My first delve into the Grassfed, Organic Beef Market

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

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

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

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

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

Editing Services

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

Has it REALLY been TWO months?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They Call them Birdbrains for a Reason

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

i. Am. WONDERWOMAN...



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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big John



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

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

Buttercup and her Little Man the night he was born.



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

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



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

Girl POWER

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

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

The High School Nightmare

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

Passing of the Cow's Guard

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

Cow Poop Soup

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

Boundaries

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

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

For Harold Higgerson

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

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

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

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

A Shitty Situation

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

Must we Mention Shelby Every Other Day?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Juni Turns 5

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

Soup with the Redneck

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

#26

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

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

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

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

25 Things

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

18. i still count on my fingers.

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

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

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

22. i once covered the supreme court.

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

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

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

What in God's Name is the SOUND?

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

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

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

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

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

14 Inches...

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

Buying a Red Cedar Log from a transitioning Transgender Person

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

LUVWOOD

The Unforgettable First Date

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

Perspecitve

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

The Top 10: A Couple's Resolution

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

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