My Theme Song

Remember Ally McBeal? Yes...I'm showing my age (35 in January. God help my family, because I am NOT happy about the number). Anywho, In college I adopted the "theme song" concept from Ally.
Believe it or not, it helps. First there was "I will survive." That was after I dumped my gay, negative, non-supportive boyfriend and headed out into the dating pool at Virginia Tech. And damn it...I WILL survive. And yes...I not only survived, but flourished. Once I got over the fact that I dated a gay guy for two years, I grabbed some self confidence and rocked that school academically, professionally and socially. Yes...I'm bragging. And yes...I'm proud. Now that I stay at home and run my husband's business, I grasp at those memories of succeeding on my own...on my own terms, and in what I chose.
An ex once made me a mixed tape. Yes...tape. Bite me...I'm turning 35. Anyway, there were so many songs on that tape that got me through so many dark places in my life. My husband isn't the romantic type. But before my ex and I were even exclusive, he made a tape of songs that reminded him of me. They're on my iPod. Every one makes me smile to this day. And it doesn't bother the Redneck Husband a bit. He realizes he'll never make me a mixed anything, and I think he agrees...some of the songs speak to him as well. But some are just fond memories for me only.
Then there was "Let it Be." That was when I was 20 weeks pregnant, waiting to find out the sex of my baby. Jasen wanted a boy. After a my breakdown during the first trimester, I realized this may be my only child. So...PLEASE let it be a boy. But if not, the song helped me realize it's not in my hands.
After my bipolar diagnosis, I adopted Brandi Carlile "The Story." It's me. Not every word of course, but listen to the song. It's beautiful. It's about a woman who others perceive as having the perfect life. But, as always, there's more.  And the following lyrics are me...


Lyrics to The Story :

All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am...

You see the smile that's on my mouth
It's hiding the words that don't come out
And all of my friends who think that I'm blessed
They don't know my head is a mess
No, they don't know who I really am
And they don't know what
I've been through 

I can't count the times I've heard "you have the perfect life. The perfect family. The perfect house. Ever since I can remember, your life has been perfect."

Uh-huh. My parents divorced after 29 years. Obviously that wasn't perfect like I, and the rest of the world, thought. Talk about a bullet to the back.

I smile. Even when I'm in my darkest places and most anxiety-filled times, I smile. I had the madness.

I'm not too difficult on the eyes, so yes...I am blessed. I'm not a complete idiot, so yes...I am blessed. Even my mental "illnesses" are at times a blessing. I can help others. Now that my manias are back to hypo-manias, I have bursts of creativity. That's a blessing. And when I learn about other bipolar people, I realize they are some of the most intelligent, creative and successful people in the world. Not a bad category to fall into.

But let's face it...my head is a mess. I tell myself I have a "mild case" of Bipolar I. I'm not on lithium (huge blessing), but there are no "mild" cases of Bipolar I. By definition, it is not mild. Otherwise, I'd be classified in another class of bipolar. But no...I'm in Class I. The most severe. But it's managed to the point of non-existence. Yes, I struggle with depression when the meds stop working. My recurring demon is anxiety. It is always just around the corner, waiting to put me in a state of pure misery.

I've been through things I don't talk about. Nothing close to what other people endure, but enough to change me. Some eventually for the better, some for the worse. Some changed the person I became.

The missing lyrics are about how she's made for one person that she can tell absolutely everything to. I don't have that person. There is no one in this entire world who knows my complete life story. I'm pretty confused on the religious front...but maybe those stories are meant to be told to God? I don't know. I don't know if a God exists, I don't know what my relationship to that God is, but there is definitely not a human that I can tell everything to. I was meant for Juni...that's all I know.

The rest is up for grabs. I have no idea what the next chapter of my life will bring. Hopefully, a book and teaching. But we'll see. My life has never followed the plan I drew. And it's always led me somewhere I belong.

Yes, I had nightmares last night...

Just not the kind I expected. Yesterday morning was horrible. I spent the day in a daze, and just wanted to go to bed and start new.
But Jasen's new skid steer arrived that afternoon. He calls it his Cadillac. I've pressured him into buying it, I admit. But he ices his foot for three days for every one day he run his old skid steer. The implement is controlled by your foot. We could invest in our retirement, or invest in his health. I vote health. And now he's beaming like a teenager with the hottest car in the high school parking lot.
This new beautiful orange beast is fully hand-controlled. There's no seat belt. It's a roller coaster apparatus that folds down. Even I was impressed. Air  conditioning. Heat, A fold-down door. Bells and whistles I didn't know equipment could think of. This baby is impressive. And believe me, it is his baby. He's not working today, but I bet he'll find something to do with his new toy. Even if it's just driving it up and down the driveway.
And then I fell asleep. And dreamed I was driving to meet my family for dinner. In the Kubota skid steer. Turns out it doesn't run so well on the road. At least not in my dream. There were no breaks (yes, there are), I had to lie on my stomach to reach the controls (no, you don't), and people look at you like you're an idiot (yes, they would.)
The best part was when a cow looking just like Cream comes trotting along beside me in my skid steer. I call her name, but she doesn't turn her head. It's not my cow.
The convertible mustang tailgating me finally decides to pass, and the cow is sitting upright, just like the teenage boy beside her, acting like that was exactly where she was supposed to be. Even her hoof rested on the side window.
I woke up this morning sleeping on my stomach (I never do), with a horrible back ache. Turns out driving the Cadillac isn't as easy as one would think.

