Peeved

Today's assignment is to write about three pet peeves.
Just three.
A study in restraint, I see...

My first pet peeve is chewing gum.
Very few people who chew gum know how to do so with class and good manners. There's smacking mastication. There's tiny in-mouth bubble popping. It's all funny in the movie caricatures with loud talking waitresses, but in real life it's pretty annoying.
I could tolerate the personal rudeness, but the thing that REALLY peeves me is that no one seems to know how dispose of the stuff discretely and unobtrusively. One of my first jobs was as an assistant janitor at my high school between my freshman and sophomore years. Let me say right now that I believe EVERYONE should have to janitor their own school for three months as a part of their class load.  Once you've scraped dried gum off the bottom of every desk in the building (save the secretary and principal's desks), or cleaned and waxed all the bathrooms, or repainted the lockers...ALL the lockers...much greater care is taken of the educational resources you're provided with.  That's why I can't stand gum.  I cleaned up so stinkin' much of it!  This isn't even counting the gum I cleaned off shoes from the random spitting in the parking lots. Or the gum out of my kids hair.

The second pet peeve on my (rather extensive) list is "I seen".
I really and truly try not to be a grammar Nazi, brace myself against the misuse of "their", "there", and "they're" in writing, but my palms absolutely sweat when I hear someone say "I seen them cows..." or "I seen a big cloud over..." etc.
"I saw..."
"I have seen...."
"I will have seen...."
But not "I seen".
I don't know why this bugs me to the dying end, but it does.

Thirdly, (and blessedly, FINALLY) is when people who are shopping decide they don't want a product or find a better deal on a similar product, and leave it in any old random place in the store. Or their empty Shlurpee container.
Again, this goes back to retail work experience from a job I had with Jo-Ann Fabrics.
It's quick and convenient for the customer, and what's the big deal, right?
It's a big stinkin' deal to the college girl who is working three jobs and has to sweep/organize every aisle after the doors close before she drags off to home for another 3 hours of homework, only to start it all again at 6 AM. Or the retiree who is putting in the hours on this job to afford rent and little Christmas gifts for their family with this job that runs until 9 PM; their legs ache and they can't understand what happened to common courtesy.
It's a big deal.
It's rude.
It's unnecessary.
Take the product back to the aisle it belongs; it's another 5 minutes out of your leisurely shopping day. Take the empty container to the trash at the front of the store that you walk past ANYWAY to leave. Just do. Be decent. Be a good person. It's not that hard.

Tomorrow is "Someone inspiring"!
I will lose sleep tonight over this! So, so many inspiring people that I know of...

You don't say!

(I guess I was supposed to do TEN things that make me smile for yesterday's assignment. YIKES! Count your lucky stars that I didn't get it correct...)

Today's assignment was to write about something someone told me about myself that I never forgot.
I spent my whole run this morning trying to come up with it. All I could remember was the negative because of course that's what we all hang on to, right?

One of the things that I've never forgotten wasn't said directly to me, but I remember hearing it a lot and taking it quite to heart.  It wasn't anything bad, but it sure shaped my self-perception.

When I was growing up, I was (and still am) very bookish. I loved reading, loved my horse, and loved drawing.  My sister was kind of a tomboy and rode bikes, played basketball, tumbled and did all sorts of physical things.  I remember when I was about 9 years old, I heard my mom tell someone that "Jen's athletic and Mary's artistic".  It struck me that if I was artistic, I couldn't possibly be athletic and besides, Mom should know.

It's very true that I'm not good at team sports. And I thought that's what athleticism WAS....playing basketball or volleyball.  I was fast at running in high school gym class, but when approached by the track coach to go out for the track team, I declined....because I knew I wasn't athletic.  In fact, I avoided any sort of sport or activity that would show the world my lack of ability.

When I was 21 or 22, my friend Kim (who challenged me to do these blog assignments) took me mountain biking and kayaking, and I loved it! At the end of a particularly challenging ride (for me) I told her that it was kind of cool that I made it because I wasn't athletic.
Well.
She schooled me on what athleticism REALLY was, right there at the end of the bike trail, sweaty and tired. And guess what? It turns out, I AM athletic! I am!  I'm just not athletic in organized sports.

I learned that it doesn't matter what people say about who I am.  It really just matters that I don't limit myself and that I continue to try new things, evolving into whoever it is I want.
(I will confess this, though. I accept that I'm really and truly not mechanical in any way. I can barely run a toaster. But I can run 5 miles, and that's cool.)

Confessions of a School Party Mom Flunkie

There are a lot of things about parenting that no one tells you at the baby shower. All those sweet little index cards that experienced mothers and well-meaning aunties write out full of helpful parenting hints contain things like "You can't spoil babies; kiss them more than you think is healthy!" and "Always carry a diaper in the glove box of your car. Trust me on this one." are all good and fine, but most of them deal with "baby" or "toddler" situations.  Almost no one (including the good Dr. James Dobson) writes about perplexing issues involving grade school age (5-12) children.

I'm not talking about what to do if they contract chicken pox or how to handle "The Talk".  There ARE books about that. What really kills some of us are things like school parties and sports events.

Now, I'm certain there are Very Organized and Creative Mothers who look forward to such things. It gives them an opportunity to showcase their talents. They're the ones who actually have real Easter baskets for their kids to put the plastic eggs in, instead of plastic grocery bags hastily borrowed from the teacher. Their party treats bring to mind a Martha Stewart magazine cover, with olives minutely sliced into spider legs on top of perfectly peeled deviled eggs. They show up at basketball games with personalized, superbly FAN-tastic ensembles and pull out little handlettered banners with all their kids' teammates names and numbers on there in gold.

If this is you, bless your heart, you'd probably better just stop reading the Chronicles here and go amuse yourself on the Pinterest website.



I THOUGHT I could be one of those mothers. (In retrospect, I have no idea why because nothing in my past would suggest or even hint at this sort of tendency...)

And I probably could try a little harder.

It would help if I could ever nail down the date and times of events.
I DO try!
I read the school emails and newsletters and Facebook posts with my planner open, pen in hand, writing down everything important as soon as I encounter it. But I always miss the hidden clues that the other mothers glean from the same documents....things like, "And all the kids will wear pajamas that day" or "Please send one ingredient for Earth Day tacos."  I end up writing down the right date/wrong time, or vice-versa.  Or they change the date on something and I miss that in the subsequent email.

I honestly have stood in front of the cupboard and thought these things, folks:

"I suppose I can't stuff plastic eggs with Vienna sausages, cocktail onions, or plain old marshmallows..."

"I probably can't take any of those for school treats, either..."

"What is the world record time for Jello set up?"

"Game....I'm responsible for a GAME?!?!?!  Like, Sort the Lucky Charms...that might work."
"But not for Halloween."
"Dang."


I'm telling you.
It's BRUTAL.

