NINJA POODLES!

You Can Go With This, Or You Can Go With That...

2012-01-31T08:03:00.000-08:00

So. New year, new life, newly single, new friendships, new lifestyle...it only follows that a fresh start on this website is in order. How do you do that? There is so much to consider. I have always been transparently honest in this space, and have shared (many would say overshared, but that's kinda who I am) openly what I felt was sharable about my life here in this little corner of the Web for nearly 7 years now.

I am genuinely interested in your feedback on this issue, so please let me know what you think.

I considered starting over, from scratch. Leaving this site in place, but starting a new one and going forward from there, as many of my peers have. I still might do that--I don't know. But so much of what will happen with me going forward is going to be informed by what has happened to me over the last several years, that that doesn't quite seem right, really. Also, "ninjapoodles" is WHO I AM. It's connected to every online identity I have. All of them. I've never been much for anonymity--it just doesn't fit me. I admire people who can pull it off, but I am not one of them. Even if I wanted to be, I'd slip up. Heck, Bella gets recognized by my blog-readers out in public already, just from pics I've posted online, and I've met many folks that way. They see her, and then ask, "Are you ninjapoodles?" Well, yes. Yes, I am.

I was "Ninja Poodles" before I ever met Alex, much less married him. I had a life, and it was chock full of ninja poodles, Arabian horses, and ridicularity (and made-up words). It was my life before it was shared with anyone else. I kind of don't feel like losing my identity, even my online identity, because of a divorce. I've lost so much of what was mine through this process already, that this is something I don't feel like giving up. This space, this little niche I've carved out of the Internet over the years--it's mine. It's one of the few things that always has been. I am loathe to give it up.

At the same time, do I go into the archives, like a surgeon, and excise Alex, in this space, from the last 7 years of my life? Just the logistics are overwhelming: Flickr, Vimeo, YouTube, Facebook... every online presence that I have--to just "erase" him? That doesn't seem right, either. He was, after all, there from the beginning of this site, and indeed inspired the very first post. Much, if not most, of this 'blog has been about him, about our struggle with bipolar disorder, probable borderline personality disorder, and our marriage and family, and it was through the exploration of those topics that I met and grew to love an increasingly larger and larger community of people who are bipolar, married to/family of bipolar people, and became involved in mental health education and awareness causes. I wouldn't give up those experiences now--they've informed the person I have become, and I'm better off for it. For better or for worse (and let's not gild the lily: it was more worse than better, all told), life with Alex did shape the ways in which I've grown over the last few years, like a vine on a trellis. Now it's time for me to grow upward again, toward the sun, toward life... but that doesn't mean that the tangles and crookedness and stunted spots from the past just go away. And there were blooms along the way, as well, that do not deserve to be ignored. I just took the best one to school.

So many of you, my friends, my peers, my support, my community, are going through this (or at least something similar--I HOPE you're not going through what I am) right now. How are you choosing to address it? My inclination, at this point, is just to continue business as usual in this same spot, with some clean-up and a re-design, and yes, probably re-starting with the ads; God knows I need the income now more than ever.

As far as Alex and I go, the damage he has done to our relationship over the years has been systematic, ongoing, and finally, irreparable. He did not damage ME (aside from financially), however, and I am going to be JUST FINE. As is Bella, though I realize it's going to be tough on her for a while. Those of you who have been with this site from the beginning (and that is an amazing number of you, and I thank you for your years of support, and hope you'll stick around) know how very, very hard I tried. I tried to muscle this thing through all by myself, to FORCE it to work, and many times, I forced myself to BELIEVE it was working. By being manipulated, abused, lied to, cheated on, and so much more, over and over again, I have lost view of some bits of myself--trust, optimism, self-reliance, etc.--that are just now returning to me in a big way. THAT was who I was, and who I am becoming again. I just needed some obstacles cleared out of the way. I am smart, capable, and determined, and as you've seen, a formidable advocate for those I love. Right now, that puts Bella in first place, and right behind her? Yours truly. Yes, it's time for me to advocate for ME. I deserve it, and I can provide it. For myself, by myself.

Things, they are going to be all right. All The Things. Agreed?

An Unquiet Mind, Revisited

2011-09-30T14:36:00.000-07:00

Just ran across this review of "An Unquiet Mind" that I wrote a couple of years ago. As I go back through blog posts, Twitter feeds, book reviews, etc., it amazes me how difficult a time *I* was having... and how I was paying NO attention to that whatsoever. It was all about someone else. And really, in this book, that's how Jamison seems to think it should be.

An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness by Kay Redfield Jamison

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I just had the opportunity to re-read this book when it was offered on the Kindle, and I was surprised. I seemed to remember it as being immensely insightful the first time I read it, but consider that that was immediately after my husband's initial bipolar 1 diagnosis. This was the first book everyone was recommending back then.

Now, several years of living with a bipolar spouse later, I read it and think, "Meh." I have tremendous respect for Jamison as a leader in this field of study, but I can't figure out what she was going for in this memoir. It seems to have been written more FOR herself than about herself, if that makes sense--it reads as very personal and cathartic.

Is it helpful for others, though? I'm not so sure. There are some wonderful passages in which she borrows from images in poetry and literature, and those, for me, make the book worth reading. But I don't get much of a sense of hope for those dealing with manic-depressive illness, because Jamison's resources were/are simply out of the reach of most of us.

If my husband had access to the level of care that Jamison has enjoyed throughout her life, he'd probably be doing much better. Who WOULDN'T thrive with near-daily psychiatric attention and round-the-clock home care (which, just by the way, is provided by friends/family/lovers, most of whom happen to be practicing psychiatrists)? Heck, I'd like to get in on some of that, myself. As it is, we receive financial assistance from our physicians, to lower our co-pay, so that he can see a therapist (not an MD, but a psychologist) once a week, and even that's a burden. Then there's couples therapy, because this disease puts a mighty strain on a marriage.

As someone in the "caretaker" role, to use Jamison's own terminology, I found the message of the memoir a bit burdensome. Yes, she shows great appreciation for her loved ones and their unflagging support. She also puts ENORMOUS weight on that support as being the key to her success. That only reads as a compliment the first few times, then it becomes a sledge-hammer of obligation and guilt.

I don't know--I'm conflicted this time around. It's a bit of "thank you for being there," and a bit of "but for you, I'd be dead." That's a lot of pressure, gratitude or no.

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Feed

2011-09-30T14:22:00.000-07:00

Feed by Mira Grant

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Bloggers, zombies, and political intrigue...so far, so good!

OK, forgot to update when I finished this one. Not really sure what to say, though, because there are sequels, and I'm kinda hamstrung by SO MUCH SPOILER. BUT. I really, really liked the "zombie origination" canon put forth in this novel. Very clever and creative...and plausible, if you just don't peek too far behind the curtain. I also like the idea of the CDC having to become all badass in the face of the Zombie Epidemic.

The most unbelievable part of all was the character of the Republican presidential candidate who was a super-good guy, honest, ethical to a fault, etc. COME ON, now. Zombies are one thing, but that? Suspension of disbelief only carries so far. ;-P

Anyway, not as epic and detailed and researched as World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War, but then, it's only part one of what I understand is a trilogy at least. I'm not sure that I'm terribly interested in the sequels after the way this one ended, but we'll see how bored I get in the upcoming months and if I cave and go for part 2.

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Dear Child: There Are Things I Want You To Remember About Your Father

2011-09-22T07:19:00.001-07:00

Dearest One, you have seen a lot that is not good. Too much for your age, by far. Arguments that never should have happened in front of you. The turmoil and consequences of over-spending issues. Anger. Lots of misdirected anger. All things that go along with having a parent with a mood disorder. You know that he and I can't be married any more, and you know most of the reasons why. But this is not about that. I want to take a moment, and tell you some things you may not know, or that you may not be remembering in this tumultuous time, about your father when he is stable, and the ways he treated me which were good--even if, at the same time, he was doing things that weren't good--that's called "compartmentalizing," and maybe we'll talk about that another time. But for now, here are some things that happened during good times that I want you to remember.

Your dad was the first man in my life who really "got" me. Understood me. Knew where I was coming from; finished my sentences. Read and appreciated the same BOOKS as I did (that one was HUGE, and quite possibly sealed the deal).

We could break ourselves up in hopeless laughter just by exchanging a look and an implied inside joke, and sometimes by pointedly NOT looking at each other for just that reason, in circumstances where snorting laughter would not be appreciated--say...church.

Your father listened to me...a lot, and he remembered what I said. I could mention how much I enjoyed something, or how I wished I could find a rare out-of-print book that I'd read once in college...months would go by, and then suddenly a surprise: season tickets to the Symphony; a copy of "Horses of the Sahara." That kind of thing.

Your dad never let a day go by without telling me I was beautiful. Never. Even when I decidedly was NOT beautiful (like waking up from surgery, all green and bloated), he would tell me that I was; not because he thought I wanted to hear it, but because he thought it was true.

Until the night we separated, your father had never, ever, even once, even in the deepest rage (and you know there were some hellacious rages), called me a name. Not. Once. Yes, he cursed and raged at me on many occasions, but nothing from him ever started with anything like, "You are such a(n)...".

Your dad wrote me poems. Love poems. Many of them, over the years, and I hope that I've saved enough of them for you to get an idea of what we had when things were good.

I know that you know how many years I fought for, advocated for, and took care of your father. What you might not know is that, before you were born, before we were even married, he did the same for me. He slept on a pull-out bed in a tiny hospital room hundreds of miles from home for two weeks, while I slept an unwaking sleep and my body decided whether or not to give up. He did incredibly thoughtful things to help bring me out of that pseudo-coma, from locating my favorite essential oils to fragrance the room, to seeking out my favorite music to play for me as I slept. He harassed nurses when I didn't get enough attention. He questioned doctors, and went with me to every appointment. He could have walked away at any time, but he didn't.

When told that I would likely never have children, he declared that he wanted to marry me no matter what. I even remember the conversation--me saying, "But what if I can never have children?" And his immediate answer: "Then WE can never have children."

All by himself, he picked out the most perfect, amazing engagement/wedding ring I could ever have imagined--you know I'm not a big jewelry person, but that ring is just perfection. It belongs to you now. Let the diamond represent you, the precious gem we created out of love, and let the bands on either side of the diamond represent your parents, one on each side, embracing you with love your whole life through, even if we don't all live together.

When he found out that I was pregnant with a little girl, your father wept with joy. Not just a couple of tears; he absolutely wept, he was that happy.

The man rescued a goose with a broken wing from the side of a busy interstate, just because I looked at him, and he knew what I was thinking. We took it home in a Wal*Mart sack with its head poking out, and it lived many happy years on our pond.

On the way home from a dog show once, on a very lonely stretch of highway with no towns for miles in either direction, we came upon an older lady looking lost and alone, standing beside her car with the trunk open, and a very flat tire. Without hesitation, your dad pulled over, got out, and changed the tire for the stranger. He did this sort of thing often, once upon a time.

He taught you the "Whoo, Pig Sooie" cheer before you could walk.

Your dad has always been good about playing with you, at least when he was having "good days." He didn't hesitate, on those days, to get down on the floor with you and build things with blocks, to cut out construction paper shapes, to draw pictures and color, to play board games and card games...even though you are a notorious cheat, and frequently change the rules mid-game if it looks like you're losing.

Your father has always been, and still is, so proud of you and who you are. Never let anything that has happened between he and I affect what you have between the two of you.

I'd like to say that there have been as many good times as bad for the two of us, and for a long time I believed that... but looking back, and knowing what I know now, I'm afraid that's not the case. I do not know what your assessment will ultimately be of that sort of up/down/mixed-up ratio between the two of you, but I can tell you that when he could, he tried hard.

He mostly, for you, did the best he could with the tools he had. And he loves you as much as he can possibly love anyone or anything. Since we are now removed from the daily turmoil and chaos, my hope is that we can all get along and be a family--a different kind of family than we once were, but a family nonetheless. I think that, ultimately, even though I know he misses you desperately, your father is glad that you have gained some peace in your daily life, and that you're no longer walking on eggshells every day.

Child, you are loved and cherished. By both of us, even if one can no longer be with us like before.

How This Happens (At Least In My Case)

2011-08-23T20:55:00.000-07:00

I am only speaking for me, and me alone. I do not know how women stay in physically abusive situations, but once was enough for me, and it was a clear and easy choice to make, and thank God I had friend and family support to be able to do it. (I have been shamed for asking my friends for help by my soon to be ex-sister-in-law, who told me that I should be "HUMILIATED" for actually asking for small donations during that time of crisis. Never mind that the PayPal "DONATE" button has been on my website and that of nearly every blogger I know for years, as a kind of virtual "tip jar." I never got an answer from her about how SHE would have survived on $20 during those days, had it happened to her, except that of course it wouldn't happen to her, because SHE "married a GOOD man." Oh, well. But the shaming? It's stupid, and it didn't work. All of you who helped out know that if I can't pay it back, I'll pay it forward someday, and I have a post upcoming about all of that.) But now is the time to address the most commonly asked question of me right now: "Why? Why did you stay in this mess for so long?"

Well, I believe that I have an answer for that. I've noticed that in many cases of people hanging on to marriages with actively episodic mentally ill spouses, they profess themselves that they have histories of being co-dependent, and of consistently choosing the "wrong" type of partner for themselves. They speak of growing up amidst chaos, often with rampant untreated mental illness and abuse. There is the tired but necessary (because it's true) cliche of the "endless cycle" of the abuse victim. She/he was abused or witnessed abuse as a child, and grows up to perpetuate that pattern, either as the victim or the abused. And while I was only physically abused once, I can now look back with great clarity and recognize that I have been in an emotionally abusive marriage since...well, almost Day One. I have been controlled, I have been monitored, I have never been allowed to be alone, and I have walked on eggshells so much that I think I might qualify as a deerstalker now. I had even discussed with my husband, many times, just how his behavior was abusive to me. I should not, for example, have to sit in a doctor's office and cry because my husband refuses to leave and go to the waiting room so that I can have a private visit. That right there? ABUSIVE. Controlling. NOT OKAY.

"How?" you ask. "WHY?" you ask. Those of you who've known me for a lifetime have been more blunt: "Belinda-- YOU? Why did you stay?" Listen, it's not just friends and family. On my first visit to my therapist (who had been my husband's and my couples counselor) and was filled in by phone on what was going on, I sat down, he looked at me quietly for a moment, then just asked that famous question: "What took you so long?" He has been asking me, literally for years, what was keeping me in this marriage. And my response to him was always in the form of a question of my own: "If I leave, what will become of him?" He had been through so much, and needed so much help, and someone to fight for him...and by gosh, I had all those qualities, and was up to the task! Also, the thought of my daughter's father (who I loved fiercely, and STILL love, though the quality and nature of that love are evolving into something solid but totally detached) being without medical care, without support--he always insisted that he had "nowhere to go"--possibly even winding up homeless, was just more than I could bear.

So we discussed this a bit, the psychologist and myself, and besides the fact that I AM a habitual "fixer"-- of animals, of problems, of people--always the peacemaker (thanks, Mom! Although I wish I'd pulled it off as well as you have!), I believe that I landed upon a theory, which I would like to share with you. I KNOW that there are many out there in this exact same boat, the ones who never "fit in" at the Al-Anon and Narc-Anon meetings, or the NAMI support groups, or the Bipolar Significant Others online support group (may God rain blessings down on all their souls), so here we go.

I am not damaged goods. Not now, not at any point in my life, and most importantly, not when I met my VERY charming husband. I did not come from a "broken" home, much less an abusive or even mildly dysfunctional one. I grew up my entire life with a living example, in my parents, of what true, selfless, mutual love and respect looked like. They literally loved each other to distraction until death parted them, and shared that perfect love with my sister and me. I was a ridiculously happy child, as was my sister. During our young lives, we were scratching poor at times, but we never knew it. We had everything that we needed, and then some, in our loving, amazing family.

At the time I met my husband, I had never had a relationship with a mentally ill person. Heck, HE didn't even know he was bipolar at the time; how was I supposed to spot it? (I can spot it at least three miles away NOW, so if you are wondering about someone, run it by my MI-dar.) I had never had a relationship with an alcoholic, or even with a drinker. I had never had a relationship with a drug addict or user. My dating history was a GOOD one. And when I didn't find anyone who suited my rigorous demands, I just happily spent time being single. And LOVED it. Didn't get married until I was 34, and up until then was perfectly content with the thought of being forever single. I did want children, but I was prepared to make that happen on my own. Thinking back, I have never had a relationship with ANY man who was not respectful to me and solicitous of my needs. Never. Some of you reading this may BE one of those men, and for this, I thank you.

I never, in my life, went for the "bad boy." (Well, unless you count Nicholas Cage in "Valley Girl," and I think we can all agree that we do.) Never. I wanted a man who held down a job, knew how to save money, loved animals and kids, and opened the darn car doors for me and carried my heavy stuff. That's pretty much it. I never wanted lots of money, or a big house, or fancy cars (*mentally pats her faithful 10-year-old Tahoe, which runs like a dream, and is paid for, so will be run until its wheels fall off*), or anything like that. I wanted love, honesty, and respect. And to be frank, these were not things for which I needed another person. I felt whole and content on my own, and quite comfortable in my own skin.

When my husband came along, he absolutely seemed to fit that bill. He was charming, romantic, dashingly handsome, intensely masculine and strong, funny, smart, and most of all...he just "got" me. We hit if off and were engaged within weeks of meeting. In perfect hindsight, there were warning signs, things that were "off." But I was so happy with him, and so much in love, that it was easy to shoo those nagging little doubts away...especially since I'd never before encountered them. He reminded me of my dad in so many ways in the beginning, and when you had a father as wonderful as mine, that's a huge, huge thing.

As those of you who've followed my 'blog for years know, things went sour fast. They got really bad when I was pregnant, which led to hospitalization, residential rehab, and putting him out and officially separating. But then he did "all the right things," and he had, at long last, a diagnosis. He was bipolar. There were medicines that could keep things in check. It was FIXABLE. Except then it happened again. Florid mania that broke through the medication, then running (a term used among significant others of bipolar people that means just taking off for days, weeks, and in extreme cases even months on end), which in our case usually lasted several days...heck, my husband disappeared for 4 solid days as soon as we got our newborn baby home from the hospital. And then came the second episode that almost ended the marriage: once again, breakthrough mania, followed by drinking, and then heavy drug use, and finally just disappearing, accompanied by extremely risky sexual behavior. There was, ultimately, another hospitalization, followed by inpatient rehab, followed by an Intensive Outpatient Program for alcoholism and drug addiction.

And I took him back. Despite the indignities inflicted upon me by this person who I loved and had trusted, I took him back. And people were confused, baffled, even angry with me for doing so. But here I fall back on my personal history up to that point. THIS SORT OF THING DOES NOT HAPPEN IN MY LIFE, combined with the hubris of, AND I AM IN CONTROL OF MY LIFE, AND I WILL DARN WELL FIX THIS, TOO. I absolutely could not accept that I (I never thought of it as "we," which is sort of telling) would not get this thing in check and keep it stifled, and that things would be OK. And sometimes, it seemed to work, so I would be vindicated for my optimism and hope. Click, click, came the pellets, as I pushed that lever faster and faster.

Some of you are internally screaming, "DENIAL!" Well, yes and no. It wasn't that I was denying the reality of the situation; it was more that I was absolutely refusing to ACCEPT the reality of the situation, because in MY reality, this was alien and would be dealt with Sigourney Weaver-style, accordingly.

But even I have my limits. Some of you may have noticed that in the weeks prior to the domestic assault, I had changed my Facebook status from "married to Alex Miller," to, "it's complicated with Alex Miller," and then simply, "it's complicated." The things I was learning at the time were finally, finally piling up enough straws on this camel's back that I knew the breaking point was coming, and coming soon. When I discovered things like secret P.O. boxes in the next town over, credit card accounts opened fraudulently in my name, having my prescription medication stolen and sold to cover debts I hadn't even known about (on our last bank statement, despite having had $4500 wired into the account from who knows what source, there were STILL over $1700 in bank fees alone, for returned checks, NSF charges, etc. $1700, account completely in the red, and $s4500 wired IN. And nothing to show for it that I could see). It was only later that I discovered his dating history of the last several months (Craigslist "Casual Encounters" FTL, plus multiple subscriptions to "Adult" dating sites), but at the time, I had come to realize that, however much I might love this man (and that was a LOT), I would never, ever be able to trust him...about anything. I had pretty much made up my mind that it was over, barring a miracle, and to be honest was likely within 6 weeks or so of filing anyway. Arkansas is a no-fault state, so I don't even have to have a reason for getting out, beyond "personal indignities."

The way that this is going is SO not the way I wanted it to go. Again, because the way I was brought up, problems were not shoved under a rug, or pandered to so that they'd go away. They were exposed to the harsh light of day, discussed, and DEALT with, and then everyone got to move on. Nothing festered. No one held grudges, or kept score. So it is exceedingly difficult for me to have to deal with my husband as though a stranger, through lawyers and restraining orders and the courts. My desire and instinct is telling me to sit down with my husband, and calmly discuss and end this. To find out what he wants, and do my best to give it to him, within reason, so we can both move on with our lives. I mean, he's already been "dating" for several months, and having a whole other secret life, so why would he NOT want out?

So since once again it's too late to say "long story short," I suppose I'll sum it up: Why did I stay? Well, aside from the fact that I loved him, I felt responsible for him. I was his conduit to the rest of the world for years. Anyone who knows anything about me knows how I fought for him, how I advocated for him, and how I became an activist in the realm of mental illness awareness and support. I fed, clothed, and even bathed him during the months following the ECT when he couldn't care for himself...that was another time that I had one foot out the door, and then this debilitating brain injury happened, and what kind of person turns someone out with no support during a time like that? Well, not I. In all this, I had my daughter to consider. That is the key thing to remember here.

I kept secrets over the years. LOTS of secrets. I did it for my daughter--not just so that she wouldn't know about the Horrible Things I've Never Told Anyone, but so that people would not look at my daughter's father and only see those things. In protecting his image, I was protecting her innocence. I'm really hoping that none of that has to come out in court, for that very reason. Since the day we met until the day I fled the home, I have always been 100% faithful, honest, and trustworthy to my husband. He has not. But I stayed.

I stayed, because I could not accept that these things were happening in MY, up to then, idyllic life and that I couldn't make them stop by sheer force of my own will . I stayed because the three of us as a unit were very important to my daughter. I stayed because I felt responsibility for my husband's care, and could clearly see the burden of guilt I would have to carry for "abandoning" him. I stayed because I loved him. And at long last, finally, when he attacked me physically, I left. Immediately and with extreme prejudice. There won't be a second chance at that kind of thing.

This has been rambling and tangential at times, but I hope that I've answered, somewhat, the question of why "someone like me" would put up with all that's been done to me over the years. In short, it's not because I was "damaged." It's more because I was UNDAMAGED. And you know what? I still am.

P.S. Let me share with you possibly the WORST thing to say to someone in my, or a similar situation, when discussing the sins of the spouse. That would be any variation on how YOU would "NEVER put up with that." Shut your hole. Just shut it. You do not know what you would "put up with" until you are challenged and must answer that for yourself. It is not your job to make someone who's already feeling sad, defeated, betrayed, and foolish aware of just how superior YOU are, since YOU would never get into such a sordid situation in the first place. Bully for you, you win at smug. But you might want to check over your own shoulder every once in a while...just in case.

The One From A Good Friend

2011-07-29T20:35:00.000-07:00

Someone who has been following my website for just about since it was born, and is bipolar himself, having faced many a personal trial and challenge, sent me a private message recently that was SO amazing that once I dried my eyes, I asked him for permission to share his message more widely, because I believe that many could benefit from it. He generously consented, and I will leave it up to him as to whether he wishes to identify himself in the comments.

"Hey Belinda--

Long time, no see. I've been following developments lately, and did read your blog. There are some things I absolutely need to say. I hope you understand.

I'm sorry for what Alex did... not because it's my fault, but because I know people with bipolar can act better than that. Alex is still responsible for what he does. The mental illness isn't an excuse... it's an obstacle that makes things harder; not impossible.

But I know what you're thinking. And so I'm going to say the second worse thing I've ever said to someone (the first is a story for another time):

Alex doesn't care enough about you to act better.

How he acts is still his choice... even if the voices and imbalance in his head is telling him to do something he shouldn't.

I'm sure he loves you; it's not that. It's just that he needs to care enough to think long and hard before he acts; and he didn't. Hasn't really.

But here's what I'm trying to get at. That's such a shame. A lot of bipolar people could use someone as caring and loving as you in their lives. It's not your fault for not doing enough; or not doing the right things. It's his fault for acting like a shit. His responsibility. And it's his fault that because HE can't control HIMSELF that he's losing the two best things he has in this life.

I'm trying to tell you that you did everything right, everything you can. And you should never question that. Because I know what's going through Alex's head; and I also know that he could stop anytime he really, really wanted to. You can be tempted to push an enter key on a keyboard all your mind likes... but you are the one who has to tell your finger to press it.

I'm bipolar.. My force of will is strong because of people like you who care/d for me. I stop and think before doing anything. The ME inside is in control... not the impulse or the emotional reaction. Because those things hurt people I love. And I don't want to be that kind of person.

Alex isn't going to get better until he decides he wants to. He doesn't have a choice about having faulty wiring, but he does have a choice about accepting the faulty wiring and using the proper electrician to get it fixed. It's just easier not to.

I never want you to think that you're a failure. You're not.

I see everyone telling you that living with mental illness is hell. That makes me sad. I hope that living with me is not like that for the people in my life. The decisions we make matter. The people we choose to be matters. Everyone deserves a chance. You gave more than a chance. Alex made his choices. They were the wrong ones.

That implies that he could have made the right choices. See what I mean?

I have nothing extra to give right now... both my parents are out of work, and I'm trying to help them get by until they can find jobs, or I'd send enough to make you cry. You were always so kind to me, and I wish I could repay that kindness. It made ME a better person. Unfortunately, I'm not your husband, so that effort was kind of wasted, eh?

Chin up. Watch where you're going. No running into stuff. And if there's anything else I can do, just ask.

Crying Time

2011-07-20T22:41:00.001-07:00

So, in my new life, midnight is, apparently, crying time. I can't stop. I'm crying over things that haven't even happened yet, and things that are just impossible to fix. The overwhelming unfulfillable desire that's pretty much taking charge is "I WANT TO GO HOME." Because more than anything, I do. I want to go home. I want my husband back...the one that a good majority of this blog has been about over the years, the one from before the other night, in that INSTANT where everything went to hell. I just want to go home. The last time I felt this way, and cried this hard, the unfulfillable demand I was making of the Universe was, "I WANT MY DADDY BACK." That's how deep this hurts.

