Today is my last day teaching my first English class at ODU. I wanted to wait to write about it until I knew how the semester went.
Getting the job (Adjunct English Professor) was difficult enough. I needed more graduate credits, so I took online courses through ECU. Note to self, and others who are thinking of going back to school: do it NOW. Waiting prolongs the inevitable. I've got to admit...I'm over the student thing. I'm done being the one who receives the grades. I'm too old, too set in my ways, and just too over it. Luckily, I applied to graduate with my graduate certificate last week.
Anywhoo, my superior is a character, for lack of a better word. His personal history mesmerizes me. It's the story of a man pulling himself out of a difficult situation and becoming his dream. I have to admit that he is rattlebrained. He forgot to submit my transcripts. Then forgot to petition academic affairs to have my credits count. I literally didn't know if or what I was teaching until 9 am. My class began at 11. I will give him credit - he personally contacted the Provost on my behalf. At this point, I take his antics and forgetfulness as endearing. As an aside ... I still don't know what and when I'm teaching next semester. Apparently, I've fallen through the cracks once again.
My first day went nothing as planned. They tell you to arrive before the students. I was on campus at 9:30. Plenty of time, right? Not when your taken to the wrong classroom. Like I said...he's a character. We literally ran, in the rain, across campus. I was 10 minutes late to my first class. I was soaking wet, sweating, and rattled. I hadn't prepared to teach this class...I was set to go with the freshman composition class. Sophomore not so much.
I walked into what I would call a fairly hostile environment. I can't blame them...who shows up late to their first class, WHEN THEY'RE THE ONE TEACHING??? Daggers. Daggers I say! They didn't just stare at me. And I don't know if glare quite captures the look on their faces. There were 15 girls and 4 boys. The boys sat at the two desks in the back, and pretty much hid. The girls gave me the look of death.
My superior introduced me as Professor Norge, which immediately took me off guard. We didn't do that at Tech. Apparently ODU is different. Am I old enough to be a professor? I feel like I'm my students' age. In no way am I prepared for this.
I stand at the podium, and begin to speak. O.K. maybe speak is giving myself too much credit. I more or less stumbled over words, stuttered, forgot what I was saying, and went off on tangents. I didn't know my office hours, or the room number. I didn't know my email address. And yet I'm supposed to convince these kids that this isn't my first semester teaching? That's the first rule - never let them know you're new. They'll eat you alive. I could feel the nips at my achillies.
My tendon was slowly being nipped at, a chunk falling off ever few minutes. I decided it was time for the icebreaker I'd developed. O.K. Developed is an overstatement. Let's just say stolen and tweaked. One of the questions asked the student what the stupidest thing they'd ever done was. I decided it was best for me to answer the questions first. It helped. They laughed. They relaxed. And so did I.
Their stupid moments were great. We all laughed and began to bond. My Achilles healed, and I was back in charge.
I learned through the icebreaker and short writing assessment that none of them were pleased to take the class. It was required. None of them wanted to be there. Fan-friggin-tastic. At that point, I wasn't sure if I wanted to be there, either. I read their assessments, and made a list of things to work on. It was a long list. I wondered who taught these young people who to write. It was choppy, filled with grammatical errors, and juvenile.
The semester had its ups and downs. I feel like we grew together. I learned what worked, they learned that I was, as they say, "the cool professor." They told my one day that they hated the subject, but loved the class. Their research papers were a culmination of every assignment throughout the semester. And they were wonderful. Of course there are the students that drop off at the end. But overall, the improvement in their writing surprised me. I can't believe how far they've come.
I've bonded with these students. We talk like peers. Maybe it's not the most professional teaching style, but it's mine. I tell them stories from my life, and they tell me stories from theirs. They come to me with problems. They laugh, they cry, and we all pick on each other. They challenge me. Even the boys perked up and began speaking.
Last week one of them asked me how long I'd been teaching, and I confessed. I told them I'd been teaching since the first day of class. And they were all surprised. I had seriously convinced these students I was a pro. I'd been at this for a while. I'm assuming they figured out my age a few weeks ago when they asked how old I was when I got married, and then how long I'd been married. Sneaky bastards.
Every single one of these students will forever hold a place in my heart. They learned from me. And not just about English composition. I let my ADD take over. I let the class get off topic. We talked about life. We talked about everything. The girls would stay after class to ask me my opinion. It made me evaluate my beliefs, what my experience in college was, and what I wanted out of life.