The older the kids get the less pressure there is on the school front, thank goodness, but the sports mom thing kicks in then. They have practices at specific times in specific places and need important things like real honest-to-goodness basketball shoes. It turns out, most sports also require sports physicals from genuine doctors, not just notes from the parent saying "She's up to date on her shots and hasn't had anything contagious for a couple weeks now."

At games, the parents wear team colors and have cash for concessions.
SERIOUSLY!
They don't just show up showered, with their last check in their pocket (because they forgot to order new ones two weeks ago).  And they show up at the right gymnasium or field. They show up on the appointed day to take their turn selling concessions. In team colors. WITH CASH.
Apparently, this is no biggie for most people of the world...


Today is the school Easter egg hunt.
We miraculously had both plastic eggs and candy, so my cherubs boarded the bus somewhat prepared. But now I have to come up with treats of some sort, and it's not looking promising.

Frozen corn...
Two not-too-brown bananas...
Coffee beans...

*sigh*

Confession #422

I fell out of love with Downton Abby when Matthew died.
*whew. there, I said it*

I was Downton before Downton was cool, Just as the rest of the world started really plugging in and watching Season 1 and 2 to catch up, really.  And I still watch it....I just don't LOVE it.

BUT...
I'm devouring this show entitled "Call the Midwife".
It's set in the east end of London (very poor neighborhoods) in the 1950s and is based on a real, true midwife's memoirs. The midwives live with nuns at a place called Nonantes House and work side by side with them to care for mothers, babies and community.  It's just a dear show, saved from being schmaltzy by having realistically flawed characters and a sense of nostalgia, not sugar. The producers have taken great pains to ensure historical and cultural accuracy, right down to the way the nuns knit....continental as opposed to the odd American style.  The music is 1950s wonderful, interspersed with holy vespers sung by the nuns.
I cry with happiness and anguish, nearly every episode...

Here's the cast from Season 1




My guilty show is "Selfridges" which is about an insanely charismatic, marketing genius who started the first department store in London around the turn of the century. (Yes. They're BOTH set in London.  It's BBC!) He's rather a philanderer but has a fair, decent heart so I forgive him as I'm bawling him out while I watch.  This one is about to go the way of Downton Abby, I'm afraid, so it may only be one of my favorites for one more season...
Oh! It's based on a real person, too!  I watched a documentary on Harry Selfridge and the t.v. show seems to be taking pains to stay true to his story.  (Really, he was such a character that they didn't really HAVE to make anything up.)

Sometimes I get all lost in the fashion and setting details of both shows, missing big chunks of the plot in trying to figure out what china pattern they're using or taking notes in my head on the cut of a gown. (You know. Because I'm very likely to sew my own walking suit...*sarcastic sigh*)

AND....
(yes...there's MORE)
in January, I'll be starting the Australian show "Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries".
It should be deliciously wicked and NOT set in London. (Melbourne, I think.)

Now you know.

Exercise Spells Happiness

For the last month or so, I've quit running.  Not altogether, but I'm certainly not running every day like I had been; maybe two reluctant runs a week.  It was painful, cold, boring and early.  It was much more pleasant to have another cup of coffee, sit on my ever-widening butt and check out Pinterest. (Which, by the way, is an even bigger time sucker than Facebook; it's like flipping through this HUMONGOUS magazine that never ends.) Also, there was Fat Pete's fudge, appetizers every time I turned around, comfort food for the family during snow storms and...this is the worst...cocktails every evening.  Of course, when one has cocktails (yes, more than one), the motivation to run the next morning at 6 a.m. in the dark and snow is pretty much non-existent.  To top it off, we couldn't seem to get organized to do yoga, so there went that workout.

The Boston 5 pounds had friends over.

And I haven't had my hair done in 6 months.
I'm a mess.

A mess on the mend.

This morning, I woke up pain free for the first time in at least a month!  And I wanted to run. I wanted it in a hungry way.  I NEEDED to run TODAY.

Got the kids fed, lunches packed, dogs situated, coffee made, email checked, then left.

I was sort of creaky.  I felt like the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz...happy to be moving, just not moving really all that gracefully or fast.  Okay, I NEVER run all that gracefully or fast, but it was even worse this morning.

I started thinking creatively; planning books, sewing head bands, filing. It's tough to creatively file, so that was a stretch.

My brain was clicking away, my body was creaking away...I hit 3/4 of a mile and realized something:
I was enjoying myself!
It was like seeing an old friend, unexpectedly.
Gosh, it's been a long time since I enjoyed a run; the sunrise and the squeak of the snow under my shoes.
I warmed up, loosened up, lightened up (no more filing in my head) and really enjoyed the run. I kept it to an easy two miles because I was limited by time and also didn't want to break that little magic that had come back.  Now, it's an hour later and my body is STILL thanking me. Mostly because I'm finally drinking coffee, but still...

I don't know why my heart is so stubborn.  I found this last week that the more people talked about fitness goals, whole foods, signing up for marathons, posted workout motivational signs on Facebook,  blah, blah, blah, that instead of wanting to be part of that momentum, I wanted to be the opposite.  I'm sure you find that shocking.

I guess I'm writing this more as an accountability post than anything.  (In case you were wondering where I was going with it...)  I wanted to tell SOMEBODY that I had a good run, an enjoyable run.  I wanted to admit to my sloth, because writing it down makes it impossible to pretend it didn't happen.  I wanted to make sure I remembered where I'm starting from, again.

A mess on the mend.

The game's afoot!

I didn't think she'd notice....

I'd only snuck a few measly spoonfuls from her chocolate fudge brownie Ben and Jerry's ice cream container.  Nothing alarming.  Not like I'd eaten half the container or anything. Besides, she hadn't eaten ice cream for 2 1/2 weeks.  I had convinced myself that she probably didn't even LIKE it anymore.  (Chocolate fudge brownie ice cream can get so...boring....after a couple servings; right?)

Oh, she noticed.

When I handed her the slightly sampled container and a spoon yesterday, there was an exclamation.

"HEY! Someone's been eating my ice cream!!!"

(You'll note that she didn't ask WHO had been eating her ice cream...I'd have had to have confessed all, if that had been the case.)

As Maggie thoughtfully ate her ice cream and pondered the loss, I went to put clothes in the dryer, feeling like the worst sort of heel.

However, when I returned, she seemed cool and I didn't see any need to upset her by bringing the topic up again.

I'm sensitive to her feelings that way.

A little later, SHE mentioned the theft again, but this time, she had a plan.

She was in possession of fingerprint powder from her detective kit and had dusted the container.

Dang.

It was just a little ice cream!

Seriously?

Fingerprinting?

This was JUST the sort of case she'd been looking for, for months!

A who-dunnit!

A serious crime!

Rather than being distraught over the loss, she was jubilant!

At last, the chance to sleuth, the opportunity to nab a villain, justice, vindication...

It was almost too good to be true.