I'm not some hero who bravely and decisively "did the right thing" and then everything was great. I'm conflicted, I'm depressed, I'm anxious, and I'm homesick. Bella isn't yet, but she will be soon. Mostly right now, she wants to be where I am, though she's very worried about her dad. I'm worried about him. His family has shut me out, and I don't know if they're doing the same to him, but I wouldn't know, since they won't speak to me. I do know that he has nowhere to go. Nowhere. No one in his family will take him in. His only income comes from disability, and his health insurance is mine. And yet, we need for him to get out of the house for a bit, so we can get in.

I can't believe the three of us are not seeing the Harry Potter movie together. It's unthinkable. I don't know--maybe stuff like that wouldn't be so bad. It's in public, then we leave, and we don't have to speak at all, but Bella gets to spend fun time with her dad. I don't know. I don't know ANYTHING.

And here, I'm going to just go ahead and share the most shameful secret I have right now, right out there in public, because maybe someone else is at THIS decision point, and this could help.

That secret is that, deep inside, I am actually thinking to myself, "If I had just kept quiet about this and handled it in my own way, I could be at home right now." I could have us in separate rooms, leading civil but non-intimate lives together. I could have my financial information protected, and he would undoubtedly, at this point, give me complete control over all finances. I COULD BE HOME, AND NO ONE WOULD BE THE WISER. I could be surrounded by my dogs, looking out those big windows at my beautiful horses. I could be discussing that new med cocktail the doc put him on with my husband, and we'd undoubtedly be sharing some of our inside shrink-jokes, and things would SEEM normal. Almost. Curse it, it's canning season, and all my jars are there. So many tiny things that are ruined, and these combine into one colossal, painful, longing for the impossible.

So there it is. I know it can't be, but I can't make it not be what I wish for, in my heart of hearts. I want to go home. I just want to go home to a different life.

The Part Where We Stop Dancing

2011-07-18T14:51:00.000-07:00

For all of my marriage to Alex, I have performed a delicate dance between keeping people informed about what's going on, and protecting his privacy. And I still feel a responsibility on that count, but a line has been crossed, and as much as I love him and want for him all the things in life that people deserve, the time has come to stop dancing.

No matter how good the good times are, the bad times of living with a bipolar person are pure hell. It's not their fault that they're ill, but they ARE responsible for their actions. The thing that makes it hard for "normals" to deal with it is that it is not logical. Where we have something happen, and feel a corresponding mood in response to that, a cycling bipolar person feels the feeling, the mood, FIRST. For no reason except that their brain is broken. Upon feeling that mood, they must then cast about externally, looking for a REASON for that mood. If they feel angry, and you're the only one there, brace yourself. You're about to have done something horribly wrong, whether you know it or not.

There are countless circular arguments. My family can vouch for the times that they have heard Alex, over the phone, trying to make me do something while I cry to be left alone, him standing over me and yelling, "WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY?" over and over. WHY am I thwarting him? WHY won't I obey his every, ever-shifting whim? WHY? And here's the shameful part: Sometimes, maybe even most of the time, depending on how much strength you have, you just do it. You just do whatever it is that will make the crazy stop, even temporarily (and it's always temporary) because it's just exhausting. And when you do that, The Beast has won. And it is clever, and it stores that information away. You've just reinforced a behavior, and further cemented it (yes, I'm a total Skinnerian).

So if you follow me at all, you know by now that I've taken Bella and left home. I had no choice. Alex has been in an increasingly florid manic state for weeks now, staying on a non-stop, destructive spending spree that has left us literally penniless. He has stolen my much-needed pain medication and sold it to fund his overdraft charges. Let that sink in for a minute. I had medication prescribed to me for the pain I'm dealing with, and it was well know to my husband that that was the only relief I ever get. He let me have three days' worth, then he just took it. He told me that he sold it, and that is probably true. But, you know, that same day he cooked dinner or brought me some candy or something, because he's TOTALLY a good guy. Right? You're getting a taste of living with the craziness.

So meanwhile, during the ruinous spending (OH, how those UPS trucks rolled in every day!), Alex was also spying on all of my internet activity via keylogging software he'd installed, unbeknownst to me, on our home network. Now, I could not care less if he reads everything I've ever said to anyone in any conversation, because I never say anything I wouldn't say in front of him. That's the super-secret bonus to not being a liar: you never have to stop and think about whether you're telling a different story to one person than the other. I have nothing to hide. In the last couple of days, I noticed him hacking my accounts repeatedly, so I knew he had to have software that was logging keystrokes, because I was making some ca-razy passwords. The last one on my Facebook account was actually an insult directed at him: "alexisaliar67". Didn't phase him.

So, last night, Alex went to bed before me. I followed about 15 minutes later. He was watching "Silence of the Lambs" on the Roku player. I was reading Feed on my iPad, so I wouldn't have to turn the light on to use my Kindle. After about 5 minutes, Alex got up, went into the living room, and got on the PC in there. I thought this was a bit odd, but he'd paused the movie, so I figured he'd just forgotten something. I got absorbed in my book, then realized that another 45 minutes or so had passed, and he was still in there click-clicking away on the keyboard. I called out, "What are you doing?" and got an angry sounding, "NOTHING!" I had a hunch, so I clicked the iPad over to Facebook, and there I saw "me" changing my relationship status (I had it on "complicated;" he changed it back to "married"), making posts, and sending messages to people. It made me SICK. Did I mention that earlier that day I'd discovered that "I" had gotten "myself" a Chase credit card? Odd, given my stance on credit cards (they can die in a fire), the fact that I didn't apply for one, and the fact that "Belinda Miller's" contact email was "aalexmiller@aol.com."

So I confronted my husband, and yeah, I was furious. He stood and denied everything, even though I'd just watched it happen. But when The Beast is in control, it's all about the denial, plus Alex himself, no Beast required, has a pretty healthy lying problem, even when it doesn't matter. As my dad used to say of him, "He'd stand up to tell a lie when he could tell the truth sitting down." He's had countless hours of therapy about it.

I had looked up on my iPad instructions for putting up a firewall against keyloggers, and sat on the couch with my laptop and iPad open, reading instructions on one and applying them to the other. The whole time, I was subjected to a yelling rant demanding that I go back to bed and leave this alone. It was about a three-sentence rant, but the sentences were repeated on an endless, angry, loud, loop: "WHY? WHY? WHY?" WHY CAN'T YOU DO THIS IN THE MORNING? WHY? WHY WON'T YOU COME TO BED WITH ME? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?" (That last one is a personal favorite that gets trotted out whenever he gets "busted" doing something wrong--I am to blame for discovering/complaining about/trying to right said wrong. Because I am just bitchy like that. If I would just leave it alone, EVERYTHING WOULD BE FINE.)

When I would not stop trying to protect my account from him, he stomped off upstairs and disabled the Internet so that I could not continue. I went up there to fix it, but he'd hidden the cable away so I couldn't find it. I went straight to the bedroom, where during that two minutes he'd crawled into bed, turned out the light, and was actually pretending to sleep. I turned on the light and demanded that he fix the Internet. I told him (VERY angrily, I admit) that it was the least he owed me. His position was that I had "no business" using the Internet at that time, and that he would restore it "in the morning." I can't imagine why, but this made me even angrier. I also realized that at this point, I was arguing with The Beast, so I tried appealing to Alex. I reminded him that no one--no one--in the world was a bigger advocate for him, that I had championed him for years, fighting for him when no one else would, and that all I wanted him to do was at least tell me where the Internet cable was. No avail. I kept trying to get a connection from my iPad to my laptop, but I couldn't make that work. And yes, during this half-hour or so, I DID go and turn on the bedroom light and demand that Alex right things--more than once. As I'd said, I was furious, and I am human.

I called my mom and let her know what was going on, just in case, and she overheard him on the phone standing there screaming at me to go back to bed, so we ended that phone call so I could try to deal with Alex. The mistake I made at this point was telling Alex my intentions. I can get a bit blinded by rage, too. I told him that I was going to post to Twitter and Facebook from my cell phone, warning my friends that someone else was posing as me online, and that I would send messages to our families (my mom and sister, his mom and sister) telling them the same thing. I should have just quietly gone and DONE it. I might have gotten it done, but that little truth-speaking voice in my head says he would've followed me into the living room to see what I was doing, and the same awful sequence of marriage-ending events would've followed.

I had my cell phone on the charger by the computer, so I went and sat in the computer chair and began to compose a text message. I saw Alex come charging toward me, except that it wasn't Alex at all by this point. Empty, dead eyes of The Beast. Still, I never in a million years would've anticipated what followed. He tried to grab onto the phone, but I held tight. He'd already disabled the Internet, and I knew that he could do the same with the land line, with the push of a button. I panicked. That cell phone represented my only link to the outside world. I was not going to let go of it, even in my pitiful weak state, if I could help it. I was also afraid he'd smash it. He yanked me across the room, ripping the phone from the charger in the process, destroying the charger. I started screaming, in fear, in hopes he'd let go...and because at this point he had an arm across my face and the other hand twisted through my hair...pulling. At the same time, my back and shoulders were being pounded against the floor, I could feel great wads of my hair coming loose at the roots, and a blow to the breastbone. One of his hands was clutching my shoulder, and was right in front of my face, and was my only target, so I bit it, hard, thinking he'd let go of my hair. My hair was what let go, at the roots.

I want to state at this point that I do not believe that it was ever Alex's intention to hurt me--not his goal, at least. His goal was to GET THAT PHONE AT ALL COSTS, and it just didn't enter his temporarily deranged mind to care that he was hurting me. In ten years of suffering every hurt and disgrace that bipolar disorder has to offer--from serial cheating and hardcore drug use during the early, unmedicated time, to alcoholism, to identity theft (yes, it had happened before, and was the impetus for the great depressive state that preceded the fateful ECT treatment), to spending us into poverty, all the while lying, lying lying... he has never, ever put a hand on me in violence. Never. I believe that just amplified my shock with what was going on.

Ultimately, being much stronger and way less sick than me, Alex managed to get my phone away from me, and just as I'd feared, proceed to bust it up. From my vantage point on the floor, I spotted a house phone, and crawled to it and dialed 911, as Alex ran to the kitchen. I suspect that his intention was to disable the land line, but he denies this, and I certainly can't prove it. At any rate, my call connected, and a sheriff's deputy was dispatched. I stayed on the phone with the dispatcher until he arrived. From this point on, Alex was remarkably calm, while I was near hysterical. My life as I knew it had just ended. We told our stories (which differ distinctly, big surprise), and to my amazement Alex did not get arrested/hospitalized, which is what I was hoping for. Apparently I didn't get battered ENOUGH during this scuffle to get the kind of marks that count as "evidence." The fistful of hair and corresponding bald patch? Nope. Heck, I coulda done that myself, amirite? Anyway, since he couldn't make Alex leave (and Alex certainly wasn't going to do something that gallant on his own), while the deputy waited, I went upstairs and woke Bella, who had, amazingly, slept through the whole thing (tender mercies), and we packed up fast and got out of there.

In the interest of equal time, I will share Alex's version of last night's events, as posted in his Facebook Notes, and he is, of course, free to comment here:

"I went to bed early, about 10:00pm, after waking me up three different times and leaving the light on it was 2:00am, I decicided no on[e] needed to be online at 2:00am, so I unplugged the internet. She threatened me by saying she was, cut off from the world, and was going to call everyone she knew, at 3:00am, and tell them I had unplugged her precious internet until the following morning. She then said she was about to call my 83 year-old mother at 3:30am. This was a tipping point, I [took] her cell phone away. She bit me and threw a fit. She went crazy. She called the police, when empathized with me, and then she proceeded to wake up our child at 4:00am and leave. That is it. I am fine. I just wanted some sleep."

I can find three points in that account that are true: I did bite him (in self defense), I did call 911, and I did leave with our daughter. I can't help but giggle at the image of me biting him for no reason and "going crazy". If I wrote that version, I would've added that I was screaming, "HONEY BADGER DON'T CARE!!" the whole time. It's a very common bipolar defense (both internal and external) to cast the other person as "crazy," and if you've lived with or known a bipolar person for any length of time, you've no doubt experienced this. If you've hung in this long, brava for you, and it's way too late for me to say "long story short," but for now, I can leave it with the point that this is a marriage-ender. This is a line you do not cross, even in a fit of rage, even if you're manic, even if you're just a freaking lunatic. Hands on me for purposes of hurting = goodbye.

I am heartbroken. To think that after all the loving care I've given, all the struggles we've been through, my life-threatening illness, his life-altering illness, the endless fighting against all odds to stay alive and stay together and bring a beautiful, amazing child into the world...it can be over that fast, just because of selfishness and lies and misdirected anger. To think that we made it just long enough to get those negatives from our wedding photographer for free. To think of not just what I've lost by losing this marriage now, but what I lost by being IN this marriage for as long as I was.

The true heartbreaker is this: I have never, for one moment, stopped loving Alex. Never. I don't suppose I ever will. But I'm sitting here now watching this amazing, silly, brilliant, beautiful, wonderful little girl dive for rings in the pool where we're staying, and I know that my job now is all about her. And extra sadness for the fact that her beloved father will no longer be a daily part of her life. They love each other without reservation, and Alex is very good with her (though I don't leave them alone if I can help it, because he kind of "forgets" she's there sometimes)...the way I wish he was with me. Let me repeat: he is an amazing dad--at least supervised, he is. I dread having to tell her that we won't ever live with Daddy any more.

Now something I swore I'd never do, and I hate it, but: we left with nothing but a quarter tank of gas and a $20 bill. My paycheck, which was deposited Friday, was devoured by Alex's overdraft charges down to less than $100. The electric company is shutting off power at the house because of the $354 overdue bill that Alex told me he "took care of" weeks ago. In short, Bella and I are busted, with no way to get through the next two weeks until payday. It hurts to tell an 8 year old who's read every Harry Potter book at least three times and has been waiting for HP7 part 2 since the second HP7 part 1 was over that no, we can't afford to go see it at the Saturday matinee, even though I promised we would, because the Friday payday money is gone already.

I'm putting out the tin cup. If you have a couple dollars to spare (please nothing large that will make me cry or embarrass me), and are so inclined to send it via PayPal to ninjapoodles@gmail.com, I will somehow, someday, karmically (that's when karma tells jokes) repay the kindness, or pass it along to others. I'm 98% sure that I have it secured so that no one else can get into it.

In closing, let me say I don't want hate directed toward Alex. He needs help. More help, ultimately, than I can give.

Finally, I love you guys. You have no idea how much you get me through.

Fathers

2011-06-19T21:01:00.000-07:00

Love you, Dad, and miss you so hard.

And since I can't really, STILL, talk much about my own father without starting an ugly crying jag (which he would hate), I'll mark this day by posting what was probably the best thing I overheard all weekend.

From 8-year-old daughter to her father, as Dad was getting ready to go outside and tend to some chores, wearing his old Carhartt coveralls:

"Dad. One of the buttons on your fly is undone. I don't care if it IS Father's Day--no one wants to see your junk."

Clearly, we are exemplary parents and role models. Why, earlier that same day, we sent a visiting neighbor child home with a bag of dead squirrels. True story! It's all about class down here in the holler, folks.

And yeah, this WAS the best way I could think of to kick-start this website again. It is, after all, its 6th anniversary. And to think, it all began with aluminum underpants. It's good to be back.

An Excellent Historian

2010-10-26T11:03:00.000-07:00

"Mr. Miller is accompanied by his wife of ten years, who is an excellent historian..."

So went the transcription yesterday by our neurologist/psychiatrist here at the Mayo Clinic, and it feels pretty accurate. If I've had any role in the things that have been going on with my husband the last couple of years (or really, our entire marriage, but who's counting), it's been best summed up as "advocate," or now, "historian." I have not publicly told the whole story of what's happened to Alex, because I hadn't felt it was my story to tell, at least not in full, and in the beginning Alex was reluctant for people to know because he didn't want to deal with the stigma attached. But he's at the point now where he realizes that the more a story like this is shared, the more likely it is to resonate with someone else who has a similar experience, and that there is a possibility for people to help each other in this way. I also think it's liberating to finally just put it all out there and heave a big sigh of relief.

In the fall of 2008--yes, it's been going on that long--Alex, who most of you know has bipolar affective disorder (Bipolar 1, for you pros--the heavy hitter), had been mired in a deep depressive phase that just would not break. This was unusual for him, especially for the season in which it had occurred, because historically we've battled hypomania every summer like clockwork, ramping up benzos and antipsychotics to get us through until winter with as little trauma as possible. But something was different for those months of 2008, and by September, he was truly desperate.

On about our third visit in a matter of days to his psychiatrist, Alex was given two options: Add an anti-depressant, for the first time since his bipolar diagnosis, to his med cocktail, or undergo Electroconvulsive Therapy (ECT). Those last words hit our ears hard, conjuring up images of Jack Nicholson in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," and for a stunned moment we just looked at each other. But the prospect of an anti-depressant, at that point, was equally terrifying. Every time in his life that Alex had been administered ADs, it had resulted in full-blown, florid mania. He'd been misdiagnosed with unipolar depression a number of times, so he had some pretty good experience with this. Let's just say he's lucky to be alive, and extremely lucky to still be married. So for him, at that point, that option was just right out. And then the doctor began talking up the ECT, saying all the things that I've now heard from just about every doctor. It's safe, it's mild, it's just a seizure, people have seizures naturally all the time, and they're OK, it can snap a person out of a depression abruptly, it will break the depressive cycle and allow you to recover, just a few days and you'll feel better...I said no, Alex said yes. He was desperate, and it was his decision.

We were told to expect some mild confusion on the days of the treatments, which would improve quickly. He was scheduled for 6 treatments, spread over the course of a couple of weeks, and should be recovered enough to go back to work and resume life as normal within a couple of days after the final treatment. We went four times; he had three treatments. That fourth day, based on my repeated concerns about the profound effect the treatments were having on him, he was examined and further treatments were canceled. This was the doctor's call, and I have since found it baffling that the doctor (and all doctors, really) could maintain that there is no possible way that ECT treatments are to blame for my husband's condition, while at the same time ceasing the treatments due to what they were doing to him. As it turns out, psychiatrists can tolerate an enormous amount of cognitive dissonance without suffering the ruffling of a single feather (or fussy little beard-hair).

I wrote describing the symptoms once, painfully, already, so I won't rehash that here, except to say that things have not improved much, if at all. Alex is now officially--by which I mean according to the Social Security Administration--completely disabled. Each day is still a struggle. It's been an enormous strain on our marriage, partly because there is so much I just can't do alone, and partly because I am by necessity his caretaker 24/7. His condition leads to fear and insecurity and a constant need for reassurance, usually meaning my immediate presence wherever he is. And by immediate, I mean not more than a few feet away, and certainly not in another room. Preferably touching distance. I love him, but it's exhausting. It's putting me into a sort of parenting role, while he still views me purely as "wife," and this leads to a good bit of emotional conflict between us. I get frustrated. I get angry. I get sad. I get depressed. I cry. A lot. Everyone wants to help, but no one can. Not really.

But back to the process at hand. It has taken us this long to get this far, largely due to being buffaloed by the medical establishment at almost every turn. Our sweet, wonderful GP is the exception--he'd have done anything to help Alex, and even referred him for some cognitive and speech therapy (which was denied due to lack of a definitive diagnosis), but this was just beyond his scope. The psychiatrist and neurologist that we saw at home pretty much circled the wagons for the "there is absolutely no reason to believe that any of this is caused by ECT" line. Really. No way. It's got to be something else. Depression. Conversion disorder. Something totally unrelated. Except that it happened literally overnight, WHEN HE RECEIVED ECT TREATMENTS.

Look, I'm not saying, and never have, than anyone did anything wrong, or that there's any level of malpractice or anything like that happening here. We're not even anti-ECT in general; it helps thousands of people every year, people who go on to have no complications. I've not threatened, nor do I have any intent, to sue anyone. I don't see how we could, anyway, since Alex signed away all his rights relating to possible risks prior to treatment. I did report it as an "adverse event" to the FDA's Medwatch, because I think that having adverse outcomes on record is important for people like us who may come after. We just feel that, possibly, there was some latent weakness or issue particular to Alex's brain, nervous system, or some renegade organ, perhaps, that was exploited by the trauma of ECT. And yes, I believe that passing electrical current through someone's brain sufficient to cause a seizure counts as trauma.

Every PT/OT/speech therapist we've seen has said the same thing: That Alex presents as a victim of a traumatic brain injury. That if we'd told them he'd had a bad head injury, they'd absolutely have believed it. We even began some cognitive and speech therapy at one point, only to have it discontinued because no doctor would give a diagnosis of TBI, because, of course, an injury pursuant to ECT is impossible. We began to seek help outside of our "home" medical circle, starting with a neuropsychologist in Little Rock who was the first sympathetic ear we'd had, and told us that yes, he had seen adverse outcomes from ECT. Not a lot, but some. In our psychiatrist's report on one occasion, he notes that I told him that we'd seen a neuropsych "who claims to see these symptoms in most ECT patients," which I most certainly did NOT say, and that I "couldn't tell him the name of this doctor." Not entirely true, because the truth was that I WOULDN'T tell him the name of the doctor, because we were trying to get in at Mayo, and I couldn't risk him picking up the phone and leaning on this guy before we had all the records in our hands. Yes, I was that paranoid at this point. But you know what they say about paranoia, if people are really out to get you.

At first, we couldn't get a referral to Mayo. Our neurologist just refused. She said she'd done every test she could (and to be fair, they're repeating all the same ones here, so I don't doubt her on that count), there were no conclusive results, and that was that. It was the response we were getting pretty much everywhere we turned, and I'll give you the translation of how that came across to us: "Yes, something is very, very wrong here. Very wrong. And it's a shame. Gosh, it's too bad. But I have no idea what it is, and I have my own life to live, and at the end of the day your problems aren't my problem, so take this sympathetic-looking shoulder shrug and please go away now."

So we tried on our own. We contacted the neurology department at the Mayo Clinic directly, provided some records and a history, and waited. And got back a letter informing us that they were "declining to consult" at this time. Dead end, unless we were referred by another neurologist. This is when I had a form of mild psychotic break and basically just harassed the local neurologist's office for several months until they secured a referral for us.

So here we are. I'm trying to be hopeful, but as I'm seeing them do the same things here that they did at home, it's difficult. And Alex is so completely desperate for help, and so entirely invested in this consultation, for which he's waited more than a year, I'm terrified of what will become of him if we receive yet another sympathetic shrug of the shoulders, and a "Sorry, old sport, tough break, that...well, good luck in the future, goodbye!"

Don't do that to us, Mayo Clinic. We need you to pull out a win here.

The Vegetarian Myth

2010-09-29T02:46:00.000-07:00

The Vegetarian Myth: Food, Justice, and Sustainability by Lierre Keith

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

An important book with an unfortunate title. Keith has some pretty rough feminist axes to grind which occasionally cloud (though also occasionally enhance) her message as it regards our food supply, but what she has to say about the way we eat is important for ANYONE to hear. You can absolutely feel her passion as a "recovering vegan," and the pain it causes her to denounce something she once so passionately believed in. I don't like the title, because my fear is that vegetarians/vegans will look at it and discount it immediately (as you can see from the "reviews" from vegetarians/vegans who haven't even read/finished the book), and omnivores will look at it and think there's no message there that they need.

She does tend to go on a bit, but the message boils down to pretty much this: There is no opt-out of the food chain; we're all part of it, like it or not. There is no plant life without animal contribution and death, and vice-versa. The only way for our planet to keep feeding its inhabitants into the future is if we abandon the industrial agriculture model we've adopted. Monocropping of non-native species is killing our planet, and darn quickly. We're starving ourselves with our ever-increasing focus on genetically modified cereal grains and soy. The only sustainable way to feed ourselves is to do it on a small, local, native scale that includes animals (remove animals from the equation and topsoil vanishes). There's really nothing to argue with there.

I absolutely believe in the tenets set forth in this book (no big shock to anyone who knows me), and go out of my way to find local, organic sources for 100% pastured, grassfed meat and dairy. I buy produce from within 100 miles of my home almost exclusively. I invest in healthy fats, raise free-range chickens for eggs and meat, etc. I won't go so far as to absolutely denounce vegetarianism, but I do believe that it has to fall under the same guidelines: local, sustainable, native. While I really didn't discover anything "new" to me in this book, it certainly drove home the urgency of the locavore movement in ways that Pollan, Kingsolver, et al did not. This book has a bit of a desperate tone, because we're facing a desperate situation. I very much recommend this book to anyone who eats. Take Keith's angsty, patriarchy-hating melodrama (I couldn't say I disagreed with her points, and Heaven knows the patriarchy needs some hating, but it was just disruptive in this context) with a grain of salt if need be. The message is worth indulging her a bit there.

I was first made aware of this book in a blog entry by Dr. Michael Eades, in which he tells of Ms. Keith being the victim of a terroristic attack at a reading, and bought it partly in support of her in the face of that treatment. I'm glad I did. I'm also glad I'm not her, because this is a woman (I'm sorry, "womyn?") operating under extreme anxiety a lot of the time, it seems. But then, maybe we should all be feeling that pressure--we don't have much time to put things right.

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You Musk(melon) Make This Jam

2010-08-23T06:01:00.000-07:00

Just made a little batch of this jam from odds and ends I had on hand that just happened to be called for in this recipe from Ontario blogger and locavore Sarah Hood, who adapted it from a Foodland Ontario recipe. It was my good luck to have stumbled across Sarah's blog when I had these ingredients all ready to roll. I'd bought a bunch of nectarines the weekend before at the farmer's market, and the grower had tossed in this adorable little muskmelon (I'm thinking a variety of honeydew) for free. This jam is so good that I literally caught myself eating it with a spoon.

I took Sarah's tip about the lemon zest and ran with it, and lazied things up a bit further than that, even, because I have no patience for pushing things through sieves or getting out a food mill. I used a whole lemon and reduced the amount of lemon juice added later, and took my stick blender to the apples instead of straining them. I also left out that second half-cup of water the recipe calls for, and that maybe cut down on the time it took, because I got a very firm set fairly quickly. As nearly always, I peeled nothing.

This recipe yielded me more than four but not quite five half-pint jars of jam.

Honeydew-Nectarine Jam

1.5 cups tart apple, chopped (Granny Smith and Mitsy apples are out in Arkansas now)
One whole lemon, unpeeled, halved then sectioned, seeds removed
3/4 cups water
2 cups finely chopped muskmelon (canteloupe, honeydew, casaba, etc.)
2 cups finely chopped nectarines
1Tbsp lemon juice
3 cups sugar (raw, rapadura, whatevs)

Combine chopped apples, lemon pieces, and water in a large, non-reactive heavy saucepan and bring to a boil. Cover, reduce heat, and simmer until apple is soft, about 10 minutes. The lemon will have cooked down to the peel--remove the pieces of peel. Original recipe has you push the mixture through a strainer at this point. You could do that, sure...or you could do what I did, and take your immersion (stick) blender to it right in the pan, and puree the apple pieces. Worked a treat.

