Rednecks hunt. Apparently it's part of joining the club or something. You hunt.
I don't hunt. Jasen brought home a fresh turkey he and his friend raised (not at my house) and butchered a few days before Thanksgiving.
The Redneck said "it wasn't as bad as I'd thought." His blood-splattered Carhartt jacked led me to believe otherwise. Regardless, he dumped a mostly-plucked, 24 pound turkey carcass into my sink. I told him that was it. That was my redneck wife limit. He is not allowed to bring anything less dead into the house and expect me to do anything other than scream. I do have to say, that was a damned good turkey. And will be for the next 6 months. He cooked it for the three of us.
My husband lets his best friends hunt on our land. In return we get venison. Yum. He has old deer stands in trees, but doesn't use them. The reason? Pregnancy and raccoons.
I was maybe 7 months pregnant. And there was a raccoon eating the cow feed. This is not good. It makes for loud, hungry cows. And cow feed is not cheap. They weigh a literal ton, and eat a literal ton. Feeding cows is not cheap.
So Jasen waited until dusk, grabbed his shotgun (or rifle, I don't know the difference) and headed to the barn. Fifteen minutes later I hear the shot. Ten minutes after that, Jasen comes into the house, tears in his eyes.
"I got it."
"Good, honey. What's wrong?"
"I shot it. And then three sets of tiny eyes popped their head out of the corn. She had babies. I killed their mother."
One tear slides down his stubbly cheek.
"Awe, honey, I'm sorry. What did you do?"
"I couldn't kill them. I stuffed them in an old grain bag and let them go as far in the woods as I could. They're old enough to survive. But they're still babies. I killed their mom."
"Is this because I'm pregnant?"
"Yep. Pretty sure it's making me soft. I don't think I want to hunt anymore. And I'm getting a lid for the feed."
I loved that night. It was the night I knew my rough-and-tough Redneck Husband would make an amazing father. Seven years later, and the only thing he's shot are snakes. But we as a family despise snakes. And their babies aren't at all cute. So snakes don't count.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Catching Crabs
I'm not talking the edible kind. My husband and I stayed at a 5-star hotel a while ago in Roanoke. This place is nice. More than nice. It's immaculate. Historical. Renowned.
We were getting ready for dinner, and I took a shower. Five hours in a car does that to a woman. I needed a shower.
So I get out of the shower and what do I see? My husband, in all his glory (aka naked as a jaybird) sprawled out on the couch. Enter shocked wife. I'm standing there, in a robe, with my mouth to my knees.
I'm not saying the male body isn't a work of art. It is. It's just not the kind of art you want awkwardly
displayed on a hotel couch.
"Umm. Babe. You realize this is a hotel, right?"
"Yeah. Knowing how much I'm spending kind of clued me in to that one. What's your point."
"Well, honey, how many people do you think have sat on that couch? How many people do you think have...done things on that couch? How many people do you think ..."
"Ahhhh! Stop! Shit. I feel itchy. Can you catch crabs from a hotel couch?"
I can't help but laugh until I cry. But Jasen was so paranoid he jumped in the shower again.
As a side note, the fact that I don't think the male figure ranks up there with Monet drives my husband crazy. If he knew who Monet was it would piss him off even more. But I get a pass on that one. He could care less about his flaws. We all have them. It's just that, as a woman, and as a particularly crazy woman, I obsess over every flaw I have. OK. ADD side note over.
We were getting ready for dinner, and I took a shower. Five hours in a car does that to a woman. I needed a shower.
So I get out of the shower and what do I see? My husband, in all his glory (aka naked as a jaybird) sprawled out on the couch. Enter shocked wife. I'm standing there, in a robe, with my mouth to my knees.
I'm not saying the male body isn't a work of art. It is. It's just not the kind of art you want awkwardly
displayed on a hotel couch.
"Umm. Babe. You realize this is a hotel, right?"
"Yeah. Knowing how much I'm spending kind of clued me in to that one. What's your point."
"Well, honey, how many people do you think have sat on that couch? How many people do you think have...done things on that couch? How many people do you think ..."
"Ahhhh! Stop! Shit. I feel itchy. Can you catch crabs from a hotel couch?"
I can't help but laugh until I cry. But Jasen was so paranoid he jumped in the shower again.
As a side note, the fact that I don't think the male figure ranks up there with Monet drives my husband crazy. If he knew who Monet was it would piss him off even more. But I get a pass on that one. He could care less about his flaws. We all have them. It's just that, as a woman, and as a particularly crazy woman, I obsess over every flaw I have. OK. ADD side note over.