I mentioned that there could be prints from the people who stocked ice cream in the store, the checkers, the bag boys, Daddy who dished some up for her.

She remained firm in her resolve that THIS was going to be an open and shut case.

The minute the thief opened and shut the ice cream container, that is.

I have not even breathed on it, since.

But I'm about to crack and confess.

I can't handle the pressure of the guilt.

I'm weary of wearing rubber gloves to get ice cubes for my gin and tonics.

I want to be able to sleep at night, without tossing and turning in nightmares of a seven year-old standing over me with a magnifying glass and disappointed look on her face.

Never snitch ice cream from Maggie Drew.

I've learned my lesson!

I can't fold paper.

It's true.
It's too mechanical for me.

(My friend Traci is laughing out loud, right this minute, because she knows this to be true...)

I wanted to make origami cranes to hang in my windows in January, because I think they're cool and also...there's nothing to celebrate until we get to Bobby Burns birthday!  I bought the origami paper, printed off the directions from the computer, went to a quiet corner and carefully started following the steps, reading them out loud to make sure I got it correct.  (You know, folding from right to left is tough....for someone who can't find her right leg during yoga.)

I had some cool little triangle-y shapes, but when it came to folding the legs out, there were none.  NONE, I tell you.  I could fold it over and make it look like a Kermit-thee-Frog (sic) face, but I want cranes, not a Muppet.  Waaaaaahhhhh!

I can't put specific LEGO structures together, either.  Even with the directions.  Some sadistic, vengeful person bought my son a Pirates of the Caribbean LEGO set for Christmas; it makes a little castle, two carriages and I don't know what all.  All the parts are specific.  The carriages ONLY go together a certain, special way.  I don't have a clue what that way might be, even WITH the instructions laying in front of me. 

It makes me want to throw the whole thing against the wall after struggling with miniscule parts for 40 minutes and coming up with....a one-wheeled carriage. 

My kids don't ask me to help with anything anymore.
They wait for their father to come home and then rush him with projects like opening the secret drawer on the magic box, rebuilding LEGO structures, putting together Barbie outfits...

I don't know where the short circuit is, because I think I am trainable.  I can learn a crane if someone shows me.  I can make gingerbread houses that stand up and have square corners and everything, as long as I don't have to look at a diagram.  But hand me a step-by-step chart for making Jello blocks and I'm lost.  Was that hot water first? 

*sigh*

Anyone else mechanically challenged?
Is there anyone who knows how to fold an origami crane that would like to sit beside me and teach me?  I still want those cranes!

It's only make-believe...

A high school classmate of mine contacted me this fall, after watching my TTU Red Raiders remarks on Facebook, wondering if I wanted to play fantasy football, seeing as how I seemed to sort of like the game and followed teams pretty closely. 

"I don't know....how does it work? I'm not very good with games."

He explained the concept and told me how to sign up.

I figured it could be another long winter and besides, the league he was putting together had old classmates of mine that I hadn't been in contact with for 20 years.  It could be interesting.  What the heck...okay, I'll sign up.

And a monster was born.


For those of you who don't know about fantasy football, it's basically where each "manager" (person who joins the league) drafts players from all over the NFL for different positions.  So you could have a 49ers quarterback, a Cowboys running back, a Broncos wide reciever and so on.  They're real players in the NFL, but you pick them for your pretend team.  There are a couple tricky things, here, though.  If someone else in your group has already picked them, you can't.  You can pick someone else and try to trade for that player, but that's not usually going to happen if they're amazing players. 

The DRAFT is an evil, tense process.  It's a timed deal, a certain amount of time on a specific day in a specific order. I signed up for the league about 4 days before our draft occured, so that means everyone else had been doing research on players all summer but I'd only been reading up on them for a couple days.  You have to know about ALL the darned players for ALL the positions because most of the time you won't get your first, second or even fifth choice....you've got to be ready to pick from what's left, if you're not high on the draft, which I wasn't.  I had lists, highlighted and notated, starred and :(  -ed,  read ESPN like the daily news, asked friends...it was ugly. 

My draft was ugly.  I really did end up with a lot of second-string players, sleepers, a couple young-and-shaky-prospect quarterbacks, 49ers that no one wanted (but now are DYING to have).  I was upset...the whole thing had taken place in 16 minutes, players like Aaron Rodgers flying off the shelf like Tickle-Me-Elmo dolls at a Black Friday sale, and you all know what kind of shopper I am!  And I'm shopping for football players, now! Sheesh...

My team was named Hail Mary, completely appropriate because a Hail Mary pass in football is a long shot, desperate attempt, throw into the wild blue and hope for a miracle sort of thing.  It was the longest of shots, this fraggledy little team. 

I had the 49ers defensive line, because no one wanted them. 
I had quarterback Matthew Stafford, maligned and distrusted because he has spent most of the last 2 years on the bench with injuries.
I was running back heavy, (literally) with Darren Sproles, Michael Bush, Reggie Bush, Kendall Hunter, Ricky Williams...they were all that were left!
I had nothin' for wide recievers, and fought that position to the end.
My tight ends were Vernon Davis, the only superstar at the time on my team, and Antonio Gates, highly recommended but shaky future. 
My kicker was from the Atlanta Falcons and pretty unimpressive on the stats, but again, no one wanted him so I took him in desperation. 

The way the machine works, then, is that your fantasy players get points based on the number of yards made on a play, completed passes, making a touchdown, stopping a play from the other team and so forth.  It's based on their real life performance, so fantasy football owners end up needing three televisions and two computers to watch all their players around the country, if they are that competitive and obsessed. 

Turns out, I AM that competitive and obsessed.
I know.
That comes as a total shock to no one.

Seventeen weeks of weeping, wailing, celebratory dances, standing up and yelling, gasping, stomping, couch-coaching.
Seventeen weeks of roster shifting, nail biting, head banging on the desk in front of the computer, arm pumps, lucky jerseys, sneaking peeks at scores during family/friendly gatherings.
Seventeen weeks of back and forth banter with my classmates who, as it turns out, are as competitive and obsessed as I am.
I lived and died by the projected points.
I dropped a couple players and picked up a couple more unknowns. 
Matthew Stafford made like a superhero, as did my running backs.  The 49ers shocked everyone by blowing out of the Bay and winning game after game.  Injuries to superstars caused my second string players to be put in positions of power and they came through, week after week, bless their hearts.
And Hail Mary made the playoffs, #4 out of 16 teams.

Two weeks of playoffs and we were in the championship game, the league Superbowl! 
That was yesterday and the entire world shut down while I watched with sweaty palms, game after game, stats bouncing all over the place.

Hail Mary WON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And handily, 254 points against 157 points!

It was at a cost, though.
My kids walk around flinching, intermittantly hollering "Go Sproles!" and "Who's got it better than us? NOBODY!".  My husband has endured the endless updates and now when I open my mouth, he says (before I utter a word) "Oh, good.  Way-to-go."  My FB friends-if-they-still-claim-me are thinking of either joining a fantasy football league to see what the obsession is all about, or blocking me. 