Add melon, nectarines, and lemon juice, and bring to a full rolling boil. (This is where I used to mess up a lot of jams, and I never could understand why my jams didn't want to set. I was too timid in cooking them. You want the stuff to BOIL. Hard. I realize now that this is why jam recipes always call for a "large" saucepan or pot--you have to allow enough room in the pot for the jam to really rock and roll and pop and splatter...in other words, boil.) Gradually stir in sugar until completely dissolved. Boil rapidly, stirring frequently, until jam stage is reached, about 20 minutes. You could speed things along here by adding pectin, but it's not needed.

To check for "jam stage," put a clean spoon into the mixture and lift it out, looking at the back of the spoon. You want to see the jam coming off the spoon in a solid sheeting action. Additionally, if you put a little plate or two in the freezer before you start, you can drop a blob of the jam mixture onto a frozen plate, let it cool, then run your finger through it. If a gap remains where you dragged your digit, it's jam. If the "trench" fills in, keep cooking. Or, you could be sensible and just use a candy thermometer and watch for the magic 220F. I haven't gotten sensible yet.

Once jam stage is achieved, remove from heat and stir jam for 5 minutes. I don't know why, but I did it, and it turned out perfect, so you just hush and do it, too. Skim foam if necessary (I didn't have to). Pour jam into hot, sterilized jars, adjust lids, and process in a boiling water bath for however long you usually do with jams...I did mine for 10 minutes before I noticed that this recipe calls for 5 minutes. *shrug*

This was my first time using these crazy little Italian jars, and I had to go to Facebook for help with the oddly translated instructions for getting the one-piece lids to seal. You have to put them in the water bath when the water is close to the same temperature as the filled jars, then bring it up to the boil, process, and then just take the canning pot off the heat and leave the jars in the water until it's all cooled. Kinda weird, but totally worth it for the cute factor of the finished product, I think.

You Should Totally Drink This

2010-08-17T01:33:00.000-07:00

This is another recipe that I first made back when it was strawberry season in Arkansas (which is to say, late May), but I know from The Twitter and The Facebook that lots of you people are having strawberries right now, which is grossly unfair. Our season was shorter than ever this year, but I did manage to get several quarts into the freezer. Not as many as I'd like, but at least some. I served this drink to my family at the lake on a holiday weekend, along with some Mozzarella Caprese featuring fresh homemade mozzarella. It was a big day for balsamic vinegar.

Yes, balsamic vinegar is in that drink. As is basil. You're gonna have to trust me here, because this is super refreshing. I stumbled across this recipe a couple of places, and it just looked so good I had to try it...and I kept making it, because YUM. I did a few things differently, because...well, because I just did. And I've done it a couple different way since, so I'll just mention those as we go.

NOTE: You'll need to make the syrup at least one day before you plan to serve this drink.

Strawberry Balsamic Basil Soda

Basil Syrup:
1 cup water
1 cup minced fresh basil leaves
8-10 bruised basil stems
1 cup sweetener of choice (sugar, Splenda, agave syrup, even honey...I've also experimented with stevia extract, though that requires that you use more water and monkey with it a bit)

Strawberry Balsamic Puree:
2 cups chopped strawberries
2 Tablespoons GOOD balsamic vinegar (Modena--don't skimp)

Carrier:
Sparkling water, sparkling wine, tonic, seltzer, club soda...anything bubbly and neutral-ish

Syrup: In a saucepan, combine water, sweetener of choice, and basil stems. Stir to dissolve sweetener, and bring to a light boil for a minute or so. Remove from heat, cover, and let stand for 10 minutes. Add the minced basil leaves to the pan, cover, and let stand a half hour or so (until it's cool). Remove basil stems, and transfer the rest to a Mason jar with a lid, and let it steep in the refrigerator overnight. Strain out the minced basil just prior to serving.

Puree: Use a blender, food processor, or stick (immersion) blender to puree the chopped strawberries with the balsamic vinegar. You want it as smooth as possible.

Prepare four tall glasses and have whole basil leaves ready for garnish. Pour 1/2 cup strawberry balsamic puree into each glass, and add one cup of seltzer (or whatever carrier you've chosen) and 1-4 Tablespoons of the basil syrup, depending on your taste for sweetness (In my opinion, each glass needs about 3Tbsp of the syrup, which is why I doubled the original recipe), to each glass. Finish with ice to fill glasses, stir gently to combine, and add basil leaves to garnish.

Cheers!

Plumb Luscious Plum Sauce

2010-08-15T01:26:00.000-07:00

Plum season has come and gone here, and I didn't get a chance to write this up in time, but hopefully some of you in more northern climes are still getting some plums, or maybe you froze some until you figured out what to do with them...let me tell you, this is what to do with them.

I froze a good number of plums for smoothies, and made plum jam, and the darn things were so delicious that I went back to the Certified Arkansas Farmers Market the next week and bought another box of plums from The Russian Farmer. Froze some more, and decided that I wanted to do something really special with the last of them, since there wouldn't be any more fresh local plums this year. So I did what I always do when faced with such a quandary: I took it to Twitter (and by extension, Facebook, since my Twitter updates post there as well). I was rewarded with the most amazing plum sauce recipe EVER, from the lovely Joie of Canned Laughter. I only made a couple of tiny, inconsequential changes to Joie's original recipe, and I'll note those for you as we come to them.

JOIE'S PLUM SAUCE:

* 4 lbs. Dark Plums
* 8 oz. Onions
* 1 scant cup Golden Raisins
* 2 tsp. each: Whole Allspice, Peppercorns, Mustard Seeds
* 1/2 tsp. Cayenne Pepper
* 1 inch piece of bruised Ginger Root (~1/4 oz.)***I at least tripled this amount, and chopped it up--we love ginger!
* 2-1/2 cups Brown Malt Vinegar (or substitute Apple Cider Vinegar)***I used both
* 2-1/2 Tbs. pickling salt
* 1-1/3 cups soft Brown Sugar, light

Start with four pounds of beautiful, ripe (but not overripe) plums. Joie's recipe called for "dark plums," which is good, because that's what I had. Wash, chop, and pit them--no need to peel them at this time (or ever, if you do it the way I did).

Find a kid to peel the ginger for you, because peeling ginger root is a pain in the nether regions. Use a whole one-inch chunk to follow Joie's recipe, or three times that much, chopped, if you're doing it my way.

Bundle the whole spices (allspice, peppercorns, and mustard seed) in a bit of cheesecloth, tied up and secured in a nice little bindle. I fasten mine with a zip-tie, and cut off the excess cloth.

In a heavy, non-reactive (no aluminum, no non-coated iron, no copper) pot, combine chopped plums, chopped onions, raisins, ginger, half the vinegar (My bottle of malt vinegar wasn't quite enough for this recipe, so I made up the rest with organic ACV),cayenne pepper, and the sachet of whole spices.

Bring this mixture to the boil, then reduce temperature and simmer gently for about 30 minutes, or until plums are soft and pulpy. It just gets more and more beautiful as it simmers.

This next part is where I disobeyed Joie's instructions. My sauce turned out amazing, and I'm sure it does when done her way, too--heck, her way might be better. But I am lazy, and I also hate to waste anything, plus I like a strong ginger "bite" to sauces like this. So, to follow Joie's instructions, at this point you'll want to remove the spice bag, and strain the cooked sauce into another container, rubbing the contents through a fine sieve before returning the strained mixture to the original, rinsed pot.

What I did was simply to remove the spice bag, and puree everything until it was perfectly smooth. Use a blender, a food processor, or the easiest option, an immersion (stick) blender, right in the cooking pot.

Whichever route you choose, at this point you'll add in the salt, sugar, and the remaining vinegar. Bring the mixture back up to the boil, and keep it at a good bubbling simmer for about an hour, stirring occasionally to prevent sticking. It should reduce down a good bit, and thicken up some.

Ladle hot sauce carefully into hot, sterilized jars, adjust lids and rims, and process in a boiling water bath canner for 10 minutes (more if at higher altitudes--check your local extension office guidelines). Rest for 24 hours before storing in a cool, dark place (mine just live in a kitchen cabinet). Joie says that her recipe yields 2 pints, or 4 half-pint jelly jars. My batch, as you can tell from the picture at the top of this post, yielded 7 half-pint jars...probably because I pureed everything instead of straining anything out.

I really appreciate Joie sharing her recipe with me, because this plum sauce is simply divine! And look how pretty it is! This would make an amazing gift, if you are a better person than me and can resist the urge to hoard it all for yourself. I'm imagining many wonderful uses for this delicious sauce...on lamb, on chicken, or to elevate pork roast to another level altogether. And desserts? Oh, the options are endless.

Just Peachy! Part Two, Quick Fresh Peach-Tomato-Cucumber Salsa

2010-07-08T18:56:00.001-07:00

See all that stuff there? Go gather it up. I'll wait.

*tap, tap*

Oh, OK, I'll tell you what it is. Unlike yesterday's Peach-Tomato Salsa recipe, this one, using all raw ingredients, is virtually instant. Seriously, you can have it on the table in minutes from start to finish. Do NOT leave out the cucumber. I'm convinced that is what gives it its bright, fresh taste...it tastes like summer.

Fresh Peach-Tomato-Cucumber Salsa

Equal parts of the following, chopped (for measurement purposes, we'll call it a cup each):

Peaches, peeled and pitted
Tomato, cored and seeded
Cucumber, partially peeled

And:

One medium Vidalia (or other sweet) onion, peeled
One medium bell pepper, any color, seeded
2-4 fresh jalapenos, seeded
A handful of fresh cilantro, to taste
2-4 cloves garlic, crushed then chopped

And:

Lime juice, just a bit
1-2 Tbsp honey, or more to taste
A splash of white wine vinegar (this makes a huge difference)
1-2 tsp ground cumin
Salt to taste

Instructions? Combine all ingredients.

Just like before, it's up to you whether you chop or puree. And just like before, if you want it to be gorgeous, you'll chop everything uniformly. The colors are just beautiful. But if, like me, you like pureed salsa, or, like me, you are lazy, you'll just load everything into the food processor or blender and let 'er rip. Adjust the seasoning ingredients to taste at the end, adding anything you think might give it your own personal zing.

Then, you needa EAT THAT. I am not kidding when I tell you that Alex and I put away the first batch all by ourselves, in one sitting, in bed with a giant bag of tortilla chips and an awful movie. And it makes at least a quart. It's that good.

Just Peachy! Part One, Cooked Peach Tomato Salsa For Canning (or not)

2010-07-07T19:40:00.000-07:00

I love peaches. LOVE them. That smell alone just makes me happy. So the last couple of times I've been to the farmers' market, I've come home loaded down with a box full. I cut a bunch up and flash froze then vacuum sealed them, so I can have fresh peaches to put in smoothies or cook with long after their picking season has come and gone, but when it comes to peaches, there's so much more you can do.

I've had really good success with a couple of different peach salsas this year, and wanted to share them. The first one is a cooked peach-tomato salsa that I processed in jars for storage, and the second one is fresh and raw. Both are totally delicious. I'd recommend the cooked version for topping chicken or pork or adding to tacos, etc., and the uncooked version ROCKS on tortilla chips. I'm doing a separate post for each one, starting with the cooked salsa.

You'll notice lots of "ranges" in my ingredients list, partly because I was winging it, and partly because taste is so subjective. You might like things more spicy, or less salty, or loaded with garlic and onions. Taste it and go with what you like.

Peach Tomato Salsa

Yield: At least 8 pints

4-5 cups chopped tomatoes (skinned and seeded)
9-10 cups chopped peaches (skinned and pitted, duh)
1-2 cups chopped onion, depending on your taste for onions (I used two Vidalias)
3 large Bell peppers, any color (I used one each red, yellow and green)
4-6 fresh jalapenos, chopped, or more if you like heat
1 cup white wine vinegar
A bunch of cilantro, fresh or dried (since I was gonna be cooking it anyway, I used dried) to taste
1/3 cup honey
Juice of 2-4 limes
3-6 cloves garlic, crushed then chopped
2-4 tsp. cayenne pepper
2-4 tsp cumin
Salt to taste (or not at all)

You need about 15 medium-sized tomatoes: enough to make 4-5 cups of chopped tomatoes once they've been skinned and cored/seeded. Here's the easy way to do that. Even better if you have a kid around.

While you get a big pot of water boiling, fill a huge bowl, or your sink, with ice water. Drop the tomatoes into the boiling water. Watch them, and when their skins start to split, take them out, and immediately plunge them into a bowl or sink full of ice water until they're completely cool.

Might as well take advantage of that already-boiling water, and give the peaches the same treatment. Only this time, you're not waiting for their skins to split--time it, and give them about 60 seconds. Do them in batches to avoid overcooking any (I think I used about 20 medium-sized peaches). The skins should be just slightly "loose."

After they've cooled, all you have to do is gently rub the tomatoes and peaches, and the skins will slip right off. This is a perfect job for a child who keeps begging, "Let me help!" but who you mightn't want handling giant pots of boiling liquids.

Yay, nekkid fruits!

Then the boring part: You get to core the tomatoes and squoosh out all the seeds, and pit and chop the peaches. Kids are good for the squooshing (and can just tear the cores out with their hands) while you handle the knife work on the peaches.

If your peaches are going to be sitting around for any length of time, go ahead and squeeze the limes over them and mix well, to keep them nice and bright. Otherwise, you can add the lime juice at any time.

This is the point at which you decide how chunky you want your salsa (and how much time you want to spend standing at a cutting board chopping stuff up--or slaving over a food processor, whatever). For presentation purposes, having everything chopped uniformly, and kind of chunky, is definitely the most visually stunning choice, because of all the colors. Personally, I like my salsa un-chunky. I wound up splitting the difference and chopping the peaches, but pureeing everything else. Any excuse to use my Kitchen Ninja. I love that thing.

Get it all in a heavy non-reactive pot (no uncoated iron, no aluminum), add your honey, herbs, vinegar, and spices, and cook it just briefly...bring to a boil and let it bubble for, say, 6 or 7 minutes. This is where you can adjust your seasonings, add salt, whatever.

All done! You can chill some to serve right away, package it in freezer jars or bags, or go ahead and process it to store in jars on the shelf, or even give as gifts (if you're insane). I know if you've never done it before, "processing" sounds scary, and you're afraid you're gonna give everyone botulism. But if I can do it, anyone can, and water-bath canning is not that intimidating. All it really is, when you get right down to it, is funneling your salsa into piping-hot sterilized jars (you can sterilize them in your dishwasher on the hot setting, boil them, or heat them in your oven), covering with a hot, sterilized lid, screwing on that ring, then placing the filled jars on a rack in a ginormous pot of boiling water for ten minutes. That's it. Really.

When you take your beautiful jars out and place them on a clean towel on your counter top, drying the tops, the best part soon follows...listening for that magical "POP!" that tells you you did it right. I love that pop.

Next post will be a quick, easy recipe for a fresh raw peach-tomato-cucumber salsa you can throw together in minutes, and WOW whoever you feed it to. You gotta try it.

Little Bee

2010-04-13T18:26:00.000-07:00

Little Bee by Chris Cleave

My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I don't want to say too much about the plot, because I read this book on a spontaneous whim, when it was recommended to me by Kindle because I enjoyed The Help. I knew nothing about it going in, and it was a remarkable and delightful discovery. Given the subject matter, you'd expect the author to have given the novel a preachy, heavy-handed tone, but he didn't. It's a real gift, in my opinion, when a writer can allow the reader to do most of the legwork in that regard. You're left to develop your own readings of the characters and their motives, and trust me--you will.

View all my reviews >>

Big Breakfast. Or Little Breakfasts. Whatever.

2010-04-12T20:02:00.000-07:00

salami mini-frittatas
Originally uploaded by ninjapoodles

This is another breakfast shortcut--anything that cuts down on what I have to do in the morning is good in my book. Plus we all do better throughout the day if we get a hit of protein first thing in the morning. It's so hard to get out of that whole "morning is the time to eat cereal grains" mindset, but that really is the worst thing you can do to your poor body after a night-long fast. OK, maybe not worse than skipping breakfast entirely. But close.

Anyway, this was so incredibly easy, and it's endlessly customizable. Basically, they're just little mini oven-baked frittatas. You can do them in regular muffin cups or minis (pictured here).

6 eggs
1 cup of any cheese (I used sharp cheddar here)
1 cup total of other add-ins (I used 3/4 c salami and 1/4c chives)
salt & pepper and/or herbs to taste
splash of milk or cream (or almond milk, etc.--even water)

Mix it all together, pour into WELL greased muffin cups (I sprayed mine too lightly with Pam, and they stuck on the bottoms), and bake at 350 just until eggs are set. You don't want them brown. 20-30 minutes-ish. Cool, then refrigerate or freeze, and give 'em a zap in the morning for breakfast.

Eggs are so awesome. Seriously, do anything here. Bacon, mushrooms, onions, sausage, spinach, feta...basically anything that would be good in an omelet or a quiche would work fine.

Big Promise

2010-04-11T19:36:00.000-07:00

Every year, I have these big, big plans for my garden. And every year, my grand schemes are realized in yet another Garden of Fail. The lettuces bolt overnight, the beans don't bear, the corn is stunted, slugs beat me to the strawberries, and worms devour the broccoli and cauliflower down to the stems. I don't use poisons or chemical growth enhancers, because for me, that defeats the purpose of growing produce at home. I can buy chemical-laden plants at the grocery store, way cheaper than what my time and labor is worth--there'd be no point in growing veggies and fruit at home that way.

So here we are once again. It's Spring, and I'm rooting around in the dirt. I'm replenishing the raised beds with fresh soil and starting over. This year, if I don't make it work, I think I'll have to give up. I have reinforcements this time. I've got weed cloth, row covers, and Escar-Go. The baby broccoli will be covered up so the cabbage moths can't get to it (though I'm a bit confused over when/how to uncover for pollination, so if you have tips on that, lemme know). The slugs will be baited and dealt with (hopefully) before they nom on my luscious strawberries. I'm limiting my plans to things that we will actually eat, and a smaller selection of those, in hopes that my reach will not exceed my grasp this time.

Here's the lineup for spring, with possible changes/additions happening during the summer and fall growing seasons:

Broccoli
Leeks
Brussels Sprouts
Cucumbers
Onions
Bell Peppers: Red, Yellow, and Green
Bush Beans
Strawberries
Sugar Baby Melons
Roma Tomatoes

That's right. ONLY Romas. Aside from the occasional batch of fried green ones, we don't like tomatoes, Sam I Am. We like tomato SAUCE. So all we need is a freezer full of home-grown Romas to get us through the year.

We have herbs going great guns already--that's something even I can't screw up. They grow like crazy in spite of me, even the ones that are in pots and never watered. We've got basil, oregano, thyme, sage, chives, rosemary, parsley, dill, lavender and about a half acre (at least it seems that way) of mint. I think I'm going to try drying herbs this year, so any advice on that front is appreciated.

I do have a bit of good news about things that made it over the winter here, besides herbs. Strawberries, as mentioned, are looking strong and already blooming. We should have a good little berry harvest if I can keep the slugs off them!

And just in the last couple of weeks, the grapevines I'd given up for dead sprang back to life. Let that be a lesson to my fellow gardenoobs: Grapevines in winter look very, very dead. But look! It's alive (and smothered in mint)!

Also featured in long-range growing plans, and doing well in their second year:

Blueberries
Blackberries
Granny Smith and Arkansas Black Apples
Peaches
Pears
Plums
Montmorency Cherries

These things should all be going strong by the time I'm ready to move away from here, I figure.

So what are you growing and what advice do you have for newbies like me?

Big Moves, Dog and Pony Show Edition

2010-04-10T21:25:00.000-07:00

The other day, I put a shout-out up on Facebook asking for help hauling horses to the vet for Coggins tests, the first step in getting them re-homed. My good friend Lisa responded right away, and we made plans for today. She was here first thing this morning, and we caught who we could (all but one) and took off for the vet.

By the time we'd gotten the horses into the trailer, Lisa had decided to just take Kate and her baby on home with her after the vet. I did NOT object. This was the best possible outcome for Kate, who is running happily on acres and acres of beautiful grass now, instead of picking her way through rocks over here on the Mountainside of Barren Terrain. The relief I feel is enormous, as was the sense of joy I got from watching that filly stretch out and really run for the first time in her young life. Lisa owns Kate's full sister, who had a foal of her own just a few days after Kate foaled, so the two of them will grow up together, playing as only baby horses can. I love it.

They didn't so much as look back when they got out of the trailer, which was fine with me.

Lisa went back out later and got some better shots...looks like these girls are gonna be just fine. Now I only need homes for two more horses!

Oh, and also on that trip, Erik the colt became Erik the gelding. He doesn't want to talk about it, and requests no pictures be taken at this sensitive time. He'll get back to you later, when he has reconciled himself to his new identity as one of the nutless.

We'd no more than pulled back onto our street when my cell phone rang to let me know that Kathy and Caitlen were in town to pick up Reggie and Gabby for a little vacation in Indianapolis. Reggie will be romancing the lovely Josephine, and a couple of other Indiana ladies, and I'm sure he'll deliver some beautiful puppies for the Hoosiers. I mean, how could this pair miss?

CH Renaissance Creative Impulse, "Reggie"

CH Serenade's Sweet Surprise, "Josephine"

Oh, and that bitch? Is a thousand times more gorgeous in person, if you can believe it. She created such a stir in the PetsMart parking lot that her owner, Caitlen, ultimately had to HIDE her so we could have a minute of peace. People came from all corners to admire her and ask all kinds of crazy questions. My favorite: "Is that a poodle?" Nope, wolverine. Stand back!

Also traveling is our beautiful, sweet Gabby. Gabby is kind of Mommy's special pocket dog, and she'll be sorely missed while she's gone. But she and handsome Taz will no doubt deliver the next generation of champions in silver for Sue and Kathy. I'm nearly giddy with anticipation to see what comes of this cross.

CH Kallista Tintype At Renaissance, "Taz"

CH Aery Silde Straight Talk, "Gabby"

Since things are still way too upside-down here for us to be doing any breeding or showing at present, I'm grateful to Sue and Kathy and Caitlin for allowing us to keep our noses in the game, and I'm glad that the next generation of amazing dogs is forthcoming.

It was a good day for us and our animals!

World War Z

2010-04-09T21:20:00.000-07:00

World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War by Max Brooks

My rating: 4 of 5 stars
I liked this book so much I'm reading it again just over a year later. I remain woefully underprepared for the impending zombie apocalypse.

View all my reviews >>

Big Business

2010-04-08T19:05:00.000-07:00

I've spent most of today with Craigslist. I've listed a bunch of hunting equipment and gear, and some other things, and I've also been looking for likely candidates to do some work around here that needs doing. I've a barn that needs cleaned out, junk to haul off, and some heavy housework that I just can't manage on my own, plus Bella was given a playset by her grandmother over a year ago that still hasn't been assembled. Lots of stuff.

I have a bit of trouble staying on-task with Craigslist, because there are just so many fabulous diversions to be had. Usually, the good stuff is from other places. Urban areas. Big cities. New York and San Francisco. But by golly, Arkansas is catching up.

I've just solved all my problems, I think. In looking for house cleaners, just stumbled across this local guy, with an ad titled, "Butt* Naked Stud Monkey." What will Butt Naked Stud Monkey do for you? What WON'T BNSM do for you?

"Will do odd jobs around the house fully unclothed 5o buckaroos an hour obo...you can call me Lambo."

Lambo, don't sell yourself short. You hold firm to that 50 buckaroo rate--don't haggle! Stud Monkeys are rare enough; Butt Naked Stud Monkeys even more so.

Upon refreshing the page a bit later, I found a new listing, titled "Male House Cleaner Needs Houses." Looks like someone is trying to build a new business, but I was curious why he needed to include his gender in the listing. His ad says he's been cleaning houses for 10 years, and then kind of as an afterthought, adds, "I offer bottomless cleaning also." OK, really? Is this something that's in demand? The thought of some random guy in my house with no pants on is disconcerting enough, but when you add in activities that will have said random guy bending, stooping, straining, grunting...yeah, I'm gonna pass. Then again...what if these guys really are the best, and it's the pantslessness that frees them up to do such a superb job? Hmmmm.

Now to compile a list of household chores that don't involve bending over.

*Exactly when did we go from the phrase "buck naked" to the phrase "butt naked?" That doesn't even make sense. What does it mean? "I'm naked...EVEN MY BUTT?"

Big Chip On Mama's Shoulder

2010-04-07T21:39:00.000-07:00

So last week, Bella had a bad fall off of the high monkey bars at school, and fell with a "WHUMP!" flat on her back onto the gravel of the playground. She reassured me that it was at least nice smooth river rock gravel, as opposed to pointy slate gravel, but still. Rocks is rocks, and OUCH. Since she couldn't stop crying for an hour, the school nurse called and said we'd better come on and get her, which of course we did.

I took her to the ER, and based on her symptoms (her back hurt, yes, but her CHEST hurt more than anything), they performed an X-Ray and diagnosed her with a "chest wall contusion." And there was some heavily-accented mumbling about the point where the sternum attaches to something else being "knocked loose," or something, basically meaning that while she was fine and nothing was broken, she was gonna be sore for some time. We were instructed to keep her quiet for a couple of weeks, no heavy impact activities, etc.

I called the school and reported in, then kept her home the next day, and sent her back the following Monday with a note from the ER doctor.

This brings us to Tuesday, when my child, who had been improving steadily, and was really doing a great job of assessing her pain and adjusting her activities accordingly, climbed into the car after school wincing at every movement. This kept up well into the next day, and I finally asked her if her chest was hurting more, because if so, we needed to check back in with the doctor. She said, "Well, it was a lot better, but then yesterday, they took us outside for a reward for doing good on the benchmark testing, and they had games. We had to do a sack race, in teams, and hopping really hurt."

*blink, blink* "Honey, if you'd just told the teacher in charge that it hurt you to do that, she'd have let you sit out."

"Nuh-uhh. I DID tell her, as soon as I took two hops and I knew that it hurt, I TOLD her that I couldn't do it because it hurt my chest! And she said that she didn't have a note from my parents saying anything about that, so I had to go finish the race."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah. I tried to make little tiny hops so they wouldn't hurt, but they still did. And then my team was mad at me because I went so slow I made them lose."

And then Mommy's heart broke. And then Mommy got mad.

"So they have to have a NOTE, do they? From your PARENTS? Saying that they have our permission NOT TO HURT YOU? Bring me a piece of paper, honey, I have to write a note to your school."

I think I managed to maintain my decorum, explaining the nature of my child's injury and asking that they please respect her pain threshold, and that if she tells them that an activity hurt, they please NOT FORCE HER TO CONTINUE SAID ACTIVITY. And yeah, I did resort to all caps in one section, which I hope they saw not as yelling, but as an firm but genteel raising of the voice, in a civilized manner.

