The Things I Put Up With Around Here!

I've been thinking about writing a book lately. Sure, there are plenty of useful and brilliant things I could write about - the great American novel, profound thoughts that would change peoples' lives, inspiring words of wisdom that would frame a generation... But, what I really feel compelled to write about is all the everyday stuff that we put up with.

Don't take me wrong, here. When I say 'put up with,' there is no negative connotation implied. I am a firm believer in living an empowered life, and never being a victim of circumstances. Indeed, I don't believe in being a victim at all, and loathe all forms of self pity and spinelessness.  I don't dole out the band aids or Kleenex without really good reason, and believe that the best way to get ahead is by a firm pulling upward on one's own bootstraps - and no slacking off when doing so either. You best be sure you're helping others along the way. (Imagine having to have ME as a mother!)

No, when I say that there are things that I have to put up with, it's really a reflection of my priorities. If something gets problematic enough to stop the effective flow of my life, I'll deal with it. If it's just a minor annoyance, I'm likely to leave it alone. Since I'm not really a detail oriented person, the list of little things that I'm willing to put up with has gotten progressively longer the older I get.

Most of these little hitches in my get a long, so to speak, are minor. I'm sure that, if I set my mind to it, I could probably fix half the list in the course a single long afternoon and with only a few of my hard-earned dollars expended in the process. But, where am I going to find a free afternoon and few dollars that converge all at once? If I have free time and money, I'm certainly going to find more interesting ways to spend them! Plus, if I fixed all the little stuff, what would I have to write about?

Here's a list of my favorite little problems that I put up with in everyday life. Feel free to share yours. Who knows - they might even make it into my book! ;)

• My dryer isn't level. When I open the door to load or unload clothes, the door swings shut automatically. I often find myself propping the door open with one leg, as I lean over to the front-load washer and drag an armload of wet clothes into the dryer's gaping mouth. Sometimes I prop it open by putting the broom in front of the door, or require one of my younger children to hold it open for me. Occasionally I'll have had a day full of minor annoyances, and (unable to face another) I will just give the task of switching loads to my oldest child. On the up side - for the first year we lived here the dryer was not level AND the washer door swung the wrong direction, causing me to have to drag wet clothes over the door in order to get them into the dryer. Total estimated fix time : 5 minutes. Cost : $0

• I have a Betty Crocker Cookbook from 1968 that has a permanent place of honor on my kitchen counter. It rocks. I use it at least 3 times a week. It has everything you could possibly want to make, including some recipes (like scrambled brains) that I can't imagine anyone ever wanting to cook. Short of some Julia Child-esque masterpiece dish, I'm pretty sure I can make anything life would require of me out of that cook book. The only problem - the last few pages of the index have come loose. They're stowed away on a bookshelf in my dining room under the rest of my cookbooks.  I'm fine as long the dish I want to make starts with A-P. Anything else, well... it becomes a little tricky. I once found a recipe for pear tart (which you would usually find under either the 'p' or 't' sections) by looking up 'fruit' and working my way back from there. The cross referencing and logical layout make the book easy to use, even with the missing index pages. Occasionally I find myself unable to find a particular recipe that I'm looking for. So, on those nights, we have a nifty jello salad instead of tapioca, or just plain potatoes instead of turnip gratin. (Not found under the 'g's' - just so you know.) Perhaps I am missing out on a world of recipes (or at least 10 letters worth), but who really likes turnips anyway!? Total estimated fix time : 5 minutes. Cost : $3 (including the cost for ring-reinforcing stickers). 

•  I still have three separate remotes. I know it's possible to get a universal remote that would control my TV, my converter box, and my DVD player all at once. But then, where would that leave us when my youngest stole that remote and put it in the freezer? None of my remotes have batteries in them right now, either. Well, they never have batteries in them... ever. To be fair, they do have some batteries. One is full of dead batteries. One has 2 good batteries and one bad one. The other has no batteries at all. In fact, the back is missing. There are still the remnants of the scotch tape that used to hold it on. You'd think this little problem would stop us from watching too much TV. Alas, the only effect it has had is that we can no longer access special functions on DVDs. Who needs to watch the director's commentary, anyway? Total estimated fix time : 5 minutes (including programming a new remote). Cost: $10, including batteries

• We have had 2 lamps in our living room - one on either side of the couch - for 2 years now. One of them didn't have a light bulb for about 10 months. We sure appreciated the extra light once we put one in, but we did take our sweet time in getting that job done. Now comes inconvenience number two - sometime in the past two weeks our youngest child screwed the little twirly knob that you twist to turn the light on (I'm sure there's a real name for it, but it's not worth looking up right now) in the wrong direction until it came off. I know it's bound to be somewhere on the floor close by. However, I've not taken (found? used?) the time to look. So, at least twice a day, every day, I have been  twisting the threaded, skinny nubbin left in order to turn the lamp on and off. I have a groove worn in my index finger. Of course, the logical thing to do would be to get down on my hands and knees and search for the knob. Or, better yet, I could go to the hardware store and buy a new one. Most likely, however, I will stop using the light, or wait until the bulb burns out, therefore buying myself at least six months before I really have to think about the problem again. Total estimated fix time : 3 minutes. Cost : potentially up to $0.50 for a replacement knob.

•  Speaking of light - the lightbulb in my oven has been burned out for over a year and a half. Ditto the one on the freezer in the garage. I think these little problems make mealtime a bit adventurous - you never know what you're going to dig out of the freezer, or what it's going to look like when it comes out of the oven. Replacing these bulbs (at least one of which I'm almost certain we already have in the office) would take away some of the spontaneity of life (or at least dinner) in La Casa Farrier. Total estimated fix time : 3 minutes. Cost : $1.98. 

So, that's what it's like at our house. The appliances (like the people) are a bit unbalanced and occasionally on the dim side. It may not be pretty, but things get done. Lest you think that my "Leave R Be" (as opposed to "Get R Done") attitude stems from some sort of laziness, let me just remind you that the total investment involved in fixing just these five things alone would add up to over $15.00 and over 20 minutes. That's plenty of resources to both buy AND read two brand new books with my children, which I consider a MUCH better investment of my time and money. Plus, don't forget that there's still a sticky toilet handle, drippy faucet, lack of sharpened pencils or working pens, sliding closet door off its track, and so many other minor things to deal with that I'm hesitant to start down that road. Perhaps after I'm rich from writing my book I can hire someone to fix these things. I'll keep you posted.

Busy, Busy, Busy

Forever more I reject the titles 'overbooked', 'too busy', or 'procrastinator.' Instead, I would appreciate it if from this point forward you would just refer to me as 'The Evil Knievel of Scheduling.' Thank you very much.

It's not that I feel cheated, per se, in the fact that I only have 24 hours in my day, like everyone else. But, seriously - if they're talking about selling carbon credits, can't we at least discuss the option of selling spare time too? I can see it now - special banks and exchanges for you to make deposits and withdrawals of, well... time. Choose increments from 10 minutes (for unexpected bouts of constipation or a bonus game of solitaire) all the way up to one week (helpful for vacationers and college students cramming for those final exams). Everyone's always worried that social security alone is not enough to cover the expenses of seniors. Well - I say, let them sell their extra time! What else are the sleepless hours from 6:00 a.m to 8:00 a.m good for, anyway? Bored teenagers getting into trouble after school? Sell that time and put the money in your college fund! Better yet - plan ahead and invest that time so you won't end up a frazzled home schooling mother of 3 with a part time job and a lobbying addiction that cuts into even her Facebook activities.