The fantasy football season is over.
I won. I got a call from the commissioner, congratulating me.
I'd be all empty and let down about the end, except that the 49ers are in real life playoffs for the first time in I can't tell you how long, and I'm wearing my old Joe Montana jersey around, hoping against all hope that THIS will be their year!

I'll keep you posted...
:)

Oh! in an interesting side note:  My friend (who shall remain unnamed here) that talked me into this mess, gently taunted me when his team played mine that I'd better put on my big girl panties for that weekend, because I was going down.  I challenged him to a bet in which the big girl panties would be worn and photographed by the loser, for all the world to see.  I won.  This is my blog and I want the record of that win posted here for all time and eternity.  This is what fantasy football will do to seemingly normal, logical people:

It was a sweet moment. I was hoping for white, but this is pretty good, too...

Password Protected

When I read that phrase "password protected", I groan to myself.

It means, essentially, that every account I have is well-protected...from me. 
Everything requres a password, now; I'm sorta surprised we don't have to choose one to access our refrigerator.  And I understand the need for them...of course I want my very important information protected! I mean, what would I do if someone hacked my Good Reads account and changed my reading progress on Innocents Abroad from page 203 to 165?  I'd never recover...

 I didn't used to mind the passwords.  I'd use the same one on everything, no big deal.  My fingers would automatically type the magic words, I'd get in and post a story to Blogger, badda-bing badda-boom.  But now I have to come up with passwords of varying lengths, symbols and letter combos, GPS location, etc.  I always get yelled at by the computer because I come up with a brilliant password to my way of thinking, but it does not fall under their rule of 6-21 letters, two symbols, three numbers, and the name of my sister's mother-in-law's first dog.  Tricky. 

When I actually DO stumble upon that magic combination and type it twice, I'm disinclined to write it down, unless it's for work.  I try to keep a list of my personal passwords, somewhere, but usually need a map to find the secret special hiding spot for the list...(so no one can find it and abuse the ToysRUs account).  I am one of those that the businesses thoughtfully developed that little "Forgot your password?" button for.  Why, yes; yes I DID!  But in order to access the sweet "here, moron, is your 22 character password, AGAIN"  message, I have to remember the password to my email.   Which I just changed.  DRATS!

Melange

Melange (pronounced m-lazh) is a French word that basically means "all sorts of different things altogether".  Sort of like a junk drawer of ideas when you find it at the Chronicles....lots of little thoughts that can't stand alone as a post, but that I want to share with you.

First, the depressing news about my garden. (Let's just get the bad stuff over with, shall we?)
We have had grasshoppers in plague levels. 

Here's my little tomato/flower/cucumber planters in a "before" picture:

Plant lovers, cover your eyes....it's brutal....

And "after":

 Same bed, one week later....those WERE marigolds in front, remember?

Enough about the hoppers.

On to another depressing topic...

:)

I turn forty this year.

There, I said it.

Whew!

And I had tossed around the idea of running a K race...any K; 5K, 10K, 1K.  It just seemed so...I don't know....standard and typical of someone turning forty.  We can't have that, now, can we?

Anyway, I get this magazine called Runner's World, which is full of people who take their running VERY seriously.  So seriously, in fact, that I can't believe I didn't have to have an interview and an approval before subscribing.  Really.

Yesterday, I was looking through all the races that are being held around the nation and overseas, and found THE race for me.  It's a half-marathon, which is incredibly intimidating (the "m" word...) and I'd have to be able to run it in just under 4 hours, even more intimidating.  I'm slow, folks.  But I think I can get faster for this one.

It's the Diva's Half-Marathon, and there's going to be one in Vail, CO next September.  It's my race.  Listen to the little write-up:

"Runners get the royal treatment-just after mile 12, they recieve a feather boa and tiara; at the finish line, "hunky" firemen hand them a glass of bubbly and a rose."

AND

"It is not just about the run but the whole weekend experience. All our events will host a 2 day Health & Fitness Boutique, a Girls' 5K (open to all ages and genders), a Diva Lounge and more. Some of our races will also host yoga sessions by the beach, Diva Pub Crawls after the race, spa specials, winery visits and more. Each city gives the race its own special flavor for a wonderful weekend with the girls or with family where mom, sister or daughter are stars."

I looked at the website and one can even personalize the running bib!

I think I'd better start working NOW. 

But doesn't that sound like a good first race?

Next topic of discussion:

And this is completely silly, but I've been thinking of it for the last couple of days...

Excluding major appliances (even the Kitchenaid mixer), what 5 tools could you not live without in your kitchen?

It's harder than you think, narrowing it down to 5!

I came up with:

1. My little plastic scraper thingee from Pampered Chef...it scrapes flour off the counter, impossibly stuck food off pans...everything.
2. Wooden spatulas made by one of our hunters.  They are invaluable AND beautiful, made of different woods.
3. That in-between sized knife that is bigger than a paring knife but smaller than a big carving knife. 
4. A really old grater that grates really finely...perfect for lemon zest or cheese or carrots.
5. I don't know if this is a tool, but I have this big kettle that I use for everything...pasta, meats, soups, candy.  There's nothing it doesn't work for.  AND it has a clear glass lid, so I can see what's going on all the time without removing it!

What's on your list?

One more thing: fantasy football. 

I have a draft tomorrow and I have no idea what to do.  One of my high school classmates put together a league, just for fun and so that we could all reconnect, and I let myself be talked into joining.  It's not like I don't get deeply engrossed in the season, anyway...become fiercely competetive over events I have no control over.....re-play games in my head as I drive....wear the same "lucky" shirt every Sunday for 20 weeks.  Now I have a new reason to watch! And my team's name is Hail Mary, which is appropriate on so many levels...

But I'm absolutely lost as to how to do this draft thing.

Any help at all would be greatly appreciated.

I have my list of players, and perhaps I'm a little too ambitious for the first time out.  See what you think of my first round picks, made a week ago and now may have to be revised:

QB- Michael Vick (He's everyone's 1st round draft pick, I'm guessing; so predictable.)

WR- Terrell Owens (I wanted Crabtree, but his health is iffy...darn it!)

RB- Frank Gore (And I KNOW he's a 49er and they're miserable this year...again....still...but I like the guy.)

TE- Vernon Davis (Although, maybe I should look at Marcedes Lewis....input?)

I don't even know how many rounds I need to prepare for!

Blessedly, I'll end the melange there.

Happy Saturday!

First Day of School, Part II

Okay...you've seen the sweet pictures of the shiny clean students with brand-spankin' new backpacks and lunchboxes, smiling bus driver, cute little teacher and all that.  And everyone says, "Awwww...I LOVE the first day of school!" 

Thank GOODNESS no one is taking pictures of the mothers, that's all I have to say.

Have you ever noticed that?