I think what really annoyed me is that the girl TOLD them that the activity was causing her pain, and they essentially responded that unless she had "backup" in the form of a note from an adult, then she had absolutely zero credibility in representing her own health, her own feelings, her own PAIN. It's telling her that she is not worth believing, not even when it's something important like a medical condition or injury that they could be exacerbating by ignoring her...which is precisely what they did. She hurt for two solid days after the sack race incident, and is still saying "ouch" when I hug or hold her. Grrrrrr.

And it's not like my child is a liar, or even has a history of exaggerating her pain, illness, or other problems for sympathy or special treatment or attention. Quite the contrary--the morning after the accident, she WANTED to go to school. She kept saying, "I think I can do it, if I just go really slow and no one touches me." So when THIS kid evaluates her pain level, and says, "I'd better not do this, it hurts me," then I just feel that SHE SHOULD BE RESPECTED AS A HUMAN BEING. A small human being, yes, but a human being nonetheless.

Shouldn't she? Shouldn't all our kids? Kids, like babies, are PEOPLE, same as adults.

I really hope my note wasn't over-the-top snarky, but then again, with the knowledge that we've been rezoned into a new school next year, I might not've been all that careful...

Big LOLs

2010-04-06T21:48:00.000-07:00

I have to interrupt any sort of coherent posting to share the best shirt for sale on the whole Internet right now.

You can get it here. I love the product description: "The font and spacing is bad, evoking the terrible writing of the Twilight series."

Born To Run

2010-04-05T23:05:00.000-07:00

Born to Run: A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen by Christopher McDougall

My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I award five stars to this book based largely on the "you must read this" influence it had on me. I think I've told just about every thinking person that I've encountered, "You must read this book!"

Change your shoes; change your life. That's an ever-present theme, and it's one that hit home with me for sure, based on the drama of my crazy feet and all they've been through. Ever since a riding accident in 1992, in which a shattering impact on asphalt caused all the bones in the navicular area of my right foot to go, "KABLOOEY," and the subsequent surgeries, years of casting, surgical hardware and yes, even bone grafts, I have been on a constant search for the magical shoe that will give me the greatest mobility with the least discomfort. And always, no matter how short a time I'm in them, my first priority upon getting home is to GET THE SHOES OFF. It turns out that my "there is no shoe that feels better than...well, NO SHOES" philosophy was pretty much right on target.

I'm doing even better since discovering these babies, which I'd have done much sooner if I'd read McDougall's book earlier!

While there is tons of material here regarding the biomechanics of gait and movement, which I personally found fascinating, there's also plenty of storytelling, and the subjects are well worth the time spent running off on tangents in the middle of other tales. (Heck, I'd read a whole collection of short stories, just about the characters in this book, mainly the Tarahumara and the Gringo distance runners, but also the scientists, coaches, and other visionaries.) From some reviews I read, this tangential storytelling style rather annoyed some readers, but to me it felt completely organic to the flow of the larger theme. This could be a personal interpretation, since this is pretty much the way I myself tell stories...I have to make a few pit stops along the way to the destination, visit a few side trails, maybe stop at a Stuckey's for a pecan log. I can honestly say that there wasn't a time that, after one of McDougall's "detours," I thought, "Well, that was pointless." It was all woven in very naturally, to me.

Do yourself a favor, and read this book. Please don't think that just because you're not a runner (I'm not, not since "Frankenfoot"), this book won't speak to you. It seems to have something for everyone. You have to get close to the end before you get into what, for me, was the serious payoff--the examination of evolutionary evidence of homo sapiens' destiny of distance running. That was a game-changer for me, and the proof offered for that thesis is compelling. I was stunned to learn what we share in common, physiologically, with horses and dogs and other "running" animals, as opposed to chimps and other "walking" animals. We really were "born to run!"

So, the short version: Yes, McDougall is given to hyperbole. Yes, he tends to meander a bit while getting to his point. But sometimes, when you're on a long trip, you've just gotta stop and see the world's biggest ball of twine and maybe get a pecan log, right? Read this book, and be prepared to want to just run right out your front door and keep going...possibly with no shoes on.

View all my reviews >>

Big News

2010-04-04T21:54:00.001-07:00

big news
Originally uploaded by ninjapoodles

Hey. You guys. My mom got married. I thought that Easter was a good day to make the announcement, what with this being a time of rebirth and fresh starts. He's a heckuva nice guy, with a wonderful family. I finally have those brothers I always wanted, and two new sisters and two adorable new nephews, to boot! When your family is as good as mine, more family is always a good thing! We're blessed, indeed.

The Big Outdoors

2010-04-03T20:52:00.000-07:00

Are you getting outside? It's spring, you know. If your allergies can take it, get out there! The oak pollen is trying to kill us all, but we're Zyrtecced up and fighting back as best we can.

And? If any horse people local to me would be interested in some very fine Arabian horses, I have some ready for good homes. Give me a holler, and let's talk. They have GOT to go, because on one salary, I cannot afford to feed them. One mare with a foal at her side, a two-year-old filly, and a pony-sized four-year-old colt. Absotively gorgeous, every one of them.

God bless us, every one, and a happy Easter tomorrow.

Big Smooth

2010-04-02T11:27:00.000-07:00

I've been making smoothies for a while now. Our whole family loves them, and it's an easy way to pack in a lot of nutrients at once. If you're in it for pure flavor, recipes like this can't be beat. I've now adjusted my thinking on the smoothie's role in my family's nutrition since those days, and it's gone from being a sorta-healthy treat to becoming a real nutritional workhorse in our diet. I've gotten a lot of emails and DMs asking for ingredients and measurements, so I'm gonna give it a go here. This is a process that you really eyeball and taste as you go, but I've tried to observe and record approximate measurements as I went along this time. I'll explain the low-carb version that I make for myself (and Alex), and then show how that can be changed and added to with Bella's "everything but the kitchen sink" version.

THIS IS A RECIPE FOR TWO. First into the blender (or Magic Bullet, or Kitchen Ninja--yes, I have them all) is liquid--a good bit of it. Back in the sugar-high days, I used straight juice, and even supplemented that with a splash of tart cherry concentrate. Delicious, but OMG the sugar. Even orange juice contains a full day's carbohydrate allowance for me per cup. Now if I use juice, I put in about 1/2 cup, then add a cup or so of water to that. I flavor that up with a teaspoon or so of lime juice and a few drops of stevia or a couple packets of Splenda. Another really easy solution to the liquid problem is to use sugar-free limeaid. It provides the perfect base flavor for all manner of fruit smoothies. The reason I use so much liquid is that I don't use ice...more on that later. For now, just follow along, and trust me.

Next in: A couple tablespoons of chia seeds. Yes, chia. THAT chia. You can do your own Googling on the nutritional benefits of chia, or salba, or iskiate. If you've read Christopher McDougall's amazing book, "Born To Run," then you've been introduced to chia seeds. An excerpt:

[Iskiate is]...brewed up by dissolving chia seeds in water with a little sugar and a squirt of lime. In terms of nutritional content, a tablespoon of chia is like a smoothie made from salmon, spinach, and human growth hormone. As tiny as those seeds are, they're super-packed with Omega 3s, Omega 6s, protein, calcium, iron, zinc, fiber, and anitoxidants. If you had to pick just one desert-island food, you couldn't do much better than chia, at least if you were interested in building muscle, lowering cholesterol, and reducing your risk of heart disease; after a few months on the chia diet, you could probably swim home.

McDougall hearts hyperbole just a bit, but he's on target here. I used to try to grind the seeds prior to use, thinking they would be like flax seeds, and pass through your system intact. I couldn't really do the "gel method" that most people seem to, where you reconstitute the seeds with water into a substance that resembles frog eggs and eat them straight, because ewwww. I recently consulted a chia-eater friend, and she said she just dumps hers into smoothies straight. My solution has been to dump them into the smoothie liquid at the start of the process, which gives them time to start absorbing liquid and doing their chia thang. So anyway, couple tablespoons of chia seeds. You can get them from this friendly hippie, who will include a free sample of other stuff, instructions on how to use chia seeds, and a hand-written note encouraging you to adopt a raw food diet. If you're like me, you will mentally wish him well while saying "NO, THANK YOU" to the latter. I need my cooked meat.

Here I plop in a couple tablespoons (remember this is for two servings) of a good quality coconut oil. I'm not a total organic fanatic--I can't afford to be, nor would I have the resources if I could. I do prioritize what I feel needs to be organic, however, and at the top of that list is fat, which really should be as clean as possible. That includes vegetable oils, meat, fish, and dairy sources of fat. So yeah, I pop for the organic coconut oil. This is also the substance I crank up when my weight-loss stalls. Sounds crazy, right? Not losing weight? MOAR FAT, PLZ. It has always worked. Listen, you need fat. You must have it to live. NONE of your organs can function without it. Don't be a fat phobic. Just avoid altered fats, and stick to pure, clean fats, and you'll be fine. Without grains, you're just fine (and arguably, better off). Without fat, you're dead. There's a lesson in that. Of course, you don't have to put the fat INTO your smoothie. You could just eat some along with it, or take your daily dose of fish oil at the same time--whatever floats your boat.

Why am I putting fat into my smoothies (or eating fat alongside them)? Because I'm about to pack a truckload of veggies and fruit into them, and all that good stuff that's in your veggies and fruit? Your body can't metabolize that stuff without...drumroll...FAT. This is what drives me nuts about self-appointed nutritional gurus like "Dr. Oz," who I heard last week prescribing diets FULL of fat-soluble nutrients, but not enough fat to metabolize those nutrients. (I also heard him tell an obese man to eliminate pasta from his diet because it "turns to candy in your bloodstream," and then follow that by telling him to snack on white-flour pretzels when he's hungry, but that's a rant for another time.) Onward to the good stuff.

Green leafy vegetables. Spinach is an easy choice, because you can buy pre-washed bags of tender, organic baby spinach, ready to go. I'm all about the convenience. Anything works here, really--chard, kale, any kind of greens, really, but spinach is my go-to-guy. For two servings, at least 4 cups of fresh spinach. That's right, FOUR CUPS. It blends down a lot, don't worry. A few carrots or beets in there won't be noticed, either...be creative. Anything goes. The recipe I'm talking about today did contain carrots.

Go ahead and blend up what you've got so far. Don't panic when it looks like this.

Next, we go to the berries. Any fruit, really, works fine, but I use berries for two reasons: Lower carb count, and spinach disguise. Not that I have to hide the spinach from my family; they know it's in there. But there's a psychological barrier for me in drinking a green drink. I know, grow up. Whatever. I almost always use strawberries and blueberries. Being locally available, and something I can stock up on, those are my go-to fruits. I'll add other berries, like raspberries and blackberries, cherries, whatever I've got on hand. Bella likes to add every fruit you can think of: peaches, apples, bananas, grapes, plums, everything. Pineapples, when used in a mixture with coconut oil, give a nice tropical drink flavor. Add rum, what do I care? Have fun with it. When in doubt about carb loads, stick to berries and grapes and stay away from the starchier fruits most of the time.

Here is the critical tip of this whole smoothie tutorial: FREEZE YOUR FRUIT. When you make smoothies with frozen fruit, you don't have to use ice. Also, this allows you to keep more on hand, especially if you have freezer space. Tomorrow marks the beginning of strawberry season in central Arkansas, and I'll be heading to the farmer's market to buy a flat of fresh, organic berries from my favorite grower. (Berries are also at the top of my "must be organic" list, because they are thin-skinned and porous.) I'll come home and wash and freeze those babies immediately, because I opened my last package of vacuum-sealed frozen berries from last year's crop today! The way you do this with berries is to flash-freeze the berries on a tray before you package and seal them for storage. That way they don't stick together, and you can grab a handful for your smoothies as needed. With strawberries, I slice the bigger ones prior to flash-freezing, so they're less work for the blender later.

So go ahead and whomp those berries in there. Depending on how hardcore you blender is, you might want to do them a few at a time, or all at once. If the mixture gets too thick, just add liquid. For today's recipe for two portions, I used about two cups of berries. Specifically strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries. Remember how I told you the spinach would be your secret? Behold (this also gives you an idea about the volume, when compared with the previous pic).

That picture wasn't so great, so I took another one, free of the frosted glass of the blender, to show the color.

Four cups of fresh spinach in there, yo.

Bella gets to decide on her smoothie ingredients if she gets up early enough, and she leans toward an Everything But The Kitchen Sink philosophy on smoothies. Today, hers had: Orange juice, 1 Tablespoon chia seeds, 1 Tablespoon coconut oil, 1.5 cups spinach, a carrot, strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, grapes, half a banana, a splash of lime juice, and a packet of Splenda. She sucked it down and asked for another. And yes, we drink them out of Mason jars. (How's that for hillbilly cred, Liv?)

Breakfast Is Big

2010-04-01T07:21:00.001-07:00

You know it's true. And it's one of my challenges--skipping breakfast is so much easier, and I am, above all, a total lazypants. We all know that a morning meal is important in any weight-loss program, to keep you energized and keep that metabolism running hot, and it's especially important on a low-carb eating plan, because in addition to the usual concerns, you're also trying to spread your carbohydrate consumption evenly out over the course of a whole day, starting early.

So what it boils down to, for me, are shortcuts. Which are really not shortcuts, in that I'm doing the full prep. I'm just doing them at other times besides the rush of mornings. I do as much prepare-ahead stuff as I possibly can for lunches and breakfasts, because I'd much rather be sleeping in the early morning hours than...well, than anything. I have a lot of breakfast foods that I prepare in advance and freeze or refrigerate for use during the week.

Bacon. You know it, you love it. It is not the enemy. I take a pound of thick-cut bacon at a time, put it in the freezer for about 15 minutes to make it easier to cut, then cut the slices into 1.5" squares. Spread those out in a heavy skillet on medium-high heat, and they cook perfectly. I store them in a sealed container in the fridge, and just grab a few of those little square pieces to round out a breakfast. Sausage also lends itself well to cooking ahead of time and freezing. I'm lucky right now to have a freezer-full of wild forested pork, courtesy of my brother-in-law, which made the cleanest, best-tasting sausage I've ever had. I highly recommend having a brother-in-law get attacked by nice plump wild boars while deer-hunting.

Mornings are just about the only time of day I actually use the microwave. It's perfect for cooking eggs in an instant. I can make a yummy little mini-omelet in about a minute in the microwave, or just a nice scrambled egg...and in my fridge there are those lovely bits of bacon or sausage, deli ham, several varieties of cheese, freeze-dried chives, and various veggies that can all be tossed into an egg scramble. I use a coffee mug to cook eggs--a quick blast of nonstick cooking spray, then crack an egg (or two) right in there, scramble, and nuke for 30 seconds. Scramble again, add extras if you want, and nuke another 20 seconds or so to finish.

I have always liked making pancakes or waffles in large batches and then freezing them for quick reheating on school days. It's a good idea to freeze them before bagging/wrapping them, so that they don't stick together. I've had to re-think what pancakes are made of, since my old favorite buttermilk pancakes don't exactly make that 10-net carb cutoff. I've gotten good results with Bob's Red Mill Low-Carb Baking Mix (Bella loves these with pecans and raw honey), but so far, my favorite LC pancakes are these, made with almond flour.* I served them to my daughter with homemade applesauce, and was hailed as Mom of the Year for most of the week. Hmmm, maybe that made me just Mom of the Week. Whatever.

Almond Flour Pancakes
1 cup almond flour
2 large eggs
1/4 cup water
2 Tablespoons oil (Coconut oil does beautifully in these)
1/4 teaspoon sea salt
Sweetener equivalent to 1 Tablespoon sugar--the granulated Splenda works measure for measure, or 1-2 packets, or a few drops of stevia to taste. The latter is the way to go for zero additional carbs--Splenda adds some carbohydrate. These babies come in at just under ONE gram net carb each, or about 6g effective carbs for the entire batch.

Mix everything together and cook them just like regular pancakes. They require some care in flipping, as they're a bit delicate. I'm going to try this recipe next with cream, since the carb count on them is so low. I've also seen suggestions for using sparkling water to fluff them up a bit, though I haven't tried that.

I try to round off breakfast with a veggie and fruit smoothie; Today, for example, Bella had a peanut butter sandwich and a smoothie. She loves smoothies, and so do I. Hers are a bit "juicier," since I have to really watch the juice in mine--mine generally have just a splash of juice with a good bit of water to dilute it. Today's smoothies, for all of us, contained orange juice, key lime juice, water, stevia, frozen strawberries, frozen blueberries, frozen raspberries, spinach, carrots, coconut oil, and chia seeds. They were a big hit!

*A note on almond flour: In my grocery store, a 1-lb. bag of almond flour runs about $10. You can order the kind I use from Honeywell for nearly half that, plus $4.49 shipping on any size order. You can also get it from Amazon, though it costs a couple dollars more, not including shipping.

EDIT: I've already gotten some questions about some of the more unusual ingredients I've mentioned here, so I added links to the actual products/brands I use. I pretty much get everything from Amazon, because I have a Prime account that gives me free shipping (and that Prime membership pays for itself by February each year--look into it). The exception today is with the almond flour, which, as noted above, can be gotten cheaper directly from the source.

Horns

2010-04-01T06:01:00.001-07:00

Horns by Joe Hill

My rating: 4 of 5 stars
Looking for a good time? See Joe Hill.

View all my reviews >>

Big Doin's

2010-03-31T19:02:00.000-07:00

I think Eden has lured me back into regular blogging with April's theme: "Big." Big being what I am, and what I don't want to be, and big being the burden of things that must be done around here, and big being the stresses we're under. I think I'm going to focus on food, weight-loss, and organizing. Gee, but this is a familiar refrain. I lost a good amount of weight last spring, pretty quickly, by eliminating grains and sugar and keeping effective carb counts down to 10 or fewer per meal/snack. It was easy. And then, when things got hectic, I just kind gave up and went back to eating whatever Alex and Bella were eating--yeah, that didn't work out so great for me. So now it's back on the horse. And this time, I'm taking everyone with me...for the most part. Everyone's going to get plenty of good healthy food, and I'm going to plan better. I hope.

I don't anticipate big problems with the family. I just served Alex a bedtime mixed-berry smoothie which contained not only a Chia-Pet's worth of chia seeds, but about three fistfuls of spinach. After sucking down about half of it, he said, "This is really good, Honey." To which I replied, "Well, you're going to drink it anywa--what? I mean...yeah, it is!"

Happy Vernal Equinox!

2010-03-20T20:17:00.001-07:00

skip
Originally uploaded by ninjapoodles

Skip into Spring.

It's My Stupid Facebook Wall

2010-03-04T14:56:00.001-08:00

I love Twitter and Facebook. Especially during these stressful times when I can't much commit to regular blog posts, I like the idea of "micro-blogging." And honestly, that's how I use social media of all kinds. It allows me to stay in touch with the community I've developed through blogging, during times when I can't blog. And bloggity-blog-blog, blog on the blog with extra blog-sauce. OK, there. I think I've said that stupid word enough for the rest of the year now.

Though I've had an active Facebook account for quite some time, something interesting, and of late, a bit disturbing, has happened with Facebook. My high-school classmates have discovered it. You wouldn't think that would be a terribly big deal--at least I never suspected that it would. The friend requests from old classmates seemed to come in large groups, as if someone had passed around a memo. I didn't recognize all the names right off the bat, but I've got a pretty liberal Facebook policy, so when I get a request, I generally go look to see what friends we have in common and establish the relationship from that context. The requests that I approve fall into one of just a few categories:

1. You are my longtime friend or a family member. I don't have the kind of friends or family who keep secrets from each other, and they all know me well, so I have nothing to hide from them. They probably wish they knew less about me, but OH, WELL, TOO BAD FOR YOU.

2. I know you from blogging or from Flickr or Twitter or other Internet forums. I may have met you in person, or we may have an Internet-only relationship. There may be no "relationship" at all, outside of the fact that we have read each other's writings and have a sort of common sympathy, due to bonding interests such as motherhood, mental illness, food, politics, or even poodles.

3. You go to my church. Again, I apologize for the familiarity, but again, TOO BAD FOR YOU. I yam what I yam. Jesus loves me and says you have to, too. HAHAHAHAAAA.

4. You went to my high school.

It's that last category that's causing my brain to ache right now. Apparently, the vast majority of people who attended Jacksonville High School in the 1980s have grown into hardcore right-wingers. Waaaaaaay right. Which, you know, is fine--not my choice, obviously, but fine. That's kinda what's great about this country, that we are able to align ourselves with whatever sort of political philosophy feels best to us. Further to that, we have the right to TALK ABOUT THAT.

I've always prided myself on the ability to get along with just about everyone, and to overlook differences of opinion on politics, faith, and whether or not Velveeta is actually food (it's not). So unless you're a blatant racist, bigot, homophobe, or any other brand of hatemonger, or you insist on bringing that Rotel dip to my Superbowl party, I'm generally pretty happy to go along and get along. Because unless you're shoving it in my face, your beliefs are your own, and NO SKIN OFF MY NOSE.

Now, I do not write scathing political rants on Facebook. I do, however, pass along things I see on my friends' walls, and link to articles that interest me, and occasionally comment on those things. I self-identify as a progressive/liberal thinker RIGHT THERE in my profile for all the world to see--if that's a deal-breaker for you, then you should NOT "FRIEND" (seriously, that's a verb now, apparently) ME. But honest to gosh, if you do, that does not earn you any input into what I choose to post on my stupid Facebook wall. It's MY stupid Facebook wall, not yours.

I have, in recent weeks, received messages from old classmates complaining about links I've posted or comments I've made on my wall. MY wall. They usually go on to complain about Socialism, taxes, etc. etc., omgscarygub'ment, etc. Because, you know, I obviously don't understand these complete black & white issues. I don't know if these people with their tender psyches are new to Facebook, new to social media, new to the Internet, or just have an incredible sense of entitlement as far as what it's OK for other people to say. The only commonalities I've identified is that they're all male, white, and went to my high school. It's bizarre.

When I identify a person as someone who's going to continually post things that angry up my blood, I have a few options. I can ignore their posts--this is what I do most often. If they're just unrelenting in opinions that I find particularly abhorrent, and I know that the mere act of reading these things will upset me, I use the Facebook option of "hiding" their posts so that they don't appear on my home page. What I don't see can't piss me off. This was my solution with one prominent blogger who I've met in person and truly do like and care about, but whose political agenda I just can't stomach. Finally, if the person in question seems particularly rabid in their rantings, and there's no real value in the relationship, I can "unfriend" (darn you and your coinage of stupid words, Internet) them, and in extreme cases, block them. I have blocked exactly one person, not because of things they posted on their own wall, but because of things they posted on mine.

I really do believe that we can get along better than we do in this country. And I understand that the status quo in America is changing, and that that scares the living wampus out of a lot of people. Particularly certain white males. I get it. There's a lot going on that I can't stand, too, so I sympathize with that frustration. And I have dear friends and family members whose politics are 180 degrees from mine. I still love 'em.

Several years ago, I curbed the content of my own blog (dangit, said it again) because I was told that when I discussed politics it hurt the feelings of certain family members. I've since realized that those certain family members never, ever visit this website any more anyway, so that was a pointless muzzling of my personal expression. I'll be darned if I'll be told what I can and cannot post on stupid Facebook. It's stupid FACEBOOK, people, not a manifesto. My liberal-ness is hardwired into my personality. I am not who I am because of my politics. My politics have taken shape the way they have because of who I am. I'm proud to be a progressive thinker, and I'm not in the least ashamed of my bleeding heart. My social and political convictions can be boiled down to one simple commonality: I care about other people, including strangers, and have a strong desire that the basic needs of EVERY person are met. I do not much care if that means higher taxes. That's pretty much it, really. So if you want to slam me for that, feel free to do so.

Just do it on your own stupid Facebook wall, and quit worrying about mine.

On The Plus Side, This Is An Indication That I'm Not Raising A Sugar Junkie

2010-02-11T17:48:00.001-08:00

On some weird impulse, I bought a small bag of Reese's Miniatures at the grocery store today. Probably had something to do with being cooped up all week. Even though the streets/highways have been mostly clear, our driveway has been insane, since it's steep, curvy, and fully shaded.

The first day that the snow fell, I tried getting out "before it got too bad." The snow was really wet, so I was hoping it would be all slushy and stuff. Nope.

Oddly enough, with the weird thaw/refreeze thing that was happening, I was able to get out on Day Two, but not Day Three. Out on Day Four, and now waiting to see what Day Five will bring.

Anyway, on today's venture out, we had to take Alex to an SSA-appointed doctor for evaluation of our disability claim. That went OK, and since the office was right next to a grocery store, it seemed like a good opportunity to make a supply run. And for some reason, peanut butter cups made it into the cart.

When I gave her one, her first question was, "What is this?"

"It's a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup."

(A moment later) "What is in the middle of that Reese's Cup?"

"Peanut butter!"

"What else?"

"What do you mean? Just peanut butter."

"Then what is this?" (Shows me a small, brown object in the palm of her hand)

I examine what she's showing me, and am already gearing up mentally for my angry letter to Hershey, along with the accompanying blog post and pictures, which of course I will also submit to The Consumerist...when I finally recognize what she's got, there.

"You tried to eat the paper cup, Hon."

Reese's Peanut Butter Cups: The candy you get to unwrap twice.

Good Gravy, I Loves The Internet

2010-02-09T15:28:00.001-08:00

I just got rewarded (yay positive reinforcement for negative behavior!) for whining on Twitter about having to wait several months for the U.S. release of the final installment of Stieg Larsson's wonderful "Millennium Trilogy." You rock, Jennifer! Bonus points for the package arriving while I was snowed in with my back out and no television reception. Now, everyone in the states, be nice to me, or I'll tell you how it ends!

Doppel

2010-02-02T14:06:00.000-08:00

Yeah, so...the "find your double" Facebook meme went on for several days before I really paid any attention to it, because there's only one celebrity that people have ever told me that I (and Bella) resemble, and I couldn't really find a photo of Bette Davis looking as dorky as I do in my Facebook profile picture.

BUT! Just LOOK at Alex and Van Johnson! It's eerie, no?

I Never Thought I'd Be Defending Barbie

2010-01-30T14:14:00.000-08:00

But she at least has her freakishly tiny waist in the right place. I was following some Twitter chatter earlier about the shapewear at YummieTummie, and went to check it out, because you know, I likes a smooth midriff as well as the next person. I just couldn't get past this picture. Yeah, you wanna look at that.

See? Skinny Tank removes your ribs! To easily compare that freaky photo to a more realistic image, just click the link and look at the photos directly below the Skinny Tank picture.

I don't know about anyone else, but in my torso, there are ribs in that spot. And they don't bend. And my waist curves inward at the same spot on each side of my torso. And my head is not wider than my waistline. And so on. Maybe I'll buy a Skinny Tank just to see what happens.