Oh, who am I fooling? Even if they did create a Time Exchange Bank it would probably be taxed to the point of being worthless, ultimately costing millions in bail outs and user fees. After a lengthy Congressional Investigation and the involvement of the UN Commission on Banking Practices the whole thing would be shut down, defaulting on time loans left and right. Millions would end up late for work, late on bills, late handing in homework, and with no extra time to see to their stress-induced digestive complaints. I suppose the best answer for those who find themselves short on time is the age-old, tried-and-true, common sense solution of staying up too late every night to get things done. (And you thought I was going to say something about planning ahead and using wise time management techniques. Hah!) After all, why would a candle have two ends if we're not supposed to burn both of them at the same time?

I am a night owl by nature. Even as a kid I never went to bed early. I'm lucky if I've got my teeth brushed by midnight these days. The post -10 p.m. hours are the only time I've got to myself. Much as I love having company while I do dishes (and fold clothes, and make supper, and sweep the floor, and talk on the phone, and take a bath) it is nice every once in a while to have my brain to myself. Today I was typing up an email to send out to hundreds of families about a very important legislative meeting. I was mumbling aloud in order to hear if the email made sense. I had just said, "... meet under the rotunda for lunch..." when I was suddenly assaulted by a barrage of questions.

Five Year Old: Lunch? Did she say lunch? I love lunch!
Three Year Old : Why you say lunch, Mommy? Mommy? Why you say lunch?
Nine Year Old : Yeah, that reminds me. I'm hungry. Can we have noodles for lunch?

That'll teach me to proofread aloud! Befuddled by the confusion, I was compelled to hastily wrap up the email (I'm not entirely sure, but the words hungry and/or mommy might have slipped into it, unbidden) and go make lunch for the girls. Yes, it was noodles. Like someone struggling to rise to consciousness, I am slow to understand and vulnerable to the power of suggestion when I multi-task. I think my children know to wait until the very moment when my eyebrows lower, my lips purse, and I exhale lightly, ready to finally coalesce a brilliant idea I'd been working on for months, before they ask for something.Well, either that, or they wait for when I'm on the phone. That seems to work for them as well.

The net result of all this is that my productivity and focus are not what they could be. I suppose I could send my children off to school each day and really get down to business in my nice, quiet home. Better yet, I could get an office, with my own computer dedicated only to work, its keyboard never covered in anything sticky. I could even have an assistant who would follow me to meetings and carry my file folders, rather than the assistants I have now who follow me to the bathroom carrying broken toys for me to mend. I could enter the world of high finance instead of the world of low-slung diapers; mingle with CEOs instead of mangling PBJs; make my mark instead of cleaning up the marks left by others. But, where would the fun be in any of that?

Evil Knievel didn't jump puddles with a Schwinn, baby, and the Evil Knievel of Scheduling doesn't take the easy way out either. Let 'em have their cubicles and meetings, their secretaries and their powerpoint presentations. I'll take the risky path any day, and love every minute of it. The high yields of happy, healthy children are far more important to me than a safe investment in the status quo. Besides - what else are the hours from 10:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. for, anyway? It's not like I can sell that time...

Blogettes

I often find myself with great blog one-liners that never get the chance to see the light of day because they don't lend themselves to another topic or a longer post. Seems a shame to deny these little blogettes their five minutes of fame. Here are some of the random thoughts that have gone through my head this past few weeks. Feel free to try to extrapolate the situation in which they occurred if it will increase the comedic value for you...

• Potty Update: In one week my youngest child will be 3 years old. She frequently pretends to be a kitty.  She absolutely refuses to use the potty, though when asked to she will consider sitting on the porcelain "litterbox".
• How is it that I can scoop until my hands are numb and never get down to the gravel in my driveway - leaving me spinning for traction on packed snow all winter. And, yet - when spring comes, there is gravel where my snow pile once was? 
• It's no wonder that most yoga poses have animal names. Everyone's heard of 'downward dog' and 'cobra pose'. Want a real workout? Try barnyard yoga - 'stretching hen' (one wing out front, the opposite leg stretched behind), 'bored goat' (head through fence, contorted at a 90 degree angle), or 'bottle fed calf' (legs akimbo, neck extended to its fullest extent, eyes rolled back in head).
  
• Why is it that cats always need to use the litterbox while you are scooping it? I do not feel the need to pee into the toilet while it's being flushed... And, how come the water in our cups always seems to taste better to them than the water in their bowl?
• I recently overheard my oldest daughter asking her sisters questions like this, "Will you please give me that toy? ... Say yes." I have to admit - she has moxie, and it was working for her before I put a stop to it. I'm thinking of borrowing the move for a day or two, just to see how it works out for me. 
• Here's a public service announcement - Most people are not as interested in the features on your new cell phone as you are. Just an FYI.
• Why don't TV stations put better shows on late at night? If you're up at 1:00 a.m. you're already suffering from insomnia. Why should you have to suffer from bad television too?
• How come I can get 200 friends on Facebook within a week of starting my page, but I can never find a babysitter on a Wednesday night? 
• Free range chickens don't range far when it's 10 below zero.
  
• It's no wonder the cost of living is cheaper down south. Our little town here in Iowa has had to pay tens of thousands of dollars in man hours and equipment just to keep the roads clear. In my hometown in Oklahoma the winter road crew consisted of (and I'm totally not making this up) a guy in the back of a 2 wheel drive pick up with a grain scoop and a pile of sand. Wasn't the most effective way to keep the roads safe, but it didn't really matter. South of the Mason Dixon line cars are pre-programmed to drive off the road automatically if there are more than 17 snowflakes on the pavement.
  
• My hens live in our old outhouse by the road. It's drafty, to say the least, and in order to keep them warm in this frigid weather I put in a heat lamp. The red glow seeps out of the cracks in the boards at night. Yep, we have now officially given our Amish neighbors yet another thing to talk about.
• I want a tractor. No - I want enough land to need a tractor. Come to think of it - I want to be the kind of person who knows how to drive a tractor. Better yet - I want to be the kind of person who can fix a tractor. While wearing a feed store cap. And I want to wipe my hands on a red rag tucked into my back pocket. Tractors are the gateway drug to rural girls' fantasies...
• Why do so many people drink soda, beer, and coffee when the natural instinct of 99.9% of children the first time they try these beverages is to spit them out? I've been told that you have to 'acquire a taste for it.' Yes, but why would I want to? Surely I can get my empty calories and caffeine somewhere else, can't I? Isn't that why chocolate was invented?
  
• Why is it that we keep cigarettes legal so we can tax the daylights out of them for revenue, and then turn around and use taxpayer dollars to launch aggressive campaigns to try to get people to stop smoking? Ditto gambling.
  
• Why does anyone buy anything from infomercials? Those black and white sections where the voice over says, "has this ever happened to you" make people look like complete idiots - totally unable to even wield a knife or turn on a blender without creating some pulpy disaster. And who, really, is surprised at this point when they dramatically announce that they'll drop one whole payment if we call in the next five minutes? If a salesperson in a store insulted my intelligence as much as an infomercial does I'd sue, and yet these sheisters are selling Magic Bullets and NuWave Ovens by the hundreds. I just don't get it. 
• And, finally - how is it that the mind droppings of an over-scheduled homeschooling mom can be interesting enough to have garnered 20 dedicated readers? More importantly, how can I turn that into a lucrative career? :)
  

Winter

You know, there are a million different ways to exercise. In Oregon they hike in majestic redwood forests. In California they jog on sandy beaches. In Florida they play tennis in the citrus-scented breeze. In Iowa - we scoop snow. I just shoveled our driveway. Well, that's only partly true. I just shoveled 1/2 or our driveway. I'll do the rest when the feeling returns to my toes. Plus, is it fair to call it shoveling when at this point I'm just making tunnels? Whatever you call it, at least I got a good workout. Despite the fact that it is a balmy 6 degrees outside (with a -13 windchill) I was stripping layers and sweating under my Carharts. I guess busting 4 foot drifts will do that for you.