So today, I will give my students their final exam. I'm going to show them clips from television, radio and a commencement speech. Each of them talk about "everyday" life. Most of them wrote their final paper on what they wanted out of their major in terms of a career. I'm going to talk about their college bubble most of them reside in. Yes, they have their issues. But wait until life gets real. What will they do when their job is monotonous? How will they deal with the annoyances adults face each day. The commencement speaker addressed this very issue. Two years later he blew his head off.
The topic of their paper today? How will you live your life and not blow your head off. It's perfect. It's raw, emotional, and probably inappropriate language. But that's how we roll. We're open. There is no hesitation for them to speak their minds. They tell me when I make mistakes, and they tell me when they're unhappy. And I've loved every moment. I've learned to be the professor I want to be. Which isn't a role, as the book I read suggested. It's me. It's neurotic, ADD and a little nutty. It's personal. It's down-to-earth. And it works. Their writing speaks for itself. And it speaks wonderfully.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
There were more than 32
I'm ready. Let the negativity begin. But this is something that's bothered me since April 16, 2007. There were more than 32 victims at Virginia Tech. And I'm not just talking about families and loved ones.
The shooter was a victim. He was a victim of mental illness, insanity and evil. His parents lost the child they raised and loved. They lost the memory of him as a decent person. He is forever branded as evil, and regardless of our opinion, his family lost a child. There is no Hokie stone in his remembrance as a human being. There's no mention of him as a victim.
But this boy fell through the cracks. There were signs. And no one helped. When mental illness hits, it often changes who we are. We no longer have the capacity for logical thought. Our minds change. And we spiral. We need help, but we don't recognize our own demise. Mental illness is the evil.
I don't understand why he did it. I don't understand why those people had to die. I don't understand any of it. But what I do understand is the love of a mother. His parents didn't raise him to be a mass murderer. His sister flourished at Princeton. They were an affluent family which is now, I'm assuming, shunned by our society.
And there is no mention of their baby boy as a victim. I understand our need to label him as evil, and forget his death. It's human nature. Regardless, in my heart I know there were 33 victims. Thirty-three people died that day. And hundreds if not thousands of lives were changed forever. I know mine was. My idealistic view of my school changed. My view of society and the world changed. If it can happen in Blacksburg, it can happen anywhere.
So today I mourn the loss of 33 fellow Hokies. They all fell victim to evil. They were all Hokies, and they were all human. I know it's not a popular opinion, but 33 people did that day. And I mourn for every single one of them.
The shooter was a victim. He was a victim of mental illness, insanity and evil. His parents lost the child they raised and loved. They lost the memory of him as a decent person. He is forever branded as evil, and regardless of our opinion, his family lost a child. There is no Hokie stone in his remembrance as a human being. There's no mention of him as a victim.
But this boy fell through the cracks. There were signs. And no one helped. When mental illness hits, it often changes who we are. We no longer have the capacity for logical thought. Our minds change. And we spiral. We need help, but we don't recognize our own demise. Mental illness is the evil.
I don't understand why he did it. I don't understand why those people had to die. I don't understand any of it. But what I do understand is the love of a mother. His parents didn't raise him to be a mass murderer. His sister flourished at Princeton. They were an affluent family which is now, I'm assuming, shunned by our society.
And there is no mention of their baby boy as a victim. I understand our need to label him as evil, and forget his death. It's human nature. Regardless, in my heart I know there were 33 victims. Thirty-three people died that day. And hundreds if not thousands of lives were changed forever. I know mine was. My idealistic view of my school changed. My view of society and the world changed. If it can happen in Blacksburg, it can happen anywhere.
So today I mourn the loss of 33 fellow Hokies. They all fell victim to evil. They were all Hokies, and they were all human. I know it's not a popular opinion, but 33 people did that day. And I mourn for every single one of them.
Friday, January 3, 2014
Animals and Pain and Joy
The Redneck husband, 10 a.m. today:"Why the fuck do we even bother with these animals. It's constant work. It's constant cost. It's constant injuries and death and mess."