And Then, Every Once In A While, We Dance

2010-01-22T12:59:00.000-08:00

So after the angst-fest last night, I logged into World of Warcraft. Because there, depending on my persona-du-jour, I can fight evil with a crossbow and pet wolf, explode badness with magic spells, protect my friends with frozen armor, or best of all, heal the world. And my kidneys don't hurt, and I can turn flips when I jump...and, um, I can jump. After Alex went to bed, I started doing mage stuff...you know, turning bad dudes into pigs or sheep, and freezing monsters in blocks of ice to immobilize them while I explode them with the power of my mind. It's a darn fine form of escapism, especially when you're surrounded by and smothered with the enfeeblement of real life and the limitations of the actual human body...and you can't go outside.

A few minutes in, one of my guild-mates asked if I'd like to run through a dungeon with her, and I happily agreed, and we started looking for others to fill out our party. It was about this time that Alex woke up, saw that I was doing something without him, and insisted on coming along. Not much use in arguing, and fortunately, we have amazing, wonderful, compassionate and understanding friends in-game who don't care if the hunter takes a few extra seconds to mark a target or send his razorback into the fight (yeah, his pet is a wild boar--what else would it be?). In other words, they're willing to carry their friends when needed, with no complaints. I asked if it was OK if he joined, and of course was told yes.

It was a largely uneventful run--I don't think anyone died, and it was lots of fun for everyone. We even stopped and took a victory screenshot at the end after downing the big boss. Because we are soooo dorky.

That's Alex's hunter on the left, then our bud Drifty, that's Alex's ferocious pig, Jasmine, right behind my squishy little mage-self with my glowing stick of death, and over on the right is a warrior you do not wanna run into if you harbor any bad intentions, because she will shout you to death.

It was after all this, when I'd said my goodbyes and offered my thanks to my fine friends, that I looked over and saw this:

And I smiled.

Somewhere, deep inside, beyond the overwhelming sadness and confusion, there was a whimsical, joyful spark in my husband. Something that felt, just for a moment and in a virtual world, like dancing. And while his spike-helmeted avatar busted his MJ moves, my heart danced a little, as well.

Sometimes it's the very small things, the tiny moments.

MeMeMeMeeeeee...

2010-01-21T15:07:00.000-08:00

Can I just talk about myself for a minute? Oh, wait, this is a blog. That's what we do here. Never mind.

I don't like what I'm becoming. I'm losing my patience, my compassion, and at times, it seems, my humanity. I'm seeing myself harden to the constant demands of my ill spouse, because no matter how many times I respond, there will always be more, and more, and more. There has to be a self-defense mechanism in the face of the constant demand on me, and I seem to have defaulted to a terribly unattractive one. I'm irritable, short-tempered, and LOUD. I'm becoming bitter, hard...cold. I think I had a passing urge to vote Republican.

I need a break from all this. I know it, my doctor knows it, everyone who's had any interaction with me in the last month, including the poor kid at Sonic who failed to make my Route 44 Diet Dr. Pepper with "easy ice" like I asked, knows it. "Here, ma'am, I'll make you another one, maybe even slip some Xanax in there for you, just please stop crying in the drive-thru." That's an easy call to make, especially if, when being in my presence for more than 5 minutes, you experience tears, self-pity, and desperation. "Hey, umm...have you thought about maybe, uh, getting away for a bit? You know, just until your, um, essence of nutbar fades just a tiny bit?"

I'm in total agreement with that sentiment. I would LOVE to go away somewhere. Anywhere. Or just to be alone in my own home, for that matter. For even an hour. But it's just not possible. I can't get into another room, and I mean that literally--I cannot go to another room--without bringing along a sad, confused, demanding shadow. I've managed a lone trip to the grocery store, but I only pulled that off by resorting to trickery, and the ensuing guilt kind of made it not worth it. Plus, I was grocery shopping. Not exactly a massage or a mani-pedi.

Why am I even whining about this? Maybe just to get it out. Or to see if maybe anyone has any real for actual, even temporary solutions. Mainly, I think I'm trying to just stop and recognize what's going on, so that perhaps I can halt, or at least slow, this gradual calcifying of my spirit. I used to be fairly happy with who I was, and I'd like to be again. Maybe a miracle will happen. Maybe an amazing and benevolent doctor will find this case study so fascinating that he or she will actually care about our outcome. Maybe Hezekiah Walker will call me up with some inspiration. Maybe Oprah will give me a German cuckoo clock.

You never know.

Feliz Navidad!

2009-12-24T23:50:00.000-08:00

My Reputation As A Consumer Preceeds Me

2009-12-23T11:03:00.000-08:00

And yes, Cracker Barrel. I ordered a sock monkey, because the sock monkey people at Schylling, via Amazon.com do not make their monkeys out of a sock AT ALL, which, if you ask me, kind of negates the toy being in any way a SOCK. MONKEY. Not that I'm bitter. If only they'd known they were trifling with Customer Woman, they might've thought twice before sending me an inferior monkey. Yay, Cracker Barrel!

How To Eat Sushi

2009-12-18T05:16:00.000-08:00

Simple Wishes

2009-12-08T23:26:00.000-08:00

Usually NaBloPoMo snaps me out of my slump, but I just couldn't quite get there this year. There's so much on my mind that it feels overwhelming to try and get it all down here, though I know that that's exactly what will help me put it into perspective. Pretty much all we're thinking about is Alex's condition, and what to do about it. We're getting zero help from the medical community--not, I think, because they don't care (although, at the end of the day, they go home, away from us and our problems, so really, what incentive do they have to care overmuch?), but because they're quite sincerely stumped. It's the constant theme what we eat, breathe, go to sleep, and wake to every day.

The total pervasiveness of the situation was driven home to me one day last week when Bella came running up to me, breathless, to report, "NPR is doing a story on a man with a brain injury--you should come listen, maybe they'll have an idea to help!" Broke my heart, that did. And if that wasn't enough, there was the day I took Bella to the doctor when she had a touch of bronchitis. There was a man with a child across the waiting room from us. I didn't pay a lot of attention; the kid was sitting in the man's lap, and they were quietly playing, talking, and looking at books. Then Bella whispered wistfully, "I wish Dad was like that dad."

All I could say was, "Honey, he was. And hopefully he will be again." She, like me, craves the norm. Give us mundanity. God grant us an uneventful life. We'll take it, you know? The status quo sounds awfully sweet when you've been deprived of it for a while. It made me think that I'd kind of like to take a minute and remind myself, my daughter, our family, and even the man himself, who my husband was, is, and God willing, will be again.

He's smart. Wicked smart, in that quick and agile way, so that you have to be on your toes to keep up when he's really rolling. He loves books, loves reading. That's something that he misses so much right now, and it seems really cruel. I read aloud sometimes if he feels like he can concentrate to listen, and that's pretty good. He can do just about anything with electronics, just from looking at them for a few minutes, which always blew me away. "What do you mean you don't need the manual?" He can build anything, fix anything. He would love to be doing that right now. We used to have crossword races. Doesn't that sound delightfully dorky? It sounds wonderful to me. He's a video game impresario, with lightning reflexes and an innate ability to solve brainteasers and puzzles.

He's an animal lover, and gifted in the way he deals with them. Horses who hate the entire world will walk right up and nuzzle him, and every dog on the planet loves him on sight. Foster dogs we've kept have immediately ingratiated themselves to him. When Delta met him, she literally took one look at him, and was his from that moment on. I still remember it--it was in my kitchen, in my little house by the air base, in the winter. I remember the way she looked over her shoulder at me as he pet her, very plainly conveying, "Hey, thanks for the food and stuff up to now--I appreciate it, but, well, HERE'S THE LOVE OF MY LIFE. You understand." I don't even know how many hours he's logged walking colicky horses, and he's never even ridden them. He didn't have pets, really, growing up, so my world must have been a sort of a shock, but he just went with the flow, and never missed a beat. When he decided he wanted a dog of his own, I got ready to buy whatever he wanted...and was delightfully surprised when what he wanted was "a little poodle, not a big one like yours, but not one of those tiny ones." That "little poodle" was Reggie, who went on to become our first show champion, and Alex's prized possession. He has always been ridiculously proud of that dog, and as I told someone recently, you've never seen anything really funny until you've seen a big hairy man in Carhaart coveralls and a John Deere cap tucking a well-coiffed miniature poodle into his jacket and running out to the barn to let it pee, because "it's raining, and his show coat might get wet."

He would do anything to keep me from being unhappy--I can honestly say that I don't know of anything that upsets him more than seeing me being upset. He has dealt with some of the ugliest of realities, so that I wouldn't have to. When Montrachet died, it was me who saw him off, but it was Alex who dealt with every unpleasant detail that followed, so that I wouldn't know the prolonged pain of seeing my big boy's once-powerful body without him in it, and of having to dispose of the remains of the magnificent animal who was my pet and friend for so many years. Alex took care of all that, as he did when we lost Victor, and later Magic. I can't even express my gratitude for that, and he did it without even thinking about it.

He has a dramatic flair, and a romantic side, for sure. He once, when I'd told him how much I enjoyed a trip to Hawaaii, had tropical flowers shipped to me...from there. The very first gift he gave me was a small hardbound collection of the poetry of W.H. Auden, who I had mentioned briefly, ages before that, in one of many seemingly trivial conversations, as my favorite poet. Once I told him of some ancient Arabic lore on Arabian horses, and how I'd read of it in a long out-of-print book that was impossible to find...and then on my next birthday I received a copy of that very book, in amazing condition. I can't even imagine what it cost him. Discussions of literary themes and devices in classic literature brought gifts of annotated texts of those books on the Christmases that followed...always something thoughtful that I'd forgotten about, and he hadn't. When I was scheduled to have enormously invasive surgery, surgery that was sure to require a lengthy recovery period, the summer before we got married, he spent a month working at my house, in the brutal heat, every day, to build gorgeous flower beds, so I'd "have something pretty to look at out the windows." During that long hospitalization, he went and found anything and everything he could think of that he knew would mean something to me, from spearmint essential oil to Ray Charles CDs.

Have I ever told the story of the moment I knew I would marry him? It happened as he passed to me, through the passenger window of my truck, an angry wild goose in a Wal*Mart sack. You can't make up romance like that, folks.

We'd been on our way to my house, from visiting his parents, and the interstate happens to go by a Wal*Mart distribution center next to a large man-made lake. At this time of the year, there were wild geese stopping at the lake--tons of them. One had somehow gotten up next to the interstate, and had apparently been hit by a car. It was walking around near the shoulder, one wing sticking up at a crazy angle, obviously unable to fly. I was horrified at its plight, and as we passed by, I looked over at Alex, who was driving. I didn't say anything. He looked back at me, and said, "What? What do you want me to do? I saw it...you want me to go back and get it, don't you? You want to rescue that goose!"

I just looked at him, not speaking, because really, it was a ridiculous thing to ask.

"Oh, my gosh, I can't believe I'm doing this," he said.

He got off the interstate at the next exit, and drove back to the exit before the geese, got off and back on again in the direction we'd been traveling when we first saw the injured bird. Muttering all the while about how he could not believe what he was doing, he pulled well off the shoulder and stopped the car. I sat and watched as he ran, scrambled, hopped and slid through a huge (and thankfully dry) drainage ditch after the frightened and hurt goose, eventually coming up victorious from the fray, subdued (and frightfully angry) goose in hand, ignoring the stares of passing motorists. He found a Wal*Mart sack on the side of the road, made a hole in the bottom, and poked the goose's head and neck through the hole, so that its wings were held pretty much in place at its sides by the bag. There was really nothing that would do at that point but for me to hold it in my lap until we got home.

And so it was that I found myself looking over a furious, hissing honker, into the eyes of a man I already loved, and thinking, "I'm definitely going to marry him."

The goose, I am happy to report, while never regaining the power of flight, lived out the rest of her days on our pond, well-fed and content.

When he found out that he was to be the father of a little girl, he wept with joy. She was, and has remained, the culmination of everything he ever wanted in his life. His daughter is his life, his love, his reason for trying. He wants nothing more than to be everything he can possibly be to her. He has been hopelessly in love with his child from the moment they laid eyes on each other. She is so very like him, and he would move heaven and earth to please her.

That is not, of course, all of it, but it's a little, and just a sample of what we'd like to have back. Really, anything in the neighborhood, at this point, would be well and gratefully received. Is that so much to ask? It seems so simple, from where I stand.

ADDENDUM: Neither of us realized it until my mom called with her good wishes, but today is our anniversary! Nine years.

The Low-Carb Thing

2009-11-02T20:15:00.000-08:00

For several months now, we've had a dietary shift of direction here...well, I have, and Alex and Bella have been along for the ride a little bit. What I've given up entirely are sugar and refined grains and potatoes, and I only consume the tiniest bit of whole grains. It's something I've known I should do for a long time, but it just sounded so HARD. No sugar? No cherry Coke from Sonic in the afternoon? No crackers with my cheese? NO BREAD? How would I live?

I did a lot of reading, with the major influencers of the plan I ultimately chose being Gary Taubes' scared-straight treatise on food and obesity, Michael Pollan's books, and the books and websites of the Drs. Eades. This is NOT some crazy, high-fat orgy of cholesterol...I'm not having bacon and bacon sandwiches with bacon chips on the side. But I'm also absolutely not worrying about things like saturated fat at present. I may get to a point where weight loss slows down enough that I DO have to start paying some attention to denser-calorie choices, but it hasn't happened yet. The light-bulb moment for me was realizing that humans have zero nutritional need for cereal grains. None. It's something that just hadn't ever occurred to me before.

To tell the truth, it hasn't been that hard, really. In exchange for the things I was giving up, I got to stop worrying about some other things, like fat content and calorie-counting. I very rarely even have to count the carb content in the food I'm eating, because once you learn the basics, it's just super-easy to keep each meal or snack coming in at 1o grams net carbohydrate or less. You basically just load up on quality proteins, healthy fats, and non-starchy vegetables--all you want. The only thing I even have to halfway watch are my fruits, but I stick to the high-fiber fruits, mostly, so even then it's pretty much cruise control. My big indulgence is a bit of 85% cocoa chocolate almost every day.

What I like: Not having to "fuss" with calories, fat grams, points, portions, etc. Losing weight steadily and easily. Having ZERO G.I. issues (which, if you've been with me for a while, you know were a SERIOUS problem for me). Having fewer headaches. Never feeling "bloated" or overfull. Never feeling hungry.

What I don't like: Lack of convenience and "quick and lazy" options. Picking up a sandwich or tossing a frozen pizza in the oven, while still an option for Alex or Bella, isn't an option for me. Many, many more trips to the grocery store than I'm used to making--lots of fresh food means frequent re-stocking of the fridge. Lack of variety in snacking (this may just be my personal lack of imagination, but I wind up having the same snacks over and over, mostly different kinds of nuts and cheese).

What I miss: Crackers and milk. That's pretty much it. I do occasionally work a glass of milk into my day, but I really have to plan for it. Likewise, high-fiber crackers are not out of the question, but they do have to be worked in carefully. This doesn't really fit my usual cracker-eating style, which begins with an open box and ends when there are no more crackers. For my crunch-cravings, I'm pretty much left with almonds.

I don't always manage to stay on the straight-and-narrow with this way of eating--I usually mess it up when I'm tired or in a hurry. My biggest temptation is sushi, and every time I have some, I wind up feeling bloated and gross...and that's just because of rice.

Anyway, I wanted to post about it, because I know there are a lot more of you out there who've been doing this longer than I have, and that you'll have great suggestions and more to think about. Got some protein-dense snack ideas? Conversions of recipes that would traditionally be carb-laden? I'm eating tons of Blue Diamond Bold almonds and making tons of vegetable casseroles. A recent dinner was shrimp scampi with broccoli and whipped cauliflower gratin with carmelized onions--and it was perfect. I need more meals like that on my menu!

Best Thing Written In this House Today

2009-11-01T12:41:00.000-08:00

Clicky to view, or read transcript below screenshot:

Mom, thank YOU for taking me out to go trunk-or-treating with you and trick-or-treating with Grayson! I wonder what I will be next year... Dracula? A Witch? Scary Godmother? (like in the show Scary Godmother) A Skeleton? What do you suggest? Godzilla? *laughs* The Incredible Hulk? (P.S. I made Elvis' hair with my Tigger Pop! *laughs again*) You tell me what you suggest! Elvis? E-Mail me back and tell me!

I love her little *laugh* asides.

I Don't Need To Be This Needed

2009-10-14T23:15:00.000-07:00

Really, I'm not that good a person. I don't have enough patience, enough compassion. If you'd asked me a year ago, I'd have said that I do...but I'd have been wrong. Because this life is wearing me out before my time. My stomach and my head always hurt, I'm more tired than is justifiable, and "irritable" does not begin to describe my state of mind.

We've been to just about every doctor we can, and they're all coming up empty as far as a diagnosis for Alex, except that "probably" his bipolar disorder has morphed into a different form of the disease than what it has been for most of his life. I'm not really buying it, but what I do know is that he is miserable almost all the time. The rare smile or laugh I can manage to elicit is a huge victory. We're beginning the disability process, which is depressing in and of itself.

I'm very, very worried about how he will fill his days now, because the more he isolates, the less active he is and the more depressed he becomes. He's already checked himself into the hospital for depression once this month, and talked about doing it again earlier today. He seems to really need order and guidelines and a solid routine, but how is he going to get that at home alone every day?

I'm also torn about how much help to give him. He's capable of a good number of things--he feeds and tends to the animals, and helps get Bella ready for school in the mornings, for example. But other things (confoundedly to me) seem beyond him, like preparing even simple meals for himself. I worry about him going hungry, which he does pretty much every day if I don't feed him. It doesn't seem to be a matter of can't as much as a lack of will, if that makes sense. When Bella begged him the other night to make his special spaghetti, he gave it his all and did a darned good job. So the ability is there, somewhere. The therapist we were seeing suggested that I might be doing too much for him, so we've been having a kind of standoff about lunches...he should be able to put together a sandwich, darn it. Instead, he goes without. All day. And then has fast food on our way home from picking Bella up from school, because he's famished...and then expects a full meal to be prepared later that night after Bella goes to bed...at which point I balk in a big way, because, as I've said, I'm just not that good a person.

Complaining that you can't believe you have to go to bed hungry elicits the following response from me: "I can't believe you're going to bed hungry, either." Our freezers, pantries, and fridge are FULL of food. What they are not full of, I suppose, are completely prepared, ready-to-serve meals. But you know what the components of meals are? FOOD. So yeah, it makes me a little bit crazy to hear, "There is NOTHING TO EAT in this house," when I can walk 10 feet and put my hands on fruits, vegetables, nuts, fish, poultry, meat, cheese, etc.

I guess I'm going to need to start packing lunches as if he were the one going out of the house, instead of me. I can't really think of anything else to do, to avoid having the same stupid fight every night. And I'm just selfish enough that it really galls me to have to work that into my schedule. See? Not that good a person.

I'm really having a difficult time with the transition from partner to... partner/caregiver, or whatever you want to call it. It's too easy to get all whiney and I-didn't-sign-on-for-this-y, so I try not to do that, but gosh, it's hard. And it's especially hard when the person you're doing it for seems to be angry with you about 80% of the time. I love him, you know? And I love him enough to understand that his anger comes from frustration--a well-earned frustration with the brain that is betraying him--and that he's not really angry at me, he's just angry, period, and I'm...well, I just happen to be here. But you know what? Understanding it does not making it easier to experience it. And it doesn't stop those occasional fantasies of running away from it all, leaving the crushing responsibility behind and just starting over.

But I could never do that, no matter how bad it gets, because, I suppose, when you get right down to it, I'm not that bad a person, either. No, wait, I don't like how that sounds. Because I would not judge someone who felt they couldn't withstand this burden, and chose to get out from under it. I think of that old hokey song, "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother," and it almost applies. Because my husband's problems? Well, they ARE heavy. Really heavy. But he's my husband, and I love him, so I own them too, and they're mine to carry. I just need to devise a better yoke.

My Car Gets 40 Rods To The Hogshead, And That's The Way I Likes It!

2009-09-16T15:03:00.000-07:00

Bella's got a little upper respiratory infection, and has been out of school all week (and can't go back tomorrow, despite testing negative for flu and mono, because she had a low-grade fever today). Today we went to the doctor, and got a prescription for antibiotics and sinus meds. We had to go to Walgreen's to get them filled, and this resulted in a good hour of standing around the store waiting. Waiting is not one of Bella's favorite pastimes. Nor mine, for that matter, but I've gotten a little better at it over the years with practice. She was reading every label and every sign in the store, with running commentary. CONSTANT running commentary. The following was the most memorable portion.

Bella: "One Hour Photo."

Me: "What, Hon?"

Bella: "Over there. 'One Hour Photo.' I think you can have your picture made while you wait!"

Me: "Oh, no, Sweetie, that's a photo developing center. People drop off their film there to be developed, then come back in an hour to pick up their pictures."

Bella: (enunciating the first word slowly and deliberately, as if sampling something new and exotic) "Film? What do you mean?"

And then they called our name, and I paid for her medicine and my Geritol, and came home to soak my dentures.

It Was Supposed To Take Longer Than This

2009-09-09T21:57:00.000-07:00

...For her to be smarter than me. Still just 6 years old, for another month or so, and in the second grade now, *sniff*, and demonstrably smarter than me. Just a couple of recent examples:

While playing World of Warcraft together (in the desert zone of Tanaris, for you fellow geeks--er, WoW players), I get owned for the 10th time by one of those giant basilisks, and complain to Bella, "These big lizards keep stunning me, and I can't move!" To which my daughter responds by looking at me as if I've gone quite daft, rolling her eyes, and saying, in a tone that should be reserved for very small children or adults who have suffered brain trauma, "Well, Mom...they are called 'Petrifiers.' So...that's kinda what they do."

Ouch.

And then, there's this.

This local restaurant that we love features sushi and bulgogi as its main menu items. One day, Alex's mom meets us for a lovely dinner there. While we're driving over, we're speculating on the origins of the place's name, "Kopan." That exchange went something like this:

Dense Parent 1: "Do you know what the name means?"

Dense Parent 2: "No, I don't...I know that the place in North Little Rock, Kanpai, gets its name from a toasting word--I saw people raising glasses to each other and saying it somewhere."

Dense Parent 1: "Kopan...it could be the name of a town or something."

Dense Parent 2: 'I don't know. We should ask the waitress."

A small voice with a slightly superior air rises up from the back seat.

Bella: "Well, bulgogi is Korean food, and sushi is Japanese..."

Dense Parent 1: (condescending and indulgent) "That's right, Honey."

Bella: "Get it?"

Dense parent 2: "Get what, Sweetie?"

Bella: (heaves sigh) "KOrean...JaPANese...see? KO...PAN. KOPAN."

*crickets*

Me: "I'm sorry...did a SIX YEAR OLD just figure that out before any of the rest of us?"

I'm still a little stung, so tonight while she was at GAs at church, we had sushi without her.

Manufacturing Misery

2009-07-18T21:04:00.000-07:00

Alex and Bella and I were at lunch today at a local restaurant, and it was one of those seating situations in which our booth was right beside another booth, just kind of visually separated by a wall with a bunch of plants on top. My point being that we could hear every word of the conversation from the people sitting beside us, a fact of which they seemed to be completely oblivious.

As many of you may have noticed, I've recently been kind of awash in pitifulness, feeling helpless about what's going on with Alex's brain, and what the implications might be for our family. I listened--wasn't really trying, but couldn't exactly help it--as the party of four (Grandmom, Mom, Daughter and Daughter's live-in boyfriend, both of whom happen to live in Mom's house with at least one child of their own) discussed such commonplace topics as shopping for furniture and a lost set of keys. I was actually feeling envious at what I considered to be the absolute blissful mundanity of these people's concerns. How lucky are these people beside me, that they can all express themselves so easily, and have such simple, uncomplicated lives? Do they realize how great they have it? Would they believe me if I told them how jealous I was of their furniture shopping and trivial key-loss issues? What a grand life they had!

Then the arguing began. Still, I smiled to myself and to Alex, who I had by now drawn into my eavesdropping. They were arguing about the keys, because someone had moved them, causing someone else to be locked out for a very brief time. This is all they have to argue about? How beautifully uncomplicated their lives must be! How happy would I be if all I had to worry about were some lost keys?

As the arguing progressed, it began to involve all four of the people in that booth, and it began to get more heated, though covering no less (to my mind) trivial ground. Someone left a cup of water on a nightstand, and someone else had to carry it to the kitchen. Someone promised to chip in for laundry detergent, but didn't, and then used a cup (!!) of someone else's detergent. Someone washed their own dishes, but not anyone else's. Someone promised to fix the vacuum cleaner, but didn't. But that person tried to fix the vacuum, and the problem with it was not what the first person said it was, and oh my gosh I have hated you since I met you and I have hated you my whole life because you are a horrible awful person who was always mean to me and don't you dare use that baby as a pawn to punish me and we have had enough of this and WE'RE LEAVING RIGHT NOW AND NO, I WILL NOT SIT DOWN AND BE QUIET GET UP RiGHT NOW WE ARE GOING!

Whoa.

Apparently, what bubbles to the surface isn't always what is creating the bubbles...but we all pretty much know that home truth. Another thought I had was that we are amply able, as humans, to manufacture misery of our own when there just doesn't seem to be enough of it happening organically. I realize how much I, myself, have done this. We do abhor a vacuum, don't we? (Especially a vacuum that you promised to fix but the brushes weren't rolling yes they were no they weren't I looked you don't know shut up shut up SHUT UP!) Since reality has been on the harsh side for us, I haven't been borrowing too much trouble. But did I, when things were easier? You bet.

I'll be trying harder to not do that, in the future.

For all of you who have been so caring and concerned about what's going on with Alex, he's doing a little bit better. He has had every neurological, toxicological, biological, and everything-else-ological test that medical science has to offer, eliminating every possible condition under the sun and leading us right back in a circle to the exact thing that we went in telling them this was in the very beginning: A traumatic brain injury. We're awaiting the "official" diagnosis, but he has begun speech and cognitive therapy to try and reconnect the synapses that are misfiring (or whatever it is, all you brain surgeons among my readers). The outlook, with therapy, is very hopeful. Already, his movement and gait are tremendously improved, and his speech is getting better every day. We're working on sequencing and coordination now, and have even been able to incorporate video games, like Boom Blox (hand-eye coordination, planning) and World of Warcraft (planning, cause-and-effect, sequencing, coordination) into quite a workable form of home therapy.

If anyone with brain injury experience has any tips or exercises for getting all your grey matter's mojo back, we'd love to hear from you. *MWAH* to you all.

Barfight, Gunshot, Mauling, or Slim?

2009-05-24T13:39:00.001-07:00

barfight
Originally uploaded by ninjapoodles

I just had some pesky skin cancer (basal cell carcinoma; don't get nuts) removed from my neck, and the resulting wound is a bit more than I'd expected. The mole itself was smaller than the end of a pencil eraser, but the plug they removed from my neck was much bigger than that. And it HURTS.