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Beware of the Beard
My husband has decided not to shave until April. This is not a good thing. He hasn't trimmed his hair or facial hair since September. Which means he already looks like a Yetti. This is a man who could grow a full beard before he turned 17.
Every three days I have to literally sweep up what he sheds on the bathroom floor. I'm not kidding. The man can clog a drain within a week. If I could implant the hair on my Redneck's body onto my head, I'd have that full, flowing locks everyone lusts after. As it is, I have a broom and dustpan.
Several of our friends have joined the "No Shave November" movement. But they nave short, shaped beards. My husband's beard begins at his cheeks and blends into his chest hair. He walks around with crumbs, sauce, meat, anything he puts in his mouth eventually falls or dribbles onto the beard. Not a pretty site. He says "I'm just saving it for dessert." Uh huh.
He's beginning to take his lower lip, tongue, and teeth and pull on his stache. I'm thinking a trim is in order. If the stache in included in this no shave endeavor, His lips will disappear before December.
In a few weeks I'm thinking the Redneck will look like he belongs in an unmarked white van. After a month he'll pass Si on Duck Dynasty. But April? I'm thinking he'll just be eyes poking out of curly, course black facial hair.
There are two positive effects I'm trying to remember as I'm looking at my husband's food-covered beard. No trimmings in the sink. He calls them presents. Presents that I have to clean up. Plus, no one is going to mess with us when he looks like a serial killer. In fact, people may wonder if I've been abducted by this overly hairy Redneck.
Every three days I have to literally sweep up what he sheds on the bathroom floor. I'm not kidding. The man can clog a drain within a week. If I could implant the hair on my Redneck's body onto my head, I'd have that full, flowing locks everyone lusts after. As it is, I have a broom and dustpan.
Several of our friends have joined the "No Shave November" movement. But they nave short, shaped beards. My husband's beard begins at his cheeks and blends into his chest hair. He walks around with crumbs, sauce, meat, anything he puts in his mouth eventually falls or dribbles onto the beard. Not a pretty site. He says "I'm just saving it for dessert." Uh huh.
He's beginning to take his lower lip, tongue, and teeth and pull on his stache. I'm thinking a trim is in order. If the stache in included in this no shave endeavor, His lips will disappear before December.
In a few weeks I'm thinking the Redneck will look like he belongs in an unmarked white van. After a month he'll pass Si on Duck Dynasty. But April? I'm thinking he'll just be eyes poking out of curly, course black facial hair.
There are two positive effects I'm trying to remember as I'm looking at my husband's food-covered beard. No trimmings in the sink. He calls them presents. Presents that I have to clean up. Plus, no one is going to mess with us when he looks like a serial killer. In fact, people may wonder if I've been abducted by this overly hairy Redneck.
Monday, November 18, 2013
I'm Knee-Deep in Shit
Ok that's a lie. I was ankle-deep in shit. Cow shit. Which, for the record, is no where near as nasty as human, dog or cat shit. All they eat is grass. Yes, it's ginormous and makes pies in the field. But it also makes great compost and grows awesome veggies. But I digress. Last night, I was literally ankle-deep in Buttercup's poop. Seriously.
Cows are sweet animals. But let's face it. They're idiots. The move at a cow's pace. If you rush them, they rush you. It's just not smart to rush a cow. Just getting up and down off the ground takes an act of congress for a cow. Ok maybe that's an overstatement. It takes a few minutes for them to get up or lay down. Congress take, what, never? Again...I digress.
So one night last week I didn't feed the cows. They had a bit of hay left, and I decided they didn't need any more. A cow will eat just because it's bored. Not necessarily because they're hungry. Very much like me. But not like my husband. He decided they were hungry. Because they got off their fat asses and mooed when he got out of the truck that night.
They played that Redneck like a fiddle. He went to the hay barn, but the strings off a round bale, and rolled it onto the floor in front of their feed gates. What he didn't do, however, was pull all of the strings out of the hay.
Hay bales are tightly rolled. But they still need string to keep them together. Don't ask me how the baler works. I have no idea. I know how to clog one, but I don't know how to fix one. The strings, when you cut them, turn out to be about 8 feet long. And they're bright orange.