The unsung heros, who managed to pull it all together to get everyone on the bus, clean and complete....
they look like they've been through war. 

I'm not kidding.

Oh, I know there are a few who actually teach school or have other jobs, and they are neat and pretty on the first day, bless their organized little hearts! 
I'm talking about the stay at home moms who have had, shall we say, VERY flexible schedules for a couple months. 

Frazzled hair, pulled into a quick ponytail to keep it out of her face while she frantically searches the fridge for something to put in the new lunch box. (Because although she may have remembered to get a new lunch box for the child, she neglected to adequately plan for the filling of said lunch box.)

Oversized ratty college tshirt and gym shorts from the run that she thought she had time for. There's a coffee dribble on the tshirt, because an excited child tugged on her arm JUST as she was raising her shaking hand for a first sip, half an hour late.  She's just happy to FIND her coffee, amidst the flurry.

There's pressure to send the child(ren) off with a good breakfast.  All summer, it's been sort of a scavenge situation...survival of the fittest to get cereal, toast or leftover pizza.  Now, all of a sudden, the kids are going to need real nutrition to fuel their growing bodies and minds.  (Also so that they don't get to school and tell the teacher they only chewed on their fingernails that morning...sad violins playing in the background...)  So now she's making eggs (they're fast) AND lunch.  Good grief! Two meals at once!  With no coffee in her system! 

AND....the kids need to be dressed, hair combed, and faces clean.  Again, all optional during the summer, but now rather important.  Hoping, praying that the jeans bought a week ago still fit them...growing like bad weeds....and that the fashion for second grade girls this year is mismatched socks.  (They WERE all laid out and neat, except the brother needed a sleeping bag for his StarWarsGuys...yes, all one word.)

Throw kids in the car, fly to the bus stop in a cloud of dust, not really knowing when the bus is actually going to be there....and looking in the rear view mirror, she sees crumbs on her chin.  Considering the mom hasn't actually eaten that morning, this is a disturbing revelation...

When she sees the other mothers drive up, she sinks a bit in the seat, looking around for sunglasses and wiping the crumbs off surrepticiously on her big tshirt, praying no one had time to put in their contacts.  "I don't know when the bus will be here, honey! Soon!" 

And when the bus pulls up, grabbing the camera to record the magical moment...

So when you look at those dear little pictures of the first day of school, and start getting all nostalgic about the scent of new crayons and chalkboard dust, remember that there's a mother behind them with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder who's sitting in a chair in her tossed kitchen, drinking cold coffee and vowing that NEXT year...NEXT year will be the year they sit down together at the breakfast table all civilized for bran muffins and fruit, calmly discussing the lunch that was packed the night before and the new folders stashed in back packs by color.

And so the year begins...

*No, there will be no photos to enhance this post.  Ever. 

Tackling the big issues...

I've been avoiding this topic for years. 



It's not pretty.



It's a problem that 6 out of 10 people face every summer.  EVERY summer!
And it's non-gender related....it's across the board; men and women, old and young, urban and rural. 


Zucchini.
*shudder*

A seemingly perfect vegetable, because it grows easily, has a gazillion uses, requires little care to produce...
Every spring, gardeners (and those who would never term themselves as such) plant at LEAST 5 hills, having some sort of winter amnesia about this little plant.  They seem to think that THIS is the year only one plant will make it, getting all nostalgic about zucchini bread like Grandma used to make, and that one hill is pointless, really. 

One hill of zucchini can feed a decent sized village in Mexico for approximately 3 months, non-stop. 
No kidding.
We ALL know this!

We are ALL in denial, in May, when planting our gardens!

We are ALL in despair, in late July/early August, when the harvest starts.

At first, it's sweet and happy.

"Oh, LOOK! A little bitty zucchini!  At last...something to harvest!"

And we bear it into the kitchen, chop it up in tiny little pieces, hide it in a green salad and feel quite proud of ourselves.

A couple weeks later, it's a desperate, crazy situation, not unlike dealing with the plant from Little Shop of Horrors, except in reverse.  Instead of demanding that you "Feed me, Seymour!", the plant grows to gargantuan proportions (even IF you stop watering the darn thing) and shoves its green fruits in your hands, pockets, anywhere there's an opening.  It's feeding you. Viciously.  Not just one plant, mind you...you planted something like 15 of them. (Three seeds to a hill, just like the seed packet says...moron...)

And THAT'S why you don't leave your car unlocked in Jordan, Montana from the first of August until a real heavy frost.  I was zucchini bombed when I was a single, starving young woman living on raman noodles and powdered milk.  I found an unmarked brown grocery bag on the front seat of my car one morning when I was leaving for work.  I was thrilled!  Free food!  After eating three of the 57 or so zucchini in the bag, I was cursing whomever may have left them. 

Because...and here's the funny thing...no one can bring themselves to throw away zucchini.  The vegetable has some strange power that controls your mind and won't allow you to dispose of them in any other way besides eating them.  It's true.  If you tell a stunned gardener or zucchini bomb reciepient to just pitch the dang green thing, they'll recoil and say something like "But I CAN'T!  I need to make something with it!"

True story.

That's why I've decided to do The Twelve Days of Zucchini, starting August 1st.  For twelve days, I'll post a new (to me) recipe for the obnoxious ingredient; something that may or may not be helpful, but it will at least ensure that you don't feel alone while drowning in your self-inflicted sea of zucchini!  (Take heart, brothers and sisters...we're all in the same boat, so to speak!)

For those of you who DIDN'T plant any, I urge you to lock all your doors and don't make eye contact with any garden-y type people who approach you with bulging coats and bags, and a sickly, frantic look on their faces...

Spring training

I think everyone hits spring feeling a little...shlumpy and dumpy, after all the winter comfort foods and marathon movie weekends.  And the doggone catalogs start coming with lithe, firm 18 year old swimsuit models, frolicking on the sands of...BoraBora.  Or St. Croix. 

Spring is a time of eternal hope, so instead of pitching the catalogs the moment they cross the threshold, I thumb through them, wondering if there's any possible way...

Smart people buy shorts at Walmart and are satisfied and get on with their lives.
Smart people don't torture themselves with impossible ideals and circled items.
Smart people accept that God made them a certain way (not in a swimsuit model mold) and enjoy Girl Scout cookies with no self-recrimination.
Smart people laugh at the thought and draw mustaches on the wretched models, before tossing the pages in the trash.

Turns out, 'smart' isn't a word that is ever coupled with my name.
I know.
Shocking....