Anyway, every time I pass a mirror, I'm taken aback at how awful it looks right now. And I know that for the next 10 days, I'll be asked about it. A LOT. I've always kind of hated explaining my various medical infirmities to all and sundry. Something about an injury/condition being visible seems to give anyone you run into the urge to ask you about it. (Don't believe me? Start limping just a little, and be amazed at the numbers of complete strangers who ask you why.)

So I'm trying to decide on a colorful story to go with my new distinctive marking (which, at this point, might as well be an eyepatch). Feel free to vote for your favorite, or add your own.

A. Barfight
B. Gunshot
C. Mauled by the Lonoke County Bear
D. Messed around with Slim
E. Other (please describe)

Things Can Get Tough, But Here's Why That's OK

2009-05-10T18:06:00.001-07:00

My Mother's Day Card
Originally uploaded by ninjapoodles

On the inside:

"Happy Mother's day Mom! (I hope.)

Because you are the best.

I hope you have a grand ole time so that you can rest.

I love you Mom.

Things can get tough, but when you're there I get the feeling, somebody's watching over me so that they can help me.

Love, Bella"

Live From Limbo

2009-05-04T20:26:00.000-07:00

I write this from a sort of suspended animation, as we await results from some of the many diagnostic tests Alex has been put through in the last few days. It's an odd sort of anticipation. We're afraid they'll find something, and more afraid that they won't.

I haven't shared, very publicly, what's been going on with Alex, but I think the time has come that explanations will be required most everywhere, and also, there's the chance that, of you people out there reading this, someone might have gone through something similar. There may be insights to share, and God knows we could use some, because we, and our doctors, are so far stumped.

Something bad is happening--seems to be happening with his brain--and that's about all we know for sure. It does not appear to be related to his bipolar disorder, nor do that disease's attendant medications seem to be implicated. The only way I can describe it to anyone who hasn't experienced it firsthand is that he seems to be... degenerating, somehow. I seem to be losing a little bit more of him every day. I can only tell you what it looks like.

His short-term memory is severely compromised. He can't recall things that happened yesterday, or even earlier in the same day, sometimes. His ability to reference any sort of timeline is for the most part gone. Things that happened last year, he recalls as having taken place "a couple of weeks ago," and likewise, something that happened a couple of weeks ago could, to him, seem to be six months in the past.

He is confused a lot of the time, and understandably, is quickly frustrated by even the mundane. He seems to have particular trouble with communication--with getting the thoughts in his head into words and phrases. There is still a quick, brilliant person trapped inside there, and he can't explain what he's thinking...and occasionally doesn't realize right away that he's not making sense.

My athletic, strong, quick-reflexed husband, he of the near-supernatural hand/eye coordination, has become slow, weak, and clumsy. He's lost so much weight that he's now well under his high school weight--11 pounds in the last week. His gait is a slow, shuffling/shambling sort of walk, with arms outspread on either side, as if walking a tightrope. Frequently, one hand or the other will pinwheel briefly in the air, looking for balance. Sometimes I need to help him walk from one room to another, and getting in and out of the truck is a challenge. Needless to say, he can't drive a car.

His speech is slurred, and often confused. I've seen other people--shopkeepers, parents at Bella's softball games--dart glances at me as if to check and see if I realize that there's something wrong here. I have no doubt that sometimes, strangers assume that he's been drinking. If you didn't know him, and you observed him in conversation, you would most likely think him intoxicated.

If you didn't know him, and you observed him walking, his gait slow, with painfully short, shuffling strides, arms out stiffly at his sides, slightly bent over, you would most likely think him very old.

Our neurologist has ruled out a couple of the scariest possibilities, like early-onset Alzheimer's (too young) and Huntington's Disease (no involuntary movements), but beyond that, she's kind of baffled. We've gone in for an EEG, extensive bloodwork, 24-hour urinalysis for heavy metals and other things, and today, an MRI of his brain.

And so, now, we wait. And for Alex, the waiting is torture, as is being prisoner to a traitor body and brain. I try to anticipate his needs, to understand what he wants to say so he doesn't have to go through the agony of trying to get it out, to remember to take care of things he would normally take care of himself. I try to be patient, and I am not always successful, to my lasting shame. Often, feeling overwhelmed with all that must be attended to around here, I find myself "stuck" behind him in a narrow space in the house, trying to get by him as he makes his painfully slow way around, and I have heard myself snapping, "MOVE." And then I see his shoulders sink, and my heart follows. I apologize a lot. He apologizes more, and his apologies are for things that in no way require apologies, which breaks my heart more. "I'm sorry I'm like this." "I'm sorry you're stuck with me."

Worst of all are the times when he just looks at me with all the sadness in the world in his eyes, and says, weakly, "I don't want this."

So, I love him. I give him everything of myself that I can, and I help Bella to be understanding and kind. I do what I can. I cook. I grow things. I pay bills. I plan for a future in which I'm the sole income-generator in this household, and I look for ways to supplement that income if I can. I don't think about how I will take care of him and earn a living, should he not recover from this state. I refinance the house, and trim the budget. I am rarely doing all the right things, and am never perfect, even for a minute. Often, I'm not even close.

I pray. And I hold him at night, which is when he seems the most lost and scared.

..."and I scream, 'If you want him, you're going to have to fight ME.' "

Promise

2009-04-28T17:49:00.001-07:00

first strawberry, first quail egg
Originally uploaded by ninjapoodles

First tiny strawberry and quail egg...about the size of a dime!

Bustin' Out All Over

2009-04-22T15:48:00.001-07:00

found a good one (2)
Originally uploaded by ninjapoodles

Spring is. The season that I've learned to greet with tremendous apprehension is, this year, turning out to be the salvation of my spirit.

The hardware in my Frankenfoot is migrating and causing pain, the other foot's bone spur is getting worse, I have a little toomah in my wrist, and my hip is broken (OK, that last one may be an exaggeration, but I did get a shot into the bursa of that hip this morning, so hopefully it will be feeling much better by tomorrow, if I can stay still enough today).

My husband is still broken. Broken, depressed, anxious, confused, and frightened. We don't know what's going to come of that, but I'm trying to prepare for the total loss of one income, which is stress-making, to say the least. Big changes are in order, which I believe I can handle, as long as I don't get a lot of resistance from my family here...I'd give that even odds.

But Spring and Earth Day have colluded today to bring forth an amazing display of rebellion against despair. The natural world is everywhere, and it is telling me, "Hey, Sweetcheeks, they'll have to do better than that to get US down, right?" And I find myself wanting to agree.

And so, I devote the rest of this post to a list of praises, blessings, things that are going right.

I did not, in fact, break my hip.

Local farmer's markets start in full force this weekend.

Strawberries are available by the bucketful at roadside stands everywhere.

MY OWN strawberry plants are blooming like crazy.

My itty-bitty lemon tree is fruiting!

Chicks are hatching (Langshans and Black Copper Marans).

After an absence of three years, we have puppy breath in our home again.

Actual green things are growing on the barren hillside above our house. Granted, those things are weeds, but I'm choosing to believe that they will, at least, slow down the erosion that usually deposits a large part of the hillside at my front door this time of year.

The eight pretty little quail hens out by the koi pond should begin laying adorable, tiny, speckled eggs any day now.

The pair of turkey hens that did not get eaten are laying adorable, huge, speckled eggs.

My favorite Marans hen has gone broody, and is setting a nestful of turkey eggs. This should be good.

Bella caught a caterpillar, researched its care, built a little habitat for it, and was rewarded today by a neat little cocoon hanging off the end of a stick inside the Mason jar. Soon, we'll get to see that perfect metaphor of spring, renewal, and rebirth.

I have grapevines and a new cherry tree to plant!

Both of our difficult neighbors are being nice and making improvements to their property. This means that you should come buy the house next to ours that's for sale. Come now!

Wedgies of Love

2009-04-18T10:34:00.001-07:00

As I sit at the desk and read my email, I feel a tickling sensation at my lower back, followed by the stifled giggle of a certain 6-year-old.

"What are you doing? Leave my underwear alone."

"Nothing."

"Seriously--quit it. You're not giving your mother a wedgie."

"Oh, C'MON! Please?"

"NO. Now quit it, and go get your shoes on so we can leave."

(pause)

(With a hug around my neck, whispering) "It'll be a wedgie of LOVE."

The Day Her Father Started To Smile Again

2009-04-12T19:38:00.001-07:00

The Day Her Father Started To Smile Again
Originally uploaded by ninjapoodles

It's been gone a long time, even that tiny smile. Look, it's even in his eyes! Progress. We have a long road ahead of us, still, I know...but I'm choosing to see this as encouragement. At this point, I HAVE to have something to hope for.

Transmogrified

2009-03-24T22:37:00.001-07:00

Bella's on spring break from school this week, and additionally, is a little sick with a touch of bronchitis-type stuff. So, as you can imagine, we're scrambling for indoor activities for her, and she's not so much on board with Mommy's Super-Fun Laundry Blowout Extravaganza. Smart kid.

During the feverish days, she spent hours in the middle of our big bed, reading from The Complete Calvin & Hobbes. She also spent a lot of time on the floor of my closet with her markers, paper, and huge dry-erase board, which is pretty typical for her.

As a longtime Bill Waterson fan, I was delighted beyond belief when my own six-year-old came rushing excitedly into the living room, carrying a large cardboard box, and announced, "I made a transmogrifier!"

It was, indeed, a pretty faithful rendering of Calvin's trusty space/matter manipulator, with "Transmogrifier" written on the side, and on the top, a dial, bright yellow construction-paper indicator arrow, and a "start" button. I think the settings on the dial of this particular transmogrifier are a nice snapshot of my daughter's current state of mind. There are eight of them, and they go in this order, clockwise:

Fairy
Princess
Fairy-Princess
President
Prince
Ruler of the Universe
Super-Hero
Smartest Person in the Universe

I love how "fairy princess" is obviously a wholly different entity than either "fairy" or "princess," and I'm kind of hoping that "Prince" might refer to the diminutive performer from Detroit. I'm just not going to ask, and pretend that it does. And I did check, and the "President" setting does not turn you into Barack Obama, but it makes you president yourself. I'm under the impression, however, that when you become President, you get to keep the Obama family (this child desperately wishes for siblings, and is also completely and totally enamored of the Obama sisters).

My favorite part of the whole thing, though, is the implication of that final setting. Because it's obvious, even to a six-year-old, that the Ruler of the Universe is NOT going to be the Smartest Person in the Universe.

If It Weren't For Bad Luck...

2009-03-22T20:53:00.000-07:00

Well, you know the rest. Or, at least you do if you were ever subjected to "Hee-Haw" as a child.

I knew, when I registered for BlogHer '09, and paid the money, and also made a deposit on a hotel room, that I was tempting fate to slap me down. And the slapping has commenced.

Our mower is in the shop, and on the same day we found out what THAT was going to cost us (enough for a new laptop, *sigh*), we lost an entire section of fencing that will have to be repaired and will run another several hundred dollars. Alex lost his keys here at the house somehow, and though a locksmith came and opened his truck, he'll have to have all the keys on his keyring replaced.

Speaking of Alex, he's still really not doing well at all, though he's improved enough that he can make it to work again, which is always a good thing, considering the bills we have to deal with. Bleah. OK, I am not officially boring MYSELF.

What do you do when you need money that you don't have? I'm scrabbling around for things I can sell, and have had some luck there, but there's a long way to go. YES, I had an "emergency fund," but we've already had an emergency this year that depleted that to the point that I've had to start over building it up again little by little. I can't imagine, at this point, paying for the stuff that has to be paid for, and still being able to make the trip to Chicago in July...but I dearly want to.

I have done some interesting bartering and haggling for things we needed lately, and that is turning out to be very rewarding. You don't get cash, usually, but in this economy, you might find that you actually get a higher monetary value in goods and services than you would if you you dealt in cash currency. Some of the things I've sold and/or baterted with or for lately include live turkeys, extra roosters, eggs, seed potatoes, strawberry plants, and fresh raw milk from Guernsey cows which I can't wait to make into cheese.

I'm getting set up to make soap again, because that always brought in a small but steady income. I'm going through Bella's baby clothes and toddler clothes and preschool clothes to pick out things to sell (*sniff*). I'm ruthlessly combing through our storage shed and picking out anything that hasn't been used in the last couple of years, and running straight to Craigslist with it. I'm cutting out XM Radio service (which really hasn't been the same since Sirius bought it out, anyway), eliminating much of our DirecTV bill, stripping down our phone service to bare bones (I really wanted to take us off the LAN line altogether, but our DSL is tied into it, so we wouldn't be saving much).

Magazine subscriptions must go, the few that are left. The daily newspaper that NO ONE HERE EVER SO MUCH AS OPENS is on its way out. I met with much resistance over this last one, because everyone is just in the habit of getting the newspaper, and it seems so uncivilized not to get one...but honestly, we get nearly 100% of our news on the Internet, and we get it instantly instead of waiting another day for the paper to print it. We supplement that coverage with NPR and, well, if I'm honest, The Daily Show.

I'm getting back to my coupon-obsessive roots, though the things we buy now are even further into whole-foods-only dogma than ever before, and we're not buying any bread or cereal or crackers or sugar in any form...but I can still make great strides with coupons by focusing on toiletries and paper goods. We've been coasting off my giant stockpile of free toothpaste and shampoo, for example, for nearly two years, and the supplies are getting low.

I'm becoming a utility-nazi, too. Opening windows, shutting off the A/C, obsessively checking that lights or appliances aren't left on (or, in some cases, even left plugged in). No water wasting!

I'll be planting more veggies and fruits than ever before this year, and storing as much as I can. The strawberry plants are already beginning to flower, and I'm looking forward to about 50 quarts of strawberries being put away during spring and summer, as well as tons of squash, zucchini, tomatoes, garlic, onions, and every herb under the sun. Using gift cards I'd been given for Christmas, I found a FoodSaver on sale through Amazon, and will be getting LOTS of use out of that puppy, by buying large quantities of fresh, organic, grassfed meats and freezing it in portion sizes. Ditto with our own cockerels and at least a couple of turkeys, which will be going to freezer camp as soon as they're well-grown. I'll also buy bushels of whatever produce I can't or don't grow, and freeze it for later use. What I put up last year has really lasted well, and we should be using up the last of that supply just as this year's crop is at its prime. That worked out well!

I happily sell fresh eggs, which for me is kind of neat because it hearkens back to my depression-era ancestors. Back then, to be called an "egg-seller" was pretty insulting, and meant that you were pretty darn desperate. Well, so be it. I've never felt that there was any shame in doing anything that needed doing when it comes to supporting your family. So I'm out there gathering eggs every day. The chickens MORE than pay for their own keep that way, and I've learned that they can even provide a decent profit for us if I sell some of their eggs for hatching, instead of eating.

Speaking of selling poultry products...I'm also selling poultry itself. If anyone is near here and would like a start in chickens, I have a couple of trios of young adult Buff Orpingtons (a trio is two hens and a rooster) for sale at a good price, and also three Tom turkeys who are at prime butchering age, or would just make gorgeous decorations strutting around your place. I also have a few started chicks for sale.

Is there anything I WON'T sell, at this point? Well, not much. So many things around here are in desperate need of repair, and we're only a paycheck or two away from total disaster...which is no way to live. I'll get us back out of it, though. I don't much doubt my ability to do what it takes in that regard.

What about you? What do you do when you must have money, and there just isn't any? How are you cutting corners? How much are you saving? Where is this economy hitting you the hardest?

Happy Birthday To My Husband

2009-03-12T18:36:00.000-07:00

I dearly wish that I could give you what the salutation implies: happiness. I put in an order for it quite some time ago, and I'm still hoping that it arrives soon.

The sooner the better.

I love you.

Submarine

2009-02-18T22:45:00.000-08:00

The end of an actual bedtime conversation I just had with my husband:

"Alex, I am warning you now--I swear, if I EVER wake up, and find out I've been on a submarine without my consent? I will be SO pissed."

BECAUSE, That's Why!

2009-02-17T21:46:00.000-08:00

I get a lot of flack about my dogs. There are too many, they're underfoot, they live in the house and sprawl on the furniture, they steal my expensive goat cheese, they require frequent haircuts, they eat better than most people, and they're ninjas. Why? Why, Belinda? Why do you have all those dogs? Why do they live in the house? I never quite know how to answer that last one, because I have no idea why people who keep their dogs exclusively outdoors even want to have a dog. And I'll be the first to admit that, yeah, according to most peoples' standards, I do have "too many" dogs. Could I get rid of one? Well, no. But you'll notice that I haven't added any more since the numbers have been at this level. Can't we just call that progress?

But see, last night was a bad night for me, as many nights are, lately. I was agitated, anxious, and couldn't relax and go to sleep for love or money. I was really stressed. And then, at some point, the old dog at my feet stretched out and laid her head across my legs. She breathed an enormous sigh, and with that exhalation, relaxed and sank the whole of her weight into my legs.

All at once, I felt better. Yes, just like that. I immediately felt my blood pressure lower, my heart rate slow, and my jaw unclench. I felt at peace. All the things I'd been trying in vain to achieve all day long, a dog accomplished in one well-timed breath, and I went right to sleep.

And THAT is what good dogs do, and why it's nice to have a few (or more) of them around.

In Which I Learn A Valuable Lesson

2009-02-16T22:00:00.000-08:00

Last week, Bella was invited to her very first sleepover party. At age six. I was stunned. I can't remember going on a sleepover before I was eight or nine years old, and I think I called my mom to come get me from the first one of those. But, as you might guess if you know her even a tiny bit, my daughter was beyond stoked for this event--no hesitation whatsoever. So, we RSVPd, got the address, and headed over at the appointed time on Friday afternoon.

Right before we left, I went out to the henhouse and gathered the morning's eggs, and packed a new carton with a fresh dozen. Alex asked me, "You're taking them some eggs?" I said, "Sure." I didn't honestly think twice about it--it just seemed a natural thing to do, like sending Bella to her first day of school with a jar of watermelon pickles for her teacher. I knew from our hosts' address that they lived in a subdivision that almost certainly didn't allow hens, so super-fresh eggs would be a nice thing to have, I thought.

We left our house, which was piled with laundry (both dirty and clean) and hosting an incubator full of hatching chicks. The Christmas tree had still not made its way down to the basement storage area (St. Patrick's Day is the the traditional hoist-the-tree-downstairs deadline, right?), and the house was full of riotous poodles. Dishes soaked in the sink. The living room floor was dominated by Bella's work-in-progress of a lifesize person, rendered in two dimensions out of multiple sheets of copier paper, which gave it an air of "crime scene."

Outside, dead leaves lay in foot-thick drifts all around the property. Broccoli and Brussels sprouts plants sat propped against the window, waiting to be planted in the garden. Random junk lay scattered, well...everywhere. More poodles ran riot in the yard, backdropped by a pile of scrap lumber. Roosters crowed constantly, and turkeys gobbled, also constantly. Chickens darted this way and that, scratching up every bit of living greenery they could find. Feed sacks awaiting trash day sat in a tall stack next to the fence.

As we pulled out of our driveway and onto the street, we passed the ramshackle tree "fort" that some neighbor boys are building in the woods so close to our property that it gives the appearance of belonging to us. On this day, the fort was newly festooned with attractive plastic tarps that had been salvaged from somewhere after what looked like a lifetime of hard use. On our street, we drove around pothole after pothole, caused by runoff from the goat farm...OH, the goat farm. A true spectacle of country life in all its glory, with its frequently-escaping goats and the trash they'd tear into and scatter on the street (as depicted in the photo atop this post--that is the street side of the fence the goat is on, mind you).

Of course, I didn't really notice these things at the time--not consciously. Who would, when they see it all, every single day of their lives? No, I didn't notice it in the present...but it all floated to the top of my mind as we made more progress into their neighborhood.

The subdivision. Wow. All of a sudden, the streets were wide, and perfectly paved. Instead of dodging random livestock, you had only to slow for golf-cart crossings. Instead of semi-feral dogs padding down the road, there were bicyclists riding on either side of the grand streets, in specially-constructed bike lanes. Whoa. The yards were perfect, one after another after another. So much perfectly manicured grass! So many artfully-sculpted boxwoods! Paving stones, sidewalks, fountains... As we drove on, we began to see gated communities, smaller subdivisions within the subdivision. Houses got bigger and more stately. I'd never known this world existed, and it was only moments away from my own home.

Suddenly, I was hyper-aware of myself in a way I hadn't been before. My just-washed hair and unmade-up face. My jeans and sweatshirt. The distinct possibility of something worse than dirt on my shoes. I felt the way I imagine the hillbilly wives often featured on "Wife Swap" must feel in the opening moments of their adventures. I mentally inventoried everything that Bella was wearing, everything she'd packed, the way I'd braided her hair, the gift she was carrying and the way it was wrapped. That all checked out, I hoped. Her father and I, however--we looked fine for OUR house, which was located, apparently, in another universe five miles away. I'd be lying if I said all this wasn't causing me to wonder if we were denying our daughter something critical to her development--a real neighborhood, where she could go outside and play with other children at a moment's notice. Where neighbors just walked across the street to chat when they saw you outside--my mind boggles. I mean, sure, it's one thing for her father and I to declare ourselves hermits, but are we doing her a disservice? Oh, my self-doubting brain, how I love you.

As we pulled into the party hosts' driveway, Bella, in a matter-of-fact voice, announced, "Well, this house is preeeetty fancy." At first, I thought it was two houses with a shared driveway. Nope. Here was garage space for no less than five cars, while I myself enjoy garage space for NO cars. In fact, our living room is (or was) a garage. The house was huge, with a sweeping, two-story entryway. When we rang the doorbell, I was in full country-mouse mode, standing there clutching (and re-thinking) my carton of eggs, and feeling plainer than a mud fence. Bella was, of course, oblivious to any such inner struggle, and I'm pretty sure Alex was, too.

We met the host parents, who were perfectly lovely and gracious people. I may have been stunned momentarily silent by the spotlessness of their gorgeous home, because I found myself dumbly shoving a dozen eggs at them. The mom looked momentarily puzzled, and laughed, "You're giving us eggs?" I must have looked stricken, because she immediately recovered with, "Oh, you're seriously bringing us eggs?" She wasn't being unkind, just caught off-guard, I think. I said, "I just gathered them this morning, and thought you might like some fresh ones..." At this point I was rescued from my discomfort by the dad, who grabbed the box, opened it up, and began rhapsodizing on the joys of fresh eggs. They began asking us lots of questions about our chickens, and we told them how many we have, and about the turkeys, and that we're hatching chicks all the time, and many of the life choices I'd been feeling insecure about moments before. Then the dad looked me right in the eyes, with an expression that must have looked similar to my expression when I saw that glistening banister rushing upward into the light-filled foyer, and asked, "Where do you live that you can have all this?"

I returned to my chaotic home that afternoon feeling pretty much OK, and even smiled as I passed the goat farm.

There Are Some Things In Life You Just Don't Anticipate

2009-02-15T22:34:00.000-08:00

Setting: Our bedroom, midnight.

...peep peep peep peep PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP! PEEP! PEEP!...

What is wrong with those chicks?

It's not even all of them--it's just ONE. Listen.

I know, it's that one with the weird-looking head. He won't shut up.

Do you think he's brain-damaged?

I don't know. I'll go see. They don't make noise like that unless they need something.

(I go into the hearthroom, retrieve Loudmouth Chick, and bring him back into the bedroom, in a paper towel. He is cheeping his tiny, fuzzy head off. LOUDLY.)

What is wrong with him? What is wrong with you, little dude?

Here, set him down on the towel.

Oh, look at his feet! His toes are all curled up--he can't uncurl his toes! He has toe cramps! That's why he's peeping--his toes hurt! Or he can't make his way to the food and water, and he's hungry and thirsty.

*blink, blink*

Well, he's deformed. We should probably cull him now...

Yeah...should I...?

Wait, lemme look for something first.

What are you doing?

I'm searching "chick curled toes" on Chickenpedia. Watch, there will be 100 posts about it. Yep, here's a picture that looks just like it.

So, what do we do about it?

We have to put it down.

Oh. OK.

WAIT--let me just check a few more threads...

For what, tiny corrective shoes?

Maybe. AHA! (I get up, and come back with scissors, cardboard, duct tape, and the deformed chick.)

What? Are? You? Doing?

I am making a tiny pair of corrective shoes for a baby chicken.

Are you kidding me?

Do YOU want to snap his tiny, fuzzy little neck? Feed him to the dogs?

And that is how I came to be sharing a house with a clutch of chicks, one of whom is currently wearing some stylin' little boots.

All Over The Place

2009-02-11T06:01:00.000-08:00

And all of a sudden, I'm everywhere. I'd be ever so beholden for some comment-love at these other sites, if you have a minute to spare:

As of next week, I'll have been with BlogHer for three years. I've just posted my very first "official" piece for them, a movie review: "Coraline" in 3D A Real Gift For The Senses. I'd be honored if you'd check it out, and touched if you'd comment.

Over at RealMental.org, Just In Time For Valentine's Day: The Suckiest Wife Ever. (In case you haven't guessed, it's ME.) This might also explain a lot of those of you who've been wondering where I've been.

I've even made an attempt at sliding inconspicuously back into the rotation over at The Arkansas Times Blog, with Hey, Arkansas--Long Time, No See!

And if anyone would like to pop in to our place for quiche or omelets, we have GOT YOU COVERED.

Kerplode!

2009-02-07T22:44:00.000-08:00

Overheard from the backseat of the truck, my daughter discussing with my nephew--her older, wiser cousin--how she would spend $100:

Bella: "Well, $20 I would use to buy candy. Then $10 on toys."

Grayson: "Bella, $10 would buy one or maybe two toys--that's not many toys."

Bella: "I already have plenty of toys, so I don't care for more than one or two. And for the next $10...I would probably go to IHOP."

Grayson: "That's only $40. What will you do with the rest?"

Bella: "Get a tattoo."

Overheard from the bathtub one night:

"AaaaahhhHHHH! I just have! So! Many! Ideas...I think I might KERPLODE!"

Pancakes and tattoos. It's enough to make a mom kerplode.

Women Bloggers to GoDaddy: "ENHANCE THIS."

2009-02-03T18:46:00.001-08:00

That rallying cry from the super-sharp Glennia Campbell, immediately following Sunday's Super Bowl. Glennia, like many of us, decided that she'd finally had enough of GoDaddy's objectifyingly sexist, puerile, and all that aside, just plain stupid boobalicious ad campaign. We're also fairly disgusted at Danica Patrick's willing involvement in same.

We're tired of women not being taken seriously as human beings--for much of the advertising world, we're only as good as how much our bodies can be used to sell things. Heaping insult on injury is the fact that, as GoDaddy MUST SURELY KNOW, women make up a commanding portion of the heavy Internet-using demographic. So they're insulting and demeaning a market to which, by all good sense, they should be catering. It's baffling. As Consumerist's Ben Popken noted, it's as if their motto is, "GoDaddy: Because chicks never register domains!"

