*Chapter 4 can be found at Life With Four Boys . I had no more cow-in-the-snow or naked-kids-dressing-up-cats pictures to post this week, much less write about, and neither did Denise; we were desperate, just like Fern and Joanie. I'm sure you can't imagine THAT! Here's Chapter 5....unparalleled in goofiness....
Just then, Fern's cell phone started to ring from the depths of her zebra print purse. Or rather, to play the tune "Don't Be Cruel" and vibrate. "Would you ex-cuse me for a moment?" Fern dug around in her bag, trying not to reveal the many empty Caramello wrappers that were cushioning and obscuring her phone. It was difficult to maintain grace under pressure. It was even harder to continue to hold in her stomach, encased in black spandex "jeans".
At last, she pulled the phone from the depths of the valaise and answered, as sophisticatedly as she could with no breath, "He-looooo. Yes, Amelia. Yes, we HAVE met Hans, honey." Fern glanced at the impressive speciman of which they were conversing. He was indicating, as politely as he could, that it was urgent to leave, right that very minute.
"Ah, nooooo. No we have NOT had a chance to chat with him."
It was becoming impossible to carry on the conversation AND the facade with her stomach.
Fern hissed into the phone, "Amelia! I will call you LATER. Mmmm-hmmmm. Good-BYE."
As Hans offered each lady an arm, the three began rapidly walking toward the parking lot. Fern and Joanie were having to trot, with legs approximately half as long and heels twice as high as Hans. Fern gave up on vanity and focused on not falling or worse, being drug along in a hurry.
When they'd reached an old, green Ford truck, Hans politely, but firmly insisted they get in. For their own safety. But Joanie paused.
"Land sakes! For all we know, YOU killed Clara! Now, you seem like a nice young man...really young, actually....but I have watched all those CSI shows and nice young men can be..." and she paused for air, "....well, they can be villains! I'm not getting in!"
Fern immediately agreed, impressed with Joanie's uncharacteristic good sense.
Hans flipped open a little wallet, revealing a badge and handed it to Joanie and Fern, looking around urgently.
"Federal....Bureau....of Investigation..." Joanie read carefully.
"You're FBI?!" gasped Fern.
"Yes, ladies," Hans put the badge back in his coat. "Now, will you KINDLY get in the truck? I'll explain more as we drive."
Fern looked at Joanie with glittering eyes, behind her bifocals.
"Well, you heard the man...get in!"
As they clambered into the truck, forgoing appearances and panting with the effort, Hans elegantly slid into the drivers seat and started it. It took some effort to get the engine to turn over, and just as Fern was about to offer her understated pink Goldwing bike as a getaway rig, the engine reluctantly coughed to life and they took off.
Looking in the side mirror, Fern caught a glimpse of two menacing figures, heading toward her Goldwing.
By this time, Joanie's quivering chin had settled down a bit.
Hans spoke loudly, but STILL politely, over the caucaphony of the finely tuned engine of the Ford,
"I'm sorry you ladies got tangled up in this. Here's what's going on..."
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
"the fat bat..."
"Hey, Mags; what is the one big thing you want to learn at school this year?"
"I want to write my own stories, without anyone helping me with the words and letters. I want to write my stories alone."
This week, Maggie wrote a "lift-the-flap" book, entitled All Animals Are Cool. She drew pictures of jungle animals in their habitat and carefully pasted little paper doors over them. There was a question mark beside each door, so the reader would wonder at the mystery of the door. I was shocked that she'd even gotten the pages in order, front to back, and stapled neatly. The only print in the book was the first page that said, "What's behind that door?" It really frustrated her that I had to help her spell out the words. One of the greatest delights about a project is the surprise factor, and that's lost when you get help.
Every day, we get three or four intricately drawn pictures of mermaids, princesses, pirates, elephants and other fanciful characters. The scenes are dimensionally correct and detailed, and when she tells the story about the picture, it takes at LEAST 15 minutes.
I can understand why she wants to be able to communicate in print. Then she wouldn't have to remember the story every time. The audience could READ it, along with her!
The kicker is that she knows how to read. She just doesn't know she knows....you know?
I made up word cards this afternoon, thinking if she learned a couple words like "the" and "at", that she'd be more confident. There were also cards that had "cat", "sat" and "mat". We added "elephant" at her request.