So far I've not found a website or diet book that tells me exactly what kind of workout you get shoveling snow, but I'm going to estimate (conservatively, of course) that I burned 42,878 calories out there - give or take a few. Of course, it doesn't help that I've taken in 43,952 in the last two days in hot chocolate and homemade bread alone. (Hot chocolate and fresh baked goods are frequently prescribed by physicians in the north to combat Seasonal Affective Disorder, Hypothermia, Cabin Fever and other common serious winter maladies.) I'm hoping that my afternoon scooping will put me back in balance, calorie wise, but I did promise to bake cookies for my daughter's 4-H club tomorrow...

I've never liked winter. I used to attribute it to the fact that I was born in Oklahoma and lived there until I was 6 years old. Winter there meant a light frost occasionally and a reprieve from weeding the garden. Leading child psychologists often say that the first 5 years shape the rest of your life. So, as a child, I assumed that I abhored December thru February because of my warm upbringing during my formative years. Now I've come to realize that it's just because winter sucks.

Don't get me wrong - I know there are people who just love the crisp, clean look of a fresh layer of snow. They don their parka and matching hat and glove set with glee, sometimes even strapping on a pair of snowshoes or cross country skis. These are the people who have jaunty snowmen in their yard. They are out cheerfully scooping by the time the fourth flake has hit the ground. They decorate with snowflake window clings and glittery snowmen figurines. I'm not sure - but they probably even make snow angels. Surely there is as village in Maine (or perhaps the Himalayas somewhere) that is missing them...

There isn't a single family in Iowa who doesn't have at least a half dozen grainy photos from each generation of bundled human shapes standing next to enormous snow drifts, snow men, snow piles and/or snow forts. It is often impossible to tell who is in the picture, since they are covered in 18 layers of clothing. Relative size, at that point, also is no help. A lone person standing next to a snow drift taller than his head could be little six-year-old Bobby (from the blizzard of '73) or Dad going out to hay the cattle (from the blizzard of '62). Living in Iowa gives you grit, and so we carry on. We scoop. We scrape windshields. We don boots and hats, gloves and scarves, wool socks and thermal underwear. We get chapped lips, chapped cheeks, and chapped hands. In short - we we make the best of it.

The coal stove needs to be stoked and shaken down, and I need to empty the ash pan. The chickens will need to have their waterer de-iced and filled, and the snow shovel is still calling my name. I guess it's time to throw on the insulated overalls and boots and get back outside. There may be drifts in the driveway, but at least I've got grit to get me through...

What Didn't Happen Today

My grandmother did not die today. My husband made it home from work without getting into an accident. My children did not fall ill with some deadly disease. My sister's plane did not crash. My best friend's house didn't get broken into. Her brother in Iraq made it to another mess tent meal this afternoon. Change even one of these variables, and my whole world would be falling down around me right now. And, yet, how often do we stop to think about just exactly how lucky we really are? How come no on invests much time or energy into discussing the absence of these types of events, but only in their grim presence?

I'm sure you've heard it before - the thought-provoking (if perhaps untrue) story of the student arguing with his teacher about whether or not God exists... whether He wants to be an active part of our lives. The teacher says since there is evil in the world, it proves there is no God. The student uses the following scientific facts to refute him: Darkness isn't a measurable entity in and of itself, but merely the absence of light. Likewise, cold is the absence of heat. White is the absence of color. Evil is the absence of God in a situation. The mere fact that the world is not given entirely to evil serves to prove His existence.

Please understand - the parallel I am trying to make here is not one of theology. I am not even tempted to explore in a lowly blog the question of why bad things happen to people. Instead, I am fascinated by the scales we use to measure things. I want to know - is my everyday life another example of that which is measurable, or that which is not? Certainly, when accidents happen, they are real enough. They are measurable - in oh so many painful ways. They are tangible. They, therefore, are not just the absence of something else. It must be, then, that everyday life - the 'what didn't happen' that happens around us all the time -  can be only measurable as the absence of tragedy. It is what must not be real - must not be tangible.

Can that be right? I am beginning to see how philosophers get themselves painted into the proverbial corner. I have come to what must surely and logically be a truth, but this is a truth that I do not believe. My everyday life not real? Not tangible!? How is this for tangible: I can still smell my oldest daughter's breath the day she was born. It's so real it almost hurts. When I close my eyes I can feel the hugs that my five-year-old gives me each night at bedtime. I am actually physically warmed when I do so. The depth of my youngest daughter's dark eyes is permanently embedded in my soul, and it compels me to smile each time I recall it. I can hear the hush and the beating of my heart the moment I stepped into the sanctuary on my wedding day. The smell of my grandmother's closet, the twinkle in my grandfather's eyes, the feel of my daddy's hands, the sincerity of my mother's hugs... I cannot measure these things. I cannot prove them. I cannot explain them or duplicate them for anyone else, but they are real, and they are powerful.

Apparently, what we have here is a false either-or analogy. Tragedies, accidents, trauma, disease... these are real. They are measurable. They are terrible. They are unavoidable, but they are far from the only powerful reality in our lives. They are also not the scale by which we measure our lives. Daily life - the substance and heft of it, the deep and abiding joy that is the underbelly of all that we do - IS. It is profound. It is an entity in and of itself, but sometimes it takes a bit more work to notice it.

If tragedy is a thunderstorm, then life is the unseen water vapor in the clouds that brings the blessings of gentle showers and cool morning dew. Accidents may be a gale-force wind, but our daily comings and goings are the unnoticed air pressure that both holds us up and keeps us grounded. The unexpected changes may be a primal scream, but they can't deafen the contented hums, the satisfied sighs, the giggles, the whispers, the song that is the everyday. Today  I am choosing to measure my life by the smiles of my husband, the hugs of my children, the warmth of my relationships. My New Year's Resolution is to remember that the good stuff - not the tough stuff - is the most important stuff and the real measure of my success.

Beauty in the Beast

Warning - this post may be offensive or uncomfortable to some, as it deals in detail with the process of butchering animals. It may also lead you to question how firm my hold on reality is, which is ok with me. What's so great about reality, anyway?

Yesterday I helped butcher goats. Due to time, space, and material constraints, we were not able to do the whole process ourselves. Instead, we took them to a local Amish home, where two generations of experienced (and newly-certified) Amish men killed, gutted, skinned, and cut up the three goats that had been living in my pasture for the past 2 months or so. (If that last statement is too graphic or matter-of-fact, stop reading now. You won't like the rest).

These folks, like so many other Amish families (and like almost all families 100 years ago) still do their own meat processing. Seeing that quality butchering at a reasonable price was a need that was not being met, they started doing custom butchering for others as well. Because of their skill and efficiency, their reputation had grown. This summer they often handled upwards of 100 chickens, 30 goats and/or lambs, and other animals (including hogs and small beefs) each and every Saturday morning. The customers they served were usually immigrants from other nations who had been unable to find the type and cuts of meats they were accustomed to before they discovered the Miller farm. Saturday mornings there were like a combination of the U.N. and the original Jewish temple - with people and animals of all kinds milling about, chaos being kept in check only by a handful of calm and careful Amish men and women. These people had 50 years of experience, hundreds of satisfied customers, and were serving a need for an otherwise under-served population. It was a dream come true - a system that was working well for all involved - so the Government decided to step in.