When asking why a company would behave this way, we can only conclude that it's, well...because they CAN. Because this idiocy works. Because their bottom line, carried on artificial breasts, is strong.

Well, Glennia had finally had enough. She wrote to GoDaddy, expressing her dismay at their ad campaign, and cancelling her several domain registration accounts with them. They didn't care.

I am another woman who, being cheap and all, has multiple domains registered through GoDaddy. No more. I'm answering Glennia's unintentional rallying cry, and dumping GoDaddy like a bad habit...which is, essentially, what it is. There's no good reason to use a company like this. According to Glennia's update as of today, another registrar, Register.com, has proactively stepped up to the plate and is being smart, acommodating, and respectful in helping GoDaddy deserters transfer their domains to the care of a company whose directors have unscuffed knuckles and are able to breathe through their noses.

If you're a woman, and you have a domain or domains registered through GoDaddy, won't you join me, and Glennia, in a form of protest that makes a difference? If you're a MAN with a domain or domains registered through GoDaddy, hey, they're not exactly complimenting YOUR intelligence, either. Let them know that you are too smart and too civilized to have your decisions informed merely by the presence of boobies. Because you ARE better than that, guys.

Right?

If you're like me, and slow to make nit-picky technical changes (because, really, isn't the status quo always easier than doing what's right, at least in the short run?), Glennia has helpfully posted a detailed step-by-step guide to transferring your domain(s) away from GoDaddy. The folks over at Register.com are ready, willing, and able to help out.

Let's let GoDaddy know that there's no way to enhance crap to make it look like anything but crap. We're better than this. AND this.

EDITED TO ADD: When I hit "publish" on this post, and the site came up, I saw, through a delicious twist of fate, that the BlogHer sidebar ad on the right was for Register.com. I didn't even know that they were a BlogHer advertiser, but am thrilled to learn that they are!

Live-Blogging The Stupor-Bowl! Really!

2009-02-01T13:22:00.000-08:00

Started off by attempting to get here via "globber.com." That's got to be a good omen. Yeah...I've been away a while.

Commercial: OK, right off the bat, Doritos' "YOU DON'T KNOW ME!" commercial laid me right out on the floor laughing.

Oh, man, Journey still sucks SO HARD. I hate them soooooo much, I do. I have no idea of the identity of Young Native American Steve Perry, but he's not helping. The sucking, it still goes on and on and onnnn AND OOOOONNNNNN.

Is Bruce still The Boss? I don't know who runs the day-to-day operations. I think he just named Coldplay as his successor, though I can't be sure. Costas just explained "omerta" to everyone. Why do I feel like he's a tool? I'm beginning to wonder if perhaps I forgot to apply a fresh hormone patch today, because, hello? CRANKYPANTS.

Watching Larry Fitzgerald warm up. If he had on a tutu instead of those shorts with that ensemble, he would look like the baddest ballerina on the planet.

If we're going to have to relive forty-leven other stuporbowls during the breaks, I am not going to last long before I strangle on my own drool.

How many Mannings are there? Are there more? Someone tell me now if there are. I've had enough Mannings. Did I mention CRANKYPANTS?

OK, so, this is...the Tough Guys Saying Tough Things Cliche Montage? I love men. Testosterone makes you silly.

Commercial: If "Medium" is coming back this season stronger, faster, better...does that mean she'll finally be a "Large?"

Jay Leno on the NFL. Thanks for nothing, NFL. Geez, I can't stand watching or listening to Jay Leno.

Yeah, I think it's time for the hormones.

Or Obama! Turns out that works just fine. Lauer-Obama interview. Nice. Thank God--literally, THANK GOD--this is our president. How comforting it is simply to listen to him make small talk, and to know how smart, capable, and level-headed he is.

Commercial: Yep, the e-Trade talking baby is still funny to me. "Shankopottamus." HA.

I'm being noticeably weakened by this eternal pre-game show. I think I'm going away until it's REALLY game time.

I think it constitutes some sort of football-based blasphemy to be leafing through the latest copy of Mother Earth News while the Super-Bowl is on. Oh, well.

Sportscaster: "Ben Roethlisberger has very unique feet." Well, NO, HE DOESN'T. He has unique feet? OK, sure. 'Unique' = 'one of a kind.' You can't be more the only one of something than being THE ONLY ONE of something. People who get paid huge amounts of money for talking on my TV should not use words unless they know what they mean. Just saying. No one is "very" unique. The end.

The hormones should kick in any minute now. But right now? I want Keith Olbermann and Tiki Barber to go up into that press box and clear it out, and just call the whole game themselves.

Wow, Chris Collinsworth has a whole lotta forehead. I know, I'm still annoyed with him for teaming up with Costas to try and wreck my Olympics-viewing experience.

HEY, here we go! The teams are actually entering the field. Can anyone tell me how we, as sports fans, began the decidedly odd tradition of waving dishrags around at sporting events? I can't remember this happening before I was college age.

Walter Payton Man of the Year Award goes to Kurt Warner. Montage illustrates that obscenely highly-paid professional athletes contribute charitably to their communities. Maybe they should give ethics lessons to Wall Street.

Faith Hill sings. What, you think I'm gonna snark on Faith Hill? Lady's got pipes.

Sully the hero pilot gets props! Good deal.

Jennifer Hudson, anthem. My guess is 62. She adds 62 superfluous notes to the traditional anthem, is my bet. Or higher. Anything above 62, I win. OK...I missed the new-note count, but she did end on a totally different note than is written, so that counts. She's got serious chops, and gets bonus points for getting big tough football boys all choked up.

Commerical: G.I. Joe movie? Dennis Quaid is G.I. Joe? Or is this the version where "G.I. Joe" is actually a unit consisting of many people? Does it matter?

Let me get this straight: We're 26 minutes in, and just now getting to the coin toss? I've always suspected that football causes odd stretches in the space/time continuum. Petraeus tosses. Wait--shouldn't he be, I dunno, overseeing something somewhere? Also, in some attic somewhere, there is a portrait of an aging Lynn Swann, because, DANG. Dude looks GOOD.

No one who looks anything like Kurt Warner has ever bagged MY groceries. What's up, Kroger?

Commercial: Smashing Pumpkins are selling Hyundais now? Wait, what?

Story from my past regarding Vince Lombardi: Years and years ago, my best friend David got some really nice Louis Vuitton luggage, and I infuriated him for months on end by always referring to the logo as "Vince Lombardi" instead. The end.

Judging from my husband's bellowing, something good just happened. Apparently there's a game being played in between all the commercials. Alex has promised to run the DVR back for me if there's an extremely repeat-worthy play today.

John Madden just said "penetration" 5 times in once sentence. I am not even kidding.

Commercials: NBC makes internet/text lingo joke, 10 years too late.
Bud Light tossing-guy-through-office-window spot FAILS.
Audi scores, because, well, Jason Statham.
Nostalgic/patriotic/whatever from Pepsi.
"Angels and Demons," because "The DaVinci Code" didn't suck ENOUGH, apparently.
Jack Black and Michael Cera just lost 65% and 90% of their credibility, respectively.

Score is now 3-0, Pittsburgh. Lots of chest-thumping going on. I love men.

First quarter is over! WOW, this goes a lot faster when you're blogging!

Potato-Heads commercial for Bridgestone plays on hip, current theme of nagging, back-seat-driving wife. Way to keep up with the times, Bridgestone! Maybe you can run this spot during "The Honeymooners!"

In other news, Vin Diesel still, apparently, exists. And is up to NO GOOD, making more fast and/or furious crap.

Wow, Castrol, you just flushed 3 million dollars!

Holy objectification, Doritos (have you guys hired the geniuses behind the AXE ads?) and GoDaddy. Ouch. DANG. Danica Patrick escorts American women one step forward, ten steps back. Oh well, Doritos, you can always fall back on the hilarity of guys hurting each other and smashing stuff.

Speaking of gender issues, Pepsi is marketing a diet soda for men? Wha--? Oh, well. Men like seeing other men get hurt! WIN!

I think there was a cameo by a Rocky Horror character in that last Budweiser spot. Seriously. See? I don't know how many Budweiser Clydesdale ads we're gonna get this year, but so far, these aren't great--the stick-fetching one was just plain weak.

You know, I like Will Ferrell as much as anyone, but I'm sorry, the success or failure of this project relies solely on the quality of the sleestaks.

Oh, the ball game. Yeah...looks like 10-7 Pittsburgh, with 6 minutes left in the half. Meanwhile, Pedigree's "Maybe you should get a dog" adoption-drive spot ROCKS.

Hey, turns out we needed MORE STAR TREK! Who knew? Oh, and I forgot about that Toyota ad earlier. Apparently, the Venza looks like your face, so you should buy one. Now.

Bud Light continues its lame "drinkability" series. Can someone explain to me how "Hey, this liquid beverage is totally drinkable!" is a selling point? I mean, can you imagine a restaurant aggressively marketing its food as "edible?" I am obviously not cut out for advertising. Still, bonus points for using Conan O'Brien in that earlier spot. Speaking of "drinkable" things, how come Gatorade, with all their money, can't come up with anything better than this?

On the other hand, the Teleflora ad with the boxed flowers that say, "No one wants to see you naked" did make me laugh, right at the end. At least it was better than H&R Block's lame "Death and Taxes" spot. Death. Does his taxes. GET IT? It is subtle, no?

You tell 'em, Hyundai. We are really socking it to the international automakers, no? No. I didn't think so.

Good heavens, there's Jay Leno again. Do we have to keep looking at him? Oh, see, he's driving one of his 8,472 sports cars, and its license plate says, "FALL." Which, I'm sorry, I glanced at and saw "FAIL," and I'd bet everyone else who uses the internet more than a half-hour a week flashed on the same word.

I think John Madden just said that Pittsburgh has "an ethnic backfield." That can't be right, can it? Still 10-7, still in the first half. Football is LONG.

Yes, Cheetos, we get the whole "karmic justice" angle...except that's not what this is. This ad campaign of yours is telling us what, that when people act like total nozzles, we should just be double-nozzles back at them? I don't buy it. Or Cheetos.

Better than a talking baby? Two talking babies. I guess. I admit I'm not exactly tough on the talking babies. They crack me up.

Still looking forward to "Up," but wishing Disney-Pixar could've given us a little more of a peek. Additionally, "Monsters vs. Aliens," from Dreamworks, looks fun, and leads me to wonder just how much 3-D we're gonna be subjected to in upcoming months.

LOOK OUT--it's the first Alex-mandated replay of the evening! Interception by James Patterson? What? That can't be right--he's busy writing those fairy-tale-titled murder mystery novels. Oh, wait, maybe it was Harrison. Alex likes it when defensive linemen get to score big. So, "something" finally happened. 'Nother touchdown + field goal, and the score stands at 17-7.

HALFTIME! And the part of the game where the talking heads explain fundamentals to me, such as the fact that the team who scores the most will win the game. Thanks, guys.

I just have this to say about the SoBe 3-D commercial. I would happily watch NFL players dance around in UnderArmour ALL DAY LONG, so please point me to the standard HD version of this commercial, OK? Ah, asked and answered--here we go!

It's not new, but the commercial where roadies run the world? I love it. Even if it is Sprint-Nextel.

Halftime shows are kinda...I dunno...tragic. I don't really wanna see Springsteen reduced to this.

NBC's ads have been pretty lame tonight (3-D! 3-D! 3-D!), but the Heroes + Favre spot was pretty cute.

I'm a little confused as to why, given the state of current events, Toyota would use their Super Bowl ad buy to show us giant gas-guzzling trucks pulling heavy loads up a steel spiral...that is on fire. Toyota? Um, you're just about the only automaker doing business in this country that has your head above water right now, and that ain't because of your truck sales.

Can the stadium not find any more current music than Ozzie Osbourne's "Crazy Train?" What's going on, NFL? Oh, yeah...the game's back on, and the talking heads have now had time to gather enough data to bludgeon us senseless with statistics for the next two hours.

All right, fine, I admit it--I laughed out loud at that stupid Bridgestone ad with the dancing astronauts. I think it was the song choice that did it to me--I mean, come on, who among us isn't a slave to Marky Mark and/or his Funky Bunch? And I LOVE the Coke commercials that are adapted from video games. This latest one isn't as good as the Grand Theft Auto-based one from last year, though. That one was my favorite. But why are they referring to it still as "Coke Classc? Didn't they just announce recently that the "Classic" tag is being retired?

Clydesdale commercial #3, again weak. I hate to break it to all the fans of anthropomorphized horses, but "three generations ago?" It is to laugh. There have been 20 generations of Clydesdales in this time frame, at least.

All of a sudden, here in real life, it is pouring down rain (I know, as opposed to all the other things it could be pouring down). In buckets. I told Alex it was raining. He looked at me funny. I said, "Can't you hear it raining?" He asked, "Is it raining?" and I said, "Either that or our house is on fire." And that is the funniest thing that's happened in our actual life tonight. You're welcome.

Holy crap--first Vin Diesel, now The Rock, also apparently still working. I THOUGHT OBAMA WAS GOING TO FIX STUFF LIKE THIS!

On TV, something has gone HORRIBLY WRONG with our reception. Is it a transmission problem from the network, or a DirecTV problem? We have no idea. Ah, there. Fixed. Guys are still running around and falling down, without going anywhere, a lot, looks like. Whew.

Hmm...somewhere, some more points were scored just now. Or several minutes ago. I have no idea. Score's now 20-7. Also, somehow, another Transformer movie got made. Seriously, did we need that, Shia?

FIRST LAUGH OUT LOUD FOR SEVERAL MOMENTS EVENT OF THE NIGHT Award goes to CareerBuilder.com. I can't begin to describe it, but if you watch it, it's the guy walking by and saying "Hi, Dummy" that does it. Alex held it together until the koala got punched.

And that pastoral Coke ad was pretty good, too...with all the bugs? Yeah. Like you need Coca -Cola. You also do not need Frosted Flakes, but they will help build parks for your kids if you buy their cereal, which will help make your kids too sluggish and fat to play sports in the parks. Not sure I'm following the logic on that one. If they were helping to buy your kids video games, sure...

John Madden: "Nickel, nickel, nickel defense, nickel offense, blitz, nickel, nickel." Remaining talking heads have obviously decided the outcome of this one, because they're spending a whoooole lot of time talking about each other at this point. Hey, I just looked up and saw a fumble. Woo-hoo.

Wishing I had started keeping score at the beginning of the game, counting how many times an announcer says, "This is the Super Bowl."

Looks like you're gonna need 3-D glasses to read the paper in 2009.

Holy everloving snorting grasshoppers--Ed McMahon and MC Hammer are shilling for cash4gold.com, which apparently shelled out $3mil for an ad buy. I am just...this is simply wrong on so many levels, that I can't even now remember the Coke "Mean Joe" homage ad I just saw. Cash4Gold! Where we'll buy your gold for 25%-35% of its actual pawnable value! Can't beat that! With a stick! And while we're on the topic of suspension of disbelief, here's a gem: The ladies love some Taco Bell, fellas.

Hey, another touchdown just happened. So now the score is 20-14, with a million and a half or so years to go. And that Alec Baldwin Hulu.com ad was really creative. And with a lot of punch around here: "What are you going to do, turn off your TV and your computer? HAHAHAHA." Indeed. Let's hear it for "cerebral gelatinizing" television programming. And then they scoop it out with a melon-baller and gobble it right on up.

Football is still happening, and I swear there's the same exact time on the clock that there was a half hour ago.

Commercial with kid scooping up a jarful of air, to illustrate GE's wind energy initiative...I thought for sure it was gonna be an ad for the Keeling curve...though I'm not sure who would've sponsored that. You know, because of the glass flasks he took up onto the volcano...oh, never mind.

MacGruber Pepsi spot gets points just for using the term "mouth-hole."

"5 minutes to go" in the game. STILL. Astonishingly, Hulu's servers have not failed for me one single time today. Kudos to them!

I want to see someone defend their roughness as "necessary." Although, it ain't gonna be THIS guy.

Hold the phone--something may have actually just happened in this game. All of a sudden the announcers sound like they care, and Roethlisberger looks mightily perturbed.

The problem I have with televised football is that, unless it's a passing play, by the time I figure out where the ball is, the play is over. And we have a ginormous TV in this room. No excuse for my old-lady eyes. And the score is now 20-16, because of something I totally missed while typing. WHOA--and we have an Arizona touchdown, putting them in the lead for the first time in the game, 22-20. And I care precisely as much as I did all during the time that Pittsburgh was ahead. Which is to say, lots.

This just in-- Football announcers are given to hyperbole. Here's the formula: "That [thing that just happened] might just be the [superlative superlative]est [thing like that thing that just happened] in the HISTORY OF FOOTBALL!" And someone squeezed in another point while I was having that revelation. 23-20, Arizona.

GoDaddy. Seriously. You're killing me here. Do you really not know what percentage of intense internet users are female? Really? Also, Danica? KNOCK IT OFF, Sister.

And here we go again--Santonio Holmes somehow wound up within the 5-yard line, so Pittsburgh could conceivably flip this thing again. 43 seconds to play, and...the pass is good. Alex is happy. 35 seconds left. This is the point in a football game where I start chanting, "Go, go, go, GO!" inside my head, but not for any particular team...I'm rooting for an end to the game. With no death, serious injury, or overtime.

27-23, Pittsburgh again. HOW MANY TIME-OUTS DO THESE PEOPLE GET? 22 seconds left to play, which is the real-world equivalent of 6.25 hours. Now it's down to 5 seconds. But it's taken 10 minutes to get there. 3...2...1.

Wow, that is a lot of confetti. Who cleans that up? OH NOES, the sad defeated boys camerawork! I hate this part! I am lousy with major sporting events, simply because someone has to lose. It's not nearly as painful in pro sports, though. The losers still get paid, right?

And now, we're done. Until next year, chumps! Actually, I'll most likely be doing this again for the Oscars. You're thrilled, I know.

In Which I Am Forced Out Of Self-Imposed Blog Exile, OR, In Which I Show My Butt To Someone I Just Met

2008-12-14T20:23:00.000-08:00

My life, of recent, has been miserable. I don't say that to garner sympathy, but to perhaps explain why I dropped off the face of the earth for several weeks, with no warning, and during NaBloPoMo, no less. I just didn't have it in me, you know? Don't get worried--I'm not depressed. I'm just miserable. There's a difference. The best thing that has happened is that my mom is finally recovered from her four hospitalizations and two surgeries, and has started her cancer-fighting drug regimen. YAY. I'll post more about that later.

Overall, I am just bone-weary. Emotionally exhausted. You know...miserable. I wasn't sure I'd ever journal again, because it was shockingly easy to abandon this effort. I mean, I just...quit. And I couldn't summon the energy to pick it up again. My internet presence has been limited to sporadic notes on Facebook and reading the forum posts at Backyard Chickens. But then two things happened this weekend, that, in a real, visceral way, forced me to write again. I think you'll understand.

One day, I noticed a post on BYC from someone whose posts I often read and enjoyed, looking for some young chickens to replace some that she'd lost. Then I noticed that the poster lived very near here. And being as I actually had a few Orpingtons to spare, I offered to sell her a nice trio (meaning two pullets and a cockerel), cheap. She took me up on the offer, I selected the birds for her, caught them and put them in a hutch for safekeeping, and we made arrangements for her to pick up the chickens the next morning.

So. This lovely young lady--we'll call her 'K.' to protect her privacy, as she has now been traumatized quite enough--was coming by this morning on her way to church to pick up the chickens. I knew what time she was coming, and she was right on time. Yet, I still overslept, and had only just hauled my carcass out of bed moments before my guest pulled into the driveway.

The night before, Alex and I had had a bit of a "rooster rodeo," in which some roosters that we'd moved to a new pen did not return home after free-ranging, and had to be rounded up one by one, after dark. I may have fallen down a time or two, I don't really remember. ANYWAY, after the roundup, I'd come in, slipped my jeans off, and laid them across a chair when I'd changed into my pajamas before dropping into bed last night.

So this morning, when K. pulled into the driveway, I was still in my "jammies", or pajama pants and a thermal underwear shirt. I thought, "Oh, I can't be such a slob as to go meet this nice lady for the first time in my pajama pants--I look bad enough with bed-head and no makeup..." and I very quickly shucked the pajama pants and slipped on the jeans I'd been wearing during the previous night's rooster roundup.

Without bothering to stop long enough to put on my underwear. I mean, I was only going to be out there a few minutes, right?

I'm sure you see where this is going.

So, I meet K. (who, by the way? ADORABLE!), chat a little, show her her birds in the hutch, then ask if she'd like to look around the place a little. I leaned in the front door and informed Alex that we were going around the back, and when I stepped back outside, this sweet lady who, I will remind you, I had just met for the first time, informed me that, um... the entire center seam of the seat of my jeans was ripped out.

I cannot even describe what I felt when I reached back there...well, emotionally, anyway, though it was in the neighborhood of "unbelieveably mortified." I COULD, however, describe what I felt tangibly, when I reached back there, but I'll spare you all. Traumatizing one innocent for life pretty much fulfills my quota for the day.

So, to sum up, K. is a delightful, sweet, and lovely person, who, to her immense credit, is capable of giving the appearance of being completely nonplussed by being on the receiving end of a Full Butt-Monty from someone she just met for the first time. If she ever invites you to play poker, I'd suggest you refuse, because the woman has an amazing poker-face.

As for me?

O HAI. NICE TO MEET U. MY BUTT-CRACK, LET ME SHOW YOU IT!

The following is a dramatic re-enactment, to tide you over until the Lifetime movie, "NOT WITHOUT MY UNDERPANTS" is released. The part of myself is played by the turkey in the center, and the part of K. is played by the small hen in the lower-right corner of the frame.

If you've recovered from laughing your head off at my expense (and I hope to goodness that at least a few of you were drinking some sort of beverage, which you consequently snorted through your nose), you may be thinking, "But Belinda, you said that TWO things happened this weekend which inspired--nay, 'forced'--you to write again, and you've only told us about one." To you, I say, WOW, you're really paying attention!

The other thing is that an Iraqi reporter CHUCKED HIS SHOES AT PRESIDENT BUSH DURING A PRESS CONFERENCE. Here's the video. I fully admit that my first reaction was to laugh my head off. OK, so I admit that I'm still laughing. Dude THREW HIS SHOES. At. The. President. You have to kind of love that on some level, right? And according to Iraqi sources, this was more of a deep, heartfelt insult than it was an actual assault attempt, the message being that the person on the receiving end of the shoe-chucking is considered to be of less worth than the dust from the shoe-chucker's feet, or something along those lines.

I will also admit, and not proudly, that, given the chance to chuck a shoe at G.W. Bush, with assurances that I would not be whisked away by Dick Cheney and extraordinarily renditioned to Gitmo, I would absolutely jump at the chance. As a matter of fact, I submit that this is a golden opportunity to recoup some of that bailout money. Picture it: Giant bake sale, kissing booths (though given the current politicians serving in Washington, that one might be tough to man), a dunking booth with Karl Rove, and a "quail shoot" (no live ammo, just paintballs--settle down) with Dick Cheney...all leading up to the main, high-dollar event: The George W. Bush Bon Voyage Shoe-Chuck. People would line up for MILES.

But back to serious discussion, here...what was up, during this incident, with the Secret Service detail? Did you notice that, at no time during the shoe-chucking did a single agent tackle Bush to the ground, or hustle him to safety? I mean, I thought that was pretty much SOP in situations like this--take the President out of the line of fire. But not only did W. have to duck, all on his own, he had to do it twice, because the shoe-chucker got off a second shot. Do you get the enormity of that? The guy threw BOTH his shoes, one at a time. While yelling insults, even. And without Bush's ducking, BOTH projectiles would've hit home!

All of this leaves me wondering...I know that the outgoing president is immensely unpopular, definitely so with yours truly, but has the situation gotten so bad that not only will no one "take a bullet" for the guy, they won't even take a size 10 loafer?

Look, guys...I've been worried about my mom, worried about my husband, still adjusting to Bella's grade-skipping, and wondering if the stress of dealing with one spouse's mental illness can actually crumble a marriage beyond repair, even if both parties are really trying hard to keep it together. So you'll pardon me if I take my entertainment where I find it, right?

And if I accidentally moon you?

Medical Weirdness Runs In My Family

2008-11-05T14:49:00.000-08:00

We just can't play "by the book," it seems. Mom is doing really well in all aspects of her recovery, except that she's leaking a mystery fluid (which is now assumed to be chyle) at an alarming rate. The weirdness that put her back in the hospital over the weekend is now thought to have merely been a rather severe reaction to a cephalosporin. There was no infection (a huge praise), and everything looks great.

She's gotten three of her drains out, and is spinning her wheels at home, but the two remaining drains are collecting an abundance of this chyle at present, so they stay in. There is most likely a fissure somewhere that is allowing this fluid to leak out, and unless it heals spontaneously, we're looking at more surgery to locate and repair it. Obviously, no one wants that, but we can't get her to stop leaking!

Thanks again to everyone for all the continued support, prayers, and positive thinking on my mom's behalf. If she could just get rid of those stupid drains now, she'd be back in full swing in no time. What's worrisome is that she can't proceed with the treatment of the cancer (if such treatment shall be required) until this issue with the leaking chyle is resolved.

It's all very frustrating.

Awestruck

2008-11-04T21:00:00.000-08:00

I'm only just now, as President-Elect Barack Obama prepares to make his victory speech, beginning to relax emotionally, and realizing how very beaten-down and pessimistic I have felt for the last eight years, particularly the last four. Deep down, I really didn't believe this could happen--that the incumbent power would ALLOW it to happen. That we could have, for a blessed change, a voice of compassion, kindness, and thoughtful intelligence in the White House once more. I honestly believed it would be taken from us, yet again...that Americans would succumb to the campaign of fear, separatism, and bigotry that's been playing out all over the country. Even as I type this, I'm still thinking of the possibility of the "official" results changing after I post this entry.

On a personal level, for the last eight years, I've had a gutful of having my faith hijacked by a party of hatred and division, people flying the "Christian" banner while displaying behavior so un-Christ-like that it seemed at times they must be reading some Bizarro World version of the New Testament. And yes, abortion = bad. Very bad. But there are OTHER BAD THINGS IN THE WORLD. And not being afraid of The Gay does put me in a minority as a Southern Baptist, but so be it. I'd rather keep company with a tolerant and loving Jesus than, oh, I dunno...Pat Buchanan.

I let Bella stay up until the major swing-states were called. To get her to go to bed, I had to promise to TiVo Obama's acceptance speech. I could not believe how interested and engaged she was in the whole process. She was listening to the reports, and reading the "crawl" along the bottom of the screen, shouting out each new posting of electoral votes. I hope that this is something she remembers for the rest of her life, because she experienced history in the making. When I voted, she watched, and pushed the final button that cast my ballot for Obama--for hope instead of fear. Hope for HER.