She shuffled through the deck, looking for words she needed to make a sentence. With very little help, she put this together:
"the fat bat sat on a mat" then: "the cat got the bat" ending with "splat"
That was a FUNNY story! We both laughed!
She got busy and put together a couple sentences about "the elephant" and another about "the bat". I stopped the game before she got tired of it, and she wants to use her word cards tomorrow. And could we make a card for "ran"?
"I want to write my own stories, without anyone helping me with the words and letters. I want to write my stories alone."
This week, Maggie wrote a "lift-the-flap" book, entitled All Animals Are Cool. She drew pictures of jungle animals in their habitat and carefully pasted little paper doors over them. There was a question mark beside each door, so the reader would wonder at the mystery of the door. I was shocked that she'd even gotten the pages in order, front to back, and stapled neatly. The only print in the book was the first page that said, "What's behind that door?" It really frustrated her that I had to help her spell out the words. One of the greatest delights about a project is the surprise factor, and that's lost when you get help.
Every day, we get three or four intricately drawn pictures of mermaids, princesses, pirates, elephants and other fanciful characters. The scenes are dimensionally correct and detailed, and when she tells the story about the picture, it takes at LEAST 15 minutes.
I can understand why she wants to be able to communicate in print. Then she wouldn't have to remember the story every time. The audience could READ it, along with her!
The kicker is that she knows how to read. She just doesn't know she knows....you know?
I made up word cards this afternoon, thinking if she learned a couple words like "the" and "at", that she'd be more confident. There were also cards that had "cat", "sat" and "mat". We added "elephant" at her request.
She shuffled through the deck, looking for words she needed to make a sentence. With very little help, she put this together:
"the fat bat sat on a mat" then: "the cat got the bat" ending with "splat"
That was a FUNNY story! We both laughed!
She got busy and put together a couple sentences about "the elephant" and another about "the bat". I stopped the game before she got tired of it, and she wants to use her word cards tomorrow. And could we make a card for "ran"?
Maggie is on her way to big stories, written all by herself.
If you are inclined to read Chapter 4....
....go to Life with Four Boys for the next scintillating installment of "Between Friends". You won't be bored!
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Between Friends Chapter 3
"Well, this is what comes of reading a murder mystery for bookclub, " Fern grumbled, hanging her phone up like a lady, instead of tossing it to the ground dramatically as SOME people were inclined to do.She picked up her dog-eared, notated paperback copy of "Death Becomes Her" and headed toward the living room to turn "Days of Our Lives" up so she could hear it while changing clothes. No one could solve a mystery wearing a muu-muu.
And heaven knows it was up to her. Amelia wouldn't leave her post by the telephone for fear of missing the play by play action from her brother. He owned the conveniently situated coffee/tire repair shop next to the police station, and was a wealth of information, true or conjecture, which he cheerfully and speedily shared. Clara couldn't be counted on; Mr. Puggles or Cuddles or whatever that little dog's name was, distracted her like a hen with a lame grasshopper. Besides, it was all she could handle, making dessert for bookclub. She was not known for her great culinary skills and under stress, well, there was no telling what would come of those blueberries she was blithering about...
Fern emerged from her boudoir, dressed fit to kill.
"Poor choice of descriptive phrases," she thought to herself, putting her magenta lipstick in her faux zebra-hide purse. She turned the t.v. off and headed for the garage as fast as her black highheeled boots could carry her.
She pulled the hot pink Honda Goldwing bike out of the garage, grateful for the sidecar that lent balance. It was either that or the Harley, and Fern didn't want to draw attention to herself, so the Goldwing was the obvious choice.
On her way to Joanie's house, Fern went through all the possibilities of demise in her head.
"Could've been poison...yes, that was the obvious choice, but was it TOO obvious? And how would it ever be accomplished, Clara cooking everything from it's natural, organic state. Strangulation? No word on that sort of thing from the coffee shop. Heart attack? Drowning in soup?"
Fern pulled up to Joanie's house, parked the Goldwing and tried to poof her flattened grey curls before clicking up the sidewalk to the backdoor. Odd, though, because the backdoor was already open. Joanie was so gah-gah about that little Mr. Snuggles that she manically checked the door, lest he escape to a more sane environment.
Stepping over a multitude of canine squeaky toys and tug ropes, Fern gasped, her black gloved hand going automatically to her mouth. There was Joanie, crumpled on the entry floor, with a note in her hand.
