have to say that I am very proud of hubby and myself in that we made it all the way to the second day before we found each other irksome.
Forgive us. It was overwhelming.
At some point on day two we had the conversation that goes like this:
Me: What would you like to do?
Hubby: It doesn't matter. What do you want to do?
Me: It doesn't matter. You pick.
Hubby: No, you pick.
Me: No, really. It. Doesn't. Matter. You pick.
Hubby: I. Already. Told. You. I. Don't. Care. YOU PICK.
And so on. Until...
Me: Can't you Just. Pick. Something?
Hubby: I told you. I. Don't. Care. How about this - I want to do whatever will make you happy right now.
And that, friends, is when I told him...
Me: You want to make me happy? You Want To Make Me Happy? OK. This will make me happy. Stop saying "What do you think Walt Disney would think if he saw what this whole park turned into? Do you think he'd be happy about it?" OK? Stop saying that. And stop pointing out the excess. Excess food. Excess spending. Excess EVERYTHING! Stop that. Stop being such a downer for the next two and a half days and Just Be A HAPPY LITTLE CONSUMER!!! OK?!!! THEN WHEN WE GO HOME, WE CAN GO BACK TO BEING OUR NORMAL BITTER SELVES!! THAT'S WHAT WOULD MAKE ME HAPPY!!!!!
Hubby: Ok.
And merrily on we went.
I think that little exchange took place somewhere in the middle of Epcot. Or maybe it was MGM. I don't know.
So, Disney. There it is. Amazing. Magical. Not bitter. No bitter allowed.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Second-
So, goats.
Yeah.
We're getting more.
Yeah.
More goats.
Two, as a matter of fact. Two bucks. Boys. Males. Gigolos, basically.
We are getting one boer goat and one angora goat so's we can breed all the girls this fall.
Without getting too much into the whole goat thing - because I will give you updates complete with photos when we get them - I just want to replay another little conversation between me and my better half.
The first thing you need to know about angora goats is that one of the big things you breed for is color. Or colors. The other thing you need to know about angoras is that breeding for color is only slightly more complicated than trying to genetically breed humans that will not only like performance art but will actually financially support the little local theatre that features it.
There are not only genes and chromosomes. There are allels, loci, genotypes, phenotupes (which may or may not reveal the underlying genotype), homozygous, heterozygous, dominant, recessive, epistasis, hypostatic, epistatic,agouti, eumelanin, pheomelanin and white spotting. These are all the things one must try to coordinate to maybe get the color goat one wants out of a breeding. And even then, it's not a sure bet.
So, here I am, merrily shopping around the internet for a goat, emailing breeders and what not. After checking out a lot of places, I kind of had my heart settled on this one particular farm. We were emailing back and forth, exchanging information about our goats, when she informed me that the person we bought our goats from has recessive color goats where as she has dominant color and, were I to use one of her bucks, we would actually lose color.
No, they wouldn't be see through. They would be white.
So, at breakfast I relayed this to my hubby. Bear in mind that I was mainly the one doing the background reading on this and it was the first time he was even hearing it...
Me: I got an email from the one farm that I wanted to buy the goat from and, as it turns out, we probably shouldn't buy hers because we have recessive and she has dominant.
Hubby: And...?
Me: And, we shouldn't breed dominant and recessive.
Hubby: You shouldn't breed dominant and regressive?
Me: Recessive.
Hubby: What happens if you breed a dominant and regressive? What do you get, an obsessive compulsive?
Me: No, you get white.
Hubby: White.
Me: Yes, white.
Hubby: And how do you get color?
Me: Well, you have to breed dominant to dominant or regressive...recessive to recessive.
Hubby: What if you breed compulsive to obsessive?
Me: I don't know. Neurotic?
Hubby: So what do we want?
Me: I guesse we want an obsessive and a progressive.
And so on it went...
So, yeah, goats. I will be on the computer for many, many hours trying to concoct a goat cocktail that will hopefully yield success.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Third-
This is the one the title of the post referrs to.
As some of you may know, our first born will be graduating high shcool this June.
Oh happy days! Oh joyous time of youth! Out in the world! Out on his own!
Out $90,000.
Roughly.
Because Financial Aid?
GAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
I think that is all I can write about this at this time as I now have to call my doctor for some anxiety medication.
See you soon!
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Warning: Memory is Almost Full. List to free up space.
Three days ago...at least, I think it was three days ago...I saw a crow with white wings.
I suspect it was a crow because, other than the white wings, it looked exactly like a crow and it was hanging out with a bunch of other crows in my driveway, smoking and shooting dice. Ok, they were pecking through the rubble left by the plow.
I stopped the car and they all flew off. Its wings were white on the bottom as well as on the top.
When I got into the house, I called my friend - the friend that knows a bit about everything and a real lot about some things, like birds and plants - and told him about it. We discussed the possibility of it being a magpie. We also discussed it being just another freak of the farm. Ahem, nature. Freak of nature.
After checking some pictures of magpies on the internet, I am convinced that it is, in fact, a white winged crow.
I am also convinced it was sent to me by God. I'm not exactly quite sure yet but I suppose the prophecy will be revealed in His time.
In the mean time, my hubby has parodied the song Wings of a Dove, changing the words to describe his dear spouse's latest mania.
This little event got me to thinking about all the cool and odd things one gets to see in life.
There are some things you see that you just know you're never going to forget. For instance, the World Trade center falling down or the Challenger exploding.
These, however, are not the type of events that I'm talking about. I am more referring to those things that, at the time, seem so cool that you don't think you will ever forget them but, alas, they slip one by one from your brain as you replace them with things like remembering to drop off the marching band uniforms for the Florida trip or ordering wormer for the goats.
You all know what I mean.
So.
In order to remember some of the cool things I came across in my life, I am going to make a short list here so I can then free up that brain space for other items. Here we go.
1. I once saw some sort of bird of prey dive bomb into a pond, go completely underwater, and then flap out with a fish in its talons. This was a very Mutual of Omaha moment for me. Or, I guess it was a Wild Kingdom moment proudly sponsored by Mutual of Omaha. "Mutual of Omaha is people...you can count on when the going's rough..."
2. Going along that same line, I am going to combine two other Wild Kingdom moments. I once got to see a sleeping baby deer in my yard. So cute! It was only this big. And! I got to be nose to nose with a very large black bear that came to our house. He was strolling around on the patio so hubby and I went out to hang out with him. Then he wanted to get a little bit closer so we went inside and opened the window. Like wide open. I'm talkin' tore open the shutters and threw up the sash kind of open. The bear came over to the window and we were all inches away from each other. I wanted to squeeze his nose but I thought he might freak out.
3. One day during some other winter, I was driving along this road where there are a whole buch of cemeteries. There was snow on the ground. I looked and saw two guys in the cemetery, standing watch over a large, smoldering fire, with a back hoe parked nearby. Then I realized that they were burning the fire because the ground was so frozen that they couldn't dig the grave. It seemed all kinds of old timey. Except for the back hoe.
4. I once saw frogs mating. Eeew is all I am going to say about that.
5. I once saw a house fully engulfed in flames. That was about 30 minutes before I konked my head on a metal climby thing in a playground and practically knocked myself out.
6. One night there was a really heavy rain storm with all the bells and whistles. I was driving home in it. All of a sudden, there was a little hole in the clouds and I could see the full moon through it. The lightening was still going on around it. Crazy.
7. Another meterologial event - thundersnow. Now that one was just plain ol' unnatural. Or so it seemed. But I guess the joke was on me because, hey, it's nature.
8. I once saw someone get hit so hard by a person on a snow tube that the poor, unfortunate victim was knocked clean out of his boots. Do you have any idea how hard you have to hit someone to knock them right out of their boots? If you don't, you can ask my son because that's who it was. Although, he may not want to talk about it.
9. I once saw a bag full of feral cats. Literally, a bag of them. "Bag of cats" is often a phrase used to describe a bad-tempered person. I probably should not be around that person because if they are anything like a real bag of cats, I would laugh so hard I would probably wet my pants.
*******************************
STORY TIME
Here is the quick explanation about the bag of cats. Through a rather long and involved story involving my daughter getting rabies shots, our family became the proud owners of a passel of feral cats. Passel = six.
We managed to catch all of the cats and have them spayed or neutered accordingly.
All but one.
This particular cat became wise to the Live Animal Trap that so easily caught the other cats. She could not be lured, tempted, cajoled, persuaded or tricked into the trap. Even when I held off on putting food out, she would not go in the trap. I could catch the other cats numerous times, but not this one.
By the way, her name is Flop. Sister to Flip. Who is no longer with us through no fault of mine, thankyouverymuch.
I was determined. I was driven.
I was desperate.
After trying every plan and failing, I searched way back in my memory. Back to my grade school years. Back to Saturday mornings. Back to my training at...
The Wile E. Coyote School of Wildlife Capture
I assessed the situation. The cats all ate in one spot. The spot they were familiar with. The spot they trusted. This spot was on our patio, under an overhang of the roof. Bolted to the roof was a clothesline type wheel. The Plan began to take shape.
I found an old sheet and sat down at my ACME sewing machine to stich a large hem around the sheet, leaving a hole in one spot. Taking the sheet outside, I spread it out under the pan from which the cats were given their daily bread. Kibble. Whatever.
After a few days, when the cats were used to the idea of the sheet under the pan, I proceeded with The Plan.
I took a lightweight yet sturdy rope and fed it into the hole and through the hem of the sheet. When the end of the rope was all the way through, I made a loop in one end and fed the other end of the rope through the loop and the hole. Then I took the rope and fed it up through the clothes line type wheel and out the other side.
For the piece de resistance, I emptied two cans of tuna into the food pan and set it in the middle of the sheet. Then, I took the free end of the rope and stealthily crept into the pantry, leaving the the door open just a crack.
And then I waited.
And waited.
Aaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnddd waited.
One cat. Not the right cat.
Two cats. Not the right cat.
Three, four and five.
Still not the right cat.
Finally, I could see her peek her little head around the corner of the house, eyes perpetually wide as saucers. She approached the pan.
She ran away.
She approached the pan.
She ran away.
10 x (She approached the pan; she ran away) = Very frustrated me
And then.
She stepped onto the sheet.
She ran off.
She stepped on.
She ran off.
She stepped on and took a bite of tuna.
She ran off.
I figured this was pretty much going to be a now or never kind of thing so I waited, with an itchy finger and a hair clothesline wheel.
She stepped onto the sheet and lowered her head to the pan.
With all my might, I yanked the rope as hard as I could.
Now, with a plan such as this, there is always the nagging voice at the back of your head telling you that it is really a hairbrained scheme and it isn't going to work at all. Then there is the voice, the voice of a Happy Days character telling you "It's a crazy idea but it just might work."
As it turns out, they are both rigth in a way.
The rope spun over the clothesline wheel. The ends of the sheet gathered. The "bag" - cats, pan and tuna - rose into the air.
I stood gaping at the bag hanging from the the wheel.
It was slowly twirling around with very pronounced lumps projecting and protruding from it at all kinds of odd angles, going in and out and in and out.
And then my knees buckled because the silliness of the whole situation finally smacked me upside the head.
So there I was, hanging for dear life onto this rope, suspending a bag of cats, pan and tuna in midair, laughing myself to tears.
And while I was in my state of incapacitation, Flop clawed her way to the top of the bag, slipped out through the hole, and scampered off to mate. Or hide.
I don't know. I didn't care. I couldn't stop laughing.
All I could do was hang onto my bag of cats and cry.
You will be happy to know that, eventually, I did manage to catch the little minx and get her spayed. Using, oddly enough, another technique of The Wile E. Coyote School of Wildlife Capture but one that wasn't nearly as preposterous or entertaining.
*******************************
So then. There we are. Now that I've freed up some space, I can defrag my brain tonight and then condense files. And maybe, just maybe, I'll remember to pick up the Girl Scout Cookies tonight.
And I think, through the course of telling the bag o' cats story, I have now coined a new phrase. If you ever need to describe something in toto, instead of that plain ol' "soup to nuts" or "the whole kit and kaboodle", please feel free to say "cats, pan and tuna".
I suspect it was a crow because, other than the white wings, it looked exactly like a crow and it was hanging out with a bunch of other crows in my driveway, smoking and shooting dice. Ok, they were pecking through the rubble left by the plow.
I stopped the car and they all flew off. Its wings were white on the bottom as well as on the top.
When I got into the house, I called my friend - the friend that knows a bit about everything and a real lot about some things, like birds and plants - and told him about it. We discussed the possibility of it being a magpie. We also discussed it being just another freak of the farm. Ahem, nature. Freak of nature.
After checking some pictures of magpies on the internet, I am convinced that it is, in fact, a white winged crow.
I am also convinced it was sent to me by God. I'm not exactly quite sure yet but I suppose the prophecy will be revealed in His time.
In the mean time, my hubby has parodied the song Wings of a Dove, changing the words to describe his dear spouse's latest mania.
This little event got me to thinking about all the cool and odd things one gets to see in life.
There are some things you see that you just know you're never going to forget. For instance, the World Trade center falling down or the Challenger exploding.
These, however, are not the type of events that I'm talking about. I am more referring to those things that, at the time, seem so cool that you don't think you will ever forget them but, alas, they slip one by one from your brain as you replace them with things like remembering to drop off the marching band uniforms for the Florida trip or ordering wormer for the goats.
You all know what I mean.
So.
In order to remember some of the cool things I came across in my life, I am going to make a short list here so I can then free up that brain space for other items. Here we go.
1. I once saw some sort of bird of prey dive bomb into a pond, go completely underwater, and then flap out with a fish in its talons. This was a very Mutual of Omaha moment for me. Or, I guess it was a Wild Kingdom moment proudly sponsored by Mutual of Omaha. "Mutual of Omaha is people...you can count on when the going's rough..."
2. Going along that same line, I am going to combine two other Wild Kingdom moments. I once got to see a sleeping baby deer in my yard. So cute! It was only this big. And! I got to be nose to nose with a very large black bear that came to our house. He was strolling around on the patio so hubby and I went out to hang out with him. Then he wanted to get a little bit closer so we went inside and opened the window. Like wide open. I'm talkin' tore open the shutters and threw up the sash kind of open. The bear came over to the window and we were all inches away from each other. I wanted to squeeze his nose but I thought he might freak out.
3. One day during some other winter, I was driving along this road where there are a whole buch of cemeteries. There was snow on the ground. I looked and saw two guys in the cemetery, standing watch over a large, smoldering fire, with a back hoe parked nearby. Then I realized that they were burning the fire because the ground was so frozen that they couldn't dig the grave. It seemed all kinds of old timey. Except for the back hoe.