I've been afraid to let myself hope that this could really happen. That maybe America can return to a place where we will not be hated globally. That we can move FORWARD for a change, and do good instead of just looking out for number one. That our "two Americas" can get back to being the One America that it was before the politics of fear and divisiveness choked the hope and charity out of her. That, perhaps, Bella's generation will one day be known as "the greatest generation." Lord knows we're due for one.

I love my Republican friends and family. That has never changed. But, guys? You've had eight years of having things your way, and you have to admit, it's just gotten worse and worse. At this point, even if Obama pulled a Carter, we would still be moving in the right direction for the future, because another correction would be bound to occur.

Signing off now to give my full attention to the best speech I could possibly have hoped for, with this thought, borrowed tonight from my Republican friend Mandajuice, who was truly happy for her Democrat friends this evening, and has shown remarkable grace throughout this difficult election process:

RED OR BLUE, I LOVE YOU.

Now, let's do this thing. TOGETHER. Let's get purple, people.

And The Latest

2008-11-03T18:26:00.000-08:00

Well. Mom has now been seen by a specialist in infectious diseases, who has concluded that she doesn't have any. Infectious diseases, that is. He believes that the whole mess--the fever, the rash, the vomiting, was all a reaction to cephalexin. And if I'd been paying attention today when the previous doctor ordered her a dose of Rocephin, I'd have recognized that he was, in fact, ordering her yet another cephalosporin. OOOPS. But so far, she hasn't had a reaction to that one.

They are not yet willing, however, to release her from the hospital if there's any risk of another reaction to antibiotics, and since she MUST stay on antibiotics due to the reconstruction surgery, she must also stay in the hospital at least another day. She's bored out of her gourd, but looking strong and healthy, and full of energy and good spirits.

She did tear up a little at the compassion of a (to her, anyway) stranger, when I read her the letter that accompanied a hand-knitted cap (thanks so much, Robin) that had a prayer "knitted into" each stitch. She is touched by the kindness and support of pretty much the whole world right now, and very thankful that the treatments she's enduring are even available to her.

In other news, I did not get hit in the kisser by any poultry today, but I did run from one end of my house to the other, peeking out each window in succession, and crying tears of hysterical laughter as the water-meter reader was very nearly sexually harassed by my Tom turkeys. When they first came running at him, the poor guy froze in this tracks--he didn't know whether to poop his pants or wind his watch. Really, it wasn't funny. Except that it was. Especially that first "group gobble."

Good times.

An Update So Brief, I May As Well Have Used The Telegraph

2008-11-02T22:03:00.000-08:00

Mom's still in the hospital, doctors are still stymied as to the source of whatever infection is inflating her white blood cell count and keeping her feverish, and she's still breaking out in a bizarre rash in (apparent) response to antibiotics. But she's feeling downright perky tonight, unlike horrible, terrible, no good yesterday.

More news tomorrow, hopefully.

Oh, and I got hit in the face with a live turkey. FINALLY, I have something in common with Fabio!

And Back Again

2008-11-01T23:43:00.000-07:00

It's almost midnight. I just got back from the hospital, where Mom was re-admitted, via the Emergency Room. She's doing much better now than she was when we brought her in, but she's had a rough day for sure.

After just doing great in her surgery recovery over the last 10 days, today Mom suddenly spiked a fever, with hard chills and vomiting. There was a lovely rash that seemed to go along with it for a while, but since that pretty much went away when her doctor d/c'd her Keflex, we're thinking the rash was maybe a coincidence.

She's been admitted to a (thankfully) private room in the hospital now, after being seen by both her surgeon and an internist. They're doing nine (or more) kinds of bloodwork, culturing everything in and on her that can be cultured, and have performed a CT scan and gotten her on IV fluids. She was dozing comfortably on a very quiet wing of a quiet floor of the hospital about an hour ago, so Andrea and I went ahead and came on home, after extracting a promise from her that she would not hesitate to make use of her call button if she needs anything during the night. We'll go back over in the morning and see what's what.

Repeat after me, universe: NO SURGICAL INFECTION.

Everything's Coming Up Pink

2008-10-31T20:49:00.000-07:00

She's six years old now. Six. I can barely wrap my brain around it. How many more paper-crown-wearing, delightfully uninhibited childlike parties are left before she's "too old" for such things? The little-girl years seem to be rushing by like a strong river current now, bubbling and splashing and tumbling along toward the ocean of adulthood at breakneck speed.

But for now, at least for a little while, I get to experience the sheer joy of a plain ol' "little kid." I'm loving it. She had a great birthday this year, celebrated first with friends and family on the Saturday before her actual date of birth. There were pink decorations, gifts of pink clothing, a pink crown, and even a pink Uglydoll (Peaco, by request).

On the day after Bella's (actual) birthday this year, a couple of major things took place, both of which I'll be posting about separately later:

After a birthday/farewell party with her kindergarten class, complete with pink (of course) cupcakes, she did go ahead and transfer to a first-grade class. There is much more to this story, but suffice it to say, until I have a chance to elaborate, that this is a far, far better fit for her, in every way. I'm blown away by her improvement in attitude, engagement, and just plain interest. It's a good thing. And you all helped.

More importantly right now, Bella's grandmother, my mom, as many of you already know via Twitter, Facebook, and BYC, went into the hospital that same day and underwent a double radical mastectomy. Yep, leave it to my mother to time her breast cancer to coincide with National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. As you might imagine, there is a lot more to talk about, but this is the first time I've had the energy plus a few spare minutes (prior to my passing out, which will be happening any second now) to even update this much. I apologize to anyone whose emails, messages, or phone calls I might've been missing over the last few weeks. I haven't been home much, and when I have, I haven't been conscious much.

I can tell you, very briefly, that Mom responded to her diagnosis exactly the way those of us who love her would want her to--immediately, decisively, and with extreme prejudice. She is now almost two weeks out of surgery, and I'm happy to report that her lymph nodes were negative for cancer. She's looking amazingly well (as usual), and rallying like a champion. She's a bit miserable from the surgical drains that are still in, but the woman is truly inspiring in this struggle, as in everything.

We have not yet seen the medical oncologist or determined the next step in the course of her treatment, but from all early indicators, my mother should be around for many, many more of Bella's birthdays.

And we would certainly not have it any other way.

(Oh, and Bella's showing-you-her-bottom-teeth smile in so many of these pictures? She has her first LOOSE TOOTH, an event which has been awaited with all the eagerness which you could possibly imagine any event ever being anticipated, plus some. It's a lower incisor, and yes, it's loose. And will fall out. Soon. NOT SOON ENOUGH, but soon. And she says she's "been told" that the Tooth Fairy leaves a dollar these days. You'd think that under current economic conditions, the Tooth Fairy would be trading in Yen by now, wouldn't you?)

Help, Oh, Help

2008-10-06T14:50:00.000-07:00

As I'm sure most of you have gathered, there's lots of stuff going on around here right now. I'm behind on absolutely everything, and I apologize to everyone who's affected. I'll update on some of that later.

Right now, I'm wrestling with a dilemma that many of my friends and family have been telling me is coming, and of course, I'm bringing it to you, Internets, for your input, advice, opinions, and anything else you've got.

Bella will be six years old this month, and she's in kindergarten. She's also been reading for over a year, and has a couple other areas in which she demonstrates certain acedemic aptitude that is advanced beyond kindergarten level.

Today, when I picked her up from school, her teacher asked if I could come in for a moment and speak to her about Bella. The teacher and I were joined by the school's principal, the Gifted and Talented coordinator, and someone called curriculum specialist or academic coach or something like that. Long story short, they've ascertained that the kid is bright. Quelle surprise.

Now, the question being put to her father and I is, "What do you want to do about it?" And frankly, we don't know. The option of skipping her on up into first grade was offered right off the bat, and to be honest, the notion is a little jolting to me. The other option was keeping her where she is, and providing some special attention three times a week (provided that she "officially" tests into the G&T program) or so.

I have been hearing complaints from my daughter about school being "boring," and that she's "not learning anything." I've been telling her to be patient, and we'd see if we could do something about that. But what? Her teacher says that she does not complain at school, and has an attitude of polite patience in the classroom. Yeah. "Polite patience" pretty much sums up her attitude at home, too. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

So, here I am, in full information-gathering mode. If you have a story or some experience relating to this issue, AND I KNOW YOU DO, I'd like to hear it. In favor of grade-skipping, or against grade-skipping, or any experience with any solutions in between.

My sister and I were both October babies, and both fairly bright, and early readers. I started school early, while my sister started at the same age Bella did. I feel like my sister did better than I did at school, both academically and socially, and that she was better prepared for college at 18 than I was at 17. But how much of that is simply because our personalities were different? I just don't know.

Personally, I'm leaning toward keeping her where she is and trying to work hard to keep her engaged and interested. But how to do that? Is it even possible? By not letting her "skip ahead," am I actually holding her back? And how much of that feeling in me is powered by the overwhelming thought that, if she skips kindergarten, then that's ONE LESS YEAR I have with MY BABY?

Alex and I are already fighting about it, and I definitely don't want THAT. He wants to make a decision RIGHT NOW, and I know that he'd rather go ahead and advance her. I just want more information.

Anyone wanna give me some?

Like Man With Hole In Pocket

2008-09-27T23:11:00.001-07:00

Feelin' cocky all day. Isn't he gorgeous?

Flat On My Back

2008-09-18T23:13:00.000-07:00

In a shining example of The Universe's Worst Possible Timing, right in the middle of one crisis, I have been laid up by the absolute freakiest horrible back spasm in spasmodic history. It's got to be right on up there, at least. As I type this, it's the middle of the night, because no way can I sleep with this Freddy-Krueger-gripping-my-sacroiliac AGONY. I'm iced to the hilt, taking muscle relaxers and painkillers, have my legs elevated tastefully atop a Razorback styrofoam cooler that may or may not currently also be culturing a couple quarts of yogurt, and have had a steroid shot. Also, thanks to my incredibly sweet and awesome physical-therapist and general soft-hearted mush of a brother-in-law, I am sporting a TENS unit that is jacked up to...let's just say, "eleven," in an incredibly appropriate homage to Spinal Tap. I could light up a room right now, if I held a lightbulb in each hand. AND YET, I AM STILL IN AGONY. How is this possible?

I would like to take this opportunity to heartily apologize to everyone I ever suspected of "milking" a back injury. I mean, sure, I've "thrown my back out" before. Hasn't everyone? It usually happened to me when I was doing some kind of heavy lifting with bad form, like swinging hay bales on or off a trailer, stooping and twisting simultaneously. And, you know, in that case, I sort of had it coming, didn't I? For not "lifting with my knees" and all that. But this time? I was making Bella's lunch for school the next day. I think that at the moment of the first knee-buckling spasm, I was actually slicing sprouted-grain spinach wraps. THIS IS NOT HEAVY LIFTING. Nor was I doing The Twist as I sliced. I have no idea what brought this on, but I went to bed that night knowing my back hurt pretty bad, but fully expecting it to be OK in the morning.

HA HA HA HA HA. You got me, Universe! That is some cosmic sense of humor you got going there!

So, at exactly the same time that my husband is effectively incapacitated himself, I wake up in the morning, start to move, and instead start screaming. Literally. And not on purpose. All these years, I thought I knew from back pain. HA. I did NOT. This is insane. I spent nearly an hour--I kid you not--making it the 12 feet to the bathroom and back. Slowly, on the floor, in a painful crawling/dragging motion. When my brother in-law told me I had to get in to the doctor or the ER for a shot to take the inflammation down, I actually considered an ambulance. And I know what an ambulance COSTS. Instead, I iced for an hour, took a horse-sized pain pill, and then screamed my way to the truck and horned in on Alex's physical. Things got a little better yesterday, but I think the amount of sitting I had to do (which I now know, thanks again to BIL, is the WORST possible thing you can do for a bad back) exacerbated the situation so that it was much worse today.

So, if I have ever given you that stink-eye look that says, "Sure, faker," while pretending to listen sympathetically as you talk about your horrible lower-back pain...I APOLOGIZE. Also, if I've offended you somehow and you are a practicioner of the dark art of voodoo, I not only apologize, but I ask you kindly to remove the burning-hot needles from the tailbone of that doll that looks like me.

Thanks. Back pain can be emotional, right? Again, Universe, GOOD ONE!

Oh, and just to break up the misery, I will share the latest child-to-parent threat received in this household. It made me laugh because of the detail and planning involved. Alex and I were teasing Bella about something...probably threatening to trade her in for a pet monkey if she didn't hush, something like that.

Bella: "You two better stop teasing me. Or ELSE."

Us: "Oh, really? What are you going to do?"

Bella: "I am going to go to Home Depot, and buy a two-by-four, and whack you both on the butt with it."

It was like she had a homework assignment: "Threaten a butt-whupping. Show your work." I love this kid. Fortunately, while she has enough money to BUY a two-by-four, she'd have an awfully hard time getting one home without one of us giving her a ride, and now that we're savvy to her plan, we're not likely to fall for THAT.

Either Way, You Wind Up With Turkeys

2008-09-16T00:44:00.001-07:00

I can't talk about politics. Not here, anyway. It's just too engaging a topic. People want to talk back, and even when they agree with me, I wind up just feeling sick and sad. I want the election to be over, and I want it to be a CLEAN one, for once. Earlier tonight, I puked out the entirety (almost) of my sheer political and emotional (Can I separate my emotions from anything? NO I CAN NOT.) exhaustion all over my mother's email, and I actually felt better after that. This is especially remarkable when you consider that my mom and I do not currently vote the same way--not even close. But honestly, when you're just terrified of the future, who do you want? You want your mommy, that's who.

Anyway, I just don't have it in me right now to engage in any political debate, and it's darn near inescapable. I can't take one more story about vote caging or push-polling or other dirty tricks. I can't bear listening to one more person holding forth with strong opinions which are built on misinformation or ignorance. I can't stand how much we, as Americans, want to hate each other--that's the most disturbing thing of all, and I don't hold out much hope for the divide to be healed anytime soon.

But I am not, by any means, ashamed of my politics, nor do I think they need to be kept secret for any reason. So what I will do here, just this once, is compromise.

I will tell you about my turkeys.

You see, these turkeys I chose, they are not your standard Butterball. We could've raised those (they're called Broad-Breasted Whites, and they're bred for huge, heavy breasts), but decided, as with our chickens, to opt for a "Heritage" breed of fowl, and chose Narragansetts. They're an actual, historically important, natural, all-American bird. If you turned these turkeys loose in the woods, not only would they be just fine, they would thrive. They can reproduce on their own. They can raise young. They can forage for food. Most importantly, for the purposes of this story, they can FLY. Oh, boy, can they ever fly. This recently presented us with a problem.

All of our birds, while locked up safe at night, are let out during the daytime to free-range. They're free to wander pretty much the entire property here, scratching around for bugs, picking grass and weeds to eat, digging shallow holes for dust-baths, and generally just getting up to whatever kinds of poultry-based silliness they'd like. And the turkeys like, among other things, getting up as high as they can. The roosts in the turkey pen that Alex built are 12 feet high. They love it up there. And we rather enjoyed watching them soar around the place, until we started having problems with turkeys winding up in places they shouldn't be, like in the yard with the dogs, and with turkeys roosting in trees or on top of buildings at night, instead of locked up inside a nice, safe, predator-proof enclosure. We were especially worried about our beautiful birds coming down on the wrong side of our fence, and winding up on the property of one of our boundary-challenged neighbors.

So we decided, unanimously and fairly quickly, that some wing-clipping was in order. Not to ground them entirely, but to keep them closer to the ground. Then followed the discussion of how best to do the clipping. It's totally painless, like clipping your fingernails--you just cut off about 2/3 of the primary flight feathers with a sharp pair of kitchen shears. Nothing to it. But I'd researched a bit, and read that, if you clip both wings, a determined turkey will still be able to get up on rooftops and over fences by sheer force of will--in other words, by merely flapping harder. So the trick is to clip only one wing, thereby putting the bird off balance, so that they can't really get terribly high up off the ground any more.

There followed a good bit of discussion as to which wing to clip. We wanted to do everyone the same way, so that we'd be able to tell at a glance who'd been clipped and who hadn't, and also so that we'd know exactly where to watch for new feather growth later. An opportunity for a delicious metaphor presented itself pretty much immediately, and we had some fun with it. I'm sure you can see where this is going.

In the end, we opted to clip all our birds' right wings, and with more than a little pleasure, calling them all pet names, like "Newt" and "Dick" and "Karl," as we cut feathers (we don't own a turkey stupid enough to be called "Dubya," unfortunately). Depending on the outcome of November's election, those nicknames might come in handy again at butchering time.* In any case, now our turkeys are safely contained on our own property, and we're able to usher them into their safe house at night, and not worry about where they are.

And yes, we realize that what we're now left with are a bunch of left-winged turkeys. But seeing as how, no matter which choice we made, we were going to be surrounded by turkeys anyway, we decided that we'd much rather they be left-wing turkeys than right-wing turkeys.

EDITED TO ADD: Turkeys with two fully functioning wings, working TOGETHER, are graceful, efficient, and a thing of beauty to behold. They can feed their ranks, roost safely, and deflect attack from would-be evildoers. On the other hand, turkeys missing part of one wing, and attempting to work with just the one, are clumsy, awkward, ineffective at tasks that should come naturally, and are significantly more vulnerable to attack from enemies. Make what you will of these observations.

And that's as much as I wanna say about that. Please vote.

*Before anyone suggests it, no, there shall be no sarcastic naming of female turkeys or chickens, as we must live with them for the long haul. The girls, naturally, are named after bloggers. Do you want to be honored in the form of poultry? Want to know if you ALREADY ARE? Leave me a comment stating your case. You could be the next Meg Fowl or Rhiannon Hen. You just have to be prepared to have your namesake unexpectedly murdered by a fox. It happens.

The Weight Of It All

2008-09-10T22:04:00.000-07:00

To everyone with whom I've been out of contact: I apologize. I've fallen down the rabbit-holes of poultry-keeping and bento boxes and having a kindergartner. And also, things are rough right now for my husband, and therefore for my whole family. His story is his to tell (or not tell) later, when and if he feels like it, so I'll leave the details to him. But to summarize, after a roller-coaster ride of extreme hypomania followed by deep depression over the last seven or eight months, culminating in a funk that he just can't shake, despite doing every single blessed thing the doctors and therapists recommend, we're basically starting over again from Ground Zero. Meds that once worked aren't getting the job done any more, and meds that might work better are off-limits due to profound side-effects particular to Alex. It's a harsh, harsh situation. He's unable to concentrate enough to work. The frustration of it all is taking a toll on our relationship, and we're taking drastic measures over the next few weeks to attempt to deal with it head-on. Only time will tell. We appreciate your kind thoughts, prayers, and any positive energy you can possibly spare on this matter.

I've meant to post several times, because things are happening that I want to keep track of, and I rely heavily on this journal for that. Let me see what I can recall just off the cuff.

Chickens. Holy cow, I love the chickens. Our rooster is gettin' jiggy, and the oldest pullets are giving me presents!

The Buff Orpingtons and the Easter Eggers are all either laying or just about to start laying, as is our lone blue Ameraucana hen. The next wave of pullets shouldn't be far behind in egg production: more Orpingtons and a few Cuckoo Marans. We have two hatches coming up in the next month in the incubator; one of blue/black/splash Ameraucanas, and a larger one of very nice Buff Orpingtons. I'm not certain I did everything right with the Ameraucana eggs in the incubator, but I'll know one way or another by the end of this weekend. Exciting! I feel a little more confident about the Orpington eggs. There is even one of our own little pullet eggs in with that hatch, simply because when we collected our first eggs from our girls, I couldn't tell Bella "no" when she grabbed one up and begged to hatch it. It's in there with the eggs I bought from an accomplished breeder, looking very small, and marked with a crayon 'B' for "Bella." I'm half expecting a "special" chick from that egg, but I do think it will hatch--the eggs I've cracked have definitely been fertile (attaboy, Skee-Lo!).

I've had several really neat barter offers for fresh eggs, all involving produce of some kind, which makes me extremely happy. I'm very much enjoying the small group of copper-black Marans pullets and cockerels we have now, and breathing a sigh of relief that they've made it this far with no mortality. Aren't they cute, with their little bell-bottom feet?

Skee-Lo (he wishes he was taller) is getting big and pretty.

And although, as I mentioned earlier, he is getting some hen-lovin' now, not all the girls are quite as enamored of him as he'd like, and this has caused him to get every last one of his tail-feathers plucked out by the ladeez. They call it "hen-pecked" for a reason, fellas.

As much as I like him, Skee-Lo is losing standing as Most Favored Rooster with me, because of this young guy:

He's a cuckoo Marans cockerel, and I LOVE him. When the chickens are free-ranging, he stays within sight of the back door of our house, and if I come outside, this little dude RUNS, as fast as his little chicken legs can carry him (which is pretty funny in itself), to my feet, and then just cocks his head and stares at me, demanding treats. Which I of course give him. I think he's going to make an awesome rooster, though I had no intention of keeping any of the cuckoo roos to adulthood. I never said I was logical. He doesn't have a name yet...does anyone have any ideas? Something French, perhaps? Remember, once I name it, it stays out of the stew-pot.

Speaking of chickens and cold pragmatism, we have now harvested our first home-grown birds, and cooked them on the grill. I'm fairly proud of us, and am happy to report that it was some of the most delicious chicken I've ever eaten. We have 18 more roosters awaiting the same fate, and I may post more about that later, because it really has been a fascinating learning experience. I have been surprised that the final act of butchering and processing an animal I raised from birth did not require the cognitive disconnect I was expecting to have to employ. Especially once I saw how immediate and painless our method was, I felt pretty good about it. These birds are living much longer, more natural, "bird-like" lives than their grocery-store counterparts, right up to the final moment, which is fast and kind. I like knowing that each bird I raise for food myself means one LESS bird going through the factory-farming system.

That catches us up with the chickens, I think. Wanna hear about my turkeys? Not today? OK, then, maybe later. But look at them! Aren't they awesome?

I will tell you this: There are few things as therapeutic and soothing as sitting outside in the afternoon feeding string-cheese to free-range poultry. I highly recommend it.

Also, when they have to compete with turkeys, chickens can make themselves amazingly tall.

In other news, I had that gnarly thing in my arm surgically removed the other day. Not because I finally got all responsible and decided to, in the words of my husband, "have that thing removed before it starts to talk," but because I messed around and procrastinated about it until it ruptured on the inside, causing a raging infection and requiring a very, very painful procedure to get rid of the not one but two cysts that I could have had removed in a simple and relatively painless procedure at any time during the last, oh, SEVEN YEARS. So, let me just say: If you have one of these benign, weird little lumps underneath your skin somewhere, just go and get the thing out. Do it today. You really don't want to wait until it asplodes in you, trust me.

I missed you, Internets.

We Have To Come Up With A Better Way To Start The School Year

2008-09-03T23:26:00.001-07:00

I forgot to post how our first day of kindergarten wound up. It ended like this:

Just a little nosebleed, nothing to get frantic over--the blood you see in that photo is all the blood there was. But it upset her, because it was blood. It happened on the drive home from school the first day. Which was kind of a bummer, but still better than how she came home from her first day of school last year. Remember this?

Yes, school is getting better simply because this year's teacher didn't drop anything on her head yet.

Starting Kindergarten

2008-08-28T22:10:00.000-07:00

This was the scene last week, as Alex, Bella, and I waited outside her new school--ELEMENTARY SCHOOL, Bella would specify--for the doors to open on the first day. The first day of kindergarten. Wow. I swear it seems like it's only been about a year since she was standing up for the first time, grinning that toothless grin beneath a nearly-bald head, and all of a sudden, she's wearing a backpack and standing on the sidewalk outside an elementary school, clutching a getting-started-bribe of watermelon pickles for her teacher.

She almost didn't let us go with her that first day. After the school's open house earlier in the week, when the principal was instructing weepy parents on how to leave their weepy children on their first day at school--that they should say goodbye and leave quickly, then go to the school's library for a "Boo-Hoos and Bagels" breakfast, so as not to break down in front of their children or give their children the chance to break down more than they surely were going to anyway--MY daughter leaned over and said, to me, "Um, Mom? I think you can just stop the car in front of the school, and I'll just hop on out and come in by myself, OK?" We had to negotiate for the right to at least walk her in to the classroom ONE TIME. We had to promise not to hang around too long, though, and to do any crying in the library with the other parents.

Once we got to her classroom, Bella wasted no time in cozying up to her new teacher, warming her up with some jokes and giving her a gift that "we made ourselves!"

She had delighted in picking out her own comfortable clothes to wear that morning, remarking more than once that we should give her old private preschool uniforms to "some other poor kid" who had to go to that school. It was heart-warming seeing her so happy and at ease in this new place, and she settled right in to her place, practically giddy to be there.

She went right to work on the project in front of her, promptly ignoring her father and me.

We were able to talk her into one goodbye hug for each of us, thankfully.

She sat back down at her place, and her father and I watched her for several more minutes, waxing sentimental (look, she is our only child, and this is the only time we'll have this experience, so give us a break), until we got this LOOK--the look that plainly said, "Hey, guys? I got this. You can GO, NOW."

So, we went. And despite all the sobbing parents out in the hallway, we held it together. We skipped the whole "Boo Hoos And Bagels" experience. We were proud of the independent, fearless, confident little character we'd somehow produced, and we left her at school with no concern whatsoever for whether she'd be all right, but with considerable pangs of sadness for ourselves, and our own loss of our wee little baby.

And then, outside the front doors of the school, inexplicably, there was a giant anthropomorphized wiener, obviously sent from above to let us know that everything was going to be OKAY. Or sent from Sonic to remind us that hot dogs are tasty. Whatever. A good omen is a good omen. Don't look gift-wieners in the mouth, people.

High Humidity

2008-08-21T20:57:00.000-07:00

"We Could Get Nuuuuude!"

2008-08-20T21:51:00.000-07:00

Following that cell-phone commercial on TV, depicting the family that mistakenly visits a nude beach on their vacation, and the little girl in the commercial asking her parents, "Why is everybody NAKED?"

Bella: "Mom, why ARE all those people naked?"

Me: "Because in some places, there are nude beaches, where people can go swimming without any clothes."

Bella: (blinks) "AWWWESOME! Can WE go to a nude beach?"

Me: "No, I don't think so."

Bella: "Why not? Pleeeeease?"

Me: (laughing) "No."

Bella: (cajoling tone) "Please? We could get nuuuuuuuuude!"

I'm both mildly alarmed and a little delighted that my daughter finds the prospect of everyone running around nekkid in the surf so wildly appealing. I don't know why I'm surprised, though, seeing as how she's down with the skinny-dip in the backyard.