Here's what I do:

Look at the models half my age and think, "I think I can do that."
Show the catalogs to a friend 10 years my junior and ask her opinion....which, as we all know, is going to be WAY different than one of my peers. 
Take to heart her enthusiastic support, IF I get a tan.  I can't do it without a tan, she emphasizes.
Gather up all the Shape, Fitness and Self magazines that have the word 'bikini' on the cover.
Order the first two piece I've had the guts to buy since age....get this....21! (On big clearance sale...possibly the only smart thing I did in this whole process.)
Panic.
Add too many crunches/pushups/planks too fast. Ditto on miles running.
Die.
Get a tiny package from Fed Ex. (No. Way.)
Panic.
Try the feared garment(s?) on.
Admit a tan and extra work is needed, but it's not the spector of revolting skin that I anticipated.
Lots of extra work.  A pretty darn good tan.  An attempt to embrace vegetables as friends, not foe. 

Maybe by July, I'll have the guts to wear it on our deck, to the kiddie wading pool, after a glass of wine and checking to make sure there are no tractors in a 5 mile radius....

True Confession #302

(Is anyone keeping track of the numbering? I think we're in the 300's, now.  I'm sure one of my more meticulous followers will set me straight if I'm off by 25 or so...)

This is humbling.

I've had more than one of you tell me that you follow what I read and then, based on that completely shaky, flaky information, you choose some of your reading material.  Bless your poor misguided little hearts...!

This will probably shatter whatever illusions you had (note the past tense, here) about my taste in reading material.  I'm tumbling down from the literary pedestal.  And landing on my face.

I know you're thinking I'm going to disclose a secret love for Harlequins, but that's not it.  (I'm allergic to Harlequins, frankly.)

It's worse.

I absolutely can't get enough of that trashy magazine called "People". 

It's true. 

I used to be happy to have to wait for doctor appointments, up to an hour, because I'd have time to hungrily read all the back issues of People. I didn't snatch copies out of other patient's hands, but I sincerely thought about it a couple times.  Fortunately for them, just a long, piercing glare seemed to do the trick.

When I was pregnant, I was ecstatic at the weekly appointments, because I got FRESH People magazines! YES! 
I was so informed about Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise and Snoop Dogg and Jennifer Anniston that I'd have won celebrity trivia games, if only there was such a thing.

Now here's the thing:  I won't buy them.  I can't.  I cannot toss down five bucks a week to read that trash, no matter how wonderfully awful it is.  I do have my limits.  Even though I've left a few on the rack a little tattered, I just can't do it.

Here's richness, though....

I have a supplier.  A dealer.  Someone to feed this terrible, disgraceful, secret (well, not anymore) addiction. 

And once a month, I get a stack of People magazines! (They're weekly, so they build up quick.)

It's positively heady, to see that pile on my front seat in the Trailblazer. 
I am now back in the loop with fashion, celebrity relationships, hot music on the street and dreadful Hollywood gossip. 
It's glorious.

I hope we can still be friends, now that you know this about me.

And if you're REALLY nice, I might pass the mags along to you when I'm done....

Sort of crazy

I run.

I'm not a "runner", however.  I reserve that title for people who run marathons or more than 10 miles in a day, VOLUNTARILY.  There's a big difference.  Something snaps, in the psyche of a person who runs, and they become a runner...I don't understand it, nor do I want to.  I just know they're different. And I can't decide if I admire them or fear them. 

Anyway, this morning, I discovered that I've become one of those crazy people who runs in all sorts of awful weather.  You know them.  You see them bullheadedly chugging along in sleet, rain, snow...whatever wretched conditions....as you sit in your car with the heated seats up to their highest level, and you think, "Has she never heard of a treadmill? Hello! Man, NO-ONE could pay me enough to do that..."  (And I can say this, because I DID that, once.  And almost pulled over to give them a ride, thinking they were too stupid to know better...like some sort of athletic chicken.)

Running hurts, I won't lie to you.  It stops hurting if you stick with it and becomes pretty darn uncomfortable.  Then, if you really, really keep going, it feels so good that you think you could run forever. (I believe this is where the runners snap.)  But when you stop, it's gonna go back to pretty darn uncomfortable.  And sometimes, in the middle of the night, when a cramp grabs your arch, it hurts again.  Or if you haven't run for a couple days...that can hurt.

I'm at the point of HAVING to run, almost daily....it's compulsive.  My brain gets all folded in on itself, like a note from one Jr.high girl to another. My body gets hungry for the motion, and I get a feeling of restlessness, twitchy legs. And the treadmill is better than nothing, but it doesn't clean out the soul and free up the mind like running in fresh air.

This morning, when I was running with my head into the wind, eyes and nose streaming from the cold, ice crystals on my eyelashes from the moisture in the air, legs churning in the packed snow of the road and making dreadful time, I realized I had become one of those crazy people.  What's worse is that I LIKED it. I had actually thanked my husband for plowing out the road, not so I could get the car out, but so that I could run! 

If you see me this winter along the county road, it's okay to make eye contact.  This sort of crazy won't rub off. 

It's gold...

There's an old Girl Scout song that runs through my head, sometimes. 

"Make new friends, but keep the old; one is silver and the other is gold."

Last night, we had a house full of gold!

Our friends, Eric and Camie Fitgerald came for pizza night with their little girls, Sloan and Jade. 

We've been friends for just ever, Wayland and I having gone to high school with Eric in Jordan and hanging out in the years following.  The crazy thing about the friendship with Eric is that Wayland and Eric were friends, and Eric and I were friends, but Wayland and I were not friends.  Go figure. 

 We finally got it all together and there was Camie in the mix.  Camie and I were fast friends, because she was from the town of Dutton, Montana AND she was just plain cool, which I aspire to be someday.  She's cool in an arts-y, funny sort of way and we almost always end up laughing like idiots while our husbands roll their eyes.  Everyone should have friends like that, don't you think?

Eric and Wayland are best friends.  You could not tell by their communication.  Here's how it goes:

Me:  Hey, when was the last time you called Eric?
W.: 2008, maybe.
Me: I think he has another kid, now.  Maybe you should give him a call...
W.: Nah.  One kid, two kids....whatever.  He's good or we'd have heard something in Walmart.
Me: (Dialing the phone) You know they're in Worland, now...not Billings.
W.: Wyoming?
Me: (Handing the phone to him) NO! Worland, Florida! Say hello.
W.: He-e-e-e-e-y, Eric...how's it going?

They then proceed to talk about guns, work, guns, kids, guns and, well, guns.  Takes them 37 minutes to catch up on 2 years and then they're done for another two years.

Anyway, pizza was the theme of the evening; bbq chicken, pepperoni and mushroom, and cheese (for the kids.  And for dessert, fruit pizza!  Talked and talked and rescued kittens from enthusiastic clutches, looked for kids in the dark, took pictures...

Hanging out, watching a Barbie surfing movie.  Angus was traumatized by all the chicks and the fact that they wanted to play with his cars and trucks, not just dolls like chicks are SUPPOSED to.  I believe he was in his room counting "bad guys" at this time, making sure none were pocketed or dressed up in ruffles....

 Sloan, showing us her surfing moves...