In order to get certified, they had to spend hundreds of dollars modifying their slaughter house, close down for months (leaving people without a place to get quality, clean, custom meat), and jump through the usual red-tape covered hoops. Yesterday was their first day back in operation. They had to start by having the inspector there to teach them how to butcher animals. My heart went out to them. It's a good thing pride isn't encouraged in the Amish faith, because otherwise having an outsider come and tell you your business might have been too much to swallow.

The upside was that by yesterday afternoon the inspector trusted them enough to let them go it alone, albeit with the warning that she could and would be stopping by unannounced any time she cared to in order to ensure that they were doing things correctly. I'm sure they'll be careful to keep the Clorox use high, and the beard covers firmly in place. (Yep -  you read it right. Think of a hair net, only upside down. The string goes over their ears, I believe, with their long beards tucked neatly into a little facial hair snood. Kind of stylish, in a strange sort of way...)

Anyway, because of the new regulations that they have to follow, I couldn't even watch the meat being processed, let alone help. I was a bit disappointed to have not been able to participate in the slaughter itself. It's not that I delight in killing anything, but I have been responsible for these animals for a good part of their lives (I even helped bottle feed them when they were but a few days old). Since I took on the responsibility for these creatures, I like to be able to ensure that their end is as humane and dignified as the rest of their lives was. More than that, however, is the strange beauty to be found inside of each and every beast.

I know, it sounds gross, but you've never experienced the fullness of God's handiwork until you understand just how fearfully and wonderfully made His creation really is. I've reached inside chickens, stood before halved hogs, and watched as the insides of a lamb cooled in the chilly fall air. Each and every time I am in awe. Everything fits so precisely. Each piece has its own function, but also its own color and texture. There is a palette of colors unique to the inside of us that is even more fantastic that the ones we display each and every day on the outside. Have you ever seen the muscle of a gizzard? It is iridescent, like a subtle rainbow striated by white lines that radiate out from the center. As the gizzard cools, the shine reduces, until it fades almost to a dark wine color by the time you're done processing the animal.

The subtle beauty of a gizzard is in stark contrast to the surprisingly bright color of bile, found in the gall bladder of animals. It ranges from a vivid, kelly green in chickens, to a color and consistency reminiscent of pure green tempera paint in lambs,  to an almost glowing neon color in hogs. The fact that it's potent and bitter and nasty (and can contaminate entire carcasses with just a few drops spilled) is beside the point. When you see it, glistening inside the gall bladder or spilled out onto the ground, you can't deny how beautiful it is. Ever seen the bubblegum pink of a lung? The pale, ribbed lining of a stomach? The rich and deep burgundy of a liver, with its smooth, rubbery texture? The color-filled cones and rods behind the eye? The soft and irresistible grey of a brain? They compel you to look, to touch, to experience.

It's often said that children, like in the story of the Emperor's New Clothes, are the truth tellers of society. I know that my children have been influenced a bit differently than others. They delight in all aspects of raising animals, including butchering. My middle daughter clamors to see the spleen (her favorite part - both pulpy and dense at the same time, and an attractive, deep ruby color), but I am willing to bet that most children, removed from the stigma imposed by society, would find beauty inside animals. Heck, even grown ups who were taught to fear death and loathe butchering have found themselves strangely engrossed by the insides of a healthy animal when given the chance to experience butchering day at the Farrier Farm. The ones who used to come to have their animals slaughtered under the careful hand of the Miller clan in their breezy front yard all those Saturday mornings this summer found that to be true as well. Not only did they get to have their meat and eat it too - and in ways that upheld both their traditions and culinary desires - but they also got a lesson in  in life and in beauty.

Am I crazy? Beauty in butchering, in blood and bone, in death? Turns out, there is a strange irony in all of this (besides just the irony of Amish families having to wear beard covers. Is that a religious violation?  Hmm...). When push comes to shove - I've discovered that guts don't turn stomachs nearly as much as people think they will. The beauty, dignity, and flavor of an animal well raised and butchered isn't nearly as distasteful to the folks around here as the invasive monkey wrench of over-regulation that brought a well-oiled machine to a halt.

I know, I know - The powers that be may be trying to save us from the horror of death, the gore and mess of dismemberment, the risk of coming into contact with the reality of what it means to be a carnivore. But, the outcome of their actions really is that now there is yet one more barrier between folks who are interested in experiencing life on its most natural and simple level, and the beauty that is to be found in that lifestyle. In my neck of the woods we just traded beauty of the beasts for the beastly protection of oversight, and it wasn't a pretty process.

The Not-So-Noble Cat

Yesterday our youngest cat jumped up onto the coal stove. For the hundredth time. Just like he had been doing for months. Only this time, the coal stove was hot. I now believe in the power of levitation. I've only seen that move three times before. (Two of those times also involved cats jumping onto hot stoves. The third incident was an unhappy convergence of a man with a fear of snakes, and a snake with a fear of man who happened to be in the same time at the same place.) 

When he first hopped down, the cat gave the stove an angry glare, and immediately realized that something was wrong. He licked his foot once or twice, put it back down, and found that the discomfort had not subsided. Suspecting it was the floor involved in this trickery, he hopped up onto the sofa and settled down with a smug stare downward. He had gotten as far as squeezing his eyes shut in self-congratulation when he realized that his foot still wasn't quite feeling right, and he wasn't quite sure who to blame. The poor cat was in hell for the rest of the afternoon - not so much because of the pain, but because of the horror of having his whole house seem to turn against him. Shane now has a bit of a limp, though he wasn't seriously injured in the .00000000045 seconds that he spent on the stove top.  He has, however, been avoiding the entirety of the upstairs ever since.

Shane may not be our brightest cat in the bunch, but he's not alone in having thoroughly embarrassed himself in close enough proximity of his people to become the subject of a humorous story. Charles, who we've had the longest, has given us many such moments. Curiosity once got the better of him in regard to a scented candle. Did you know that whiskers curl when they're exposed to an open flame? He had a charming (if not slightly effeminate) look for about two weeks after the incident, and has forever distrusted the smell of lavender ever since. He also is our chronic hairball hacker, though he never seems to need to throw up unless he is surrounded by plush furnishings or electronics. He has managed to throw up on every blanket in the house, a video game system, three different baskets of clean and folded laundry, a VHS Disney movie, and our push-button telephone keypad. (Ok, now that I think about it, this is probably less a humorous story for me to tell than it is for him. I can just hear him around the old milk bowl, "Hey guys, you'll never guess what I puked on today! Heh, heh, heh...")

Our other two cats, Princess (who has also been known as Papa, Little, Kansas, Flower, Lucky, Candy...) and Nimrod (I'm not making it up - it means 'mighty hunter' in the Bible. Turned out to be more wishful thinking than prophetic insight..) have had their fair share of indignities as well. Princess is the only female cat in our house, and has all the typical traits of a girl. She's moody - one day rubbing against your ankles, the next hiding under the bed. She's also touchy, and gets her feelings hurt easily. Everyone in the house knows not to cross little Princess, and while the boy kitties vie to be with her, they also pay dearly for her attention. She has perfected the 'swipe and hiss' move, and wields it with a smile. Nimrod, on the other hand, is 100% enthusiastic little boy, and possesses no sophistication whatsoever. He burrows in the snow with utter abandon, achieves bath time poses that would make a yoga master jealous and a modest maiden blush, and will eat anything that doesn't eat him first. This is a cat that drinks from the toilet, sometimes even before my husband has finished using it. Not the smartest feline in the world, but good hearted at least, and never given to sullenness or fits of pouting.