My Husband Heard A Noise

My husband heard a noise this morning. Two cars, metal to metal, smashing. He was at the barn. He thought something exploded. The road is a quarter-mile from the barn. He heard the noise from a quarter-mile away. Glass smashing to concrete, tires deflating in the ditches, car parts flying and landing yards away.
I called 911. Jasen ran to the end of the driveway to see if he could help. He saw a van, back end in the ditch. The windshield shattered, the front end crushed like a can. An arm with a purple sweater hung out the window. And a pale, lifeless hand. He couldn't walk any closer. He didn't want to see.
I saw a young girl laying on the ground. Alone. It was a very Steel Magnolia's moment. That motherly instinct that doesn't see the carnage until you blink 30 minutes later and the tears begin.
The car behind the two sisters, 18 and 15, stopped. The man held his breath, and felt for a pulse. There wasn't any. No breath. No beat. Nothing. No deflated airbag. No hope. No life. She lived on our street, but I don't know her name. Somewhere, someone is wondering why she didn't show up for work, or come home. Somewhere, a family is changed forever.
The older sister is stuck inside her car. The airbag deflated in her lap, her door collapsed, her foot crushed beneath the break pedal.
Her younger sister got out, tried to walk around the car, and fell. The man stayed with the driver and told her what was happening as the sirens began. They still haven't stopped. I sat on the cold, wet road, and held a beautiful, scared girl's blood-spotted hand. Police cars swarmed to the scene. I lost count how many.
The girl was scared. Too young too see the purple sweater. Too young to see her sister trapped. Too young to lay in the glass-covered road, cold, scared, bleeding and in excruciating pain. Her back hurt.
Jasen told me not to go. He told me that once I saw the woman, I wouldn't be able to get it out of my head. And I can't. There was nothing anyone could do. Which is worse. No mouth-to-mouth, no chest compressions, nothing. Nothing we could do.
Paramedics called the nightingale, placed pads on her chest, and cancelled the call within 30 seconds. The van is draped in a white sheet. It took three hours to cut her out of the car and tow the van.
I told the girl not to look. Hold my hand. Wake up...don't close your eyes, sweetheart. Tell me about your school. I love your shoes. I wish I had curly hair like you. Yes, your sister is okay. Yes, I told her you were fine. Yes, they'll get her our. They just need a few tools. I know your back hurts. Just squeeze my hand. Close your eyes for a second. The ambulance is going to drive by. I'm going to cover your face, because there's glass in the road.
That's a neck brace. You won't be able to turn your head. Yes, it's going to hurt a little and it's going to be scary. No, they won't drop you. Just squeeze my hand. She winced and squeezed. That's the fire engine coming. They're going to get your sister out. She's fine. Yes, she's going to the hospital. Just like you. No, I don't know about the woman in the van.
Open your eyes. Don't fall asleep. This man is going to help you now. You have to let go of my hand. No, I can't hold on while they put you on the board. They're going to be very gentle, and strap you in. It's okay. You're okay. Your mom just got here. She's with your sister. I have to go now. You're welcome.
And I walked away. There was nothing more I could do. There's a helicopter above our home now. It's not the nightingale. I wish it was. It's the reporters. Walking down the street and flying in the air for the best shot. The best story.
The best story is the one they'll never tell. They'll go for the gore. The basics. Who caused what, who gets charged. And pictures. Pictures of crushed and cut cars. Tow trucks and lights. Television news by nature can't tell the whole story. That's what newspapers are, or were, for. Television is a 30-second snapshot of a much larger problem.
The best story is that it's 35 mph on my road. Cars don't crash that loud at 35 mph. A man died on the other end of our road last month. "Speed was a factor."
Speed is always a factor. Shillelagh means walking stick. A walking stick that twists and curves at the top, and is straight at the bottom. That's our road. It's beautiful. It winds through the woods, and follows the straight edges of the fields. It's surrounded by ditches larger than my 4Runner. And trees two feet from the road in the curves.
Bicyclists love it. Motorcycles and sports cars love it. And it's a main road to the high school.I hate it. It's a facade. Beautifully deadly.
I can hear the blades chopping in the air. But my mind is silent. A woman lost her life. Just like that. Crash. Bang. Smash. Gone. It doesn't matter who is at fault. Hopefully the young driver will walk away with a horrible memory, but not led away in handcuffs.
It's all about the speed. Our world already moves too quickly. Tonight I'm going to feed the cows, and listen to them slowly grind their hay. It relaxes me. Sounds almost like water lapping against a bulk head. They have no sense of time. They eat in a trance-like state. Docile and quiet. Comforting.
Slow down. Don't rush. Driving 55 mph down a 7.5 mile road will save you 30 seconds. Driving 35 mph down a 7.5 mile road will save your life.

Me, the Phamaceutical Guinea Pig

I have a list of blog posts in my binder. And I've actually had a bit of time to write about the hilariousness that comes with being a Redneck's Wife. But for the time being, I am a pharmaceutical Guinea pig. Seriously.
A bit of background: At 18, I started Prozac and .25 mg of Xanax. At 25, I was maxed out on Prozac and began Wellbutrin. I was up to 2 mg of Xanax daily. The antidepressant change came because of marriage. You know all of the warnings of sexual side effects for Prozac? I had them all. Which was fine when I was in a long-distance relationship. Not okay when you're a newlywed and your husband just doesn't get it. Seriously. He just wasn't getting any, and that's not good for a 25-year-old man with the sex drive of a teenager.
Three years later, at 28, I became pregnant and the mental health issues hit the fan. I was up to 4 mg of Xanax a day and changed from Wellbutrin to Zoloft for its anti-anxiety effects along with antidepressant.
During the second and third trimesters, I basically only took Zoloft. I didn't really need the Xanax...woohoo! Until the delivery table, when I freaked out and my sister shoved my meds into my mouth, God bless her.
At 31, I felt like a walking zombie. The Zoloft had lost its effect, and I was left feeling more exhausted than a woman should with a one-year-old, if you can believe that.
So my doctor at the time decided I should try this great new medicine...Effexor. He sold it well. It had an effectiveness that lasted at least 5 years. It had anti-anxiety properties. The perfect medication. I should have listened to my inner brilliance when he pulled a box from his cabinet-o-free-meds, as he had with the dissolveable Xanax, and handed me a pack.
A year later, at 32, I began showing more signs of hypomania. They began my senior year of college, but would come and go. I told my psychiatrist exactly what was going on, my family history, and my fears. He LITERALLY yawned, said take 50 mg of Lamictal, and not to worry. I was over-reacting.
Dumbass (him, not me). Within a year the marital shit hit the fan when I experienced full-blown manias with low-level disassociation. Crazy person stuff. When my mom put in a emergency call, he acted like it was a burden. He told her I wasn't psychotic, but that if I couldn't deal with things, take me to a hospital. Again, I repeat my overall assessment of this man ... ass.
I changed doctors the next day. I hadn't changed before out of fear. But there was no other option. I started therapy, which I hadn't endured since graduate school. Twice weekly, then once weekly, and now once monthly, unless I need more.
Right now, I need more. The Effexor stopped working last fall. I ate cookie dough all day and sat on the couch, waiting for Juni to get off the bus. I'd sleep...a lot. Including while I was driving, which meant I was in deep shit.
I decided on a nurse instead of a psychiatrist. Those five-minute med checks? They're a joke. With a nurse, I get 30 minutes. A little compassion, a little customer service for the woman struggling to keep from crawling out of her skin and under the table.
She tapered me off of the Effexor, and onto Wellbutrin. We all know how that went. The withdrawls were unbearable at times. So three weeks ago she added a low dose of Prozac, to "stop the obsessive thoughts of your son getting older, which should ease the anxiety." Another 4-6 weeks of waiting. Yea.
I also told her that the Xanax were like skittles. I could take 7 mg during a full-blown panic attack with no effect. That not only scared the bejezzus out of me, but was unacceptable, in my opinion. I spent my days worried that the medicine wouldn't work. The maximum dose is 10 mg daily, and at this rate, I'd be 40 and hitting up the hairdresser down the street for the goods. So not me.
So she put me on Vistaril. The magic drug! Take 50 mg 1-4 times a day, and the anxiety will be gone. So I did. And the anxiety hit a new level of unbearable. We're talking barely able to get my son on the bus bad. I called my nurse. Not in until Tuesday of the next week. Five days. So I found an old Xanax prescription, filled it, and stopped the Vistaril. I learned it contained high doses of antihistamine. Which would be why, after having a 3-hour panic attack, I would pass out for hours. A half-dose of Benadryl knocks me out of commission for a good 12 hours.
I booked an emergency appointment. Of course, that would be the day the nurse had an emergency...she fainted during the appointment before mine. I worked my magic, and got in with her supervisor.
Who basically said everything I was on was wrong. Lovely! She said that if I wanted to stop that amount of Xanax cold turkey, I'd need to be on a ward with Heroin addicts. She said she'd never seen anyone make it two days cold turkey without checking themselves into the nuthouse. Yes. I am superwoman. And yes, superwoman is tired. She wants to quit her job and just be normal.
The supervisor added more Prozac, more Lamictal, and kept me on 4 mg of Xanax, because she didn't know my case, and we only had 15 minutes. She's conferencing with my nurse, and I have an appointment in two weeks to try and figure this mess out.
But here's the thing...this mess isn't a science experiment. It's my BRAIN. It's my LIFE. Stop fucking it up! I realize that everyone's situation is different, but let's face it. I'm not THAT crazy. My anxiety is very bad. I realize this. When a six-year-old has a panic attack, the future does not look good. And yes, I'm Bipolar I. But that's under control.
So really, just give me something to take the fear away. To take the crazy thoughts away that make me so scared every day. Take the nightmares away. Take the days that seem like nightmares away. And give me my life back.
It's scary, but I realize why people kill themselves. Personally, I will NEVER do it. But I understand. I'm exhausted. I've been fighting this since I was 6. I want it to be over. And it never will. I still have options, but there are people who have exhausted all of theirs. And that's when I understand. I understand the feeling of just being done. I'm done. I'm tired. But I still have options. Of course, it scares the shit out of me that those options may not work, but it is hope.
I see my nurse in two weeks. I'll let you know what experiment they decide to perform then...and maybe I'll have a few good days where I can write about the other side of my life. The side that makes my ribs hurt because when it's on paper, it's friggin hilarious.