 Can you see the kitten being held captive? Jade ADORED that kitten and her preferred method of transport was packing the kitten by the neck.  She didn't squeeze or anything, and we made sure the kitten was completely fine, but everytime we turned around, there she was, headed off down the hall with this little thing...

 Another very exciting evening at the Pluhar house....we should've broken out the Scrabble and really blown them away with the fun, but we were all too full.  (Note the tray of wine glasses behind Camie on the bookcase.  That will come into play later in the post...)

 Eric, very seriously entering all our information: date of birth, phone numbers, wedding date, size of clothes, mother's middle name, zodiac signs, childhood pets....not really, but he does have quite a lot, now.  They don't have a computer at home and use this little smart phone for all their communications and addresses!

 At one point, I asked Wayland to take a picture of Camie and I, since we don't have ANY and I wanted to commemorate that we actually were in the same place at the same time and still friends. We, being women and all, had to get our hair perfectly situated. Camie, very controlled, shook her pretty little blonde head and all the hair fell into place. I shook my crazy head and accidentally hit a tray of wine glasses, making a HUGE clatter and causing the kids on the couch to jump up in alarm to see who was going to get the beating.
(Nothing broke and no one was injured...but now I know not to toss my hair...)
                                   

 Trying for some composure...

                                                      We couldn't stop laughing!

 Finally got it!

 Princess Sloan, after about four changes of costume....she informed us that she's going to be a southern belle for Halloween! I've no doubt she'll pull off Scarlett O'Hara with great aplomb.

Plans are being made to visit Worland for a long weekend, sometime before two years rolls by.  It was mentioned over supper that Camie has an early curfew of 1:30 a.m. on weekends...did you hear that, Pluhar?....and we are making plans....

Squeezers

For the very young and the men, let me tell you what these are:

Eyelash squeezers.

That's right.  That's what they do.  Women (of questionable intelligence) insert their eyelashes into one of these instruments, push the little handles together and it squeezes their eyelashes until they're curled up alluringly.

My mom had some and I nearly pulled my eyelashes out when I was 10 years old, having forgotten to "Open, then remove curler from eye".  That's an important step.  Really, THE most important step.

I'd forgotten all about this dandy little beauty enhancement tool until I was at my sister's house reading through her health and beauty magazines one afternoon. The little blurb beside the photo showed a before and after and spoke glowingly of its powers to make one look like Marilyn Monroe.  I could imagine my eyelashes fluttering like Bambi's, creating a breeze and magically drawing attention from the crows feet located directly beside them. 

I NEEDED an eyelash squeezer.

I had completely forgotten why I'd avoided them for 25 years.

Next time I was at Walmart, I hunted until I found some and quickly purchased them, along with some youthful blush. (My friend Elise happened upon me, agonizing in the beauty product aisle and graciously didn't direct me to the spackle three rows down.  I love that girl.)

When I got them home, I was excited to try them.  Surely I'd gained coordination and some common sense in the span of a quarter of a century.  One would think....

Alas....

I could get them to my eye.  Once I got my eyelashes to lay in the slot....I was so excited I moved and boop! out they came.  Finally after about 4 tries, I got it all situated and squeezed.

OUCH!!!

Little tip for you:  It doesn't curl eyelids.  Only eyelashes. 

And in my hurry to get the squeezer off my eyelid, I forgot to let go, releasing the eyelashes/lid.

(I will omit the words I prefaced OUCH!!!! with.  This is a family blog.)

And after that, you'd think I'd throw them away, wouldn't you?

No.

I'm a lot of things, but I'm no quitter where stupid is concerned.

I've been using them daily for a couple weeks now.  I still have all my eyelashes and I notice no obvious difference in curl or shape.  In which case, you're probably wondering why I continue....

I'm just so darn proud I can run them without self-inflicted injury.

You be the judge....

...if you dare!

There's a verse in the Bible that says, "Judge not, lest ye be judged."

I think it was referring to 4-H judges at county fairs.

(And I'm pretty sure the judge gets judged, just so you know. I felt like I was walking around the fairgrounds all weekend with a bullseye on my back...)

This year, I had the dubious privilege of being the 4-H Foods and Photography judge at our little county fair.  Since I love both food AND photography, I jumped at the opportunity when asked! I really should've talked to the last judge before committing, but now I know he's probably undergoing diabetes testing as a result of judging the foods last year.  Either that, or in the 4-H Witness Protection Program, hiding from disgruntled parents.

Doesn't it sound like the perfect gig? Tasting the best foods the kids can prepare and talking with them; looking at photos and discussing aperature value and composition.  And you all know how I like to visit.  Perfect.

When I showed up, there really weren't a lot of entries in, yet.  I looked at the list of exhibitors and counted about 14 kids, looked at the modest row of foods and thought, "YES! This is going to be FUN."

There was only one photography project in, at that point. Looking good; looking real good.

Now, I want to tell you a little something about 4-H foods.  Every third plate will have banana bread or brownies on it. I'm not joking.  About every fifth plate will have chocolate chip cookies. And the reason for these entries is that they are almost bulletproof.  Just about anyone can turn out a pan of brownies that are worthy of fair entry...even if you burn the edges, you can cut some out of the center and have a decent showing. 

The other thing is that I'm a firm believer that you can't judge a food without tasting it and feeling the texture in your mouth.  Perhaps some people can, but I fail to see how you can gauge quality by appearance and smell, and the density when you cut into it.  You could have a really great looking pie, but if you forgot the sugar, the only way to know that is by tasting it. Right?

I was a thorough judge.

I was a sick judge.

It turns out that most kids don't bring in their food entries until the very last minute, so it can be uber-fresh. In fact, some of the entries were still warm. The longer I judged, the longer the row of brownies and banana bread got! I wasn't making a dent. Quite to the contrary; I was creating a void on the counter for them to fill with twice the entries! By noon, the counter was groaning with food and so was I.  I was relieved to wander to the cookshack for my complimentary sandwich and chips....I was dying for protein!

I thought the afternoon was going to be a bit easier, having only about 5 kids to judge.

No. It was not.

They save the best for last.

Three little over-achievers each entered something like 12 food items, EACH!

I tried to recruit Mike G. as a taster for me, but apparently he's been suckered into that gig before and declined, not so politely.  (Later that afternoon, I caught him visiting with the judge for industrial arts and smirking in my direction...)(That's just mean.)

I want to tell you all something, though: there are a lot of good cooks in the younger generation, and I'm happy about that.  These kids can really knock out the baked goods and when questioned, most of them know a great deal about the process.  I had a superlative taste of apple pie, a bite of coffee cake that made me roll my eyes with joy and (this is my personal purple ribbon choice) homemade chocolate covered cherries that were the perfection of confection. 

The photography was really my favorite part.