At the time I didn't have an answer. Last night Bertha began labor. On the coldest night of the year. If you remember, her first labor was the hottest day of the year three years ago. I wrote about that day, too. That day was physical and emotionally wrecking. Cutting a dead calf out, piece by piece. For three hours. But in many ways, that day was easier than today. The calf died days before labor began. It was more like a lesson in anatomy. A very bloody, traumatizing lesson, but a lesson nonetheless.
The sun rose at 7 a.m. and Jasen and I went to the field, hoping for a calf this morning. We found an exhausted cow, one hoof sticking out. She was with the herd. Not good. Time to call the vet. I put on my muck jeans, boots, layers of clothes and hats and anything else to keep warm. I knew I was in for a long, emotional morning.
Bertha understandably doesn't like people. I get it. I didn't expect her to follow me into the pen, even with the temptation of a bucket of food. The vet arrived armed with a tranquilizer dart and gun. And when I say gun, I mean a gun. It was a friggin miniature rifle.
He warned me. Sometimes the cow dies. If the calf, by some miracle, is still alive, the amount of sedative will likely kill it within an hour of birth. But I was alone, and even with the vet and assistant, Bertha wouldn't leave the herd.
So we shot her in the ass. She didn't even realized it until she started walking in circles, staring at the dart hanging from her left hip and looking at us like "what the heck? Did you just shoot me in the ass?" Very much Will Ferrell in Old School.
It took 45 minutes for her to begin to feel the sedative. But she fought. The vet had to use a lariat, which slowly tightens around the throat until the cow gives up and lays down, allowing the vet to put on a halter. Bertha fought. And suffered.She gave up when her airway became too constricted for her to fight.
We attached the halter to my 4-Runner, a come-a-long to the calf, the come-a-long to heavy duty chains attached to the ATV Mule. And we began winching out the calf. After more than 12 hours in the birth canal, he was alive. I cried.
It was like a moment of pure adrenaline. Get the calf out. Get the apparatus off. Hang him from his hind legs to let the fluids drain. And oh my God. He's breathing.
And then he stopped. There was a heart beat for a while, but the sedative was just too strong. The vet pushed what drugs he could, but he gave us a 50/50 shot. I followed the vet's orders. I took towels and rubbed him vigorously for an hour, hoping to keep his heart beating long enough for the sedative to wear off. After 50 minutes I couldn't feel my thighs. My butt. My hands. I was covered in amniotic goo. Bertha was still knocked out. Snoring, actually. Which was good. She didn't have to watch her baby die.
I did. And it sucked. The Redneck has a point. Why go through the emotional and financial cost of having animals? We stood there, staring at each other, when Cream comes up and rubs her fat pregnant belly across the ATV. Then our little Christmas surprise, EggNog, runs like a bat out of hell through the hay barn, her pale flesh-toned tail straight up in the air. She is the most healthy, happy calf I've ever seen. And her mother loves when we milk her.
EggNog will stay with us and live a long, happy life as our milk cow. It will take months of working with her every day before she begins to trust me and become tame. And I'll keep working with her until she's three, and will have a calf of her own, and it'll be her turn to give us milk. Watching EggNog run around, bucking from the chill, made me realize why we have animals. They give us joy.
If we don't feel pain. If we don't cry. If we don't experience loss, we can't feel happiness, or joy. Animals break our hearts (and wallets) just like children. Before I had Juni, my animals were my babies. And to a lesser extent they still are. And it's painful. Even when a duck gets snatched by a fox, it hurts. But the pain makes the joy so, so much better. When the ducks dive and put their fat asses above the water it's hilarious.
So I've shed my share of tears today. It's been in waves. And it's not just about the calf. The calf broke the damn. I'm sad Christmas is over. I'm sad the calf died. I'm sad my son may not believe in Santa next year. I'm sad today.
But this is a good day. Don't judge, but I learned something from Grey's Anatomy years ago. There's a line that stuck with me. It's about how we always say we're "having a bad day." We have a cold. We don't like our job. We're fighting with our loved ones. We're broke. None of those things make a bad day. Uncomfortable. Stressful. Not fun, yes. But not a truly bad day. A bad day is death. That's the only bad day in our lives. The day we lose someone we love. The day we lose ourselves. Every other day? That's a good day.
So yes, there is a fresh grave in the pasture. But there's also a fresh calf galloping around the pond. And yes, my eyes are puffy and there's a constant lump in my throat and I'm sad. But it's a good day.