Dining with the Redneck Husband

Cooking for Jasen is miserable. He hovers. He complains. He farts. It's a post I'm just not ready to tackle because honestly, cooking for him sucks. I hate it. He's a better cook, and he knows it. So I'm saving that for another day.
Dining with Jasen is an experience. Our first "experience" was at Carvers, a nice restaurant in Chesapeake. I was 15, and horrified when Jasen put a loaf of bread down his over-sized jeans instead of asking for a to go box. He is the definition of raised in a barn. I don't know who taught him manners, but they failed. Miserably.
This weekend we traveled to Blacksburg for the Tech game. Go Hokies! But I digress. We stayed in Roanoke, and made reservations at Hotel Roanoke for Friday night. Hotel Roanoke is the best restaurant within 75 miles of the city. Seriously.
Going to propose? Hotel Roanoke. Graduation? Hotel Roanoke. Tech game without your six-year-old? Hotel Roanoke.
We're shown to our white-linen table, and peruse the menu. Apparently, the peanut soup is a must. To be honest, I was a bit scared to try an entire bowl, so I ordered the $3 sample. It was lovely. Creamy, with some sort of chicken or vegetable stock undertone, and chopped peanuts to top it off. It's been on the menu since 1935.
Jasen takes a sip "Jesus Christ, Frances. I can make this. Get me a jar of peanut butter, a cup of water, and some chopped peanuts. And there ya go. Peanut soup. Give me my $3 back."
Lovely. We sat and talked for a bit, and Jasen is his with an epiphany. He realizes the possibilities of the flask I bought him for his birthday. I ordered a peach martini, and he ordered an $8 beer.
"Babe...I just thought of the best idea ever. I take my flask into every restaurant we go to. I order a Coke, or whatever. And then I just take it to the bathroom and add the vodka."
"You're going to take your drinks into the bathroom? That's gross honey."
"It's not gross. It's going to save us a fortune...think of how much I drink at dinner. We'll save thousands!"
"Okay. Do what you want. But I'm hiding in the ladies room while you're ducking under the table to spice up your Coke."
Dinner was great. We both learned what "Pittsburg Rare" means. Not something Jasen felt up for with a sirloin. Charred on the outside, literally cold on the inside. A cold marbled steak turned off even my meat-eating man.
After dinner Jasen immediately asked "So...where's the pisser in this place?"
I downed the remainder of my delish martini and asked for the dessert menu.
There was some chocolate concoction the waitress described as ordinary, a salted caramel cake that sounded like perfection, and Banana's Foster. I wanted caramel. Jasen wanted a sundae from Dairy Queen.
"What the f*%# is Bananas Foster?"
"It's a dessert, honey. They flambe it table-side. Watch ... that man is getting it for his little boy."
"Jesus. I'll give you Bananas Foster. You get a bunch of bananas from Harris Teeter, I'll grab a blow torch from the barn and ... poof ... an $18 dessert. Hey...that kid's got a chef's hat on. I want one of those. Not for me. For Juni."
The waitress brought Jasen a chef's hat for Juni. The entire weekend, that hat sat on the console of the 4Runner because Jasen wanted it to arrive in perfect condition for our little man. He may have zero manners, but his heart makes up for it.
I ordered the caramel cake, and thanks to the waitress, the chef made Jasen a vanilla sundae to save me a trip to Dairy Queen.

Leaving Town

Couples need time away from their children. I get that. I enjoy the occasional stay at my Dad's or Jasen's mom's house. But just because Juni is gone doesn't mean the work at home is gone.
There's a routine. Go to dinner. Drive a tipsy Redneck Husband home. Wash my face, brush my hair, and find Redneck Husband snoring in the bed. The next day, there are projects ... an addition to the pool house. Fences that need mending. Laundry. Cleaning. You know the list. It never changes.
So couples need time away from their home and children. A place where they can leave normality behind and reconnect. Have fun. Worry less.
Before my diagnosis and medications, I left town every fall. Not Literally, but in my mind. The fall reminds me of learning, of college, of not having an adult life. It reminds me of childhood and being in my 20's. That's when my manic episodes would hit.
Last year, for the first time, there were twinges of the mania. I still have the same feelings...nostalgia, a sense of sadness, a sense of Juni growing a year older. But last year was also the year I won the lottery. The Virginia Tech lottery, that is. Season tickets.
Background information is needed ... before last season Jasen had not stepped foot in Blacksburg since before Juni was born. He hated it. Maybe it was because I was still young and wanted to pretend I was one of the college kids. Maybe it was because he has no clue what's going on in football. I have no idea.
That all changed last year with one addition to our trip ... tailgating. Jasen realized that tailgating is right up his alley. Cooking. Drinking. And ... well, basically that's it. Cooking and drinking. But you get my point. He's all about tailgating. It's an amazing feeling...like a date. We're not attached to each other at the hip with an adorable child between us. We're mingling. And even flirting. It's amazing.
A dear friend is letting us borrow his prime parking space for one thing in return ... that Jasen cooks BBQ at each game we attend. Jasen suddenly because the master tailgater. We bought a tent. He bought a propane grill. He has a crockpot, a table, and many, many plans.
This weekend we're going up for a noon game ... not much tailgating. In October we'll go again (sans Juni) and have another couple's weekend. These weekends are great, because he's in his element and I'm in mine. He cooks and drinks, and I laugh and talk to my Hokie friends. I see people I haven't in years. I scream until I loose my voice at the game. And if it's a good game, Jasen actually stands up and yells too. Who knew?
The final tailgate is the creme-de-la-creme of VT tailgating. U.Va. We're spending a long weekend in a cabin in the woods, and are taking Juni. He likes this. He manages through the game, and then he can play with the other kids, and do all of his boy stuff with Jasen and my Dad at the cabin.
But leaving town without Juni takes my anxiety to an extreme level. What if we crash and both die on I-81? What if we take rte. 460 and crash and both die? Basically, I'm completely stuck on the idea that we're leaving our child and could possible never return. Scenarios run through my head of people telling him the news. Of his sweet little tears. And it sucks. It just plain sucks. All of my friends leave their children for a night or two several times a year. Some leave for a week at a time. Why can't I? That's just it. I can. Fighting my anxiety and graduating from Virginia Tech taught me that my anxiety won't win. Ever. It's just a matter of holding on long enough until it subsides. Which, by the way, isn't fair. To me, or to Jasen. He just doesn't get it.
He's worried about how to keep the BBQ warm. I'm worried about my orphaned child. But this is the type of leaving town I enjoy most. Before, I was left in my own semi-imaginary world within my head. This time, I actually get to leave town. And I'm sure, return safe and happy, ready to give Juni a big, fat Mommy hug.