There were only three projects entered, each with about 10-12 photos.  I worry that I was too hard on them, asking technical questions and what they would change to get different effects or exposures. These three girls really had some great photos, but the one that blew me away was the girl who played with special effects and had a little old point and shoot camera that she couldn't adjust any of the values with.  She had to work with her eyes and the time of day, the shadows and the angles, without the ability to adjust settings on her camera.  We talked a long while, and I walked away hoping she'd continue with the hobby. Her mom caught me in the grocery store yesterday afternoon and said the girl was all excited about her photography, again, and is thinking she may need a better camera! That's cool.

My clerk, Debbie was invaluable and when we got done with the whole blessed event, she told the extension secretary that we'd do it again next year. Bless her efficient little heart.  (I will take any tasting volunteers who offer.....Mike.) (No, not YOU, Mike G.....the other Mike...Mike W.  The one who won't stand in the corner and snicker at me in my time of need.)(Well, he might, but not during a 4-H foods crisis.)

Changing Gears

At one of our bookclubs, we had the rare privilege of hosting the author of our selection that month, John Moore.  He's a rancher that writes or a writer that ranches....I'm not sure which.  Anyway, we asked him if ranching hindered his writing process and he explained that actually he did most of his writing horseback, in his head, hurrying home after the work was done to get it down on paper.

I have to say I can completely relate to this.  I write blog posts by the bucketful when I ride my 4-wheeler, moving cows. I write letters that never get sent. I change recipes and write cookbooks. I make "to-do" lists that are quite grandiose.  And I revisit memories, hitting the re-wind button in my brain; enjoying some and cringing at others, of course. 

The other day, when we were moving the yearlings...the coming twos....I recalled my first "ranch" date with the Farmer and the guys of Pluhar ranch. 

I grew up where we rode horses to gather cows and work, and my dad made fun of motorcycles and wheelers. I'd truly never sat on a 4 wheeler until I started dating the Farmer....golf carts, yes, but never a wheeler. And it had been some time since I'd moved cows at all.   

The guys were going to move yearlings from Grants, where our house now sits, to across the road and I guess they thought it couldn't hurt to let "the girl" come along.  I got a crash course (not literally) in riding my own 4-wheeler. It sounded something like this: "Here's the start button. Shift up with your foot like this, shift down with your foot like this, here's the brake, let's go."

 And they took off, going at what seemed to me to be 50 mph, but in reality was more like 25 mph.  Pluhars are great guys, but they don't baby girls along very much, so I finally figured out the shifting up thing and caught up.  Sort of.  By the time I was getting to cruising speed, they were shifting down to turn.  (How do I shift down?!!! Think, think, think. Think faster!)

I've told you about moving yearlings, how they are the hardest bunches of cows to manuver, because they are flighty and silly, like junior high girls.  Yeah.  And me on a wheeler.  I don't mind telling you that I was a little nervous.  But I really wanted to prove that I could do it, so I followed along and went where they told me, feeling like I'd tip over the wheeler on any little incline, fighting the gear thing the whole way.

Looking back, I give the guys huge credit for their patience and willingness to even let me go.  Or perhaps they just wanted something funny to watch for awhile. 

The one little instruction they neglected to impart was how to put the wheeler in reverse. 

On a horse, you pull back the reins and pivot.  It's pretty intuitive and quick and you don't even really think about it. 

On a wheeler, you have to shift all the stinking way back down to neutral, push down a little red button on the left handle by the brake and pull back, shift the gear down into reverse, THEN hit the gas to go flying backward after letting go of the brake you've been holding on the left-hand handle.  Who the heck is going to figure THAT out on their own?  Especially someone as mechanically impaired as me.

Pulling back on the handles does nothing. And believe me, I tried that.

I got a little heifer into a corner, and there we sat.....she didn't want to leave and I couldn't.  I couldn't go forward, I couldn't go backward, I couldn't turn.  She finally tossed her pretty little head and left me sitting there, MAD.  Mostly because I could hear at least two of the guys (one was the man I was dating) laughing. What I wouldn't have given for one of my Dad's horses right that moment....

Finally, after pulling himself together, the Farmer (risking life and limb) came over and showed me the complex system by which one puts a wheeler in reverse. Is that all? He politely backed my wheeler out of the corner and got me readjusted, headed the right direction.

I was finally able to rejoin the guys and the herd and follow them across the road to the next pasture. Vern very kindly told me he liked that I didn't get all excited when moving cows, waving my arms and hollering.  Well, yeah.  I was pretty much immobilized in the corner during most of the project.  But let me tell you, it was getting pretty close to the waving and yelling stage.....

I didn't realize at the time that it was a pretty big deal to go with the guys.  Pluhars have always had ample male help and sort of discouraged women around the cows, because as my father-in-law told the Farmer one time, "Cows just work harder with women in the corral."

But that's another story....

For Lori R., if she still reads this blog...

A true confession and humble groveling....



I actually bought AND PLANTED a couple packets of yarrow seeds for my New York flower bed. Knowingly paid good money for bad flower seeds that I've repeatedly cautioned other gardeners about. If I wake up tomorrow to rotten vegetables pelting the house, I will know why.


It's a hellaciously hot, dry bed located ten feet from my yard, across the gravel driveway and I can't get anything to grow there, except noxious weeds.  Like gypsophilia and iris. The reason I call it the New York flower bed is because I test suspicious plants in it....if they can make it there, they'll make it anywhere. (And everyone joins in, "...it's up to you, New-York-New-York! dum-dum-dahddy-dum, dum-dum-dahddy-dum..." Now you'll have that song in your head all day. You're welcome!)

I planted them early, early one morning nearly in the dark,  wearing pajamas of course, and feeling hypocritical and terribly guilty. I don't think anyone saw me and I destroyed the seed packets immediately, but still....I can't live with myself.

 So now you know.  Garden havoc will begin in approximately 10-15 days, if the conditions are favorable. (Favorable conditions for yarrow being "anywhere on the planet" and "any sort of moisture, even that from bated breath, in the air"...)

I brought it on myself.



*I also have about 50 pounds of iris tubers to dispose of and I don't really want to throw them away, but I have run out of places to put them.  Every flower bed I have in my half-acre plot of ground has iris.  And they just keep multiplying! If anyone wants them and can't come pick them up, I will SHIP THEM, free of charge to the shippee. Anyone who comments on this post and uses the magic word "iris" will automatically entitle themselves to 5 pounds of iris tubers! You can ALL win!

**Two boxes of iris tubers are ready for D. and Fontie!

To answer Fontie's question, there's nothing wrong with iris.  They hang out for a couple years, looking for all the world like soldiers, and putting up neat little helmet blossoms to accentuate their spear foliage.  Then, all of a sudden, the troops expand into a wad of mangy looking misfits and that's your cue to divide them.  The first time you divide them, you'll be giddy, because they are EASY to tease apart and plant.  The third time you have to divide them, you'll be frantic to find homes for them, because you will actually have pain if you toss them over the fence.  Find someone who needs a filler flower and make them think they won a horticultural blog contest. Box up 10 lbs and ship with a lovely note and best wishes....