The next afternoon, I went to feed the cows. I'm maneuvering the bale from the night before so they can reach it, when I notice Buttercup, the leader of the herd, is sporting a bright orange string, dangling three feet from her mouth. Not good. I climbed over the gate, grabbed the string, and pulled. It wouldn't budge. The other cows, however, did. Again, not good.
I'm between the metal bars and a herd of cows, including a two-ton bull. But of course it's ButterBell, the newest member of our herd, who head butts me in the ass, picking me up three feet and moving me out of the way. She needed to see for herself just what Buttercup had in that mouth of hers.
I told Juni to run and get his dad. Eating an 8-foot string canNOT be good, I'm thinking. I try a few more times to pull it out, but it gets caught on her back set of teeth.
Cows have two sets of teeth ... a bottom set in the front (just gums up top) and a full set just before their throat. So they're about eight inches apart. A cow's head is big. Anyway, the string was catching on her back set of teeth, and when she turned her head, it was cutting into the side of her mouth.
Jasen comes over. He's trying to get to Buttercup. It's important to understand something about my Redneck Husband. He doesn't understand cows. He thinks like a dog. Come, sit, stay. Cows do not come, sit or stay. Buttercup would not come. She would not sit. And she definitely would not stay.
So I climb the fence, run for a bucket of feed, and put in a call to the emergency vet. It took the vet no more than 5 minutes to get back to me. In those 5 minutes, this is what transpired:
Juni can't lock the gate to the pen. Jasen gets Buttercup to the pen, but knows she'd just run out the other side. The herd is quickly gaining on them. I haul my fat ass over the fence again, lock the gate, and turn around just in time to see Jasen hurl the bucket of feed at the cows, kick one in the ass, climb the gate, say countless four-letter words, and hide in his truck. Basically he threw a temper tantrum. During the tantrum Buttercup swallowed the last of the string.
So I'm on the phone with the vet, saying she's swallowed the whole string. He says that yes, he can come out, cut a six-inch slit behind her front leg, reach into her first stomach, and pull out the string. But it's expensive. And, apparently, more-than-likely unnecessary. Apparently, as the string goes from stomach one to stomach four, it compacts the contents each time. The vet said she should pass the string in three or four days. Or fall down dead. Fan-friggin-tastic. Either way, we need to monitor her and get the string out of the field.
Which leads me ankle-deep into her poo. I had to go poo hunting in the field, looking for a bright orange string. No such luck. Unfortunately, the cows shit the most as they eat. Which leaves a pile of nastiness right in front of the hay barn. And so the search began, and ended, with no orange string. But she's still standing, with only one more day to go.
I'm thinking "whew, that was rough," and start feeding the cows. I'm meticulously taking each string out, wrapping it around the others, and putting on top of a bale where the cows couldn't get it. Or so I thought. Dumb-assed ButterBell decided the ball of string looked tasty. The next think I know, she has countless string dangling from her mouth, and I have my arm down her throat, to my elbow, grabbing at a ball of string while she's trying to swallow. I come out with the string, along with a giant, literally steaming, pile of half-digested hay. So now I keep the string in my coat pocket until I can get to the burn pile.
Cows are idiots. I love them, but let's face it. They're idiots.
So to recap. In the past three years I've been armpit-deep in a cow's private parts, elbow deep in a cow's mouth, and ankle deep in a cow's shit. Seriously.
Cows are sweet animals. But let's face it. They're idiots. The move at a cow's pace. If you rush them, they rush you. It's just not smart to rush a cow. Just getting up and down off the ground takes an act of congress for a cow. Ok maybe that's an overstatement. It takes a few minutes for them to get up or lay down. Congress take, what, never? Again...I digress.
So one night last week I didn't feed the cows. They had a bit of hay left, and I decided they didn't need any more. A cow will eat just because it's bored. Not necessarily because they're hungry. Very much like me. But not like my husband. He decided they were hungry. Because they got off their fat asses and mooed when he got out of the truck that night.
They played that Redneck like a fiddle. He went to the hay barn, but the strings off a round bale, and rolled it onto the floor in front of their feed gates. What he didn't do, however, was pull all of the strings out of the hay.
Hay bales are tightly rolled. But they still need string to keep them together. Don't ask me how the baler works. I have no idea. I know how to clog one, but I don't know how to fix one. The strings, when you cut them, turn out to be about 8 feet long. And they're bright orange.
The next afternoon, I went to feed the cows. I'm maneuvering the bale from the night before so they can reach it, when I notice Buttercup, the leader of the herd, is sporting a bright orange string, dangling three feet from her mouth. Not good. I climbed over the gate, grabbed the string, and pulled. It wouldn't budge. The other cows, however, did. Again, not good.