Wax and Whiskey

I love every hair on my husband's head. I do not, however, love every hair on his back and ass. Jasen could grow a mustache at 14 years old. He's down right burly in the winter when he "needs the hair for warmth," or in the summer when he just forgets to shave.
Shaving days just plain suck. He swears every time that he's cleaned up after himself. I beg to differ. I have to completely re-clean the entire bathroom sink. But really, that's okay. It's every other day of the week that gets to me.
He sheds. Constantly. In the shower, on the bathroom floor, in the closet. Two-inch black hairs. Undeniably his. And mine to clean up. If the floor is wet, I take a piece of toilet paper before I get into the shower, wipe down the floor, and toss it in the toilet. The vacuum doesn't like his hairs. Every now and then the drain clogs, and I sit there with a wire, cussing for an hour that he has enough hair on his back to make wigs.
A few years ago I decided to wax his back. I gave him a glass of whiskey on ice, and smeared hot, gooey, thick wax. Over his entire back. There was no turning back. I know it's sadistic, but that was my point. There would be no turning back. No strip of wonderfully smooth skin surrounded by the normal forest. I figured if we waxed his back, it would gradually get thinner. When I shave it, there's still stubble. Who knew men were wussies when it comes to beautification.
The first pull wasn't so bad. A shock, maybe, but not too bad. After that the whole experience (for him) went to hell.
"Holy mother of God that hurt! What the hell, babe!"
"Dude. Sip your drink. It's not that bad. Look...King of the Hill is on. Watch that and lay still."
"Just give me thirty seconds..."
He starts breathing like a woman in labor, grabs the rug, and holds on for dear life.
"Okay. Go!"
Riiiiiippp.
"F#%@. Am I bleeding?"
"Of course your not bleeding. Grow up. Let's just get this over with."
Okay. I lied. He was definitely bleeding. Tiny drops of blood started pooling out of each pore. At this point, I began to laugh. Uncontrollably. I don't know why. Maybe it's because women shave, we birth babies, we have yearly exams, and my Redneck Husband can't have his back waxed. Maybe it was his reaction...like I was scalping him. Maybe it was because he held his breath with each rip, and then cussed. I don't know. I just got tickled, and he did not find the situation as hilariously funny as me.
"Jesus Christ, honey. It's effing hot in here. Can you turn up the A.C.?"
"Oh for the love of God."
I turn up the air conditioner, and return to my wax-o-pain.
Riiiiiipppppp.
"Okay! That's enough...you just pulled off a mole. And don't tell me I'm not bleeding. Get this shit off of me. Now. I'm done."
"Ummm...honey, there's no way to get it off. That's the point. We have to keep going. Otherwise you're just going to live with wax on your back. Suck it up, and lay down."
"F@%#. Just do them all. Turn up the television or something, so I can't hear myself scream. I can't believe I let you do this to me. You suck. I hate you right now."
"It's called Manscaping, honey. And I like a smooth back. It's sexy. You like smooth legs, I like smooth backs. Okay...hold on."
Riiiipppp.
"I don't care if I'm not sexy. I'm a man, damn it. I'm supposed to be hairy."
"Not this hairy, honey. This is ridiculous."
"F@%& you and your wax. This sucks. I'm never doing this again. You tricked me."
Yep...sure did...and it's friggin hilarious. 

Flash forward eight years or so. Juni was scratching Jasen's back, and apparently scratched off a mole. One of those red, weird looking things. Benign. Pretty much every time I shave Jasen's back I usually nip a few, unintentionally. Which is why he basically doesn't let me near his back side with a razor.
So Juni scratches off the mole. I tell Jasen to get it checked out, because that's what my dermatologist had always told me; that if you injure a mole, it can easily become infected and can change the makeup of the cells. Raises the chance of cancer or something.
Of course Jasen says he's fine. The next day, he comes home.
"Babe, can you come in here?"
"What is it? That bump on your head is NOT a tick. I've looked at it every year for nine years. And I'm not looking at anything on your butt. Get a mirror."
"I want you to look at this thing on my back. It hurts like hell. But you have to promise not to touch it."
There is only one way to describe what was left of the mole. A giant, very full cow tick. They're gray, bulbous, and just plain nasty.
"Ummm....honey, this doesn't look so good. It looks like an inflated cow tick. I think you should see a doctor. And it's all red around it."
"It's fine. As long as nothing touches it, it's fine."
The next day we take Juni to a birthday pool party. Jasen wears a white shirt, and sits in a high-backed chair. He gets up looking like a mobster has stabbed him square in the back.
"Babe, will you look at my mole? It itches."
"Holy Hell, Jasen. It looks like someone's stabbed you. Get in the house before you scare the kids."
The blood had mixed with the sweat, run down his back, and soaked the waistband in his shorts.
"Just put a band aid on it. It's fine."
"It's not fine! You look like you should be on the Sopranos! Go. To. The. DOCTOR. Now. Otherwise, the sympathy is gone."

Two days later, Jasen comes home during lunch and swipes on extra deodorant. He's having his moles checked. An hour later, I get a few texts. Remember, My Redneck Husband has huge fingers, so texting is not his thing.
"Carp [crap]. They want me no clothes. I got no underwear on. What I do?"
"Ha! What the hell is wrong with you? Didn't your mom teach you to always wear your undies to the doctor? Ask for a paper blanket or something. A paper towel. A napkin. Anything."
"Shut [shit]. Here comes doc."
Thirty minutes later he calls.
"Babe. It was horrible. I can hear the nurses laughing, and in comes the most beautiful woman in the world. Seriously. Of course, I had to have this 25-year-old doctor, and there I am naked-assed. It was horrible."
I start laughing. And them remember...shouldn't I be the most beautiful woman in the world? I give him shit for the slip-up, but really it's just too funny. It would be like Brad Pit (before he was all shaggy) coming in for my yearly girlie appointment.
"It was horrible, babe. I started to sweat and everything. I felt like an idiot."
"You didn't wear underwear. You are an idiot. Hows the mole?"
"Gone. She took it off...said it looked like it was getting infected. But she checked everything else out, and all the other moles are good to go."
"Lovely, honey. Hey...can I shave your back tonight?"
"F@%$ no. What's for dinner?"