4. I once saw frogs mating. Eeew is all I am going to say about that.
5. I once saw a house fully engulfed in flames. That was about 30 minutes before I konked my head on a metal climby thing in a playground and practically knocked myself out.
6. One night there was a really heavy rain storm with all the bells and whistles. I was driving home in it. All of a sudden, there was a little hole in the clouds and I could see the full moon through it. The lightening was still going on around it. Crazy.
7. Another meterologial event - thundersnow. Now that one was just plain ol' unnatural. Or so it seemed. But I guess the joke was on me because, hey, it's nature.
8. I once saw someone get hit so hard by a person on a snow tube that the poor, unfortunate victim was knocked clean out of his boots. Do you have any idea how hard you have to hit someone to knock them right out of their boots? If you don't, you can ask my son because that's who it was. Although, he may not want to talk about it.
9. I once saw a bag full of feral cats. Literally, a bag of them. "Bag of cats" is often a phrase used to describe a bad-tempered person. I probably should not be around that person because if they are anything like a real bag of cats, I would laugh so hard I would probably wet my pants.
*******************************
STORY TIME
Here is the quick explanation about the bag of cats. Through a rather long and involved story involving my daughter getting rabies shots, our family became the proud owners of a passel of feral cats. Passel = six.
We managed to catch all of the cats and have them spayed or neutered accordingly.
All but one.
This particular cat became wise to the Live Animal Trap that so easily caught the other cats. She could not be lured, tempted, cajoled, persuaded or tricked into the trap. Even when I held off on putting food out, she would not go in the trap. I could catch the other cats numerous times, but not this one.
By the way, her name is Flop. Sister to Flip. Who is no longer with us through no fault of mine, thankyouverymuch.
I was determined. I was driven.
I was desperate.
After trying every plan and failing, I searched way back in my memory. Back to my grade school years. Back to Saturday mornings. Back to my training at...
The Wile E. Coyote School of Wildlife Capture
I assessed the situation. The cats all ate in one spot. The spot they were familiar with. The spot they trusted. This spot was on our patio, under an overhang of the roof. Bolted to the roof was a clothesline type wheel. The Plan began to take shape.
I found an old sheet and sat down at my ACME sewing machine to stich a large hem around the sheet, leaving a hole in one spot. Taking the sheet outside, I spread it out under the pan from which the cats were given their daily bread. Kibble. Whatever.
After a few days, when the cats were used to the idea of the sheet under the pan, I proceeded with The Plan.
I took a lightweight yet sturdy rope and fed it into the hole and through the hem of the sheet. When the end of the rope was all the way through, I made a loop in one end and fed the other end of the rope through the loop and the hole. Then I took the rope and fed it up through the clothes line type wheel and out the other side.
For the piece de resistance, I emptied two cans of tuna into the food pan and set it in the middle of the sheet. Then, I took the free end of the rope and stealthily crept into the pantry, leaving the the door open just a crack.
And then I waited.
And waited.
Aaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnddd waited.
One cat. Not the right cat.
Two cats. Not the right cat.
Three, four and five.
Still not the right cat.
Finally, I could see her peek her little head around the corner of the house, eyes perpetually wide as saucers. She approached the pan.
She ran away.
She approached the pan.
She ran away.
10 x (She approached the pan; she ran away) = Very frustrated me
And then.
She stepped onto the sheet.
She ran off.
She stepped on.
She ran off.
She stepped on and took a bite of tuna.
She ran off.
I figured this was pretty much going to be a now or never kind of thing so I waited, with an itchy finger and a hair clothesline wheel.
She stepped onto the sheet and lowered her head to the pan.
With all my might, I yanked the rope as hard as I could.
Now, with a plan such as this, there is always the nagging voice at the back of your head telling you that it is really a hairbrained scheme and it isn't going to work at all. Then there is the voice, the voice of a Happy Days character telling you "It's a crazy idea but it just might work."
As it turns out, they are both rigth in a way.
The rope spun over the clothesline wheel. The ends of the sheet gathered. The "bag" - cats, pan and tuna - rose into the air.
I stood gaping at the bag hanging from the the wheel.
It was slowly twirling around with very pronounced lumps projecting and protruding from it at all kinds of odd angles, going in and out and in and out.
And then my knees buckled because the silliness of the whole situation finally smacked me upside the head.
So there I was, hanging for dear life onto this rope, suspending a bag of cats, pan and tuna in midair, laughing myself to tears.
And while I was in my state of incapacitation, Flop clawed her way to the top of the bag, slipped out through the hole, and scampered off to mate. Or hide.
I don't know. I didn't care. I couldn't stop laughing.
All I could do was hang onto my bag of cats and cry.
You will be happy to know that, eventually, I did manage to catch the little minx and get her spayed. Using, oddly enough, another technique of The Wile E. Coyote School of Wildlife Capture but one that wasn't nearly as preposterous or entertaining.
*******************************
So then. There we are. Now that I've freed up some space, I can defrag my brain tonight and then condense files. And maybe, just maybe, I'll remember to pick up the Girl Scout Cookies tonight.
And I think, through the course of telling the bag o' cats story, I have now coined a new phrase. If you ever need to describe something in toto, instead of that plain ol' "soup to nuts" or "the whole kit and kaboodle", please feel free to say "cats, pan and tuna".
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Scooters, Vacation, Fall
This is the list of most popular headlines I came across on MSN.com today:
Most Popular
• Most Viewed • Top Rated • Most E-mailed
• Teen gunman kills 5 in Utah mall rampage
• Four people shot, killed in Philadelphia
• On the plus side, experience was educational
I'm not sure what the last headline was about but the list made me chuckle.
Why do I even notice these things?
Anyway...
Today I was forced - literally, forced - to upgrade my blog. I couldn't sign in to my old blog anymore.
I'm not sure how I feel about this. I mean, there was nothing wrong with the old one. It served it's scrimpy purpose. But nooooOOOOOooooo. I had to update.
Pshh. Oh well.
The one thing I do kind of mind is now I guess I have to label my posts. Or at least I guess I should. Who knows? Better yet, who cares? But the funny thing is that next to the box where I would type my label in it says this - Labels for this post: e.g. scooters, vacation, fall
And I'm all about following suggestions. So scooters, vacation, fall it is.
Sunday was my birthday. I have officially been on the planet 37 years. Unofficially, I have been on the planet 2,047 years but that can only be verified by my lack of energy and my general consternation with the world - neither good enough to get me into the Book of Records.
Today it snowed. A lot. Actually, yesterday it snowed. A lot. And then, sometime during the night, it turned to sleet. And it sleeted. A lot. Like 4 inches and I'm not even exaggerating. And then, somewheres around 10 o'clock this morning, it turned back to snow. And it snowed. A lot. And it still is.
And now, because of all this snow and sleet, I have rubber arms. Because I had to go shovel out the end of the driveway so hubby would have a place, other than the road, to park his car when he got home from work. And there it sits. At the end of the driveway. Waaaaaaay far away from the house.
I also have rubber arms because, after shoveling 45,000 tons of snow and sleet from the end of the driveway, I had to slog around feeding animals. This chore starts off with carrying two 5 gallon buckets of water and ends with foot prints through the snow akin to the course that Moses and the Israelites left in the desert after 40 years of aimless wandering whilst carrying 10 gallons of water.
If I ever turned up lost the search and rescue people would probably spend the first few hours of the search standing around scratching their heads wondering just how much I had to drink before I wandered off.
And I just now realized that this post has taken on the path of my evening wanderings, making absolutely no sense whatsoever.
I am tired. Mother Nature kicked my ass today.
Most Popular
• Most Viewed • Top Rated • Most E-mailed
• Teen gunman kills 5 in Utah mall rampage
• Four people shot, killed in Philadelphia
• On the plus side, experience was educational
I'm not sure what the last headline was about but the list made me chuckle.
Why do I even notice these things?
Anyway...
Today I was forced - literally, forced - to upgrade my blog. I couldn't sign in to my old blog anymore.
I'm not sure how I feel about this. I mean, there was nothing wrong with the old one. It served it's scrimpy purpose. But nooooOOOOOooooo. I had to update.
Pshh. Oh well.
The one thing I do kind of mind is now I guess I have to label my posts. Or at least I guess I should. Who knows? Better yet, who cares? But the funny thing is that next to the box where I would type my label in it says this - Labels for this post: e.g. scooters, vacation, fall
And I'm all about following suggestions. So scooters, vacation, fall it is.
Sunday was my birthday. I have officially been on the planet 37 years. Unofficially, I have been on the planet 2,047 years but that can only be verified by my lack of energy and my general consternation with the world - neither good enough to get me into the Book of Records.
Today it snowed. A lot. Actually, yesterday it snowed. A lot. And then, sometime during the night, it turned to sleet. And it sleeted. A lot. Like 4 inches and I'm not even exaggerating. And then, somewheres around 10 o'clock this morning, it turned back to snow. And it snowed. A lot. And it still is.
And now, because of all this snow and sleet, I have rubber arms. Because I had to go shovel out the end of the driveway so hubby would have a place, other than the road, to park his car when he got home from work. And there it sits. At the end of the driveway. Waaaaaaay far away from the house.
I also have rubber arms because, after shoveling 45,000 tons of snow and sleet from the end of the driveway, I had to slog around feeding animals. This chore starts off with carrying two 5 gallon buckets of water and ends with foot prints through the snow akin to the course that Moses and the Israelites left in the desert after 40 years of aimless wandering whilst carrying 10 gallons of water.
If I ever turned up lost the search and rescue people would probably spend the first few hours of the search standing around scratching their heads wondering just how much I had to drink before I wandered off.
And I just now realized that this post has taken on the path of my evening wanderings, making absolutely no sense whatsoever.
I am tired. Mother Nature kicked my ass today.
Monday, January 22, 2007
The Ice Cream Wars
My mother lives about 15 miles away. Except for a small, springy Jack Russel terrier, she lives alone. That she lives alone and within a relative close distance to my house both contribute to rather frequent visits.
It might be on her way to bingo at this or that church or school. Or to pick up one of her grandchildren to go here or there. Sometimes she even makes dinner and trucks it to our house. Any number of reasons. Whatever the reason for the visit, she usually also has some sort of care package. I guess she can't stand to see a coupon go to waste.
So she might show up with cat food. Good, we have many, many cats. Or she might show up with cereal. Fine, we eat cereal. And then sometimes it's ice cream.
Now...you remember I have an issue with ice cream, yes?
I have no complaints with her bringing ice cream. None at all.
The problem is this.
When it comes to ice cream flavors, there are those who are the bulwark of the ice cream industry, buying chocolate and vanilla and maybe, on a special holiday or something, Neopolitan. Then there are those other people.
I'm in the former category. BORING! I hear you cry. But, it my defense, ice cream is, in large part, merely a vehicle for hot fudge and bananas. You just don't want to go polluting that with all kinds of flavors of craziness.
I will admit that sometimes I will spring for the occational Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough or Cookies and Cream or, perahps, Chocolate Marshmallow. But, they are usually just variations on the original theme.
I am...uh...mmm...the most, ... let's say accomplished ice cream eater in the house. The other memebers of my darling little family like ice cream but...not like I do. So I, being the head ice cream eater and grocery shopper, get to pick the ice cream flavors. And, fortunately, all the subject of my little frozen dairy queendom are usually happy with my choices.
My mother, on the other hand, will bring flavors such as Strawberries and Cream or Black Cherry or Something With Nuts Which Should Be A Punishable Offense. She buys the ice cream she likes to eat.
She and my dad pretty much shared the same taste in ice cream so you can imagine what it was like growing up in that house when you are a chocolate/vanilla lover. It's not that she never got chocolate or vanilla. But I was just a peasant in her frozen dairy queendom at the time. It would kind of be like if you had a pack of wild dogs and, for the most part, tossed them loaves of stale bread as their main source of food. Sure, they'll eat it because there's nothing else. But then, once in a while, you throw them a London Broil. Guess how long it lasts. Right.
And it's not that she will even eat ice cream when she's here. I can say, "Hey mom, would you like a bowl of that green ice cream you brought last week?" Because she'll say, "No, you eat it. I got one for myself. That's plenty." And then I walk around the corner where she can't see me and bang my head on the freezer.
Fortunately, for me at least, my little frozen dairy peasants are not so discriminating and they will often eat the strange and bizarre ice creams that materialize in the freezer.
After they've helped devour the flavors I like.
.....................................................
And then there is a certain hubby who shall remain nameless who claims one day "I don't like chocolate" and then happily deposits the last spoonful of Double Fudge Brownie Death By Chocolate into his gaping gob the next.
You don't like chocolate. Riiiiiiight.
And then he'll say, "Well, only sometimes. But I like vanilla more."
So, the other day, I sliced up a banana, warmed up the hot fudge and reached into the freezer to get the ice cream.
Uh oh.
The container felt awfully light. I mean really light. Now, I knew when I put it back there was at least enough for a decent serving of chocolate/vanilla still in it. I opend the container to see about two tablespoons of chocolate in the corner.
WHAT THE CRAP!!!!!!!!!!!!!
How?! HOW could someone leave A TINY LUMP OF OCE CREAM IN THE BOX AND PUT IT BACK INTO THE FREEZER?????????!!!!!!!!
I can't exactly prove who did it but I have my suspicions.
Sigh.
What's a girl to do? I spooned the ice cream into the bowl of bananas and ate it.
.........................................................
Last night I came home from the grocery store (again) and started to put the groceries away. Hubby sorted the various dry goods while I juggled some stuff into the chest freezer. Eventually I ran out of room. There were still some frozen items that needed a home so I opened the freezer half of our double door refrigerator. I tried to shift some things around but, as they say in the business, I was shit out of luck.
Then I saw the two ice cream containers that have been sitting on the shelf, mocking me, for the past 3 or 4 months. Mom ice cream.
I tried juggling a few more things all to no avail.
I looked back at the ice cream.
We stared each other down for a minute or two and then I said "Ok, this ice cream is going to have to go."
I picked the first carton out of the freezer. It was suspiciously light.
"It doesn't feel like there is even any ice cream in here." I set it on the counter to deal with later and picked the next carton out of the freezer. It was as light as the first. "I don't think there is any in this one either." I set that one on the counter next to the first and went back to stowing groceries.
I suppose curiosity got the best of hubby because he wandered over and opened up one of the ice cream containers and looked in. And started laughing. I turned to see what was going on and hubby said there was a note in the bottom of the ice cream carton.
It said "There's still a little speck right here. (with arrow pointing to said speck). Who's clever now?"
What?! I walked over and looked in. Sure enough. There was the note, in my son's handwriting, and a tiny speck of ice cream.
While I was gaping in disbelief at the first note, my hubby opened the other container and found the second note.