I'm between the metal bars and a herd of cows, including a two-ton bull. But of course it's ButterBell, the newest member of our herd, who head butts me in the ass, picking me up three feet and moving me out of the way. She needed to see for herself just what Buttercup had in that mouth of hers.
I told Juni to run and get his dad. Eating an 8-foot string canNOT be good, I'm thinking. I try a few more times to pull it out, but it gets caught on her back set of teeth.
Cows have two sets of teeth ... a bottom set in the front (just gums up top) and a full set just before their throat. So they're about eight inches apart. A cow's head is big. Anyway, the string was catching on her back set of teeth, and when she turned her head, it was cutting into the side of her mouth.
Jasen comes over. He's trying to get to Buttercup. It's important to understand something about my Redneck Husband. He doesn't understand cows. He thinks like a dog. Come, sit, stay. Cows do not come, sit or stay. Buttercup would not come. She would not sit. And she definitely would not stay.
So I climb the fence, run for a bucket of feed, and put in a call to the emergency vet. It took the vet no more than 5 minutes to get back to me. In those 5 minutes, this is what transpired:
Juni can't lock the gate to the pen. Jasen gets Buttercup to the pen, but knows she'd just run out the other side. The herd is quickly gaining on them. I haul my fat ass over the fence again, lock the gate, and turn around just in time to see Jasen hurl the bucket of feed at the cows, kick one in the ass, climb the gate, say countless four-letter words, and hide in his truck. Basically he threw a temper tantrum. During the tantrum Buttercup swallowed the last of the string.
So I'm on the phone with the vet, saying she's swallowed the whole string. He says that yes, he can come out, cut a six-inch slit behind her front leg, reach into her first stomach, and pull out the string. But it's expensive. And, apparently, more-than-likely unnecessary. Apparently, as the string goes from stomach one to stomach four, it compacts the contents each time. The vet said she should pass the string in three or four days. Or fall down dead. Fan-friggin-tastic. Either way, we need to monitor her and get the string out of the field.
Which leads me ankle-deep into her poo. I had to go poo hunting in the field, looking for a bright orange string. No such luck. Unfortunately, the cows shit the most as they eat. Which leaves a pile of nastiness right in front of the hay barn. And so the search began, and ended, with no orange string. But she's still standing, with only one more day to go.
I'm thinking "whew, that was rough," and start feeding the cows. I'm meticulously taking each string out, wrapping it around the others, and putting on top of a bale where the cows couldn't get it. Or so I thought. Dumb-assed ButterBell decided the ball of string looked tasty. The next think I know, she has countless string dangling from her mouth, and I have my arm down her throat, to my elbow, grabbing at a ball of string while she's trying to swallow. I come out with the string, along with a giant, literally steaming, pile of half-digested hay. So now I keep the string in my coat pocket until I can get to the burn pile.
Cows are idiots. I love them, but let's face it. They're idiots.
So to recap. In the past three years I've been armpit-deep in a cow's private parts, elbow deep in a cow's mouth, and ankle deep in a cow's shit. Seriously.
Monday, October 28, 2013
The Redneck turns 37
Buying for my Redneck Husband is not easy. If he wants something, he buys it. I've given great presents, and crappy presents. This year I'm thinking they're above average, but not stellar. My dad took the prize with meat.
This year the Redneck will get a special edition 1/16 John Deere scale tractor from Juni. He picked it out six months ago, and has asked at least once a week when his Dad's birthday would get here. In general I don't mind the myriad of tractors displayed in my home. But this one is "special." It's gold. Not real gold, but gold in color. Something the A-Team might put in their van. But I just couldn't tell my son no. He's so excited. Me? Not so much.
I've gotten him an at-home massage (per request) and the original Duck Dynasty duck call. I'm thinking that's pretty awesome.
As for his birthday dinner, the Redneck wants stuffed peppers and a yellow cake with chocolate icing (a bundt, to be specific). But here's my issue with cooking. I'm not a bad cook, but the Redneck is amazing. So when I do cook, he's over my should. Constantly. Very annoying.
"I want stuffed peppers."
"What kind?"
"Tex Mex. But not out of your head. I want a real recipe. And a lot of cheese. And the peppers need to be really done. Not crunchy at all. And lots of meat. And lots of rice. And I want my cake moist. Really moist. Not like most of your cakes. I want it moist. Like I make it..."