What I learned from Whitewater Rafting

I knew our vacation would rock. A cabin, rafting, zip lines, and lake with tons of floating toys. I also knew Jasen and I could very well kill each other in the car (that's for another post). Juni was an angel in the car.
What I didn't know, was that our guide would make me really thing about life, what it means to be happy, and the obstacles people can overcome.
He had an accent, so of course I asked where he's from "South Africa, born and raised. And no, I'm not black."
Ummm...yeah, I got that your white. Thanks.
He got us down the river, picking on me and Juni the whole time, making jokes, talking about his wife and schooling, and smiling the whole time.
During a swim break, I asked him how often he returned home to see his family. He immigrated to the U.S. 9 years ago.
"My mother was murdered 15 years ago. My father killed himself 4 months later. And my brother killed himself 4 months ago. My last sibling lives in Australia, raising his family. I will never return home. There's no one to return to."
Okay. There are very few times when words evade me. This was one of them. "Ummm...I have no idea what to say. I'm sorry doesn't sound even remotely close to what you went through."
"No worries. I did start smoking again when my brother killed himself, though. I just focus on the present, look forward to the future, and remember the good things in my past. "
What amazed me about this man (he's 37) is his zest for life. Almost everyone in his family has died untimely, and yet he does what he loves. He guides rafts, holds two degrees from WVU, and is working on his nursing degree. He shows no fear.
One of my largest fears (and I have a lot of fears, believe me), is anyone in my family dying too soon. Especially my sister. I couldn't imagine the hurt, pain and sense of loss. And then to have half of your family kill themselves. I would be a shell. An empty, fragile shell. It would change me forever.
But Brian was anything but a shell. He was smiling, playing, and living his life. He inspired me to live my life not in fear of losing someone, but with the realization that living in fear is not living at all. He taught me that people can survive the most horrific events, and find happiness. All this, on the New River in West Virginia.
I stepped into the raft looking for a relaxing good time, and left with so much more. A refreshed outlook, and an incredible sense of admiration for a man living every single one of his dreams, despite the death and despair plaguing his past.

It's amazing what the human mind can overcome. And he is a testament to the strength we all have, somewhere within ourselves. He inspired me to find that strength within myself. And I could never thank him enough.

Feeling like a Heroin Addict

I've mentioned depression is slow. Before you realize you're depressed, it's too late. You've fallen into the hole, tried scraping your way out by your hands, and are left with bloody stubs.
Apparently I tried to crawl out of my hole by filling my body with cookie dough. 15 lbs of cookie dough, to be exact. It's been a long time since I've dealt with depression. The meds have worked for six years. But after a while my body develops a tolerance. As usual, I maxed out my dose years ago.
Juni getting onto the bus to begin kindergarten began my depression. My baby is growing up. He doesn't need me any more. It's only a matter of time before he's married. You get the gist.
I realized the depth of the depression when, in the spring, Jasen said "Just get off the couch a DO SOMETHING. What the hell have you done today?"
Ummm....let me think...clean, watch tv, stare at tv, and eat cookie dough. Yep. That was my day. Oh...and I took a nap.
So, I made an appointment to begin changing meds, and stepped on the dreaded scale. 15 lbs to show for a winter of depression. Lovely. Six months I'll never get back, and 15 lbs I never needed in the first damned place.
Some medications are easy to switch. You stop taking one pill, and begin the other. Not so much with mine. You slowly take your dose down, and begin taking the new one once you get down to 75 mg. Here's the issue...it takes Wellbutrin, my new drug, 6-8 weeks to begin working. So my doctor and I decided to go from 225 mg of Effexor to 75.
My husband knew it would be rough. "Shit. Here we go again. You're not going to sit in the freezer at Harris Teeter this time, are you?" My Zoloft withdrawal hit me in the freezer isle, and yes, I was hot and confused. So I sat my fat ass into the freezer. Juni was 3 weeks old.
OUCH. I woke up the next morning feeling like I had the flu. There were migraines, brain shocks, the shivers, night sweats, trembling, and a general feeling of anxiety and panic. Xanax became my friend, once again. It's been 4 weeks, and I'm still at 75 mg. Eventually, I'll start taking them every other day, then none at all. But I'm not through the first stage of withdrawal.
Seriously. I feel like a heroin addict. And the withdraw symptoms are similar. The shakes. Nausea. And the oddest feeling, a brain shock. Like something just misfired in my brain, and I'm totally effed for a minute or two. Completely not in the world or this moment. It makes my stomach drop just like a roller coaster. And if I turn my head, my vision doesn't catch up. Bizarre.
But it's worth it. Depression is a bitch. She sneaks in your back door and stays on your couch until you kick her out with steel-toed boots. My depression is gone, for now, just from the thought of feeling better with the Wellbutrin. The thought that things will soon begin working has gotten me off the couch, out of the fridge, and back into life. I spend every moment loving and enjoying Juni. yes, I let myself cry at night that he's 6, getting older, yadda yadda yadda, but it's better than all day. And no more naps. I have energy. Okay, more like anxiety, but I can sometimes channel that feeling into energy and walk the edge of panic.
My body isn't happy and my brain is literally in shock, but the withdrawal is worth it. I've begun to channel some of the anxiety into exercise. I've lost 10 lbs. Of pure cookie dough. Which has shed the tube around my stomach, but failed to touch the cottage cheese permanently in residence on my thighs. Maybe that last withdrawal step will strip that away. Wouldn't that be nice. Smooth legs in themselves would be worth the withdrawal.

Vodka Water

I bought my kiln about a year ago ... a few months before I found a wheel. To offset my pottery withdrawal, I played with glass for a bit; especially bottle slumping. Jasen poured vodka into a water bottle, tossed it in the freezer, and forgot about it. Apparently he did this so I could have the bottle.
Until last week. He packed a cooler for a day trip, and tossed in the water bottle, oblivious to the fact that it was, in fact, raspberry vodka. Cheap raspberry vodka.
"Mommy...taste this water, please. There's something wrong with it."
"It's water, Juni. I'm sure it's fine."
"Seriously, Mommy. Taste this. Please."
"Ugh! Okay. Hand me the bottle."
I take a swig, and immediately spew sticky raspberry vodka across the dashboard.
"What the Hell, Jasen? This is friggin vodka! Juni, are you okay buddy? Did you swallow it?"
"No, I spit it back in the bottle. My tongue burns dough."
"Awe, buddy, I'm sorry. Jasen ... I am NOT cleaning this dashboard. Your vodka, your mess."
"It's okay. Daddy ... alcohol is nasty. You shouldn't drink it. Mommy ... does vodka kill little boys?"
"No, Juni, it doesn't. It just burns your tongue."
"Whew. I fought I might get killed by it."

Fast forward to today. Juni is my little golf-a-holic, in his second clinic this summer. He gets into the car, it's almost 100 degrees out, and I hand him a bottled water. Apparently, it resembled the the vodka water bottle.
"Mommy, is this oka water?"
"Huh?"
"ODKA water...is this ODKA water?"
"What? Say it slower, Juni."
"VODKA. WATER. Is this VODKA WATER. You know, that nasty stuff Daddy drinks."
"No, Juni. It's not vodka water. You're cool, dude. I threw that out and made Daddy promise to keep his vodka water out of the freezer."