"Ha, ha. It's funny when I leave like 1 spoonful of ice cream in the container so somebody else can take care of it, right?"
I...don't even know what to say about this. I mean, I can understand the righteous indignation and all that but to take the time....
...notes in the ice cream container.....?
It might be on her way to bingo at this or that church or school. Or to pick up one of her grandchildren to go here or there. Sometimes she even makes dinner and trucks it to our house. Any number of reasons. Whatever the reason for the visit, she usually also has some sort of care package. I guess she can't stand to see a coupon go to waste.
So she might show up with cat food. Good, we have many, many cats. Or she might show up with cereal. Fine, we eat cereal. And then sometimes it's ice cream.
Now...you remember I have an issue with ice cream, yes?
I have no complaints with her bringing ice cream. None at all.
The problem is this.
When it comes to ice cream flavors, there are those who are the bulwark of the ice cream industry, buying chocolate and vanilla and maybe, on a special holiday or something, Neopolitan. Then there are those other people.
I'm in the former category. BORING! I hear you cry. But, it my defense, ice cream is, in large part, merely a vehicle for hot fudge and bananas. You just don't want to go polluting that with all kinds of flavors of craziness.
I will admit that sometimes I will spring for the occational Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough or Cookies and Cream or, perahps, Chocolate Marshmallow. But, they are usually just variations on the original theme.
I am...uh...mmm...the most, ... let's say accomplished ice cream eater in the house. The other memebers of my darling little family like ice cream but...not like I do. So I, being the head ice cream eater and grocery shopper, get to pick the ice cream flavors. And, fortunately, all the subject of my little frozen dairy queendom are usually happy with my choices.
My mother, on the other hand, will bring flavors such as Strawberries and Cream or Black Cherry or Something With Nuts Which Should Be A Punishable Offense. She buys the ice cream she likes to eat.
She and my dad pretty much shared the same taste in ice cream so you can imagine what it was like growing up in that house when you are a chocolate/vanilla lover. It's not that she never got chocolate or vanilla. But I was just a peasant in her frozen dairy queendom at the time. It would kind of be like if you had a pack of wild dogs and, for the most part, tossed them loaves of stale bread as their main source of food. Sure, they'll eat it because there's nothing else. But then, once in a while, you throw them a London Broil. Guess how long it lasts. Right.
And it's not that she will even eat ice cream when she's here. I can say, "Hey mom, would you like a bowl of that green ice cream you brought last week?" Because she'll say, "No, you eat it. I got one for myself. That's plenty." And then I walk around the corner where she can't see me and bang my head on the freezer.
Fortunately, for me at least, my little frozen dairy peasants are not so discriminating and they will often eat the strange and bizarre ice creams that materialize in the freezer.
After they've helped devour the flavors I like.
.....................................................
And then there is a certain hubby who shall remain nameless who claims one day "I don't like chocolate" and then happily deposits the last spoonful of Double Fudge Brownie Death By Chocolate into his gaping gob the next.
You don't like chocolate. Riiiiiiight.
And then he'll say, "Well, only sometimes. But I like vanilla more."
So, the other day, I sliced up a banana, warmed up the hot fudge and reached into the freezer to get the ice cream.
Uh oh.
The container felt awfully light. I mean really light. Now, I knew when I put it back there was at least enough for a decent serving of chocolate/vanilla still in it. I opend the container to see about two tablespoons of chocolate in the corner.
WHAT THE CRAP!!!!!!!!!!!!!
How?! HOW could someone leave A TINY LUMP OF OCE CREAM IN THE BOX AND PUT IT BACK INTO THE FREEZER?????????!!!!!!!!
I can't exactly prove who did it but I have my suspicions.
Sigh.
What's a girl to do? I spooned the ice cream into the bowl of bananas and ate it.
.........................................................
Last night I came home from the grocery store (again) and started to put the groceries away. Hubby sorted the various dry goods while I juggled some stuff into the chest freezer. Eventually I ran out of room. There were still some frozen items that needed a home so I opened the freezer half of our double door refrigerator. I tried to shift some things around but, as they say in the business, I was shit out of luck.
Then I saw the two ice cream containers that have been sitting on the shelf, mocking me, for the past 3 or 4 months. Mom ice cream.
I tried juggling a few more things all to no avail.
I looked back at the ice cream.
We stared each other down for a minute or two and then I said "Ok, this ice cream is going to have to go."
I picked the first carton out of the freezer. It was suspiciously light.
"It doesn't feel like there is even any ice cream in here." I set it on the counter to deal with later and picked the next carton out of the freezer. It was as light as the first. "I don't think there is any in this one either." I set that one on the counter next to the first and went back to stowing groceries.
I suppose curiosity got the best of hubby because he wandered over and opened up one of the ice cream containers and looked in. And started laughing. I turned to see what was going on and hubby said there was a note in the bottom of the ice cream carton.
It said "There's still a little speck right here. (with arrow pointing to said speck). Who's clever now?"
What?! I walked over and looked in. Sure enough. There was the note, in my son's handwriting, and a tiny speck of ice cream.
While I was gaping in disbelief at the first note, my hubby opened the other container and found the second note.
"Ha, ha. It's funny when I leave like 1 spoonful of ice cream in the container so somebody else can take care of it, right?"
I...don't even know what to say about this. I mean, I can understand the righteous indignation and all that but to take the time....
...notes in the ice cream container.....?
Monday, January 15, 2007
Night of the Wish I Was Dead
...zzz...
...zzz...
...zz?...
Wha? Hm? Oh.
Oh hi. Hi everyone.
Everybody doing ok out there? Yeah? That's good.
Me? Oh, I'mmmmzzzzzzz....
I'm a little tired. Can you tell? I'm really kind of running on empty right now.
Actually, no. I'm running on pain killers and muscle relaxants. I think I mentioned once before about the whole chronic migraine thing and how the medication I'm on for it, even though is says on the bottle "MAY CAUSE DROWSINESS", that it does not, in fact, cause drowsiness but the exact opposite of drowsiness. Awakiness. Or alternatively, Very Alertiness.
So it would seem as though the migraine monster is going to rear its ugly, painfull, throbbing, light and sound sensitive head again. This past Wednesday I could feel it coming on. You know, the little bit of uncomfortableness that starts in your eyeball and eventually works its way through your brain, into your neck and pretty much the rest of your life? Yeah, that.
I managed to put off taking my medication until probably a little too late in the afternoon on Thursday because by about 10pm that evening, when all the other little real estate agents are nestled and snug in their beds, I was wondering if there were any 200 acre tracts of land that I could walk. Or maybe I could clean? How about that? Oh, yeah. Other people in the house are sleeping. Well then, how about finally taking down the Christmas tree? Nah, not yet. How about spending way too much time on the computer researching heritage breed chickens?
Ok! That sounds productive!
So at about 4:30am Friday morning, after I managed to track down every breeder of Javas, Dominiques, Delawares and Chanteclers on the east coast and email them about chickens. I finally stumbled off to bed.
I can't even imagine what the chicken people must think when they check their email and find a message from someone who was still up at 3 in the morning inquiring about chickens. Maybe they think I'm really excited about it. Or really strange.
Then 6 o'clock rolls around and, hey guess what, it's time to get up again! Because guess what? Work!
Oh, and guess what else? Guess what lack of sleep contributes to?
Oh! I know! I know!
More migraines! Whee! It's like being on some kind of crazy ride that goes around and around. And around. With pain. And then medicine. And then more chickens!
I managed to make it through work and get a second wind. I knew I had to stay awake until at least 11pm because sonny boy and baby girl were on their first ski club trip and would need a ride home from the school. And, since hubby was working night shift, it was all up to me. So, around 11pm, I left the house and headed for the school. Baby girl decided to go to a friend's house to sleep over so it was just me and sonny boy going home. On the way, sonny boy reminded me that he needed a ride to camp because the winter trip for his scout group was this weekend.
Tonight.
That very night. The one where I promised myself that by 11:30 I would be in REM state.
As it turns out, 11:30 found me checking my email to see if any of the chicken people responded (they didn't) while waiting for sonny boy to gather his camping stuff. By 12:30am we were on the road to the campground.
The one on the other side of the county.
An hour away.
And then another hour home.
So, around 3am or so, I finally crawled to bed.
And then up again at 6am! Woohoo! Because why? Why would I get up at 6am on Saturday when I don't have to go to work? Well, let's see... Oh! Oh yes! The class.
I signed up to take a class!
Doesn't that sound fun? Kickboxing? Pottery? Or could I finally be on the road to learning how to play my violin?
Nope.
How about...
Real Estate Law.
Now that sounds exciting eoungh to keep me awake, doesn't it? I bet you all envy me knowing that I spent this past Saturday, and will spend the next three Saturdays, studying Real Estate Law.
You all just wish you were that cool, eh? No? Not even a little bit?
Fine.
Well, at least I knew I had the evening to get my little self to bed early and finally catch up on the lack of z's I had suffered.
Or...
not.
Ok, well not completely. Because I did manage to take a nap on the couch for about 2 hours until
Ring.
Ring.Ring.
Ring,Ring,Ring,RRRIIIIIIINNNNNNGGGGG
Me: Mmph. What? Hello?
Hubby: Were you sleeping?
Me: Mmph. Hello?
Hubby: Hey,
Me: What? Where are you?
Hubby: I'm on my way to pick up baby girl. How do I find the owner of a dog?
Me: What?
Hubby: A dog. I found a dog. How do I find the owner?
Me: What time is it?
Hubby: 11 o'clock. He doesn't have any id tags.
Me: What kind of dog?
Hubby: A chocolate lab.
Me: Where did you find him?
Hubby: He was on the road. It's really foggy. How do I find out who owns him?
Me: um... Where exactly are you?
Hubby: Near the baseball field.
Me:...um...isn't there a bar near there? Why don't you go there and ask around?
Hubby: Ooh. Good idea.
...zzz...
Ring.
Ring,ring,ring.
Me: Mmph?
Hubby: No one there knew who he belongs to.
Me: What?
Hubby: The dog. No one knew.
Me: Where is he now?
Hubby: In the car. He's coming home with us.
Me: Oh.
So a few minutes later hubby and baby girl showed up with a chocolate lab. He had a collar on and you could see that his family took good care of him. He was older - a little gray around the muzzle - but in good shape.
We introduced him to the beagles, gave him a drink of water, set him up with a comfy blanket on the kitchen floor and then went off to bed. Finally.
Finally I could lay my head on my comfy pillow.
Finally I could snuggle under my two comfortors.
Finally I could
Bark.
Hm?
Bark.
Dont' get up.
Bark.
Just lay here.
Bark.
He's just getting settled.
Bark. Bark.
He'll lay down soon.
Bark. Bark, bark.
Just close your eyes.
Bark. Bark. Bark.
Just take nice, slow, deep brea-
BARK!
This isn't going to work.
BARK! BARK,BARK,BARK! BARKITY BARK BARK!
Oooohhh...
BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK...
2am...
BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK...
4am
BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK...
5am
Bark. Bark,bark.
Bark?
6am
Beep,beep,beep,beep,beep,beep,beep,beep,beep...
BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK
Beep,beep,beep,beep,beep,beep,beep,beep,beep...
BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,
8am (in church)
Please, God, please let a very large rock fall off some very high mountain onto my head today. Amen.
The happy ending to the story is that we were able to locate the owner later that day. And I finally got some sleep Sunday night.
Until...
Oh, nevermind.
...zzz...
...zz?...
Wha? Hm? Oh.
Oh hi. Hi everyone.
Everybody doing ok out there? Yeah? That's good.
Me? Oh, I'mmmmzzzzzzz....
I'm a little tired. Can you tell? I'm really kind of running on empty right now.
Actually, no. I'm running on pain killers and muscle relaxants. I think I mentioned once before about the whole chronic migraine thing and how the medication I'm on for it, even though is says on the bottle "MAY CAUSE DROWSINESS", that it does not, in fact, cause drowsiness but the exact opposite of drowsiness. Awakiness. Or alternatively, Very Alertiness.
So it would seem as though the migraine monster is going to rear its ugly, painfull, throbbing, light and sound sensitive head again. This past Wednesday I could feel it coming on. You know, the little bit of uncomfortableness that starts in your eyeball and eventually works its way through your brain, into your neck and pretty much the rest of your life? Yeah, that.
I managed to put off taking my medication until probably a little too late in the afternoon on Thursday because by about 10pm that evening, when all the other little real estate agents are nestled and snug in their beds, I was wondering if there were any 200 acre tracts of land that I could walk. Or maybe I could clean? How about that? Oh, yeah. Other people in the house are sleeping. Well then, how about finally taking down the Christmas tree? Nah, not yet. How about spending way too much time on the computer researching heritage breed chickens?
Ok! That sounds productive!
So at about 4:30am Friday morning, after I managed to track down every breeder of Javas, Dominiques, Delawares and Chanteclers on the east coast and email them about chickens. I finally stumbled off to bed.
I can't even imagine what the chicken people must think when they check their email and find a message from someone who was still up at 3 in the morning inquiring about chickens. Maybe they think I'm really excited about it. Or really strange.
Then 6 o'clock rolls around and, hey guess what, it's time to get up again! Because guess what? Work!
Oh, and guess what else? Guess what lack of sleep contributes to?
Oh! I know! I know!
More migraines! Whee! It's like being on some kind of crazy ride that goes around and around. And around. With pain. And then medicine. And then more chickens!
I managed to make it through work and get a second wind. I knew I had to stay awake until at least 11pm because sonny boy and baby girl were on their first ski club trip and would need a ride home from the school. And, since hubby was working night shift, it was all up to me. So, around 11pm, I left the house and headed for the school. Baby girl decided to go to a friend's house to sleep over so it was just me and sonny boy going home. On the way, sonny boy reminded me that he needed a ride to camp because the winter trip for his scout group was this weekend.
Tonight.
That very night. The one where I promised myself that by 11:30 I would be in REM state.
As it turns out, 11:30 found me checking my email to see if any of the chicken people responded (they didn't) while waiting for sonny boy to gather his camping stuff. By 12:30am we were on the road to the campground.
The one on the other side of the county.
An hour away.
And then another hour home.
So, around 3am or so, I finally crawled to bed.
And then up again at 6am! Woohoo! Because why? Why would I get up at 6am on Saturday when I don't have to go to work? Well, let's see... Oh! Oh yes! The class.
I signed up to take a class!
Doesn't that sound fun? Kickboxing? Pottery? Or could I finally be on the road to learning how to play my violin?
Nope.
How about...
Real Estate Law.
Now that sounds exciting eoungh to keep me awake, doesn't it? I bet you all envy me knowing that I spent this past Saturday, and will spend the next three Saturdays, studying Real Estate Law.
You all just wish you were that cool, eh? No? Not even a little bit?