"Babe. Happy Birthday. I love you. But shut the hell up. It's 6:15 in the morning."
This year the Redneck will get a special edition 1/16 John Deere scale tractor from Juni. He picked it out six months ago, and has asked at least once a week when his Dad's birthday would get here. In general I don't mind the myriad of tractors displayed in my home. But this one is "special." It's gold. Not real gold, but gold in color. Something the A-Team might put in their van. But I just couldn't tell my son no. He's so excited. Me? Not so much.
I've gotten him an at-home massage (per request) and the original Duck Dynasty duck call. I'm thinking that's pretty awesome.
As for his birthday dinner, the Redneck wants stuffed peppers and a yellow cake with chocolate icing (a bundt, to be specific). But here's my issue with cooking. I'm not a bad cook, but the Redneck is amazing. So when I do cook, he's over my should. Constantly. Very annoying.
"I want stuffed peppers."
"What kind?"
"Tex Mex. But not out of your head. I want a real recipe. And a lot of cheese. And the peppers need to be really done. Not crunchy at all. And lots of meat. And lots of rice. And I want my cake moist. Really moist. Not like most of your cakes. I want it moist. Like I make it..."
"Babe. Happy Birthday. I love you. But shut the hell up. It's 6:15 in the morning."
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Hanging molding meat is NOT ok
My Dad loves food just as much as my husband. It's how they've bonded. And I love it. For the Redneck's birthday, my dad presented him with a 50 lb slab of bacon meat. Wrapped in brown meat paper, sealed with his signature Duct tape, and complete with a meat hook. Awesome redneck birthday present, right? Yes.
Until he hung it in my LIVING ROOM. This is not ok! I clean this house. I make my own Febreeze. I light yummy smelling candles and use room spray. I like apple smells. Vanilla smells. Maybe the occasional flower smell. What I DO NOT like is the molding slab of smoked meat smell. This is NOT ok. My life has hit a totally new level if Redneckiness, and it's completely unacceptable.
Update: I've won the meat war. It's now hanging in the garage. Problem is, the garage isn't the most ventilated area in the world, but I do go in and out through the door quite a bit. Which means the smell is more intense. Not ideal, but not in my home. Point wife...
Update: I've won the meat war. It's now hanging in the garage. Problem is, the garage isn't the most ventilated area in the world, but I do go in and out through the door quite a bit. Which means the smell is more intense. Not ideal, but not in my home. Point wife...
Fix me, Stitch Fix
I don't know if it's truly addicting, or if I'll get a box of overpriced, unfashionable crap, but I've got to try it. I'm starting an actual job in the spring (part time teaching) and haven't bought new clothes since my son was born. And do I have time to shop? No. I'm chasing cows and chickens and stepping in crap all the time. I don't feel like driving an hour to shop. So maybe this is the way to go...
https://www.stitchfix.com/referral/3127219
https://www.stitchfix.com/referral/3127219
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Change your Shirt...Seriously
My Redneck Husband is a clothes whore. Always has been, always will be. Believe it or not, he was voted Best Dressed in high school. Granted, he wore the shirts, tags tucked in, and returned them the next week. But still. At one time, my man wore Polo, Nautica and all those preppy brands. Even now, on date night, it takes him a millennium to match his shirt, shoes and belt.
But that's all I get. One night. Every other night he wears boxer briefs and a "white" t-shirt. I use white loosely. Very, very loosely. Tonight it had chocolate on the love handles, something yellow on his belly, and something orange with seeds clinging to his collar. I wash the man's clothes. Seriously, I do. He has more t-shirts than I do. So why does he insist on wearing the same shirt night after night? Any insight would be appreciated...for the life of me, I can't imagine why. It's icky. The opposite of sexy. And very rednecky.
But that's all I get. One night. Every other night he wears boxer briefs and a "white" t-shirt. I use white loosely. Very, very loosely. Tonight it had chocolate on the love handles, something yellow on his belly, and something orange with seeds clinging to his collar. I wash the man's clothes. Seriously, I do. He has more t-shirts than I do. So why does he insist on wearing the same shirt night after night? Any insight would be appreciated...for the life of me, I can't imagine why. It's icky. The opposite of sexy. And very rednecky.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
The Pity Pary's Over ... Because of a Chicken
Yep. That's right. I'm finished feeling sorry for myself. Because of a chicken. Let me start by explaining something. They way I feel about chickens. I'm not a fan. They have beady little orange eyes. That weird red rubbery skin. Icky butts. Scaly feet. And they're mean. I once went into the pen to feed them, and one pecked through my jeans. And drew blood. She actually drew blood and bruised me through my friggin jeans. Bitches.