Now comes the hard part - how do we continue to share our homes with these creatures, give them the respect they think they deserve, and not end up hurting their feelings by laughing openly at their misadventures? It's a delicate balance that must be found, my friends, but I think we can make it work. First off, it's important to try to cover your mirth as much as possible in the immediate aftermath of a cat catastrophe. Make them think you're having a coughing attack, or chuckling over something on the television, for example. Sometimes I have gone so far as to purposely re-enter a room, often while clearing my throat or shuffling loudly, to convince one of my cats that I wasn't present for his or her most recent descent into indignity. Also, never, repeat stories of their shortfalls in front of them. They  may look like they're not offended, but an unpleasant consequence will ensue.

Of course, that's not to say that cats don't also play their part in this balancing act. Our beloved pets join in the subtle subterfuge by adopting one of two attitudes after doing something stupid. First, there's denial, most often in the form of, "It wasn't me," but occasionally stretching so far as to claim, "It never happened." If outright denial is an impossibility, the second choice that cats have is to pretend like they were in control the whole time. Somehow they ask us to believe, through their body language and the very attitude they ooze, that they really and truly meant to fall off the TV, run into the patio door, incriminate themselves by getting their nails caught in the curtains, leap into the bathtub full of water, or otherwise look silly or act like a dog.

With all of our pretenses -  no matter how much we pretend to have not seen our cats behaving strangely, and no matter how much they claim that they meant to do it - there will still be the awkwardness of  knowledge hanging in the air. There is only one saving grace - the silent dialogue that has gone on between felines and people for centuries. We know that the expression 'curiosity killed the cat' has won more America's Funniest Home Video Prizes than even the classic and timeless groin shot. Let's face it - cats do funny stuff all the time, even if they never admit it, and we claim not to notice. Much as they try to convince us otherwise, we know that they're often clumsy and prone to making poor choices, and we forgive them for it so we may co-habitate peacefully.

More importantly in this dialogue, cats know in their heart of hearts that we are silly, ignorant creatures, widely given to exaggeration and even hallucination, probably to protect ourselves from the fact that their species is so superior to ours. They know, in their heart of hearts, that we are unreliable, unpredictable, and totally unable to discern the subtleties of advanced physics, nonverbal communication, reverse psychology, and balls of yarn, but they forgive us for it so we can co-habitate peacefully. It's a hard job, but someone's got to do.


(P.S. - before I could even finish this blog post, Shane took a flying jump at a shadow in the corner, and ended up falling into the narrow space between the wall and the couch, knocking over the lamp in the process. I sputtered to cover my laughter with a cough. He struggled out, licked his leg nonchalantly once or twice, and then swaggered off and is now alternating between eating the corner of my calendar and the telephone cord. Apparently my coughing fit wasn't convincing enough, and I must be made to suffer.)

The Noble Cat

We are a feline family - firmly in the cat camp in the age old 'dog vs cat' controversy, despite a rocky early start in our marriage. (We had a dog once. He now lives with my brother-in-law. Everyone is happier that way. I don't care to elaborate, thank you very much.) We have four indoor cats - everything from a stately (if slightly tattered) ten-year-old Siamese, to a fluffy, lovable stray that wandered into our home and our hearts this summer. (Isn't that how the expression goes? More accurately, he wandered into our home and started shedding immediately as he made a beeline for the food bowl, but we've learned to love the little freeloader nonetheless.)

One cat has a nervous vomit reflex. Another has the world's stinkiest poop (she's the only one who refuses to cover in the litter box, of course), and another simply cannot believe that the corner of my kitchen counter wasn't created as his bed. (You know how cats are - buy them an elaborate cat bed and they'll turn their nose up at it and promptly go lay on your freshly-washed sweater or open newspaper.) Anyway, we put up with the hair, and the surprise attacks to our ankles, and the midnight scurrying because we receive back all the love and attention we could ever ask for (or at least, the absolute minimum amount of  love and attention they think they can get away with giving to us and still get food and littler cleaning services on a regular basis).

Cats complete our households. They snuggle and purr. They comfort us when we're sad. They give us something to tell stories about (not that we would ever, EVER let them know that we abuse their dignity in this way. Seriously - please don't tell my cats I wrote this post. I would be finding kitty fluids of all types in strange places for months to come, and I would never walk out of the house in a hair-free outfit ever again). Despite how hectic things have been, cats have been the one constant in my whole life. (Hmm.... maybe it should be more like, "because cats have been the one constant in my whole life...") Even as I write, there is a cat curled up beside me, and another trying to get onto the keybaslkfjasldfjlasdofuwerouoard. (Shane says hello.)
 
I'm often asked by the dog crowd why it is that I love cats. Their affinity for Fido is as much a mystery to me as my appreciation of Princess is to them. Sure, dogs don't ignore you, but cats don't demand your attention either. A cat may leave you alone for three whole days, but you can return the favor and all you'll end up with is a little extra hair on the counter and a rug that's been slid across the room. Leave a dog alone in your home for three days and you'll have to invest in a steam cleaner, drywall repair, new carpeting, and two years of doggy psychiatry. Cats don't run to greet you, tongue wagging, when you return home from the office (or from stepping outside to get the mail). But, let's not fool ourselves here. A dog is saying, "please take me outside so I can pee on your tire and poop somewhere you're likely to step in the next few days" as much as he's saying, "Gee, I love you and I'm glad you're home."

To me, that's the crux of it all - what makes cats so very cool. They may need you, but they'll never admit it. They are positive that what they give in the relationship far exceeds what they receive, which makes them feel they've earned that extra eighteen inches of your pillow and the chip on their shoulder. Their self esteem is solid, and by golly you're lucky to know them. Let's face it - cats are the big-wigs of the animal world. Got a cat with crossed eyes who shorts every jump and lands back on the floor with a quizzical stare? What about it? Einstein didn't talk until he was three and was fired from menial jobs for years. Stinky gas? Bad litter box aim? Chronic hairball hacker? You're still lucky to know 'em!

Cats have never forgotten that they were once revered and worshipped as Gods at the height of ancient Egypt's reign as the world's main superpower. Next time your cat is staring off in space, oblivious to your presence, rest assured that he's recalling a time in his breed's distant past when you would have been bowing at his feet. A time when families shaved their eyebrows in mourning for a sick cat. A time when he was surrounded by an adoring public, the choicest of foods, and a litter box that ran all the way to the Nile Delta. It's no wonder that Mr. Squeakymouse and the  Krunchy Kitty Kibble that we offer them today doesn't exactly inspire them to mew lovingly and gaze into our eyes with adoration. Perhaps they're right - even with all their shennanigans and shedding we are lucky to have them around. One thing's for sure - at least sharing your home with a cat is better than owning a dog!

Sirius Arguments

My marriage has dodged a major bullet. See, our trial subscription to Sirius Satellite Radio just expired, and I couldn't be more pleased. Don't get me wrong - I totally loved having hundreds of stations, knowing that my every musical whim could be satisfied at the touch of a button, being able to rock out to music that youngsters have been rocking out to for the past eighty years or so. But, all the shoobie doos and sha la las, all the twanging and head banging, and even all the cheesy love songs in the world is just not worth my marriage.

You see, my husband and I are sort of a classic case of opposites that attracted. I am the positive to his negative, the yin to his yang, the Yoko to his John Lennon. So far our marriage has survived his love of baseball (and my apathy to it), my political drive and involvement (and his apathy to that), and even the struggles in our earliest years between a dog person and a cat person. (I'm gald to say he's now a fervent convert, and we have four indoor cats.) Having worked those things out, I really thought our marriage could survive anything. Then, along came a free three-month trial to Sirius Satellite Radio that came with my new car. It almost broke us.