Fine.
Well, at least I knew I had the evening to get my little self to bed early and finally catch up on the lack of z's I had suffered.
Or...
not.
Ok, well not completely. Because I did manage to take a nap on the couch for about 2 hours until
Ring.
Ring.Ring.
Ring,Ring,Ring,RRRIIIIIIINNNNNNGGGGG
Me: Mmph. What? Hello?
Hubby: Were you sleeping?
Me: Mmph. Hello?
Hubby: Hey,
Me: What? Where are you?
Hubby: I'm on my way to pick up baby girl. How do I find the owner of a dog?
Me: What?
Hubby: A dog. I found a dog. How do I find the owner?
Me: What time is it?
Hubby: 11 o'clock. He doesn't have any id tags.
Me: What kind of dog?
Hubby: A chocolate lab.
Me: Where did you find him?
Hubby: He was on the road. It's really foggy. How do I find out who owns him?
Me: um... Where exactly are you?
Hubby: Near the baseball field.
Me:...um...isn't there a bar near there? Why don't you go there and ask around?
Hubby: Ooh. Good idea.
...zzz...
Ring.
Ring,ring,ring.
Me: Mmph?
Hubby: No one there knew who he belongs to.
Me: What?
Hubby: The dog. No one knew.
Me: Where is he now?
Hubby: In the car. He's coming home with us.
Me: Oh.
So a few minutes later hubby and baby girl showed up with a chocolate lab. He had a collar on and you could see that his family took good care of him. He was older - a little gray around the muzzle - but in good shape.
We introduced him to the beagles, gave him a drink of water, set him up with a comfy blanket on the kitchen floor and then went off to bed. Finally.
Finally I could lay my head on my comfy pillow.
Finally I could snuggle under my two comfortors.
Finally I could
Bark.
Hm?
Bark.
Dont' get up.
Bark.
Just lay here.
Bark.
He's just getting settled.
Bark. Bark.
He'll lay down soon.
Bark. Bark, bark.
Just close your eyes.
Bark. Bark. Bark.
Just take nice, slow, deep brea-
BARK!
This isn't going to work.
BARK! BARK,BARK,BARK! BARKITY BARK BARK!
Oooohhh...
BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK...
2am...
BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK...
4am
BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK...
5am
Bark. Bark,bark.
Bark?
6am
Beep,beep,beep,beep,beep,beep,beep,beep,beep...
BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK
Beep,beep,beep,beep,beep,beep,beep,beep,beep...
BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,BARK,
8am (in church)
Please, God, please let a very large rock fall off some very high mountain onto my head today. Amen.
The happy ending to the story is that we were able to locate the owner later that day. And I finally got some sleep Sunday night.
Until...
Oh, nevermind.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Hello? FDA?
Oooookay.
So, I went to the grocery store tonight. I like shopping at the grocery store at night. Especially after taking pain killers and muscle relaxants but that's neither here nor there. And, hey, I have a prescription anyway.
I like shopping at night because all the other weirdos are out. And they play good music over the speakers. Not the weirdos, the store people. Oh cut it out, you know what I mean.
But I'm misleading you. This post isn't about the weirdos at the grocery store or the music.
This post is about ravioli. Raviolis? Raviolies? Raviolioes?
I shop at Giant in Hazleton because of the pretty good prices and background music. Also, it's not too far away and offers a pretty decent selection of stuff.
Hubby and I have this ongoing ... thing ... about grocery shopping. He's a generic man and I'm a brand name woman. Although, through patience and a steady hand, he has retrained most of my thriftless ways. There are, however, some things that I will not compromise on. Frosted Flakes and Pop-Tarts probably being the two biggies. I'm sorry but Toaster Pastries just don't cut it. They taste like...I don't know, unPop-Tarts.
Anyway...
I figured I'd get a bag or two of frozen raviolioes for those days when I want to feel like I can cook like an Italian but without all the effort. I might pull out the flour and rolling pin to try homemade pierogies but even that would take the aligning of several planets, an act of Congress and a promise of Plenary Indulgence. Homemade ravioliolioes? Fuggeddaboudit.
I did a quick scan of the raviolioliolo selcection and figured one is as good as the next so I whipped out my abacus, and after a quick comparison of price per unit on each brand, and taking into account Giant Bonus Points, multiply that by the U.S. Produced Ravioli Tax Incentive I plan to claim on next year's return, carry the seven...and the obvious choice was the Giant generic brand of mini ravioliolettes.
Later that evening...
After putting the groceries away, I was feeling a bit peckish. In the hungry sense. What to eat? What to eat? Oh! Why I could just open a bag of Giant brand mini raviolikins and heat up a few with a skosh of tomato sauce. Mmm, mmm. A plan indeed.
I put some water in a pot and set it on the stove to boil, being extra careful not to watch it. When the water was ready, I opened a bag of mini raviolililliputians and dumped a few in. Then I scanned the back of the bag for an idea on how long it would take.
Now.
Here is the whole reason for this post.
The directions read - and I'm not lying one bit - "Heat until inner ravioli temperature reaches 165 degrees fahrenheit."
Um...WHAT?????
So, I went to the grocery store tonight. I like shopping at the grocery store at night. Especially after taking pain killers and muscle relaxants but that's neither here nor there. And, hey, I have a prescription anyway.
I like shopping at night because all the other weirdos are out. And they play good music over the speakers. Not the weirdos, the store people. Oh cut it out, you know what I mean.
But I'm misleading you. This post isn't about the weirdos at the grocery store or the music.
This post is about ravioli. Raviolis? Raviolies? Raviolioes?
I shop at Giant in Hazleton because of the pretty good prices and background music. Also, it's not too far away and offers a pretty decent selection of stuff.
Hubby and I have this ongoing ... thing ... about grocery shopping. He's a generic man and I'm a brand name woman. Although, through patience and a steady hand, he has retrained most of my thriftless ways. There are, however, some things that I will not compromise on. Frosted Flakes and Pop-Tarts probably being the two biggies. I'm sorry but Toaster Pastries just don't cut it. They taste like...I don't know, unPop-Tarts.
Anyway...
I figured I'd get a bag or two of frozen raviolioes for those days when I want to feel like I can cook like an Italian but without all the effort. I might pull out the flour and rolling pin to try homemade pierogies but even that would take the aligning of several planets, an act of Congress and a promise of Plenary Indulgence. Homemade ravioliolioes? Fuggeddaboudit.
I did a quick scan of the raviolioliolo selcection and figured one is as good as the next so I whipped out my abacus, and after a quick comparison of price per unit on each brand, and taking into account Giant Bonus Points, multiply that by the U.S. Produced Ravioli Tax Incentive I plan to claim on next year's return, carry the seven...and the obvious choice was the Giant generic brand of mini ravioliolettes.
Later that evening...
After putting the groceries away, I was feeling a bit peckish. In the hungry sense. What to eat? What to eat? Oh! Why I could just open a bag of Giant brand mini raviolikins and heat up a few with a skosh of tomato sauce. Mmm, mmm. A plan indeed.
I put some water in a pot and set it on the stove to boil, being extra careful not to watch it. When the water was ready, I opened a bag of mini raviolililliputians and dumped a few in. Then I scanned the back of the bag for an idea on how long it would take.
Now.
Here is the whole reason for this post.
The directions read - and I'm not lying one bit - "Heat until inner ravioli temperature reaches 165 degrees fahrenheit."
Um...WHAT?????
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Amy Love-in
I want to take a moment to direct your attention to another blog. It was made by my sister - created to celebrate the 40th birthday of our dear friend Amy.
Click here to check it out.
But besides that, I also wanted to post a little bit about her.
I consider Amy to be my other older-sister-friend. She and my sister were pretty inseparable as we were growing up and I was equally tortured by both of them.
At least until my sister went away to college. At that point, everything kind of changed. It might have been that my sister and I no longer had to share a bathroom in the morning and that lended to our relationship becoming a bit more settled. Or maybe we all just grew up a bit.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was that Grateful Dead show in Hershey.
Actually, that's probably it. But I digress.
So at some point, Amy became my friend as well and, well, all those lines between relation/friend get all blurry after a while.
And now...
A short list reasons why I LUUUUV my Amy.
She has one of the best laughs I ever heard.
If I ever have a questions about a movie - ever - she will most likely know the answer. Her knowledge of all things film astounds me.
She can fly an Impala like a fighter jet. Even when it's out of control.
She helped with my birthday party when I turned 8.
She said smegma in front of my mom. (Not at the birthday party. It was much later.)
She is warm and cozy.
She knows how to deal with dogs.
She was my compadre during the Summer of Decadence.
She knows about all things cool in music, books, art and booze.
She is there when people need her.
She liked hangin' with my dad.
She's an active camper as opposed to a passive camper. Because of this, she knows all kinds of practical stuff.
She is the type of person that I could sit with for several hours in front of a fire. There is a small, select crew that fall into that category.
Mainly, though, I guess it's because I am comfortable around her. She is like a warm hoodie. Broken-in boots. A hammock in a nice shady spot. Macaroni and cheese. She is genuine in every sense of the word and that is why I am so lucky to have her as my other older-sister-friend.
Happy Birthday, Amy! We all love you!
Click here to check it out.
But besides that, I also wanted to post a little bit about her.
I consider Amy to be my other older-sister-friend. She and my sister were pretty inseparable as we were growing up and I was equally tortured by both of them.
At least until my sister went away to college. At that point, everything kind of changed. It might have been that my sister and I no longer had to share a bathroom in the morning and that lended to our relationship becoming a bit more settled. Or maybe we all just grew up a bit.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was that Grateful Dead show in Hershey.
Actually, that's probably it. But I digress.
So at some point, Amy became my friend as well and, well, all those lines between relation/friend get all blurry after a while.
And now...
A short list reasons why I LUUUUV my Amy.
She has one of the best laughs I ever heard.
If I ever have a questions about a movie - ever - she will most likely know the answer. Her knowledge of all things film astounds me.
She can fly an Impala like a fighter jet. Even when it's out of control.
She helped with my birthday party when I turned 8.
She said smegma in front of my mom. (Not at the birthday party. It was much later.)
She is warm and cozy.
She knows how to deal with dogs.
She was my compadre during the Summer of Decadence.
She knows about all things cool in music, books, art and booze.
She is there when people need her.
She liked hangin' with my dad.
She's an active camper as opposed to a passive camper. Because of this, she knows all kinds of practical stuff.
She is the type of person that I could sit with for several hours in front of a fire. There is a small, select crew that fall into that category.
Mainly, though, I guess it's because I am comfortable around her. She is like a warm hoodie. Broken-in boots. A hammock in a nice shady spot. Macaroni and cheese. She is genuine in every sense of the word and that is why I am so lucky to have her as my other older-sister-friend.
Happy Birthday, Amy! We all love you!
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Countdown to 2007
Thursday, December 28, 2006
11:30ish pm Dear hubby walks into living room and announces that that coal stoker is broken. The screw that feeds the coal snapped in two.
Core temperature of house: 52 degrees and falling
Friday, December 29, 2006
Hubby worked the better part of the day taking the stoker apart. There is probably no repairing the screw - it has already been mended too many times.
Still no heat or hot water.
Core temperature of house: 48 degrees and falling
Saturday, December 30, 2006
11:00am I am standing outside Mark's Supply in Shenandoah dressed in camo pants and an inside-out sweatshirt. I am holding the broken screw. The owner of the store has gone to the warehouse to see if he has a replacement screw. I lean against the building and think to myself "Well, if you asked me what I would be doing on the next to last day of the year, I never would have guessed this."
12:15pm I arrive back at the house with a replacement screw to find that the fire pot also has a hole worn in it. No replacement to be found so it will have to be fixed ala weld-o-matic. However, it is still stuck in the stoker and takes several more hours to pull apart. Not enough time left to fix it before dear hubby has to leave for work.
9:45pm I drive to my mom's house to take a shower.
Still no heat. Still no hot water.
Core temperature of house: 44 degrees and falling
Sunday, December 31, 2006
12:15pm I stop at the distributor to get two cases of Yuengling Lager - one for us and one to send along with friends to a party in New York. Which is where we should be headed but poor hubby and poor daughter have to work on New Year's Eve. Distributor Man carries the cases out to my car for me because he is all kinds of chivalrous. I trot to my car so I can quickly make room in the trunk. He patiently stands and waits while I push things out of the way. I tell him, "There, you can just set them right there on...oh...on that box of live rounds of ammunition. Oh." He laughs. Then he sees the box of bullets. He sets the beer on top and we wish each other a Happy New Year.
12:45pm At home in the driveway, I turn over one case of beer to the happy revelers on their way to New York and tell them to give everyone our best wishes. After they are on their way, hubby takes the other case of beer out of my trunk to bring into the house. I tell him about the Distributor Man and the bullets. He says, "I'm not sure but I think you can get in trouble for that kind of thing if you get pulled over."
'Tis a sad day when a gal can't ride around with some booze and ammo.
5:40pm After working a 12 hour shift and then staying up all day to repair the coal stoker, dear hubby heads back to work for another 12 hour shift. In a few hours I will drop off some kilbo and BBQ ribs for him and the rest of the crew. Good news - there is a fire in the stoker.
7:32pm Ribs are almost done and will be delivered shortly.
So this will most likely be my last post for the year.
Once again, thank you all for reading my silly ramblings and responing with your kind and witty comments.
All in all, 2006 was a fine year.
I wish you all a very, very happy New Year.I hope your days are filled with prosperity but, most importantly, with peace, love and happiness.
Core temperature of house: 47 degrees and rising
It's gonna be a great year!
11:30ish pm Dear hubby walks into living room and announces that that coal stoker is broken. The screw that feeds the coal snapped in two.
Core temperature of house: 52 degrees and falling
Friday, December 29, 2006
Hubby worked the better part of the day taking the stoker apart. There is probably no repairing the screw - it has already been mended too many times.
Still no heat or hot water.
Core temperature of house: 48 degrees and falling
Saturday, December 30, 2006
11:00am I am standing outside Mark's Supply in Shenandoah dressed in camo pants and an inside-out sweatshirt. I am holding the broken screw. The owner of the store has gone to the warehouse to see if he has a replacement screw. I lean against the building and think to myself "Well, if you asked me what I would be doing on the next to last day of the year, I never would have guessed this."
12:15pm I arrive back at the house with a replacement screw to find that the fire pot also has a hole worn in it. No replacement to be found so it will have to be fixed ala weld-o-matic. However, it is still stuck in the stoker and takes several more hours to pull apart. Not enough time left to fix it before dear hubby has to leave for work.
9:45pm I drive to my mom's house to take a shower.
Still no heat. Still no hot water.