But the other day, I decided to roll out some clay in my studio. I had to unload my kiln first, and was too lazy to walk to the barn. So I drove. And this chicken comes running across the field like a fat woman with no hands in a petticoat. She's chasing the car. I open the door, and the turns her beady little orange eyes up at me and squats on the ground.
I know this chicken. She's Juni's chicken. He calls her Sweetie Pie. He carries her around, she jumps on the ATV, follows him around. I'm not afraid of her, but she still freaks me out. Until that day. She squatted, and I decided to pet her. I don't know why. They say having a pet helps anxiety. Well, not when you have a dog that smells like pond scum, an 18-year-old cat that bites and another dog that's scared of her own tail. So I pet the chicken and walked into the kiln room (aka the old hog barn).
And she followed me. Wanting to be pet. I made three trips to and from the kiln to my car, Sweetie Pie in tow. And then I rolled out some clay in my studio.
I heard squawking. Either from laying an egg or the dog chasing one of the little devils, so I ignored it. But the chicken never shut up. I open the door, and there she is. Staring at me. Waiting to come in. So I let her in. And she jumped on everything, and shit on the floor, and talked the whole time.
And I talked back. We stayed in the studio for hours. I don't remember the last time I lost track of time. By the time Sweetie Pie and I were done talking, it was time to get Juni off the bus. And I realized ... I'd only taken two Xanax that day. That's a big deal for me. And it was all because of a stupid, crazy-eyed, ugly-footed bird.
Sweetie Pie is now my pottery buddy. I kick the dog out and let the chicken in. She tries to jump on the desk and I swat her away. She squats for a quick pet. She pecks at the radio. And we talk. Who knows what she's rambling on about. Probably something about how her two sisters are bitches. And I know she has no clue what I'm saying. But we get each other, in this weird, crazy person and crazy chicken way.
Inspiration for posts come far and few between now that I don't have manic episodes. But given my life, it makes sense that a chicken, Sweetie Pie, would be the one to break the writer's block. At least for today. Which is something. It's a reason to stop the pity party. Damn it ... I love that stupid nasty-assed chicken.
But the other day, I decided to roll out some clay in my studio. I had to unload my kiln first, and was too lazy to walk to the barn. So I drove. And this chicken comes running across the field like a fat woman with no hands in a petticoat. She's chasing the car. I open the door, and the turns her beady little orange eyes up at me and squats on the ground.
I know this chicken. She's Juni's chicken. He calls her Sweetie Pie. He carries her around, she jumps on the ATV, follows him around. I'm not afraid of her, but she still freaks me out. Until that day. She squatted, and I decided to pet her. I don't know why. They say having a pet helps anxiety. Well, not when you have a dog that smells like pond scum, an 18-year-old cat that bites and another dog that's scared of her own tail. So I pet the chicken and walked into the kiln room (aka the old hog barn).
And she followed me. Wanting to be pet. I made three trips to and from the kiln to my car, Sweetie Pie in tow. And then I rolled out some clay in my studio.
I heard squawking. Either from laying an egg or the dog chasing one of the little devils, so I ignored it. But the chicken never shut up. I open the door, and there she is. Staring at me. Waiting to come in. So I let her in. And she jumped on everything, and shit on the floor, and talked the whole time.
And I talked back. We stayed in the studio for hours. I don't remember the last time I lost track of time. By the time Sweetie Pie and I were done talking, it was time to get Juni off the bus. And I realized ... I'd only taken two Xanax that day. That's a big deal for me. And it was all because of a stupid, crazy-eyed, ugly-footed bird.
Sweetie Pie is now my pottery buddy. I kick the dog out and let the chicken in. She tries to jump on the desk and I swat her away. She squats for a quick pet. She pecks at the radio. And we talk. Who knows what she's rambling on about. Probably something about how her two sisters are bitches. And I know she has no clue what I'm saying. But we get each other, in this weird, crazy person and crazy chicken way.
Inspiration for posts come far and few between now that I don't have manic episodes. But given my life, it makes sense that a chicken, Sweetie Pie, would be the one to break the writer's block. At least for today. Which is something. It's a reason to stop the pity party. Damn it ... I love that stupid nasty-assed chicken.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
When it All Comes Tumbling Down
My life is blessed. My husband is great, my kid is great, my house is great. I'm spoiled in every way possible. But the mind works in mysterious ways. Especially mine. 29 years. That's how long I've fought anxiety. Almost three decades.