The Last Spring Calf

Remember the debacle that was last years' calfing? I pulled one out, the vet cut one out piece by piece...it was not good. We were afraid that one of our heifers was infertile because of the god-awful procedure, and that our bull just threw gigantic babies.
Saturday Jasen and I can home to see a boy (for some reason I've named him Norman. If you don't get the reference, watch more great movies). Anyway, I didn't name the heifer because I was sure we'd have to put her down. She is now known as... Bertha. Because that cow waited two years for her calf. And she won't leave the little tike's side. Or let anyone else near him. Including the other calves, who have now had their share of head butts strong enough to fling their feisty little butts 10 feet away from Norman.
There's just something so comforting about calves. They play, they curl up in the field, and they look like giant deer. The best part is when they're nursing ... foam dripping from their mouths, their mothers chewing their cud and falling asleep, and the calf's tail wagging like a pinwheel in delight.

What it Feels Like, Part 5

Bipolar. People make jokes. They think we're the crazies. And honestly, many people with bipolar disorder (manic depression) are crazy. They can become violent, psychotic, delusional, and a lot of us self-medicate with drugs or alcohol. This is not me.
There are a ton of different degrees of bipolar disorder. I'd say mine is pretty mild. I am in the most severe category, but within that designation, I'm on the mild side. I am Bipolar I (meaning that during a manic episode I am a danger to myself, others or my relationships.) This does not mean I'm violent. Yes, I have shaken Jasen with excitement, but that's pretty much it. I would drive too fast without realizing it. Spend a little too much money. But by far, I am a danger to my relationships. Basically, if I don't take my medications, my manic episodes change my personality to the point where my husband would  leave. And I wouldn't blame him. If I don't take my medication, I loose my family. My life. So no matter what, I take that pill every single day. And I have people to watch for signs that I need a higher dose. This disease will not ruin my life. I am in charge. I can do this.
When I look back on my manias, they don't make sense. I don't remember the things I said or did. Okay, wait, I do, but that couldn't have been me, could it? When the switch goes off and I'm back in reality, I don't remember everything. It's called disassociation. An extreme version is blacking out. Mine is very mild. Confusing as hell, too.
So it's simple. I take the meds. Jasen will never forget the horrible manic episodes I put him through, but he has forgiven. I don't think I could do that. No matter how redneck he is, or how much dirt he brings into the house or how loud he snores, he stayed by my side, literally holding me every night until the medications started working. He told me he loved me. That he didn't understand my disorder, and didn't want to be the one for me to confide in, but that as long as I found someone to keep me in check (my therapist, psychiatrist, mom, sister and a few close friends), he would stay.
He knows my triggers. He gives me more attention, and only drinks on the weekends. My diagnosis has helped him become a better person, and our marriage is strong. 
He went to my therapy sessions (they began at 2 times a week. Now I go about once a month). He still loves me. And that's a blessing.
Most people with bipolar disorder ruin their relationships, credit scores, and bodies before they are ever diagnosed, or because they don't take their medications.
I understand why taking the meds can be a bitch. Mood stabilizers (Lithium) cause weight gain. Some people have one emotion. And it's boring. So there's a reason they stop taking their pills.
The high from the mania is unreal. For me, taking my meds isn't a problem. I'm on a fairly low dose of an anti-seizure medication. It's not a mood stabilizer, so I still feel happy, excited, and shorts bursts of non-dangerous manias. I do experience pressure speech (loud, fast, very ADD), but Jasen tells me to calm down. And I do.
And by the way - the seizure med? For seizure patients they take 10 mg. I take 150. A manic episode is literally a seizure in your brain affecting your mood and personality. Think about a person during a seizure. They are completely unable to control their body. When I'm manic, I am completely unable to control my mind.
But I digress. The high is amazing. Indescribable.
 Here are some of the non-dangerous manics I've experienced. First...I do NOT like to sew. Hate it, actually. Button fell off? disaster. Hate it. Yet a few years ago, I got it into my manic head that I wanted to make a quilt. Instead of one, I made 18. EIGHTEEN. In a month. The downside? Juni played on the floor by himself. A lot. The guilt from that makes me cry. Seriously. Tears down my cheeks at this very moment. He was about two. And for 30 days, I wasn't the mom I want to be. The house was a mess. And Jasen cooked dinner.
During my manias I had crazy energy. I didn't sleep. I felt like I could do anything. I'd make up these amazing business ventures, which I'm sure would be awesome, but really? In my normal state of mind I'd think of these ideas as way to large an undertaking.
I'd loose weight, because who needs to eat when you have so much energy? I've never taken any recreational drugs. But I would imagine that if you took the best-of-the-best and combined them, that would be a mania.
So there it is. The evil Bipolar Disorder. People joke about it all the time. And when they do it in front of me, I tell them I'm bipolar. I asked Jasen if he minded people knowing. He said he loves me for who I am. And so I tell people...my diagnosis is ... Bipolar I, non-psychotic, non-hospitalization, with a low level disassociation, ADD and severe panic disorder.  Fun, fun times.

Surviving the Kindergarten Field Trip

I have a confession. I don't like kids. There. I said it. I know, I'm a terrible person for not swooning over drooling babies or snot-nosed toddlers. I'm destined for doom because snaggle-toothed kids aren't so cute. The way I see it, in this world there are two types of people: kiddie people, and non-kiddie people. I am a member of the non-kiddie group.
Don't get me wrong. I love my son. There is nothing he can do that would make me feel any different. I feel the same way about my niece. It's like they're part of me. The diapers, the snot (both out of the nose and word vomit), the unfortunate habits. With Juni and Evie, they're annoyingly cute.
Other kids? Not so much. I don't like them to touch me ... it makes me feel smothered, like I've got cooties. My child and I have enough germs. Keep yours to yourself, please.
I'm extremely picky with the kids I invite over. I learned I just can't handle annoying kids, or their annoying parents. Luckily, it seems like the kids Juni chooses as friends are the kids I actually like. Not that I'd wipe their buggars for them, but I genuinely enjoy having them around. And so far, their parents rock. It's actually surprised me just how much I like having Juni's friends over, and how great their moms are. Juni and I have the same taste in friends. Thank goodness.
It's children en mass that freaks me out. I literally began to have a panic attack during Juni's Halloween party in school. They swarmed me! There were fingers poking me in my belly fat, Hands hanging on my back, fingers up noses, voices fighting for my attention. It was terrifying. I was outnumbered, and they were going to pounce. I started to sweat, felt my heart race, and ran for my Xanax.
During kindergarten orientation I told Juni's teachers that I'd love to be homeroom mom. I also straight-up told them I don't like other people's children. They laughed, and said they appreciated the honesty. I've organized parties, donated goodies, and volunteered in the class. Being the uber-involved mom is in my blood. My mom ran the PTA (I have yet to attend a meeting), organized the parties, and anything else the school needed. And so will I.
There is nothing I wouldn't do for my child. Kidney? Have it. My last bite of dessert? Ugh...go ahead, you can have it. Bail money? I pissed, but yes, you can have it. I'll even endure kindergarten field trip. Wearing a matching Grassfield Elementary Kindergartener shirt.