Core temperature of house: 44 degrees and falling
Sunday, December 31, 2006
12:15pm I stop at the distributor to get two cases of Yuengling Lager - one for us and one to send along with friends to a party in New York. Which is where we should be headed but poor hubby and poor daughter have to work on New Year's Eve. Distributor Man carries the cases out to my car for me because he is all kinds of chivalrous. I trot to my car so I can quickly make room in the trunk. He patiently stands and waits while I push things out of the way. I tell him, "There, you can just set them right there on...oh...on that box of live rounds of ammunition. Oh." He laughs. Then he sees the box of bullets. He sets the beer on top and we wish each other a Happy New Year.
12:45pm At home in the driveway, I turn over one case of beer to the happy revelers on their way to New York and tell them to give everyone our best wishes. After they are on their way, hubby takes the other case of beer out of my trunk to bring into the house. I tell him about the Distributor Man and the bullets. He says, "I'm not sure but I think you can get in trouble for that kind of thing if you get pulled over."
'Tis a sad day when a gal can't ride around with some booze and ammo.
5:40pm After working a 12 hour shift and then staying up all day to repair the coal stoker, dear hubby heads back to work for another 12 hour shift. In a few hours I will drop off some kilbo and BBQ ribs for him and the rest of the crew. Good news - there is a fire in the stoker.
7:32pm Ribs are almost done and will be delivered shortly.
So this will most likely be my last post for the year.
Once again, thank you all for reading my silly ramblings and responing with your kind and witty comments.
All in all, 2006 was a fine year.
I wish you all a very, very happy New Year.I hope your days are filled with prosperity but, most importantly, with peace, love and happiness.
Core temperature of house: 47 degrees and rising
It's gonna be a great year!
Thursday, December 28, 2006
15 Serving 30
So, ok, Merry Christmas and Boxing Day and Solstice and everything else.
I'm going to wimp out a bit and keep this post relatively short. I have to go out and feed animals and then fold laundry. If I can accomplish that by the end of the night I will feel...well, like I'll have something to wear to work tomorrow.
But!
I know you have all been waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting with great anticipation for the next installment of The Ugly Sisters Remember. So I will not disappoint.
Just for the record, this photo may be used in any argument against bringing back '80's "fashion". My poor sister was color blind and could not match socks. I was pattern blind and could not realize that a large tiger face on my ENTIRE TORSO was not flattering outside the bingo hall.
But we so have the model pose down, eh?
I'm going to wimp out a bit and keep this post relatively short. I have to go out and feed animals and then fold laundry. If I can accomplish that by the end of the night I will feel...well, like I'll have something to wear to work tomorrow.
But!
I know you have all been waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting with great anticipation for the next installment of The Ugly Sisters Remember. So I will not disappoint.
Just for the record, this photo may be used in any argument against bringing back '80's "fashion". My poor sister was color blind and could not match socks. I was pattern blind and could not realize that a large tiger face on my ENTIRE TORSO was not flattering outside the bingo hall.
But we so have the model pose down, eh?
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
As Promised...
Ok, in the last post I mentioned that I had a photo of me and my sister that I was going to post.
Now, first and foremost, you must understand that I have been carrying this photo around for about two weeks trying to remember that I had to scan it at work. So it was planned well in advance of the photo of me as Liberace on my sis's blog and is in no way meant as retaliation.
I know I have never posted any photos of myself and it's partly because most of the people reading this blog already know me and what I look like, but mainly because, well, I don't want to go smashing anyone's dreams or anything.
But then I thought "Ahhh, the hell with it. Everyone needs their hopes and dreams shattered every now and then."
So, without further ado or explanation, I give you...
The little Halushki and the little Quintessence
Now, first and foremost, you must understand that I have been carrying this photo around for about two weeks trying to remember that I had to scan it at work. So it was planned well in advance of the photo of me as Liberace on my sis's blog and is in no way meant as retaliation.
I know I have never posted any photos of myself and it's partly because most of the people reading this blog already know me and what I look like, but mainly because, well, I don't want to go smashing anyone's dreams or anything.
But then I thought "Ahhh, the hell with it. Everyone needs their hopes and dreams shattered every now and then."
So, without further ado or explanation, I give you...
The little Halushki and the little Quintessence
Monday, December 18, 2006
Aw, Shucks...
I sat in front of the computer this morning with my bowl of Frosted Flakes (because they'rrrrrrrrrrrrrre GREAAAAT!)to catch up on some blogs and, what to my wondering eyes should appear...
my sister has nominated my post about hunting for an ROFL award for November. You can check out the other winners on this site.
I first learned about this last month when my sister won an award in October for her post about the bat in the house and subsequent series of rabies shots. Which was really damn funny. Partly because you know everyone was ok in the end so it's ok to laugh about it now and a large partly (yes, that was intentional) because she just has a way with words.
There is a definite reason - other than family ties - her blog shows up first on my blog roll. It's because it is the one I look foward to reading the most. My sense of humor. Almost like it was written by me but with a better vocabulary and writing skills. You know, no run-on sentences, no mixing of tenses, and all that other stuff that comes with a 4 year higer education degree in English. And a whole lot of plain ol' talent.
So you can imagine my shock and surprize when I read that she nominated me for the ROFL award. Me?
But, then when I think about it, we don't have much trouble eliciting laughs from each other. When you grow up with someone, sharing the same circumstances, I think it can go one of two ways. You can either develop the "get through it and get out of it" idea of family or you can develop the bonds that run strong and deep. Thankfully we fall into the second category. It always amazes and saddens me when I hear about families that aren't close.
And just how did we end up so lucky? Was it all that quality time spent kicking acrylic blankets in our footie pajamas making static shocks? The shared misery of having to sleep with plastic curlers in our hair on Christmas Eve? Or the many hours on the road in the back of a station wagon with nothing other than Mad-libs and our imaginations to occupy us? The stars and planets? The Mountain City Diner and gravy fries? Who knows?
Whatever the cause, it's there. And I'm glad I can make my big sis laugh just as much as she makes me laugh. Thanks for the nomination!
Still, they're sisters,
Identical sisters and you'll find,
They laugh alike, they walk alike,
At times they even talk alike --
You can lose your mind,
When sisters are two of a kind.
Oh, and by the way, if you go to her blog, you will get to see a photo of us in costume. She as Che Guevara and myself as Liberace. This, as far as I know, is quite possibly the only photo of me on the internet. Even odder still, I have a photo of the two of us that I was going to post before I even read her blog but I have to scan it into the computer at work. So, once I do that, I'll post it here. And then there will be two very flattering photos of The Ugly Sisters on the internet.
my sister has nominated my post about hunting for an ROFL award for November. You can check out the other winners on this site.
I first learned about this last month when my sister won an award in October for her post about the bat in the house and subsequent series of rabies shots. Which was really damn funny. Partly because you know everyone was ok in the end so it's ok to laugh about it now and a large partly (yes, that was intentional) because she just has a way with words.
There is a definite reason - other than family ties - her blog shows up first on my blog roll. It's because it is the one I look foward to reading the most. My sense of humor. Almost like it was written by me but with a better vocabulary and writing skills. You know, no run-on sentences, no mixing of tenses, and all that other stuff that comes with a 4 year higer education degree in English. And a whole lot of plain ol' talent.
So you can imagine my shock and surprize when I read that she nominated me for the ROFL award. Me?
But, then when I think about it, we don't have much trouble eliciting laughs from each other. When you grow up with someone, sharing the same circumstances, I think it can go one of two ways. You can either develop the "get through it and get out of it" idea of family or you can develop the bonds that run strong and deep. Thankfully we fall into the second category. It always amazes and saddens me when I hear about families that aren't close.
And just how did we end up so lucky? Was it all that quality time spent kicking acrylic blankets in our footie pajamas making static shocks? The shared misery of having to sleep with plastic curlers in our hair on Christmas Eve? Or the many hours on the road in the back of a station wagon with nothing other than Mad-libs and our imaginations to occupy us? The stars and planets? The Mountain City Diner and gravy fries? Who knows?
Whatever the cause, it's there. And I'm glad I can make my big sis laugh just as much as she makes me laugh. Thanks for the nomination!
Still, they're sisters,
Identical sisters and you'll find,
They laugh alike, they walk alike,
At times they even talk alike --
You can lose your mind,
When sisters are two of a kind.
Oh, and by the way, if you go to her blog, you will get to see a photo of us in costume. She as Che Guevara and myself as Liberace. This, as far as I know, is quite possibly the only photo of me on the internet. Even odder still, I have a photo of the two of us that I was going to post before I even read her blog but I have to scan it into the computer at work. So, once I do that, I'll post it here. And then there will be two very flattering photos of The Ugly Sisters on the internet.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Home Renovating: A Post With Many Possible Titles
There were so many options to choose from. For intance, here are some that I considered:
How I Ended My Chances As A Hand Model
An Alternative to the Death Penalty
You're Soaking In It - But It Isn't Going To Help
Why Home Renovators Need Mental Health Days
Just Put Down The Putty Knife And No One Will Get Hurt
I think you all know what these various titles are addressing.
Yes, that's right.
Glazing windows.
The only thing I enjoy more than glazing windows is spackling.
Scratch that. Glazing windows is the tops.
Can you sense the sarcasm? Good.
So I have been trying to catch up on some hatch battening. The tops on the list is trying to get some more storm windows in their proper places. The unfortunate thing is, in order to do that, I have to repair them first. Well, I guess I don't have to but, you know.
I decided the first one to tackle would be the storm window that goes over the window on the west wall of the kitchen. Reason being is that whenever we cook something, the steam condenses on that window and, if cold enough which is will soon be, it becomes a sheet of ice by morning. That would be ice on the inside of the window. That's because our house is f.. f... very cold. Like, the other night when we were having our first bout of cold days, it was 49 degrees in the kitchen.
That room, by the way, is the warmest in the house.
I mentioned my storm window project the other morning to some family members and one told me - for the umpteenth time - about "Oh, I know exactly what you mean. When we first bought our house there was one window that would get snow on the inside of the sill if it was snowing outside. That first year was terrible."
...
My first instinct was to grab her by her ears and scream in her face "YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I MEAN! THIS IS TEN YEEEEEAAAAARRRRRSSSSSSS OF NOOOOOOO HEEEEAAAAT!" But since it was my mother-in-law I just smiled and said "Yes, I'm sure it must have been bad."
So, anyway, I had taken this storm window down during the summer when it would make sense to do these sorts of projects and set it aside until now. I do those sorts of things because I'm real smart.
I got as far as removing the old panes of glass, scraping off the loose glazing and scraping the paint on the frame. It was all ready to be put back together, glazed and painted.
I cleared a spot in the dining room because that's the best place to do these sorts of projects and, really let's be truthful here, the only reason it is called the dining room is because that's what it used to be when the previous owners had the house. We are starting to call it the War Room because it currently houses all of our assorted weapons of mass renovation. Although, if you try to report us to homeland security I can pretty much tell you they will find no evidence of use.
Anyway, I set the window frame on a makeshift table and cleaned one of the panes of glass. This particular storm window has just two panes of glass, both of which are rather large and terribly dangerous what with being all kinds of brittle and stuff. But I managed to successfully clean the frist pane and set it into the frame. I spent the next 6 hours or so trying to locate glazing points. This was a treasure hunt on the scale of someone hiding a penny in Central Park and saying "Ok! Now you find it!" I finally located them in a plastic tub filled with other assorted joining--things-together things.
I had to take the pane back out of the frame because, after reading the instructions on the glaze can, I realized I was supposed to put a "bead" of glaze on the frame to set the pane in. Unfortunately, I didn't read the part that stated "If you have to wear more than 4 layers of clothing to stay warm, it's too cold to glaze windows." That is something that would reveal itself to me later.
So to lay a bead of glazing, you are supposed to take a blob of glaze out of the can, roll it around in your hands to warm up (Oh! the irony), roll it into a worm, and then lay it in the slot where the window goes.
Sounds easy enough, right?
...
Well, see there's that first part about getting the glaze warm enough to work with. And then there's that part where my house is already really cold inside. And so are my hands. And so is the glaze. And the window frame. And my heart. And my soul. Cold and dark. And despairing. Seething with hatred of people whose houses are warm enough that they can parade around in nothing but thermal underwear, sweats and a wool coat in winter. Despi... oh. Uh... Sorry about that. I got off track.
So there I was, rolling and rolling the glaze into leprotic worms that would wither and fall apart, not sticking to itself, the frame, nothing. Except my skin. Aparently the faint bit of heat left in my hypothermic body was just enough to warm the glaze enough to bond to my skin. So I had to stop once in a while to scrape my hands with a putty knife and work those bits of glaze back into the worms. Which would promptly fall apart. GAH!
Then I had the not so very bright idea of putting a drop - just a drop! - of miniral spirits into the glaze to see if that would help soften it up a bit. Which it did. Like...too much. So now the glaze was really sticking to my hands and not itself or the window frame. Finally, after many many swear words, I completed the bead of glaze.
I washed my hands and set the pane of glass in place. Tap, tap, carefully tapped the points into place. Whew! One almost done. Now all I had to do was glaze the outside part of the window. I decided to forego that part of the project and get the other pane cleaned and set in its worm-bead. I took the glass to the utility sink, washed and scraped the old glaze off, broght it back into the War Room and set it SNAP!
Crappity crap.
I broke it. I broke the corner right off. Like a big piece of the corner.
Now I have a big, glass trapezoid. And a half finished storm window. And a cold, black soul soon to be joined by cold, black fingers and toes.
So, um...if anyone is looking for Christmas gift ideas? I need a sheet of glass...
How I Ended My Chances As A Hand Model
An Alternative to the Death Penalty
You're Soaking In It - But It Isn't Going To Help
Why Home Renovators Need Mental Health Days
Just Put Down The Putty Knife And No One Will Get Hurt
I think you all know what these various titles are addressing.
Yes, that's right.
Glazing windows.
The only thing I enjoy more than glazing windows is spackling.
Scratch that. Glazing windows is the tops.
Can you sense the sarcasm? Good.
So I have been trying to catch up on some hatch battening. The tops on the list is trying to get some more storm windows in their proper places. The unfortunate thing is, in order to do that, I have to repair them first. Well, I guess I don't have to but, you know.
I decided the first one to tackle would be the storm window that goes over the window on the west wall of the kitchen. Reason being is that whenever we cook something, the steam condenses on that window and, if cold enough which is will soon be, it becomes a sheet of ice by morning. That would be ice on the inside of the window. That's because our house is f.. f... very cold. Like, the other night when we were having our first bout of cold days, it was 49 degrees in the kitchen.
That room, by the way, is the warmest in the house.