The last seven years have been the worse. Having a child also means having a legitimate reason to worry. I've changed medications 8 times. But the worry is the same. He's getting older. Why can't time slow down. He won't want to snuggle. He's getting older. This, in addition to my "normal" anxiety leaves a girl tired. Very, very tired.
I'm tired of the fight. I'm tired of the thoughts. I'm tired of the feelings. I'm tired of the tears. I am fucking tired. Of course not suicidally tired... I'm not a quitter. But I'm exhausted. I want a life where I enjoy thinking about my son growing up. Not popping a Xanax every time the thought intrudes upon my brain. It's not fair. And yes, I realize life isn't fair. Things could be so much worse. Cancer. Schizophrenia, a sick child, death.
Regardless, I'm tired. And pissed of. And crying. I have to wait for meds to kick in, the withdrawals to stop. It's always a waiting game. And even when I win, three or four years later the meds stop working and I lose. Again and again and again.
I hear the bus coming, and it makes me smile. But every night once I snuggle and put my sweet boy to bed, I cry. And take my meds like a good patient does. And the thoughts don't go away. So I'm tired. So very, very tired. It's all come crashing down this fall, as it does with all seasonal cyclers. But this year is worse than many. Not the worst every, but and enough. Anxiety sucks. It throws curveballs. It sucker punches you. It hits hard and stays well after it's welcome. And it sucks. And I'm tired.
I'm sorry this isn't one of the laugh-till-you-cry posts , but every now and then reality hits. My reality is constant anxiety right now. Swollen eyes. And I'm tired. So very, very tired. I just want it to go away and leave me alone. Even if it's just for a few days...I want my brain to stop fighting itself, and let me enjoy my so very blessed life.
The last seven years have been the worse. Having a child also means having a legitimate reason to worry. I've changed medications 8 times. But the worry is the same. He's getting older. Why can't time slow down. He won't want to snuggle. He's getting older. This, in addition to my "normal" anxiety leaves a girl tired. Very, very tired.
I'm tired of the fight. I'm tired of the thoughts. I'm tired of the feelings. I'm tired of the tears. I am fucking tired. Of course not suicidally tired... I'm not a quitter. But I'm exhausted. I want a life where I enjoy thinking about my son growing up. Not popping a Xanax every time the thought intrudes upon my brain. It's not fair. And yes, I realize life isn't fair. Things could be so much worse. Cancer. Schizophrenia, a sick child, death.
Regardless, I'm tired. And pissed of. And crying. I have to wait for meds to kick in, the withdrawals to stop. It's always a waiting game. And even when I win, three or four years later the meds stop working and I lose. Again and again and again.
I hear the bus coming, and it makes me smile. But every night once I snuggle and put my sweet boy to bed, I cry. And take my meds like a good patient does. And the thoughts don't go away. So I'm tired. So very, very tired. It's all come crashing down this fall, as it does with all seasonal cyclers. But this year is worse than many. Not the worst every, but and enough. Anxiety sucks. It throws curveballs. It sucker punches you. It hits hard and stays well after it's welcome. And it sucks. And I'm tired.
I'm sorry this isn't one of the laugh-till-you-cry posts , but every now and then reality hits. My reality is constant anxiety right now. Swollen eyes. And I'm tired. So very, very tired. I just want it to go away and leave me alone. Even if it's just for a few days...I want my brain to stop fighting itself, and let me enjoy my so very blessed life.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
The Day when Too Much Happened for Just One Title
1. Apparently cows are like many women I know. They'd rather visit the gyno than the dentist. ButterBell stood completely still today while a large vet intern inserted her ENTIRE ARM into her private part. Yes. That's correct. Her entire ARM. There was no ultrasound wand, which frankly scared the begeezus out of both me and my husband. No heart monitor wrapped around her belly. A pregnancy test for a bovine consists of stuffing your hand inside and feeling for a head. Apparently, ButterBell is 90 days along. Big John knocked her up the first day she arrived. Again, you read correctly. One time IS all it takes. Teenagers take heed ... you will get knocked up the first time. Take it from ButterBell.