Mark is an 80's guy. He loves the funky rhythms, the hair bands, the insistent guitar riffs, and even the fashions associated. I, on the other hand, am a honkey tonk and bluegrass girl. He may have played blocks to the sounds of Madonna and Duran Duran, but I drifted off to sleep to Ronnie Milsap and Crystal Gayle. When Merle Haggard sang I'm Proud to Be an Okie From Muskogee he was literally singing my song. That's me - born in Muskogee General Hospital in Muskogee, Oklahoma. It's more than a birthplace - it's a heritage.
Little did I know that even though Opposites Attract (Paula Abdul, 1989), our musical differences were threatening to cause a D-I-V-O-R-C-E (Tammy Wynette, 1968).

Car trips, of course, were the hardest. We have a rule that whoever drives gets to pick the station. These past few months we've been arguing over who gets to drive rather than who has to. Even quick stops at a gas station were opportunities for the listener/passenger to pull a quick switcheroo. Upon arriving back to the car from the pump or restroom, someone was bound to be motioned from the driver's side to the passenger's side and a conversation something like this would ensue:

Delighted New Driver: Gee, honey, I thought you looked tired and might like it if I took a turn at the wheel... for your sake, of course. [big grin]
Disgruntled New Passenger: [indistinct grumbles] Alright, but I'm warning you - one of the girls is probably going to need to stop in about 30  miles for a potty break, you know!

Our record was fourteen stops in 100 miles. Our children were confused, but happy, since each game of  'musical drivers' generally resulted in the purchase of some type of snack or beverage. I gained 3 pounds, but got to listen to all the fiddles, banjos, and steel guitars that I could ever want. Mark, likewise, drank four Dr. Peppers and rocked out to no less than seven Cyndi Lauper songs, and a late Eagles hit that even I enjoyed. Thankfully, however, those days have come to an end. The subscription price to continue getting satelite radio coverage may only be $12.95 a month, but I hear that divorce lawyers are pretty pricey. Even if it never came to that, I don't think we can continue to afford the snacks. There's only one thing left to do - go back to disagreeing on talk radio. At least it's free!

The Year of the Pack Rat

Always be prepared. Isn't that the Boy Scout motto? (I wouldn't know, of course, having never been a Boy Scout, but you do pick up these sorts of catchphrases now and again.) From my limited knowledge and nonexesitent personal experience, it appears that the way the scouts stay prepared is by getting together monthly to practice tying and untying knots, and selling popcorn door to door. Better than the Girl Scouts, I suppose - at least nutritionally speaking - but it still doesn't prepare them to do anything more than handle a hostage situation at a movie theater concession stand. ("Jimmy - you untie those knots while Bobby and I sell popcorn. I knew those monthly den meetings would pay off someday!")

No, in my world, rope tricks and carbohydrates don't count as preparation. I'm a saver. A keeper. A hoarder of goods. Saucepan with a broken lid? You never know when you might need that. Half a yard of fuscia muslin? Might come in handy someday. Dresser wtih the broken drawer? It'll make a good fixer-upper project. It's not that I want to keep stuff, you understand, so much as I feel that I must. You see, I inherited collectivitus, though the trait runs more in my father's side of the the family than my mother's. I am hoping there is some sort of genetic treatment - something intricate and expensive, no doubt, that involves radioactive dyes and spliced and modified DNA - that will enable my children to live a normal life. In fact, I'm sure I've read an article about it in one of the magazines I have stacked in my garage somewhere.... Come on medical science - don't let me down!

The worst part about it is the stigma that comes when people who misunderstand the disorder start in with the name calling. It was one thing when I was a wee little pack-ratling and my parents shielded me from the taunts. Now, however, I see the raised eyebrows when I buy my fifth "dollar box" at the local auction house, and hear the bemused checkout person ask, "what in the world is she going to do with all of THOSE?" after I've grab my bags to leave a store. Why can't they recognize that this is a disorder? Why can't they be more undertstanding? Why can't they see that my habit represents my optimism about life? My upbeat attitude about all things? My ability to find the good in even the everyday bits that others might think of as trash? The world needs more of that. Humanity needs more of that. After all, I may be unable to throw away a worn-out flashlight , but I am also never going to throw away a worn-out friend.

My grandmother lived through the Great Depression. She saves styrofoam meat trays and twist ties. They may pile up from time to time, but I never lacked for art supplies and Fairy Boats during the long summer hours I spent at her house when I was a kid. My dad is a tinkerer, and has whole buildings full of treasures. The wind howled around the eaves and the doors gaped widely, but my daddy always had the right sized wheel or wingnut, blade or barn board, pane or pliers for the projects we did together. Now, my children are building meat tray doll houses and cobbled contraptions. I may wince at the thought of having genetically doomed my daughters to a life of collecting (well, that and large feet - sorry girls), but  I'm going to keep my focus on the inherit creativity and preparation that comes with the territory.

After all, I'm pretty sure the Chinese Zodiac has a whole year devoted to the Pack Rat. Beady eyes and nasty tails aside, there must be traits of the rat that are worth celebrating if they have a whole year devoted to them, right!? Yes, I think I remember something about rats being crafty and clever, and ... um.... hang on a  minute, let me go get that placement I saved from the Peking Buffet dinner last  May. I know it's around here somewhere...

Tennis Shoes

Something's gotta give. I conned my friends and family into joining a little weight loss club I created. If you lose at least 1/2 pound, you don't have to pay. If you stay the same, you only have to pay $1. If you gain weight (even a tenth of a pound) you have to pay $5. We weigh in once a week. This past eight weeks, everyone else has lost weight. All I've lost is $21. Like I said.... something's gotta give. 

The problem is that I already know what I have to do. It's no mystery, really, how to lose weight. Despite all the legitimate variables like metabolic rate, BMI, glycemic index, thyroid function, resting heart rate, muscle confusion, etc..., it really does just come down to eating better and moving more. Sounds so simple. That's what makes it all the more frustrating that I can't seem to get in gear and get the pounds off.

After each of my babies was born, the nurses assured me that the weight would drop right off, especially since I was breastfeeding. They lied. I also heard that once I stopped breast feeding, the weight would disappear. It didn't. These same people swore that chasing after active toddlers is a sure-fire weight-loss exercise. It isn't. I suppose I should be thankful that they were at least trying to be encouraging, but, seriously - it's just not very nice to lie to a new mom, even if you have good intentions.

So, here  I am, staring 30 in the eyes and heavier than ever. I'm out over 20 bucks, rummaging in the closet for my biggest 'big' clothes, and I don't even have any more babies or breast feeding in my future to "help" me along in my quest. Guess it's time to face reality and get serious. Time to make a plan, get in gear, put on my game face. The good news is that I have a secret weapon - tennis shoes. Slipping on a good pair of tennies is the antidote for slothfulness, and can turn even a flabby momma like me into a virtual... um.... virtual..... Babe Ruth? (Sorry. My lack of appropriate sports analogies and inspiring athletic personalities comes from the fact that I have no interest in or knowledge of sports. Maybe that has something to do with my weight too...)

Anyway, back to tennis shoes. Two days ago I put on a pair of slacks and a nice shirt and ended up lounging on the couch for the better part of the afternoon. Yesterday I wore jeans and a T-shirt and was sedentary except for trips to the leftover Halloween candy bowl to get Tootsie Rolls. Today, I put on exercise pants and tennis shoes, and I ended up taking a 30 minute walk, choosing an apple over a chocolate bar for snack, and using the word 'fit' three times during the day. I guess the expression, "the clothes make the man" just might be true.