I mentioned my storm window project the other morning to some family members and one told me - for the umpteenth time - about "Oh, I know exactly what you mean. When we first bought our house there was one window that would get snow on the inside of the sill if it was snowing outside. That first year was terrible."
...
My first instinct was to grab her by her ears and scream in her face "YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I MEAN! THIS IS TEN YEEEEEAAAAARRRRRSSSSSSS OF NOOOOOOO HEEEEAAAAT!" But since it was my mother-in-law I just smiled and said "Yes, I'm sure it must have been bad."
So, anyway, I had taken this storm window down during the summer when it would make sense to do these sorts of projects and set it aside until now. I do those sorts of things because I'm real smart.
I got as far as removing the old panes of glass, scraping off the loose glazing and scraping the paint on the frame. It was all ready to be put back together, glazed and painted.
I cleared a spot in the dining room because that's the best place to do these sorts of projects and, really let's be truthful here, the only reason it is called the dining room is because that's what it used to be when the previous owners had the house. We are starting to call it the War Room because it currently houses all of our assorted weapons of mass renovation. Although, if you try to report us to homeland security I can pretty much tell you they will find no evidence of use.
Anyway, I set the window frame on a makeshift table and cleaned one of the panes of glass. This particular storm window has just two panes of glass, both of which are rather large and terribly dangerous what with being all kinds of brittle and stuff. But I managed to successfully clean the frist pane and set it into the frame. I spent the next 6 hours or so trying to locate glazing points. This was a treasure hunt on the scale of someone hiding a penny in Central Park and saying "Ok! Now you find it!" I finally located them in a plastic tub filled with other assorted joining--things-together things.
I had to take the pane back out of the frame because, after reading the instructions on the glaze can, I realized I was supposed to put a "bead" of glaze on the frame to set the pane in. Unfortunately, I didn't read the part that stated "If you have to wear more than 4 layers of clothing to stay warm, it's too cold to glaze windows." That is something that would reveal itself to me later.
So to lay a bead of glazing, you are supposed to take a blob of glaze out of the can, roll it around in your hands to warm up (Oh! the irony), roll it into a worm, and then lay it in the slot where the window goes.
Sounds easy enough, right?
...
Well, see there's that first part about getting the glaze warm enough to work with. And then there's that part where my house is already really cold inside. And so are my hands. And so is the glaze. And the window frame. And my heart. And my soul. Cold and dark. And despairing. Seething with hatred of people whose houses are warm enough that they can parade around in nothing but thermal underwear, sweats and a wool coat in winter. Despi... oh. Uh... Sorry about that. I got off track.
So there I was, rolling and rolling the glaze into leprotic worms that would wither and fall apart, not sticking to itself, the frame, nothing. Except my skin. Aparently the faint bit of heat left in my hypothermic body was just enough to warm the glaze enough to bond to my skin. So I had to stop once in a while to scrape my hands with a putty knife and work those bits of glaze back into the worms. Which would promptly fall apart. GAH!
Then I had the not so very bright idea of putting a drop - just a drop! - of miniral spirits into the glaze to see if that would help soften it up a bit. Which it did. Like...too much. So now the glaze was really sticking to my hands and not itself or the window frame. Finally, after many many swear words, I completed the bead of glaze.
I washed my hands and set the pane of glass in place. Tap, tap, carefully tapped the points into place. Whew! One almost done. Now all I had to do was glaze the outside part of the window. I decided to forego that part of the project and get the other pane cleaned and set in its worm-bead. I took the glass to the utility sink, washed and scraped the old glaze off, broght it back into the War Room and set it SNAP!
Crappity crap.
I broke it. I broke the corner right off. Like a big piece of the corner.
Now I have a big, glass trapezoid. And a half finished storm window. And a cold, black soul soon to be joined by cold, black fingers and toes.
So, um...if anyone is looking for Christmas gift ideas? I need a sheet of glass...
Sunday, December 03, 2006
More Than My Fair Share
The other night whilst out grocery shopping, I decided to treat myself to some ice cream. I didn't want to buy just any old flavor but I also didn't want to pay $49.00 for a pint of Ben & Jerry's. So after scanning the aisle of options I settled on 1 3/4 quarts of Breyers Double Churned!, Extra Creamy!!, Chocolate Caramel Brownie.
Mmmmm, mmmmmm. You can just imagine the rich chocolaty goodness. The smooth, creamy texture. The gooey cara-
What?
Oh. Yes. You heard me correctly.
One and three fouths of a quart.
No. Not a half gallon.
Yes, I checked. It is one and three fourths not two quarts.
No, really. Look for yourself. Look in the lower right hand corner.
See that?
And it's not only Breyers my dear readers. It's most - if not all - of the ice cream companies.
What was that? The prices have gone up?
Yeah, well. Sure I was outraged at first. Actually this is something I noticed quite a while ago so I've had time to recover. However, if you are an ice cream afficionado and this is all news to you, you might just want to stop here and not read this post any further. Because the other information I am about to impart is going to be devastating.
Ok, you were warned.
So, I like ice cream. A lot. I always have. Chocolate has always been one of my most favorites and the more chocolate the better. Double Chocolate? Yum. Chocolate Fudge Brownie? Yes! Yes! Double Chocolate Fudge Brownie with a sliced banana and some hot fudge sauce? Well you can just cremate the body 'cause I've died and gone to heaven.
Yes, I know. Too much of good thing and blah, blah, blah. Whatever.
But seriously, I have been trying to rein in the frozen dairy monster within albeit half-heartedly. See, I used to eat a bowl of ice cream. And I mean a bowl. Like a cereal bowl. Heaped.
Oh, it wasn't every day or anything like that but even I figured I should not go to such excess.
So I cut back. Now I eat my ice cream out of a cup. A cup that is about one third the size of the bowl. Ok, maybe one half the size. Who's counting other than my bathroom scale and the overtaxed elastic on my undies? Still, it's a start, yes?
Anyway, tonight I thought to myself "Self, how's about we get a cup o' that ice cream and sit down and read some blogs or something?" And my self said "Sounds like a plan."
So I got my cup and spoon and took the ice cream out of the freezer and opened it up. Now, bear in mind, the ice cream has been in the house for a day or so, so I already had some. But when I opened the lid and started to fill my cup I thought "Hmm. One and three fourths of a quart certainly won't last very long - even if I am only eating it by the cup as opposed to by the bowl."
I thought, once again, about how dismayed I was when I discovered the size reduction and price increase and, and, and, well how dare they anyway? I mean, this is ice cream we're talking about. It's not right to go messing with people's lives.
Then it occured to me to check the serving size because well, hey, it's a capitalist nation and they have every right to make money on ice cream as long as people are willing to pay. I mean, look at what people pay for Ben & Jerry's! But they pay it. Why? Because it's damn good, that's why. And sometimes you don't mind paying for quality. And maybe that's what is going on here - it might be a smaller container but it's 6 or 7, ok, more like 8 or 9, servings of good quality ice cream and, really, in the end...
WHAT?????!!!!!
What the...?
Fourteen?
FOURTEEN?????????!!!!!!
I double checked. No, that's not 1.4 that's FOURTEEN SERVINGS! Now how in the hell...
Oh.
Oh my.
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
That's just not right. That's...that's... so wrong.
Apparently the ice cream industry feels that....get this.... a serving of ice cream is ONE HALF CUP.
Yeah, you heard me. One. Half. Of a cup.
Let me give a little more perspective on this. This is one half cup along with one teaspoonful (heaping) of ice cream.
So, according to my calculations based on my somewhate-questionable-but-so-far-so-good-spatial-analysis-skills, that's like 4 or 5 tesspoons full and BAM! you're done. Cut! No more ice cream for you!
So, in protest, I am going back to the bowl.
Mmmmm, mmmmmm. You can just imagine the rich chocolaty goodness. The smooth, creamy texture. The gooey cara-
What?
Oh. Yes. You heard me correctly.
One and three fouths of a quart.
No. Not a half gallon.
Yes, I checked. It is one and three fourths not two quarts.
No, really. Look for yourself. Look in the lower right hand corner.
See that?
And it's not only Breyers my dear readers. It's most - if not all - of the ice cream companies.
What was that? The prices have gone up?
Yeah, well. Sure I was outraged at first. Actually this is something I noticed quite a while ago so I've had time to recover. However, if you are an ice cream afficionado and this is all news to you, you might just want to stop here and not read this post any further. Because the other information I am about to impart is going to be devastating.
Ok, you were warned.
So, I like ice cream. A lot. I always have. Chocolate has always been one of my most favorites and the more chocolate the better. Double Chocolate? Yum. Chocolate Fudge Brownie? Yes! Yes! Double Chocolate Fudge Brownie with a sliced banana and some hot fudge sauce? Well you can just cremate the body 'cause I've died and gone to heaven.
Yes, I know. Too much of good thing and blah, blah, blah. Whatever.
But seriously, I have been trying to rein in the frozen dairy monster within albeit half-heartedly. See, I used to eat a bowl of ice cream. And I mean a bowl. Like a cereal bowl. Heaped.
Oh, it wasn't every day or anything like that but even I figured I should not go to such excess.
So I cut back. Now I eat my ice cream out of a cup. A cup that is about one third the size of the bowl. Ok, maybe one half the size. Who's counting other than my bathroom scale and the overtaxed elastic on my undies? Still, it's a start, yes?
Anyway, tonight I thought to myself "Self, how's about we get a cup o' that ice cream and sit down and read some blogs or something?" And my self said "Sounds like a plan."
So I got my cup and spoon and took the ice cream out of the freezer and opened it up. Now, bear in mind, the ice cream has been in the house for a day or so, so I already had some. But when I opened the lid and started to fill my cup I thought "Hmm. One and three fourths of a quart certainly won't last very long - even if I am only eating it by the cup as opposed to by the bowl."
I thought, once again, about how dismayed I was when I discovered the size reduction and price increase and, and, and, well how dare they anyway? I mean, this is ice cream we're talking about. It's not right to go messing with people's lives.
Then it occured to me to check the serving size because well, hey, it's a capitalist nation and they have every right to make money on ice cream as long as people are willing to pay. I mean, look at what people pay for Ben & Jerry's! But they pay it. Why? Because it's damn good, that's why. And sometimes you don't mind paying for quality. And maybe that's what is going on here - it might be a smaller container but it's 6 or 7, ok, more like 8 or 9, servings of good quality ice cream and, really, in the end...
WHAT?????!!!!!
What the...?
Fourteen?
FOURTEEN?????????!!!!!!
I double checked. No, that's not 1.4 that's FOURTEEN SERVINGS! Now how in the hell...
Oh.
Oh my.
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
That's just not right. That's...that's... so wrong.
Apparently the ice cream industry feels that....get this.... a serving of ice cream is ONE HALF CUP.
Yeah, you heard me. One. Half. Of a cup.
Let me give a little more perspective on this. This is one half cup along with one teaspoonful (heaping) of ice cream.
So, according to my calculations based on my somewhate-questionable-but-so-far-so-good-spatial-analysis-skills, that's like 4 or 5 tesspoons full and BAM! you're done. Cut! No more ice cream for you!
So, in protest, I am going back to the bowl.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
A Hunting We Will Go
Hey there. I hope everyone had a nice Thanksgiving and all.
This post is just an attempt to get one more post in before we start on that speedy slope to the end of the year.
Tomorrow is December.
Can you believe it?
Anyway...
So, as most of you with ties to PA know, this past Monday we observed that most holy of holidays - The First Day of Deer Season. Well, the first day you can shoot a deer with a rifle as opposed to an arrow or the bumper of your work car.
I kind of left it up to the last minute to finally decide that, yes, I suppose I'll give it another go. Especially since it was shaping up to be an unusually balmy November day. And I'm all about warm weather hunting because it's not cold. Sure you sweat a little bit more and the deer can smell you from a mile away but, really, a good hunter can get past that. A pansy hunter can't get past 10 degrees. And that's what I am. A pansy hunter.
I will end the anticipation right now by telling you that, no, I did not manage to score a deer. Which is ok by me because I'm really a c'est la vie kind of hunter anyway. I guess you can say that I wasn't concerned at all about actually getting a deer considering I drove my car.
Now that I look back on it, what was I thinking? What if I did actually get a deer? I just vacuumed the inside of the car so it wasn't going to go on the back seat. And, although I keep my trunk full of all sorts of oddities, even I have limits when it comes to a fresh, bloody carcass. So I guess I would have to tie it on the trunk or the roof of the car. And I guess I wouldn't even tie it since I didn't think to bring anything like...uh...rope. I suppose I could have used the wire in my trunk that I keep for hanging real estate signs.
So there I would be, driving my car home with a fresh deer oozing blood all down the windows and doors. Kind of like Carrie. "They're all going to laugh at you!"
I guess it's a good thing that my lack of preparedness is balanced by my lack of seriousness. Or, perhaps, could one be a result of the other? Maybe.
I left shortly before dawn with plans to meet my uncle, cousin and cousin-in-law at the designated spot in the New Boston strippins (non-yonko translation = strip mines). It was a wet ride there, complete with loads of black mud. Good thing I washed the car two days before.
Pause in story - This is exactly why I rarely wash my car. Because I will wash it and vacuum it and clean the windows and get it all sparkley and such and then some emergency will come up where I have to go off-roading. It's just easier to keep a dirty car I tell ya.
So I got to the spot and parked my car. I looked around for my group and spied a Jeep on a hill. I had no clue what kind of vehicle they would be in and, what with hunters being the gun-toting types they are, I was a little hesitant to barge in on someone else's territory.
I would never have made a good wild animal. "No, no. That's ok. You can go after that herd. I don't need to eat this winter... I'll just go over here and eat some of this black dirt."
I stood outside my car and listend. Yes, it definitely sounded like my group. I started to walk toward them and my cousin-in-law met me half way. We exchanged "Good mornings" and some small talk. Then I asked "What are Uncle and Cousin doing?"
Cousin-in-law: Oh, they're both up there taking their heart medicine and stuff.
A real lethal bunch we are.
As it turns out, the only deer I saw on that outing were two running across a field waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay off in the distance. So far away that my bullet would have had to stop for directions if I had bothered to take a shot. Other than that, I saw a lot of little birds. And a chipmunk. Which didn't have a legal size rack so I couldn't shoot it.
In the afternoon I was sitting on top of a dirt bank trying desperately to stay awake.
Hunting is very exciting.
Finally I decided I better get up and walk around before I end up rolling down the hill. With a loaded gun. Always a good time.
I walked a bit until I found my uncle.
Me: See anything?
Uncle: No, you?
Me: No.... I was starting to doze off on the hill.
Uncle: I did doze off. All of a sudden I woke up and didn't know where I was. Then I saw your car and thought "I must be hunting."