For shits and giggles, I decided to ask the vet how old he thought my perfectly behaving cow was. He fish-hooked her lip with his finger, and she freaked. Seriously. We're talking bucking, mooing, kicking. We needed a bovine-sized Valium for miss ButterBell at the dentist. After much ado about teeth, she's about four years old.
2. I asked the vet to age Cream, since I figured I might as well torture her as well. She was fine. All she wanted was some food and attention. She's eight. Those eight years have not treated her too well ... I was guessing 11. Poor milk cows...they just look so haggish.
3. The vet says "hey...is that calf supposed to be in the pond?' First of all, let me explain that the "pond" is nothing but cow dung mixed in with a bit of water and a lot of algae. And no ... the calf wasn't supposed to be in there. "Ummm...where did that calf come from?"
At that moment, Big Momma turns around and ... ewe ... out comes a heaping mound of afterbirth. The dogs are very upset ... it sunk to the bottom of the pond. But I digress. Apparently, Big Momma decided to have a water birth. Maybe she's ahead of her time. But this is not normal. It was in fact terrifying. The calf's head was above the waterline, but the pond gets deep quick, and it's just gross. So the vets run into the pond, pick the calf up and send her on her way.
4. We cut, baled and stored the hay. So I needed to get the 11 cows plus newborn into the other field. About a 100 foot walk. Sounds easy. Definitely not. All but Big Momma and the newborn came. So I left the gates open, and stacked the hay while I waited for the two to join the herd. Apparently, Big Momma decided she'd hide little H2O in the field, and move to greener pastures. Literally. She hid her baby and left. And then got pissed 20 minutes later when she sees Juni driving the ATV Mule with me in the passenger seat, H2O in my lap. Covered in pond goo, and baby goo, and poop goo, H2O and I moved to the other field.
5. Jasen gets home. He's not half as smelly as I am. "What's for dinner?" "Bite me. Seriously." "Did you pick the garden?" "Did you smell me? I've had a day, honey. Yes. I picked the garden. And stored the hay. And moved a calf. And now I'm not, sweaty, dehydrated and tired. We're having salmon for dinner."
FYI...I realize it's been forever since my last post. i just haven't had the time, energy or inspiration to write. Us writers are like that. But I'll try to behave better in the future and update more often. My apologies...It's been "a day."
For shits and giggles, I decided to ask the vet how old he thought my perfectly behaving cow was. He fish-hooked her lip with his finger, and she freaked. Seriously. We're talking bucking, mooing, kicking. We needed a bovine-sized Valium for miss ButterBell at the dentist. After much ado about teeth, she's about four years old.
2. I asked the vet to age Cream, since I figured I might as well torture her as well. She was fine. All she wanted was some food and attention. She's eight. Those eight years have not treated her too well ... I was guessing 11. Poor milk cows...they just look so haggish.
3. The vet says "hey...is that calf supposed to be in the pond?' First of all, let me explain that the "pond" is nothing but cow dung mixed in with a bit of water and a lot of algae. And no ... the calf wasn't supposed to be in there. "Ummm...where did that calf come from?"
At that moment, Big Momma turns around and ... ewe ... out comes a heaping mound of afterbirth. The dogs are very upset ... it sunk to the bottom of the pond. But I digress. Apparently, Big Momma decided to have a water birth. Maybe she's ahead of her time. But this is not normal. It was in fact terrifying. The calf's head was above the waterline, but the pond gets deep quick, and it's just gross. So the vets run into the pond, pick the calf up and send her on her way.
4. We cut, baled and stored the hay. So I needed to get the 11 cows plus newborn into the other field. About a 100 foot walk. Sounds easy. Definitely not. All but Big Momma and the newborn came. So I left the gates open, and stacked the hay while I waited for the two to join the herd. Apparently, Big Momma decided she'd hide little H2O in the field, and move to greener pastures. Literally. She hid her baby and left. And then got pissed 20 minutes later when she sees Juni driving the ATV Mule with me in the passenger seat, H2O in my lap. Covered in pond goo, and baby goo, and poop goo, H2O and I moved to the other field.
5. Jasen gets home. He's not half as smelly as I am. "What's for dinner?" "Bite me. Seriously." "Did you pick the garden?" "Did you smell me? I've had a day, honey. Yes. I picked the garden. And stored the hay. And moved a calf. And now I'm not, sweaty, dehydrated and tired. We're having salmon for dinner."
FYI...I realize it's been forever since my last post. i just haven't had the time, energy or inspiration to write. Us writers are like that. But I'll try to behave better in the future and update more often. My apologies...It's been "a day."
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