So, now I've got a choice to make - do I just start saving now so I can pay for the rest of the weight-loss challenge weeks, put on a mu-mu, and forever resign myself to being a big girl? (Perhaps even take to collecting Garfield figurines which feature the feisty feline saying, "I'm not fat, I'm fluffy"?) Maybe I should go ahead and purchase long term care and life insurance, along with stock in Dunkin' Donuts and Tootsie Rolls, just to make sure I've got a 'balanced' portfolio that will see to all my future needs. Is that the kind of person I want to be? Am I really ready to throw in the bath sheet? (Those are jumbo towels, for those of you who are still able to wrap a standard-towel around your whole selves.)

I guess I can't guarantee where I will end up in the future and better than those well-intentioned, lying nurses in the labor and delivery ward, but I can tell you that I'm slipping on my socks and tennis shoes right now. Perhaps I'll find some answers about tomorrow on a long walk this afternoon. I'll let you know what I find.

Rondo Meets Bambi

Last night my husband hit a deer. That's life in the fast lane in Iowa. It was bound to happen eventually, of course, but I didn't particularly care for the timing of it all. Not only was I in the hospital staying with a friend for the night, but Mark had all three girls with him, and he was driving my BRAND NEW CAR (a 2009 Denim Blue Kia Rondo) - the first brand new vehicle I've ever owned. Needless to say, the convergence of circumstance could have been better, but no one was hurt, which is all that really matters in the end. Well, that's not exactly true. I know for a fact that the deer was scared poopless, since the evidence of it was all over the driver's side door, but I'm guessing that she sustained other injuries as well. I'm still waiting for a call from her insurance company since she fled the scene

Or, perhaps she didn't flee the scene... Here's where the personality difference comes in. After ascertaining that everyone was fine, my first thought was to ask my husband to track down the deer. I can't help it. I am a scavenger by nature, and though I've never actually brought road kill home for supper, that's only because I couldn't verify that it was fresh enough. Mark, on the other hand, doesn't even care for the fact that he has to see the animals that he eats while still on the hoof (so to speak). He prefers his meat to come pre-cooked and wrapped in cellophane or a burger box. Thankfully, we've been married long enough that I've learned when to think out loud, and when to keep my mouth shut. The mental image of him on the side of the road, staring at our damaged car, checking the girls over, and clutching his cell phone to his ear, waiting for reassurance from his loving wife, helped me do the right thing. No amount of deer burger is worth my husband's sanity.

Had it been me, though, I know things would have gone differently. I would have waded through the ditch, field dressed the deer with my fingernail file kit, drug the carcass onto the roof rack (isn't that what they make roof racks for, after all?), and had the girls help me cut it, wrap it, and get it into the freezer before putting them to bed. After all - if psychiatrists say you can overcome your fears by facing the thing you've got a problem with, then butchering Bambi seems like the ideal way to get over the emotional trauma of having hit a deer, doesn't it? Sounds right to me.

In the end, I can see that I chose correctly when I kept my hunter-gatherer instincts to myself. I really don't have time to process a deer right now, and don't need to be jumping in over my head on yet another project with a pressing deadline. A few deer roast would have been nice, but a hassle-free weekend with my family sounds even better. Since my girls didn't get the chance to have some 'do-it-yourself' therapy, perhaps it's best if we don't have any reminders of the incident hanging around. Besides, I drove by this morning and checked the ditch. Bambi was gone, and so my roadkill record remains clean (for now).

Hospitals

Sorry, dear and faithful readers, to have been absent so long. During the past week or so I have also neglected laundry, dishes, sweeping, and even advanced personal hygiene. You can see that at least you were not alone. The reason for this absence (though in future I don't always promise to have a reason, just so we're clear) is that a beloved friend of mine has been in the hospital. Though I've had opportunities this past few days to write meaningful, thought-provoking, poignant, or even downright deep blogs, this is the first chance I've had to come up for air and take a deep belly full of humor. Thought I'd share it with you.

I know that the easy path here (which is ALWAYS good for a laugh) is to make fun of hospital food. Of course, I would never stoop to something so pedantic. Or, perhaps more accurately, since my friend hasn't been able to eat during the entirety of her stay, I couldn't even make comments about the food even if I wanted to. So, that topic is off the table. (Feel free, however, to think of all the previous funny jokes you've ever heard about hospital food if you want - to sort of prime the pump, if you will.You may even attribute them to me in your head, but only if they're truly amusing and wouldn't make me blush.) The good new is, the food is far from the only funny thing about hospitals, so the blog might be redeemable after all.

One thing that gets to me is the amount of legal documents you really should have in place when you're in the hospital. You know - 'just in case.' A will, a living will, decisions about executors, power of attorney - the list goes on and on. Forget about all these - even the DNR order. If I have to go to the hospital, the only document I want is a DND - a Do Not Disturb sign. How on earth is anyone supposed to heal if they can't even get a decent nap? (You all know how strongly I feel about napping...)

All night long we had people in and out at intervals ranging from 5 to 30 minutes. If the distractions were evenly timed it would have at least helped create a sleeping rhythm - you know, snore, blood pressure. Snore, air in line. Snore, check your oxygen, etc... But. the pure randomness of both the timing and the procedures leaves one presenting arms, pulling on tubes, and indiscriminately saying things like, "no gas yet" all night long. Plus, just to keep you off guard, they'll send in 3 people in a row within ten minutes, but then wait 45 minutes to respond to the call button - leaving you hanging over the edge of the bed extravagantly leaking some foul fluid or futilely tugging on a gown to try to make it cover both your dignity and your behind.

Then, of course, there is the fact that it's not just the same person interrupting you, but a whole slew of folks. I am beginning to think that they bring people in off the streets, give them a white coat, and offer to let them have a stab (sometimes literally) at their favorite area of medicine - or their favorite area of anatomy. Either one will do. It's nearly impossible to keep track of everyone, and the problem is only exacerbated by the fact that they all trickle in, one group after another, all day. Listen people - if a bunch of women going out on the town for the night can get it together enough to know exactly when to go to the bathroom at the same time in a tidy and well-timed group, why can't residents, pain management people, nurses, technicians, etc... do the same? Perhaps that's the answer - only  allow women in health care, and then tell them their rounds are really a potty break. That way, they're bound to both stick together AND be expedient.

So, you spend all the time you should be sleeping being jabbed and dabbed, prodded at and nodded at, and all the time you should be awake trying to get cell phone reception. Why, in the one place in the world that you really need your cell phone to work, do you find yourself unable to use it without standing on your head or holding statue-still in order to not lose your signal? I've actually come to the conclusion that the only places you can get reception are right next to the signs prohibiting you from using your cell phone. These, of course, are everywhere. There are enough police officers and hospital guards that I don't really want to be caught using my phone while leaning on one of these signs, but it's tempting nonetheless. The only way that I have found to reliably be able to make or receive calls is to lean my head and phone against a window. I must look either depressed or frustrated to the 3,478 onlookers who make their way into the room. Either way, I caught signt of my reflection and noticed that this posture gives the impression that I am relaying secret information that I am trying to conceal, but I'm not very good at it. This is akin to how my three year old will shut herself in the room, then peek her head out and say, "Don't come in here." Somehow the delivery style just isn't meshing with the intent.