At the time I didn't have an answer. Last night Bertha began labor. On the coldest night of the year. If you remember, her first labor was the hottest day of the year three years ago. I wrote about that day, too. That day was physical and emotionally wrecking. Cutting a dead calf out, piece by piece. For three hours. But in many ways, that day was easier than today. The calf died days before labor began. It was more like a lesson in anatomy. A very bloody, traumatizing lesson, but a lesson nonetheless.
The sun rose at 7 a.m. and Jasen and I went to the field, hoping for a calf this morning. We found an exhausted cow, one hoof sticking out. She was with the herd. Not good. Time to call the vet. I put on my muck jeans, boots, layers of clothes and hats and anything else to keep warm. I knew I was in for a long, emotional morning.
Bertha understandably doesn't like people. I get it. I didn't expect her to follow me into the pen, even with the temptation of a bucket of food. The vet arrived armed with a tranquilizer dart and gun. And when I say gun, I mean a gun. It was a friggin miniature rifle.
He warned me. Sometimes the cow dies. If the calf, by some miracle, is still alive, the amount of sedative will likely kill it within an hour of birth. But I was alone, and even with the vet and assistant, Bertha wouldn't leave the herd.
So we shot her in the ass. She didn't even realized it until she started walking in circles, staring at the dart hanging from her left hip and looking at us like "what the heck? Did you just shoot me in the ass?" Very much Will Ferrell in Old School.
It took 45 minutes for her to begin to feel the sedative. But she fought. The vet had to use a lariat, which slowly tightens around the throat until the cow gives up and lays down, allowing the vet to put on a halter. Bertha fought. And suffered.She gave up when her airway became too constricted for her to fight.
We attached the halter to my 4-Runner, a come-a-long to the calf, the come-a-long to heavy duty chains attached to the ATV Mule. And we began winching out the calf. After more than 12 hours in the birth canal, he was alive. I cried.
It was like a moment of pure adrenaline. Get the calf out. Get the apparatus off. Hang him from his hind legs to let the fluids drain. And oh my God. He's breathing.
And then he stopped. There was a heart beat for a while, but the sedative was just too strong. The vet pushed what drugs he could, but he gave us a 50/50 shot. I followed the vet's orders. I took towels and rubbed him vigorously for an hour, hoping to keep his heart beating long enough for the sedative to wear off. After 50 minutes I couldn't feel my thighs. My butt. My hands. I was covered in amniotic goo. Bertha was still knocked out. Snoring, actually. Which was good. She didn't have to watch her baby die.
I did. And it sucked. The Redneck has a point. Why go through the emotional and financial cost of having animals? We stood there, staring at each other, when Cream comes up and rubs her fat pregnant belly across the ATV. Then our little Christmas surprise, EggNog, runs like a bat out of hell through the hay barn, her pale flesh-toned tail straight up in the air. She is the most healthy, happy calf I've ever seen. And her mother loves when we milk her.
EggNog will stay with us and live a long, happy life as our milk cow. It will take months of working with her every day before she begins to trust me and become tame. And I'll keep working with her until she's three, and will have a calf of her own, and it'll be her turn to give us milk. Watching EggNog run around, bucking from the chill, made me realize why we have animals. They give us joy.
 |
| EggNog, just a few hours old. She's much cuter now. |
So I've shed my share of tears today. It's been in waves. And it's not just about the calf. The calf broke the damn. I'm sad Christmas is over. I'm sad the calf died. I'm sad my son may not believe in Santa next year. I'm sad today.
But this is a good day. Don't judge, but I learned something from Grey's Anatomy years ago. There's a line that stuck with me. It's about how we always say we're "having a bad day." We have a cold. We don't like our job. We're fighting with our loved ones. We're broke. None of those things make a bad day. Uncomfortable. Stressful. Not fun, yes. But not a truly bad day. A bad day is death. That's the only bad day in our lives. The day we lose someone we love. The day we lose ourselves. Every other day? That's a good day.
So yes, there is a fresh grave in the pasture. But there's also a fresh calf galloping around the pond. And yes, my eyes are puffy and there's a constant lump in my throat and I'm sad. But it's a good day.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
The Day the Redneck Husband Layed Down his Gun
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.
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.
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."
Sunday, December 16, 2012
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 :
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.
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
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.
Friday, November 16, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, September 24, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
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.
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.
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