And the real crazy thing is people like us are allowed to wander around with guns. Real guns. With bullets in them. You gotta love America.
I decided to pack it in around 3 o'clock and head home. About two nights previous, my hubby and I saw some deer on a lane on our property and my hubby said one looked like a decent sized buck. I figured I had about another hour to kill so I could take a walk up the lane and just sit there until sundown.
I slowly and quietly made my way up the lane - very careful not to make unnecessary noise. Watching, watching. Always scanning the woods up ahead for any sign of movement. Up towards the end of the lane I could see flourescent orange through the trees. Someone had beat me to the spot. I was curious as to who it might be but I didn't want to go any further and spoil that person's last hour of the day.
I just stood quietly where I was for a moment watching and scanning...when all of a sudden I heard crashing through the bushes behind me.
My mind raced. How many were there? Definitley more than one. Did they see me yet? Try to turn slowly in case they didn't. Hold the gun at the ready. Now...slowly...slowly...turn...look...slowly...
All the while the crashing noise is getting closer. Obviously the deer didn't see me yet. Mayby this was my chance! Maybe it was the decent sized buck! Maybe...
I turned to see...
...
four goats.
And how I managed not to shoot them is beyond me.
They all trotted up to me like "Yay! We're going for a walk! Yay!"
And I'm thinking "Well, the big one is probably legal..."
And then it dawned on me that there are other people out in the woods - people on heart medication - people who roll down banks in deep slumber - people who tie bloody carcasses to the tops of their cars - people who are disoriented - all of these people with guns! All waiting to see some sign of horns before they let loose with a barrage of bullets. And here I am in the middle of it all surrounded by FOUR GOATS WITH HORNS!
I quickly slung my gun over my shoulder and set off toward the house. When I rounded the driveway - with all four goats in a line behind me - I thought my hubby would wet his pants.
So there it is. My not-so-mighty hunter story. I guess, in the end, maybe I was meant to be more of a gatherer. Or maybe an observer. Or, perhaps, a purveyor of fine goods. Whatever. I'll give it another go once or twice before the season is over.
Weather permitting.
This post is just an attempt to get one more post in before we start on that speedy slope to the end of the year.
Tomorrow is December.
Can you believe it?
Anyway...
So, as most of you with ties to PA know, this past Monday we observed that most holy of holidays - The First Day of Deer Season. Well, the first day you can shoot a deer with a rifle as opposed to an arrow or the bumper of your work car.
I kind of left it up to the last minute to finally decide that, yes, I suppose I'll give it another go. Especially since it was shaping up to be an unusually balmy November day. And I'm all about warm weather hunting because it's not cold. Sure you sweat a little bit more and the deer can smell you from a mile away but, really, a good hunter can get past that. A pansy hunter can't get past 10 degrees. And that's what I am. A pansy hunter.
I will end the anticipation right now by telling you that, no, I did not manage to score a deer. Which is ok by me because I'm really a c'est la vie kind of hunter anyway. I guess you can say that I wasn't concerned at all about actually getting a deer considering I drove my car.
Now that I look back on it, what was I thinking? What if I did actually get a deer? I just vacuumed the inside of the car so it wasn't going to go on the back seat. And, although I keep my trunk full of all sorts of oddities, even I have limits when it comes to a fresh, bloody carcass. So I guess I would have to tie it on the trunk or the roof of the car. And I guess I wouldn't even tie it since I didn't think to bring anything like...uh...rope. I suppose I could have used the wire in my trunk that I keep for hanging real estate signs.
So there I would be, driving my car home with a fresh deer oozing blood all down the windows and doors. Kind of like Carrie. "They're all going to laugh at you!"
I guess it's a good thing that my lack of preparedness is balanced by my lack of seriousness. Or, perhaps, could one be a result of the other? Maybe.
I left shortly before dawn with plans to meet my uncle, cousin and cousin-in-law at the designated spot in the New Boston strippins (non-yonko translation = strip mines). It was a wet ride there, complete with loads of black mud. Good thing I washed the car two days before.
Pause in story - This is exactly why I rarely wash my car. Because I will wash it and vacuum it and clean the windows and get it all sparkley and such and then some emergency will come up where I have to go off-roading. It's just easier to keep a dirty car I tell ya.
So I got to the spot and parked my car. I looked around for my group and spied a Jeep on a hill. I had no clue what kind of vehicle they would be in and, what with hunters being the gun-toting types they are, I was a little hesitant to barge in on someone else's territory.
I would never have made a good wild animal. "No, no. That's ok. You can go after that herd. I don't need to eat this winter... I'll just go over here and eat some of this black dirt."
I stood outside my car and listend. Yes, it definitely sounded like my group. I started to walk toward them and my cousin-in-law met me half way. We exchanged "Good mornings" and some small talk. Then I asked "What are Uncle and Cousin doing?"
Cousin-in-law: Oh, they're both up there taking their heart medicine and stuff.
A real lethal bunch we are.
As it turns out, the only deer I saw on that outing were two running across a field waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay off in the distance. So far away that my bullet would have had to stop for directions if I had bothered to take a shot. Other than that, I saw a lot of little birds. And a chipmunk. Which didn't have a legal size rack so I couldn't shoot it.
In the afternoon I was sitting on top of a dirt bank trying desperately to stay awake.
Hunting is very exciting.
Finally I decided I better get up and walk around before I end up rolling down the hill. With a loaded gun. Always a good time.
I walked a bit until I found my uncle.
Me: See anything?
Uncle: No, you?
Me: No.... I was starting to doze off on the hill.
Uncle: I did doze off. All of a sudden I woke up and didn't know where I was. Then I saw your car and thought "I must be hunting."
And the real crazy thing is people like us are allowed to wander around with guns. Real guns. With bullets in them. You gotta love America.
I decided to pack it in around 3 o'clock and head home. About two nights previous, my hubby and I saw some deer on a lane on our property and my hubby said one looked like a decent sized buck. I figured I had about another hour to kill so I could take a walk up the lane and just sit there until sundown.
I slowly and quietly made my way up the lane - very careful not to make unnecessary noise. Watching, watching. Always scanning the woods up ahead for any sign of movement. Up towards the end of the lane I could see flourescent orange through the trees. Someone had beat me to the spot. I was curious as to who it might be but I didn't want to go any further and spoil that person's last hour of the day.
I just stood quietly where I was for a moment watching and scanning...when all of a sudden I heard crashing through the bushes behind me.
My mind raced. How many were there? Definitley more than one. Did they see me yet? Try to turn slowly in case they didn't. Hold the gun at the ready. Now...slowly...slowly...turn...look...slowly...
All the while the crashing noise is getting closer. Obviously the deer didn't see me yet. Mayby this was my chance! Maybe it was the decent sized buck! Maybe...
I turned to see...
...
four goats.
And how I managed not to shoot them is beyond me.
They all trotted up to me like "Yay! We're going for a walk! Yay!"
And I'm thinking "Well, the big one is probably legal..."
And then it dawned on me that there are other people out in the woods - people on heart medication - people who roll down banks in deep slumber - people who tie bloody carcasses to the tops of their cars - people who are disoriented - all of these people with guns! All waiting to see some sign of horns before they let loose with a barrage of bullets. And here I am in the middle of it all surrounded by FOUR GOATS WITH HORNS!
I quickly slung my gun over my shoulder and set off toward the house. When I rounded the driveway - with all four goats in a line behind me - I thought my hubby would wet his pants.
So there it is. My not-so-mighty hunter story. I guess, in the end, maybe I was meant to be more of a gatherer. Or maybe an observer. Or, perhaps, a purveyor of fine goods. Whatever. I'll give it another go once or twice before the season is over.
Weather permitting.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
The rising world of waters dark and deep.
Till taught by pain, Men really know not what good water's worth; If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your berth, Or in the desert heard the camel's bell, You'd wish yourself where Truth is--in a well.
- Lord Byron
Or, perhaps, in my basement.
Yes siree, my basement is full of truth right now. Truth is just a-flowin like a river.
Truth, truth, truth all over the place.
Today, in Schuylkill County, and quite possibly elsewhere but who really cares about that, there was rain of Biblical proportions. Bucktes and buckets of rain. It rained the equivalent of 40 days and 40 nights in about 5 hours. Ok, I exaggerate - maybe 7 hours.
I kept delaying leaving work, hoping to catch a quite time in the deluge but it was not to be. So, by the time I reached my car, I was already soaked. Then I had to get out of the car to pick up a hoagie (sub, long-ish type sandwich for the non-yonkos among you) for my daughter and then get out of the car again to drop it off at school so she would have some supper on her way to county band auditions. By the time all that was done, well, I didn't even care all that much.
I pulled into my driveway which was about 6 inches deep in water, got out of the car yet again to get the mail, had my back tidal-waved by a passing car (yeah that was real funny, jerk!) and drove up my washed out driveway. Meh, like I haven't done that before.
I decided to stop at the horse stall to pay a quick visit to Lil' Dozer who hasen't seen a day of dry ground since he arrived in Pennsylvania. I patted him on the head and assured him that it isn't always like this - soon it will be frozen solid. Poor little guy.
Then I braced myself.
For I knew.
Rain = wet house.
And remember when I said this was Biblical?
Yeah.
I walked in the dining room to find the usual drip pans. One, two...oh and there's one with a large plate of glass to catch the drips falling too close to the wall and run them into the pan.
God! I live among geniuses!
Into the hallway to hang up my soaked rain coat and find something a little more suitable to wear for the inevitable unclogging of roof drains.
And let me stop here to make a little public service announcement. INTERIOR ROOF DRAINS ARE A VERY BAD IDEA!!!!!!!!!!!! Why, oh, why would the thought of bringing the water INTO THE WALLS OF YOUR HOUSE on its way out ever seem like a stroke of genius? Hmmm? Can someone tell me why?
No, I didn't think so.
While haging up the soaked coat, I peeked into the laundry room.
All over the floor. A big puddle of truth.
I got the mop and soaked up the truth and indifferently squished it down the drain. I gathered two buckets and strategically arranged them on the floor.
The truth dripped in.
I then went into the kitchen and asked my hubby if he got the note I left him about the water pipe with a veeeeery leeeetle hole in it that I found in the basement today. He said he did and...
All of a sudden our son came in from outside saying "There's truth spilling over the roof!"
For the unknowing among you, let me explain our set up here. There is the main roof of the house which is peaked. This roof is about, oh, really big. All of the water that dumps off of this roof goes on to a flat roof which is, oh, also really big. From the flat - well, not exactly flat because it pitches IN TOWARD THE HOUSE at various places to the stupid, stupid interior drains - roof, the water goes down the interior drains to God only know where because we certainly don't and that there isn't a can of worms we even want to think about opening.
Doncha just love old houses?
So one part of this flat but not exactly flat roof is over the dining room. This roof is about a 18 x 33 foot expanse that pitches toward an itsy bitsy drain hole along the outer edge. But! It is not so far on the outer edge as to allow the water to just go off the roof. No! There is a little wall about 18 inches high so as to give the illusion to someone who might be standing on the ground that it is, acutally, a flat roof. Which it is not. Follow? Good.
But Oh! what an illusion it creates! For instance, the innocent passer by might have looked at the roof today and might have seen water spilling over the edge and not have given it much thought except to maybe think "They really ought to put a gutter on the edge of that roof and direct the water all to one spot."
What that unkowing individual doesn't realize is that on the other side of that false flat roof facade is a lake.
A lake deep enough to spill over an 18 inch wall.
Let's just stop a minute so you can take that all in.
...
...
Do you all recall that this is happening on top of my dining room?
Which might explain all the truth dripping through the ceiling.
So, no sooner were the words out of my son's mouth than I was grabbing an umberella (what? why?) and sprinting upstairs and out onto the roof.
The lake was deeper than my boots were tall. I had to scoot around the edge, get onto the false flat roof facade wall and make my way to the drain. I sqatted down and reached into the truth but it was too deep.
Big sigh.
I kneeled down, rolled up my soaking wet sleeve so as not to get it wet in the lake, and reached in. I groped around in the truth until I found the malicious blob of leaves covering the drain and pulled them out. Then I made my way around the rest of the roof, cleaning out the other blobs of leaves from the other drains.
Most people would do this when it isn't raining but I find that to be rather uninspired.
I was now thoroughly soaked - glad I brought the umberella! - so I made my way inside and down to the basement.
I think I have mentioned by basement here before.
If you are seeking truth, it is in my basement.
How about a fountain of truth bursting forth?
Check.
Um...truth spilling out across the floor?
Roger that.
Let's see...do we have any truth bubbling up out of a pipe that comes from some place beyond our foundation walls and very possibly this dimension?
Yep.
How about a truth so deep that it forms a whirlpool, almost sucking you in along with all the flotsam and dried up dead mice?
well...
OF COURSE WE DO!
I think I also might have...well, maybe just possibly...yes, yes I'm sure of it.
I looked down and saw a raft float by...
...and then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young boy in a calico dress and a big black man dash behind the coal stoker on their way to Illinois.
After we made sure all the drains were open and flowing, hopefully fast enough to keep pace with the influx, my hubby and I were left with only one more thing to do. So we donned our waders and ponchos and went for a hike around the neighborhood.
Just slogging through the truth. Because, you know...
Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.
Yeah. Me and Norman Fitzroy Maclean. Haunted.
- Lord Byron
Or, perhaps, in my basement.
Yes siree, my basement is full of truth right now. Truth is just a-flowin like a river.
Truth, truth, truth all over the place.
Today, in Schuylkill County, and quite possibly elsewhere but who really cares about that, there was rain of Biblical proportions. Bucktes and buckets of rain. It rained the equivalent of 40 days and 40 nights in about 5 hours. Ok, I exaggerate - maybe 7 hours.
I kept delaying leaving work, hoping to catch a quite time in the deluge but it was not to be. So, by the time I reached my car, I was already soaked. Then I had to get out of the car to pick up a hoagie (sub, long-ish type sandwich for the non-yonkos among you) for my daughter and then get out of the car again to drop it off at school so she would have some supper on her way to county band auditions. By the time all that was done, well, I didn't even care all that much.
I pulled into my driveway which was about 6 inches deep in water, got out of the car yet again to get the mail, had my back tidal-waved by a passing car (yeah that was real funny, jerk!) and drove up my washed out driveway. Meh, like I haven't done that before.
I decided to stop at the horse stall to pay a quick visit to Lil' Dozer who hasen't seen a day of dry ground since he arrived in Pennsylvania. I patted him on the head and assured him that it isn't always like this - soon it will be frozen solid. Poor little guy.
Then I braced myself.
For I knew.
Rain = wet house.
And remember when I said this was Biblical?
Yeah.
I walked in the dining room to find the usual drip pans. One, two...oh and there's one with a large plate of glass to catch the drips falling too close to the wall and run them into the pan.