Jeesh - hospitals. We put up with beds that can practically get you to the moon, but a guest chair that won't lock to save your life, leaving you careening into the hallway each time you try to lean back. The only source of entertainment when the patient is sleeping is the TV, which always turns on at a volume that would rival most theater sounds systems. They're always too hot, too cold, too noisy, too quiet, too stuffy, too breezy, and ALWAYS too expensive. But, I can tell you this - when we walk out of here, there will be one thing that I will forever feel toward this hospital - gratitude. It's easy enough to dish out insults, but when push comes to shove, I'm grateful for the interruptions. It means there are capable, talented people who are willing and able to come to our aid. I'm grateful for the fact that they will miss out on sleep and not see their friends and families so that I can have more time with mine. I'm grateful for the fact that I have slept in the chair, learned to unhook hoses, pushed the IV cart. It means I've been in the valley of the shadow of death with a loved one, and know more assuredly than ever that I will fear no evil.

Of course, I might still fear eating hospital food, but I guess I promised not to go there, didn't I?

Reprieve

Well, the lambs and goats in my pasture have gotten a stay of execution. They were scheduled to be butchered yesterday, but got a temporary reprieve since my dad ws sick and unable to come help butcher them. "What's that you say? Butcher them!? Surely you mean drive them to a processing plant, don't you?"

Nope. See, we do all our own killin' and guttin' and skinnin' and cuttin' up around here, thank you kindly. When people find that out, the responses range from skeptical but impressed, to ready to call Child Protective Services. One man even called me Laura Ingalls Wilder, saying my survival skills are such that after a nuclear WW III it will just be me and the cockroaches left. (Don't know what I'd have left to butcher if that were the case, but whatever...)

I will admit, that I was not always the 'do-it-yourself' kind of gal that I am now. Contrary to what people might think, I did not grow up raising or butchering animals. In fact, the first thing I actually participated in killing and dismembering (so to speak) was a chicken on my parents' farm about 5 years ago. Funny how far I've come since then!

No, it wasn't that I was cleaning gizzards from the time I was in diapers that brought me to this place. Instead, it's that I am fortunate enough to only have been one generation from people who were cleaning gizzards in diapers. Thankfully, my parents grew up in the time-honored, family-farm tradition of small-town Iowa, and they never forgot their roots. My mom and dad worked their whole adult lives so they could end up literally where they started - cleaning out the barn, baling hay, fixing fences, bottle feeding calves - all on the farm my dad grew up on. They paid their dues so they could earn back their independence.

Their decision to pack it all up, move back to the farm, and start anew (or, perhaps more accurately, 'a-old') was a big turning point in my life. I had already made the decision long before then to live concientiously, but was only walking it out in the shallowest of terms. I knew commerical meat production was dirty business, so I became a vegan. I wanted to do right by the earth, so I only ate organic. I wanted to save fossil fuels and support my local farmers, so I bought at farm stands in our area. I had tried to stop doing the 'wrong' things, and I was doing some of the 'right' things, but I wasn't really doing the best things - not for my body, for the earth, for my community, or for my soul.

Ok, ok... Andrea's gone off the deep end again, equating digging in the dirt with a religous experience. I guess what I'm trying to say is that just doing your best to not live against your principles is a whole different animal than living your principles out each day to the fullest. I believe, at least for me, that true personal satisfaction (that deep-down, in-your-belly, lasting kind of satisfaction) only comes from the latter. 

So, these days I try to do better. I do right by the earth by doing the most I can with MY earth - my garden, my compost pile, my pasture. I support local farmers by visiting the farm stands, but also by getting to know my neighbors, helping them when their cows get out, peeling apples in the shop with them during apple cider season. That is a far more meaningful way to support local farmers than buying a bag of green beans every Saturday. And, I do right by my body by giving it the workout of hauling feed and water, pulling weeds, cleaning out the chicken house. I also choose to give it clean, healthy protein from the animals I raise and butcher.

In doing all of these things, I have found a simple prayerfulness and worship before the Lord that I never before had, a connection to my community I have sought for years, a rhythm for my family that brings us balance, and a connection with my past that grounds me and reminds me of who I am. I have found the expresesion of my desire for concientious living that I sought when I was younger. I have found a way to honor my parents' sacrifice by acknowledging that I, too, will do whatever it takes to continue the tradition and heritage that I received from them and from the generations before them. In short, I received a reprieve from the ordinary, and it sure has been a life saver for me...

Nuked

We finally gave in and got a microwave a week or so ago. I don't know what was the final straw that broke this camel's back. Perhaps it was the fact that my husband switched from the occasional broad hint to a direct, daily inquiry about when we could go appliance shopping. Or, maybe it was the sad look my children had while pleading for the forbidden fruit of microwave popcorn. (Or the even sadder look that people gave to me while listening to the children plead, assuming that surely we must live in abject poverty if we do not have a microwave in our home.)

Truth be told, I had been mulling the idea around for about a week already before I finally gave in, but it was a tough thing for me to do. I liked holding on to some of my crunchy, quirky, all-natural self-righteousne... uh, I mean ideals. It reminded me of who I had been, who I assumed I still was deep down inside (and who my friends and family hope I will never, ever become again). I suppose that trading in the toaster oven for the microwave is the same as trading in broomstick skirts and veganism for a decent professional wardrobe (my "goin' to Des Moines clothes") and a more balanced approach to healthy eating. I am still an Earthmomma, darnit, but I'm a little softer around the edges. (Now that we have a microwave, I'll probably glow around the edges too!)

So, it was with great trepidation that I welcomed our newest addition into the family. I must admit, despite my misgivings, that it is a good fit. It has this funny little habit where the door doesn't close all the way, which triggers the safety switch and doesn't allow you to press the start button. It's got personality. I like that in a machine. Plus, it does make a mean plate of nachos, and can warm up leftovers better than even my beloved cast-iron skillet.  It's quiet. It's sleek. It's neat. It's clean. It has a flat surface on top to stack things on, and it gave us a much-needed west-facing clock that we can see from the front door. In short, I'm in love with the thing. But, I'm not always thrilled with the company it chooses to hang out with.

See, microwaves do not attract health food. They're not made for health food. What they're made for is pre-packaged, 'cheeze' covered, cellophane wrapped preservatives, molded into an approximate shape and size and color of food, and then sprayed with a food-like scent. Trust me, I am something of an expert on this, having just moments ago eaten a Chicken and Cheese Chimichunga that came in a shiny green wrapper.

I did my best to treat this frozen hunk of faux-TexMex like food - putting it on a real plate, covering it with salsa, adding a bit of shredded cheese to the top... In the end, what I had was still appalling and awful. The texture was all wrong. The flavor was all wrong. The guilt I felt was all wrong. The only redeeming qualities that chimichunga had was that it was cheap, it was hot, and it was NOW.

Then again.... I've already swallowed my pride by signing a peace treaty with my arch-nemesis (which has  nuclear capabilities, no less!) and invited it into my home. I've given up all my other long-held ideals about food. Maybe being cheap, hot, and NOW aren't such bad qualities. (Ask many 19-year-olds, and they will think these are the ONLY qualities worth having...) Maybe it is a sign of maturity, of becoming more at peace with the world around me, of finally giving up all my self-righteous attitudes. Yes, I believe it must surely be a good thing that I can eat a TV dinner now and again, wait happily for that reassuring 'ding' when warming up leftovers, and allow my girls to eat microwave popcorn occasionally.

Of course, that's only if it's Newman's Organic, because those others use fake butter that will give you cancer. And, mind you, I care far too much about my internal organs to subject them to radiation by actually standing in front of the thing while it's blasting my food with its Geiger-alerting rays. And, the leftovers would certainly have to be from my home-grown, good-quality, grass-fed, free-range, all-natural, cruelty-and-cage-free, omega-enriched, biosustainable, home-canned, happy animals, and.....

(Ok, maybe the microwave hasn't totally nuked all of my self-righteousness yet... I'll keep you posted.)