It was a 45-minute school bus ride to the boonies. I get car sick. Buses? I turn green. So I grabbed an up-front seat and ginger gum. Unfortunately, Juni decided to hang in the back with his friends, and the most talkative girl in the world sat next to me. I'll admit it. She was cute. Pretty hazel eyes, a cute bow in her hair, one adult front tooth and one baby. But the child just didn't shut her mouth. Ever. I'm completely serious. She talked the entire time.
At one point I tried playing possum. I figured if she thought I was asleep she'd stop. Nope. "Hey...are you asleep? I could never sleep on a bus. Hey! You're not sleeping ... I just saw your eyes blink under your sunglasses! Did I tell you about my bunnies? I have bunnies. And they have babies. One of the babies died and the mommy bunny tried to eat it. She stepped on my foot. Do you like bunnies? I like bunnies. They're soft..." I couldn't stand it. "I do like bunnies. I had one as a kid. Her name was Peaches. You know what else I like? Relaxing ... why don't we just relax and enjoy the ride? You've got a big day ahead of you and need to save all your energy." To her credit, little Miss Talks-a-lot has reached self-realization. "I never relax! All I do is talk, talk, talk! That's what everyone says ... all I do is talk, talk, talk. I love to talk. Hey! Do you like..." At this point I believe my brain literally turned off. I have no memory of the last 20 minutes of the ride. I credit my body with self-preservation.
We arrive at Brookdale Farms 45 minutes late. And of course I have to tinkle. So I dart off the bus and hit the glorious port-a-potty. Fun times, as usual.
Each volunteer got a slip of paper with kids they were responsible for not losing or injuring. We were to take our list, find our kids, and inhale lunch in record time. Picnic tables filled with 110 kindergartners and 29 perfectly groomed Soccer Moms with their group of kids. And then there's me. Sweating like a hog on Tuesday, with Juni and one other little boy. Two kids. Two kids! I may not like kids, but I'm not going to lose them.
Of course I'm not going to lose Juni. And it's virtually impossible to lose the other kid ... he's wheelchair-bound with a full-time aid. I mean, seriously? Give me some credit. So I decided to take one of the "problem children" the teachers reserved for themselves.
This little girl has a rap sheet of issues. Many just like mine. But for a seven-year-old, she's just too young to understand what's happening. So she throws "fits." These fits have left Juni's teachers' arms with scars from biting and bruises from kicking. They have to physically restrain her so she doesn't hurt herself or someone else.
Until she finds the correct special classroom placement, it's the best they can do. They put a pair of headphones on her in the class, plop her in front of a computer, and go about their day. Sometimes she wanders, sometimes she attaches herself to the teacher's leg. She calls herself the teacher's shadow. And Juni likes her. "She's nice, Mommy. She's mean to herself. But not to the other kids." Amazing. At such a young age, Juni can differentiate between a snotty little brat and an emotionally disturbed, self-destructive child.

My boy, paying attention!

Anyway, I asked her if she'd like to be my shadow for the day. And that was it. I shared my lunch (her parents forgot to send one), and she stuck by my side.
The kids learned how seeds grow, they planted their own in a little greenhouse, saw the animals, and took a hayride into the middle of a cornfield. Juni amazed me. While I spent the day playing Kindergarten Warden (keep your hands to yourself. put that down. stop talking. pay attention. i saw that, don't do it again.) Juni payed attention with the best of them. Talk about a proud parent moment. My child, the model student.
My shadow began to loose it about two hours into our excursion. Did I mention it was near-record heat? Yep. 92. Hazy and humid and absolutely miserable. Everyone dripped with sweat. And guess what I don't like? Sweaty people. Including sweaty kids. Ick. But we trooped on.

Juni...Exhausted and over it.

And then, in the blink of an eye, my shadow broke down. She'd  had enough. The teacher came over and played human straight-jacket. I've never seen anything like it. A child, completely out of control, and terrified. The teacher carried her, kicking, growling, biting and screaming "I hate you" behind a giant bush, as not to frighten the other children. Too late for me.
The head teacher decided it was time for my shadow to have a break. She asked the assistant to watch her while the rest of the class climbed onto the hay ride. The next thing I see is the assistant sprinting across the field, headed toward the road ... my shadow had escaped, and was bolting to God-only-knows-where. I couldn't help but laugh. It was just too much.

Homeward Bound.

Poor Juni was tired, thirsty, and just plain over it. Me too, kiddo. Me too. At one point, sitting on a bale of hay in the middle of a corn field Juni whispers to me "Mommy, I sorry to say this, but I'm sweatin' balls. Sorry I said balls, Mommy. But I am."
One of the still-perfectly-groomed and daintily perspiring Soccer Moms brought pony water bottles for everyone on the bus. Glorious. Juni decided he was too tired to sit in the back, and fell asleep laying across my lap. It was my reward for a tiresome day.
I returned home with sweat-drenched clothes, indescribably bad hair, exhausted muscles, and a headache for the record books. But it was worth it. We peeled off our clothes and ate a snack. Juni said "Mommy ... you're the best Mommy in the world. Did you know not every Mommy can go on field trips? But you do. I had the best day with you, Mommy. I just love you.""Me too, buddy. I love you too."
Five minutes later, just as I finish cleaning up after his snack and sit down ... "Hey ... Mommy ... wanna watch me swim in the pool?"
Serenity now ...

Sirloin Antics

Calves are awesome. So cute. So curious. So very mischievous. Now that Juni is in school for a few hours each day, I finally have the time to learn and tame a calf. Sirloin is my first attempt.
I know what you're thinking. I'll get too attached. But I've been through this before. I bottle fed HotRod for four months, and once he hit puberty, I was more than happy to ship him off and get my check. They turn into ... well ... the equivalent to a human 15-year-old boy. But worse. Let me digress for a moment and describe our bull, Big John, at the moment...
- He waits by the gate all night for Cream to come into the pasture. (He's waiting to smell the I-can-get-preggers hormone) He spends his days strolling from ass to ass, sniffing and waiting. Pitiful.
- His curly hair on top of his head is frizzy, and covered in a mud-colored substance. Key words here are mud and colored. Of course it's not mud. That would be just disgusting. It's poop. That's right. He's completely and utterly disgusting.
- He doesn't mind the poop. Why, do you ask? Because it's an unfortunate risk he takes when detecting the I-can-get-preggers hormone. Which he detects by ... wait for it ... smelling and drinking the golden shower. He even scrunches his nose up to get an even better whiff. It is the most disgusting this you will ever witness. And Jasen thinks this cow has it made. A harem of heifers.
- He does what every 15-year-old boy does. By himself. (Infer here, please. I'm trying to maintain my ladylike impression). Except Big John can just do it into thin air. It's horrible. He's a walking ton-of-disgust.
- He's a wuss, but not before putting on a big show. Pawing at the dirt with his gigantic hooves. Bowing his head and thrusting it forward at me...all to deter me from getting near his ladies. Of course all I do is throw my hands in the air and he high-tails it into the middle of the field.

That is what my precious little Sirloin will become in 12 short months. A poop-wearing, piss-drinking, pleasing-himself moron.

So for now, I'm practicing with Sirloin, so when Cream does have a female, I can groom her personality like her mommy's.
Yesterday I hit pay dirt. He now eats out of my hand. And lets me relax in the field with him. And he's just too curious. Serious. He's too curious. Licking my jeans. Licking my arms. Licking my forehead. And, what earned him a pop on his cute little nose, EATING MY HAIR. Apparently, my hair looks worse than I thought. It looks like hay. Just what I need. Less hay-like hair on my head.
He then proceeded to pout. In the chicken coup. Disgusting already. But cute as can be.