God! I live among geniuses!
Into the hallway to hang up my soaked rain coat and find something a little more suitable to wear for the inevitable unclogging of roof drains.
And let me stop here to make a little public service announcement. INTERIOR ROOF DRAINS ARE A VERY BAD IDEA!!!!!!!!!!!! Why, oh, why would the thought of bringing the water INTO THE WALLS OF YOUR HOUSE on its way out ever seem like a stroke of genius? Hmmm? Can someone tell me why?
No, I didn't think so.
While haging up the soaked coat, I peeked into the laundry room.
All over the floor. A big puddle of truth.
I got the mop and soaked up the truth and indifferently squished it down the drain. I gathered two buckets and strategically arranged them on the floor.
The truth dripped in.
I then went into the kitchen and asked my hubby if he got the note I left him about the water pipe with a veeeeery leeeetle hole in it that I found in the basement today. He said he did and...
All of a sudden our son came in from outside saying "There's truth spilling over the roof!"
For the unknowing among you, let me explain our set up here. There is the main roof of the house which is peaked. This roof is about, oh, really big. All of the water that dumps off of this roof goes on to a flat roof which is, oh, also really big. From the flat - well, not exactly flat because it pitches IN TOWARD THE HOUSE at various places to the stupid, stupid interior drains - roof, the water goes down the interior drains to God only know where because we certainly don't and that there isn't a can of worms we even want to think about opening.
Doncha just love old houses?
So one part of this flat but not exactly flat roof is over the dining room. This roof is about a 18 x 33 foot expanse that pitches toward an itsy bitsy drain hole along the outer edge. But! It is not so far on the outer edge as to allow the water to just go off the roof. No! There is a little wall about 18 inches high so as to give the illusion to someone who might be standing on the ground that it is, acutally, a flat roof. Which it is not. Follow? Good.
But Oh! what an illusion it creates! For instance, the innocent passer by might have looked at the roof today and might have seen water spilling over the edge and not have given it much thought except to maybe think "They really ought to put a gutter on the edge of that roof and direct the water all to one spot."
What that unkowing individual doesn't realize is that on the other side of that false flat roof facade is a lake.
A lake deep enough to spill over an 18 inch wall.
Let's just stop a minute so you can take that all in.
...
...
Do you all recall that this is happening on top of my dining room?
Which might explain all the truth dripping through the ceiling.
So, no sooner were the words out of my son's mouth than I was grabbing an umberella (what? why?) and sprinting upstairs and out onto the roof.
The lake was deeper than my boots were tall. I had to scoot around the edge, get onto the false flat roof facade wall and make my way to the drain. I sqatted down and reached into the truth but it was too deep.
Big sigh.
I kneeled down, rolled up my soaking wet sleeve so as not to get it wet in the lake, and reached in. I groped around in the truth until I found the malicious blob of leaves covering the drain and pulled them out. Then I made my way around the rest of the roof, cleaning out the other blobs of leaves from the other drains.
Most people would do this when it isn't raining but I find that to be rather uninspired.
I was now thoroughly soaked - glad I brought the umberella! - so I made my way inside and down to the basement.
I think I have mentioned by basement here before.
If you are seeking truth, it is in my basement.
How about a fountain of truth bursting forth?
Check.
Um...truth spilling out across the floor?
Roger that.
Let's see...do we have any truth bubbling up out of a pipe that comes from some place beyond our foundation walls and very possibly this dimension?
Yep.
How about a truth so deep that it forms a whirlpool, almost sucking you in along with all the flotsam and dried up dead mice?
well...
OF COURSE WE DO!
I think I also might have...well, maybe just possibly...yes, yes I'm sure of it.
I looked down and saw a raft float by...
...and then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young boy in a calico dress and a big black man dash behind the coal stoker on their way to Illinois.
After we made sure all the drains were open and flowing, hopefully fast enough to keep pace with the influx, my hubby and I were left with only one more thing to do. So we donned our waders and ponchos and went for a hike around the neighborhood.
Just slogging through the truth. Because, you know...
Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.
Yeah. Me and Norman Fitzroy Maclean. Haunted.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Malachi
Malachi
November 22, 1993 - November 15, 2006
Sometimes I wonder why it is that certain folks are destined to cross our paths. For years you have been the picture of loyalty and the embodiment of unconditional love.
Today, as the shadow of sleep that would spirit you from this world darkened your eyes, I realized what it means to put trust in and find comfort from the hands of one's Master.
Good-bye old friend.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Here It Is! The Very Exciting News!
Well folks. I finally have something exciting to post about.
Let me rephrase that.
I am finally going to take some time to write a post about something exciting.
You see, it's not that some exciting and/or cool things have not been happening. It's just that I don't sit my butt down and write. Lately, I have gotten into the habit of laying on the couch to watch a movie (rented, mind you, since we have no tv) before bed. I'm not really crazy about watching movies. More often than not I'm disappointed with the use of my time when it's all over. The only reason I really do it is that my hubby likes to unwinde by watching a movie and sometimes it's the only time we get to spend together in a day.
Anyway...
So, if the one or two readers of this blog who are not my sister or couzint (see side bar for links) have checked their respective blogs out, you would be up to date on the news of all the new babies in the family. Big news in the family indeed. Three new bouncing baby boys. They also have blogs for their babies specifically so one can go check out pictures of cuteness and cuddliness. Chubby little cheeks, tweakable little noses...sigh.
Add to that all the hoopla on celebrity adoptions. Why everywhere you turn it's Angelina this or Madonna that. Baby, baby, baby.
It's almost enough to make a peson who is a mere less-than-two years away from Emptynestdom do something drastic.
Ok, it is enough.
Guess what?
We've adopted a baby.
We've ADOPTED A BABY!!!!!!!!!
What? Am I crazy?
Yes. But crazy like a fox.
See, after reading about the family babies I was all "Awwwwww they're so pinchable" and stuff and thinking how my own two are almost grown and they're such cool kids and all and soon they'll be GONE and WHATAMIGOINGTODO!!!!.
And then.
Then I got the email.
It started off innocently enough. I sent out an email to my cousins (the ones with TWIN newborn boys) to see how everyone is doing and how are the babies and all. The dad of said twins sent an email back that...let me see here. How can I put this? I don't know if the fact that I watched Behind Enemy Lines 2 the night before had anything to do with how I interpreted the email but it seemed a bit...uh...disjointed. Almost desperate.
So then I was all like "Babies. Wow. No way."
But stil...
That maternal urge kept vexing me.
So, I went ahead and did it.
I mean "We". Since it's now the politically correct thing to say. (ie, "We are pregnant", "We are giving birth", "We have gas pains, are retaining water, have hemorrhoids, have back pain and want to kill the father". Oh, that last one isn't a shared part of the process? Oopsy.)
Anyway...
So we went on line and picked out a baby and mailed out our check. About three weeks later a rather interesting man dropped him off and it's been pure parental bliss ever since.
What?
What do mean "No way".
That is too how it happened. No, really. It was that easy.
Ok, well maybe there was a little bit more involved what with picking out where he would stay and all that but, really, it wasn't as hard as Madonna makes out to be.
She's so dramatic about everything.
So now, being the new parent and all, I am going to post a crap load of photos.
Are you ready?
Will you be able to even stand all the cuteness you're about to behold?
Get ready...
Here he is....
Intoducing....
Lil' Dozer
OH. MY. GOD. He's so cute!
Isn't he? Isn't he?
Here's his little nose.
Look at it! Can you stand the freaking cuteness that it is?!!!
Here's another one.
His little ear.
Gah! Make it stop! I can't take any more!
How about...
A little foot! Look how cute that little foot is!
And guess what? He is such a good boy. He even helps my hubby. Look, here he is helping to put some metal sheeting on the outside of the stall.
Oh.
You thought I meant a human baby.
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
What, are you nuts?
Ok, ok. I'm teasing. I know I misled you all. I'm bad like that.
So, anyway, now WE HAVE A HORSE!!!!!!!!! YAY!!!!!!!!!!
I've only waited for this for, what, 30 some years. And, truth be told, it is really my hubby's doing. I was all "We're not ready for a horse" because, um, we weren't. And he was all "We'll never be ready so let's just get it."
And, whaddaya know, we did. I gotta hand it to him, he pulled it together. Well, I helped too but you know what I mean.
And!
Take a look at this stall and little corral.
See it?
Look again.
See it?
Ok, you're not too impressed. But! It was made with stuff that we salvaged off our own property. It DIDN'T COST ONE CENT!
How about that? Impressed now?
Although, I'm not too sure what, exactly, that might say about us...
Anyway, the lack of cost of the stall and corral was somewhat balanced by the cost of the electic fence.
What.
Yes, I know there is no electric fence in the picture.
I don't want to talk about it.
Oh fine.
When I called the horse delivery guy - THE NIGHT BEFORE THE HORSE WAS TO ARRIVE - to go over all the details, I said "Can I ask your advice on something?"
HDG: Sure, what's up?
Me: Um...electric fe-
HDG: Won't hold him.
Me: ...
HDG: You there?
Me: Yeah, uh...
HDG: They have to be trained for electric fence. He's too young. Doesn't know what it is yet. You have a spot with a wood fence, right?
Me (lying through my teeth): Uh, yeah. Sure.
And so, at about 5 pm, we had to salvage more wood and build the corral. (Reminder to self - buy lots of wine and beer for hubby's brother and friend for helping.) It was pretty much done by 1 am and, wouldn't you know, there was a glitch on the HDG's end and it wasn't until the day after that the horse showed up.
But, in the end, it all worked out.
Just like my hubby said it would.
He's so freaking smart sometimes.
Let me rephrase that.
I am finally going to take some time to write a post about something exciting.
You see, it's not that some exciting and/or cool things have not been happening. It's just that I don't sit my butt down and write. Lately, I have gotten into the habit of laying on the couch to watch a movie (rented, mind you, since we have no tv) before bed. I'm not really crazy about watching movies. More often than not I'm disappointed with the use of my time when it's all over. The only reason I really do it is that my hubby likes to unwinde by watching a movie and sometimes it's the only time we get to spend together in a day.
Anyway...
So, if the one or two readers of this blog who are not my sister or couzint (see side bar for links) have checked their respective blogs out, you would be up to date on the news of all the new babies in the family. Big news in the family indeed. Three new bouncing baby boys. They also have blogs for their babies specifically so one can go check out pictures of cuteness and cuddliness. Chubby little cheeks, tweakable little noses...sigh.
Add to that all the hoopla on celebrity adoptions. Why everywhere you turn it's Angelina this or Madonna that. Baby, baby, baby.
It's almost enough to make a peson who is a mere less-than-two years away from Emptynestdom do something drastic.
Ok, it is enough.
Guess what?
We've adopted a baby.
We've ADOPTED A BABY!!!!!!!!!
What? Am I crazy?
Yes. But crazy like a fox.
See, after reading about the family babies I was all "Awwwwww they're so pinchable" and stuff and thinking how my own two are almost grown and they're such cool kids and all and soon they'll be GONE and WHATAMIGOINGTODO!!!!.
And then.
Then I got the email.
It started off innocently enough. I sent out an email to my cousins (the ones with TWIN newborn boys) to see how everyone is doing and how are the babies and all. The dad of said twins sent an email back that...let me see here. How can I put this? I don't know if the fact that I watched Behind Enemy Lines 2 the night before had anything to do with how I interpreted the email but it seemed a bit...uh...disjointed. Almost desperate.
So then I was all like "Babies. Wow. No way."
But stil...
That maternal urge kept vexing me.
So, I went ahead and did it.
I mean "We". Since it's now the politically correct thing to say. (ie, "We are pregnant", "We are giving birth", "We have gas pains, are retaining water, have hemorrhoids, have back pain and want to kill the father". Oh, that last one isn't a shared part of the process? Oopsy.)
Anyway...
So we went on line and picked out a baby and mailed out our check. About three weeks later a rather interesting man dropped him off and it's been pure parental bliss ever since.
What?
What do mean "No way".
That is too how it happened. No, really. It was that easy.
Ok, well maybe there was a little bit more involved what with picking out where he would stay and all that but, really, it wasn't as hard as Madonna makes out to be.
She's so dramatic about everything.
So now, being the new parent and all, I am going to post a crap load of photos.
Are you ready?
Will you be able to even stand all the cuteness you're about to behold?
Get ready...
Here he is....
Intoducing....
Lil' Dozer
OH. MY. GOD. He's so cute!
Isn't he? Isn't he?
Here's his little nose.
Look at it! Can you stand the freaking cuteness that it is?!!!
Here's another one.
His little ear.
Gah! Make it stop! I can't take any more!
How about...
A little foot! Look how cute that little foot is!
And guess what? He is such a good boy. He even helps my hubby. Look, here he is helping to put some metal sheeting on the outside of the stall.
Oh.
You thought I meant a human baby.
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
What, are you nuts?
Ok, ok. I'm teasing. I know I misled you all. I'm bad like that.
So, anyway, now WE HAVE A HORSE!!!!!!!!! YAY!!!!!!!!!!
I've only waited for this for, what, 30 some years. And, truth be told, it is really my hubby's doing. I was all "We're not ready for a horse" because, um, we weren't. And he was all "We'll never be ready so let's just get it."
And, whaddaya know, we did. I gotta hand it to him, he pulled it together. Well, I helped too but you know what I mean.
And!
Take a look at this stall and little corral.
See it?
Look again.
See it?
Ok, you're not too impressed. But! It was made with stuff that we salvaged off our own property. It DIDN'T COST ONE CENT!
How about that? Impressed now?
Although, I'm not too sure what, exactly, that might say about us...
Anyway, the lack of cost of the stall and corral was somewhat balanced by the cost of the electic fence.
What.
Yes, I know there is no electric fence in the picture.
I don't want to talk about it.
Oh fine.
When I called the horse delivery guy - THE NIGHT BEFORE THE HORSE WAS TO ARRIVE - to go over all the details, I said "Can I ask your advice on something?"
HDG: Sure, what's up?
Me: Um...electric fe-
HDG: Won't hold him.
Me: ...
HDG: You there?
Me: Yeah, uh...
HDG: They have to be trained for electric fence. He's too young. Doesn't know what it is yet. You have a spot with a wood fence, right?
Me (lying through my teeth): Uh, yeah. Sure.
And so, at about 5 pm, we had to salvage more wood and build the corral. (Reminder to self - buy lots of wine and beer for hubby's brother and friend for helping.) It was pretty much done by 1 am and, wouldn't you know, there was a glitch on the HDG's end and it wasn't until the day after that the horse showed up.
But, in the end, it all worked out.
Just like my hubby said it would.
He's so freaking smart sometimes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