My husband has a Girlfriend...

And she's a real heifer. Seriously. A cow. My husband is totally and completely in love with our pet milk cow, Cream. He milks her every evening, and a few weeks ago I caught him cooing to her. He brushes her, rubs her, scratches her. And she loves him right back. His truck pulls into the driveway and Cream, giant milk bag and all, clumsily runs to the gate to greet him.
We began milking Cream about a month ago after she had her calf, Sirloin. Hand milking is a unique experience. Cream is completely tame, so we don't hobble her, tie her up, or put her in a milking pen. We simply give her some food, and she chews contently while we milk. We didn't want to use a mechanical milker because of the cost, and the loss of connection to her comfort level. We wouldn't be able to tell if she was in pain. 
Before Cream delivered her calf, Jasen told me he knew how to milk a cow. I figured as much. But here's the thing...he learned from his 87-year-old grandfather. They used hot water to clean the udders and no lube. I nursed my son for 16 months, and this method seemed totally unacceptable. Water is not a chapped nipple's friend.
I couldn't get Jasen to understand why we needed to spend money on teat wipes and Udder Butter. Until I made a very poignant comparison. "How would it feel to have someone tug on a very sensitive part of your anatomy with scratchy, dry hands for 30 minutes? Think about it for a minute, honey. Seriously." His response? "Ahhhh! Stop! I don't even want to think about it! Okay ... I get it. Order it all tomorrow."
So now we spend the first few minutes loving on her, relaxing her and making sure she doesn't have any ticks or cuts that may hurt her. Jasen uses the wipes to meticulous clean her udders, and then lubes his hands and her udders with the cream.
The smell is glorious. It's a mixture of butter, milk, hay and comfort. And Jasen's hands are crazy soft, for the first time in his life. Added bonus!
Sometimes Cream becomes so engorged that milk squirts to the earth every time she takes a step. This drives Jasen insane. He can't stand to waste a single drop of her milk, because we all work so hard to get it.
Usually Cream stands still for us, and Jasen gets a half-gallon each day. It takes about 30 minutes, start to finish. He scoots his bucket next to her, and places his head in the soft fur where her hind legs meets her bulbous belly. He listens to the chorus of her intestines while Cream closes her eyes and chews, completely content.
But here's the thing. If Cream gets too relaxed and happy, she pees. I can strain out hair, dander, bugs, dirt. But there's no straining out urine. Each time she lifts her tail and bows her back, my job is to yell "pee!" at the top of my lungs before the golden shower hits my husband.
The other night Cream just would not move her leg, so Jasen milked her from behind. Juni whispers to me "Mommy...what if Cream pees on Daddy's head?" Just then, she lifted her tail and bowed her back. All I could yell was "Ahhhhhh....ppppppppp" before gallons of urine splashed to the floor.
The Redneck Husband deserves some credit...he's no pro athlete, but damn if he isn't quick to react. He lurched back three feet, milk bucket upright, his head unscathed from pee.

Watching Jasen milk the cow is hilarious. We don't trim or tie her tail, because we don't want her defenseless from the flies. That leaves Jasen taking whips to the cheek nightly. Every so often he milks her a little too excitedly, or a bug will irritate her tummy. That's when Jasen jumps backward before he takes a hoof to the head. She doesn't kick out of anger, but aggravation. She doesn't aim, like an unfortunate incident when Jasen tried to milk Buttercup (yes, Jim Beam helped), but simply raises her leg to let us know to knock whatever we're doing off. She doesn't have a mean bone in her body.
Last night we were all three at our wits' end. Cream wouldn't stop kicking, Jasen was exhausted from dodging her hooves, and I couldn't figure out how to calm her.
Jasen finally laid on the ground and looked under her bag (the place where the milk enters the udders). He saw giant horseflies relentlessly biting a spot the size of a nickel. Apparently, Cream injured the spot, and the flies took hold. We sprayed iodine on the area, and she immediately calmed down and stopped kicking. Sweet, sweet Cream. Jasen and I just love her gentle nature.

Milking Cream the Cow takes time. She grazes away from her calf during the day and he Houdini's his way out of his pasture at least twice a week. Milking her takes time. Straining and skimming the milk takes time. And then there's what to do with it all. The cream, churned into butter and buttermilk. Ice cream. Cheese. Yogurt. Jasen continuously experiments.
The raw milk tastes completely different than store bought. It's a full, round taste. I prefer mine completely skimmed, since whole milk from a Jersey contains 5.5-6 % fat (store whole milk is 4%). But that skim milk is more thick, creamy and delectable than the most expensive, organic whole milk from the store.
I'm a bit lactose intolerant, so the cultures in Cream's milk helps with my digestion. Pasteurization is a wonderful invention, but it kills the bad and good bacteria. As long as we continue our meticulous treatment of Cream and her milk, no outside bacteria should enter the bottles. So far, we've experienced nothing but amazing, fresh milk.
Jasen may have a girlfriend that is out of my league ... how can I compete with four tits and fresh milk ... but she's given him a hobby, me a sense of connection to the earth and my food source, and Juni an education about where his food comes from that I could never explain with words.
I can see Cream grazing out of my office window now. It's a beautiful, sunny day, and she's a beautifully fat, happy cow. Her calf is asleep in the sun. And we have a fridge filled with jugs of milk and cream, a crock full of butter, and a sinful batch of chocolate chip ice cream in the freezer. It doesn't get more beautiful.

What it Feels Like, Part Three

Anxiety.

Anxiety is my largest demon. There are two basic types ... generalized and acute. Of course I'm blessed with both. Generalized means you feel twinges of anxiety all the time. Some anti-depressants help, and low-levels of anti-anxiety meds. I don't have generalized anxiety all of the time. For the most part, the generalized anxiety correlates to my life. If something is changing, if I'm planning an event, relationship issues. That sort of thing. It's nagging; tugging at my brain and reminding me things aren't just right.
The other type is acute, a.k.a panic attacks. These are what I know, and fear, the most. They come on fast and hard, and wreak havoc on my mind and body. The world spins. Everything is flying by, and I'm in slow motion. I don't feel like I'm present within my life. I don't feel like I'm present within my body. And I don't feel like I'm present within the world. It's terrifying. I shake, my heart races, my vision blurs and I sweat.
My mind races from one ridiculous thought to the next: this is not my life, this isn't the way things should be, something is terribly wrong, this is a dream. Those types of things run rampant during a panic attack.
I've had attacks for as long as I can remember. Since I was about six, I think.
Many people can talk themselves down from an attack. Not me. Others can ride it out. Definitely not me. I have to take a larger dose of a dissolving anti-anxiety med. The effects are amazing...an "ahhhh..." feeling. My body relaxes, my mind slows, and eventually I'm back to normal. And absolutely exhausted. After a moderate attack I'm physically and emotional spent. Completely exhausted. In fact, just writing about it is exhausting. I need a nap.

What it Feels Like, Part Two

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

What it Feels Like, Part One

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

So...Part One: Depression

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

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

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

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

A Love Note for the Redneck Husband

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

Valentine's Day Gifts

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

http://randomthoughtfulness365.blogspot.com/

Cooking for Jasen

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

New Years Resolutions can kiss it

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

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

August? Really???

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

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