Picking up the note, Fern read "Keep your Hans off my property!".
No one could spell properly these days...
Then she knelt to check Joanie's state, keenly aware that "As The World Turns" was beginning, in the background.
And heaven knows it was up to her. Amelia wouldn't leave her post by the telephone for fear of missing the play by play action from her brother. He owned the conveniently situated coffee/tire repair shop next to the police station, and was a wealth of information, true or conjecture, which he cheerfully and speedily shared. Clara couldn't be counted on; Mr. Puggles or Cuddles or whatever that little dog's name was, distracted her like a hen with a lame grasshopper. Besides, it was all she could handle, making dessert for bookclub. She was not known for her great culinary skills and under stress, well, there was no telling what would come of those blueberries she was blithering about...
Fern emerged from her boudoir, dressed fit to kill.
"Poor choice of descriptive phrases," she thought to herself, putting her magenta lipstick in her faux zebra-hide purse. She turned the t.v. off and headed for the garage as fast as her black highheeled boots could carry her.
She pulled the hot pink Honda Goldwing bike out of the garage, grateful for the sidecar that lent balance. It was either that or the Harley, and Fern didn't want to draw attention to herself, so the Goldwing was the obvious choice.
On her way to Joanie's house, Fern went through all the possibilities of demise in her head.
"Could've been poison...yes, that was the obvious choice, but was it TOO obvious? And how would it ever be accomplished, Clara cooking everything from it's natural, organic state. Strangulation? No word on that sort of thing from the coffee shop. Heart attack? Drowning in soup?"
Fern pulled up to Joanie's house, parked the Goldwing and tried to poof her flattened grey curls before clicking up the sidewalk to the backdoor. Odd, though, because the backdoor was already open. Joanie was so gah-gah about that little Mr. Snuggles that she manically checked the door, lest he escape to a more sane environment.
Stepping over a multitude of canine squeaky toys and tug ropes, Fern gasped, her black gloved hand going automatically to her mouth. There was Joanie, crumpled on the entry floor, with a note in her hand.
Picking up the note, Fern read "Keep your Hans off my property!".
No one could spell properly these days...
Then she knelt to check Joanie's state, keenly aware that "As The World Turns" was beginning, in the background.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Between Friends Chapter 1
"She's DEAD!"
Bran muffin crumbs sprayed all over the shiny gold enamel tabletop, as Fern sputtered in shock. Her frazzled grey curls were fairly shaking with shock as she tried, not very successfully, to regain control of her thoughts and the despised muffin.
"But she was supposed to bring dessert to bookclub on Thursday!"
How very insensitive of Clara to die right before the best night of the month! And to leave the girls without dessert, too! She WOULD do that. Clara had always been an obstrucionist, where events were concerned, jealous that she hadn't thought of them first and preventing thier success at any expense. This was going too far.
"Are you sure? Clara was healthy as my hog, Amelia. She was always making broccoli brownies and trying spinach recipes. And JOGGING! At her age, it's indecent to wear running shorts. I really can't see her tipping over suddenly, in the middle of her Healthy Request soup bowl."
Fern fluffed around her little egg-yolk yellow kitchen, rolling her eyes and looking in every drawer for her stash of emergency chocolate. Her magenta flowered muu-muu was hindering her progress, being worn mostly for effect and not for the serious work of locating dark chocolate truffles in tight spaces. Finally, in the dusty wine glasses on the bookcase, she unearthed one lonely, stale-ish irish cream filled bon-bon and popped it into her incredulous, matching magenta mouth. With a sigh of relief, she continued in her cranky dialogue with the well-informed Amelia who happened at that very minute to be tearing apart her own oak paneled kitchen for a similar confection.
" Well, who in the world FOUND her? Her kids only call once a month, you know, and I'm not sure either of them would have the good sense to realize something had happened! They'd probably assume she was out for a run to the farmer's market for more spinach. And I can't blame them. I couldn't bring myself to call Clara more than once a month, either, and only to tell her what she needed to bring to supper for bookclub....she was so...sour, all the time. You know, that's what happens to a person when they cut out all the fat and sugar from their diet. They just shrivel up and get mean."
Fern paused to take a breath and pour a cup of coffee that would dissolve an ordinary stainless steel spoon with it's strength and viscosity.
" She had a BOYFRIEND?!!!! HE found her?!!!"
In a small town like Homer, a person couldn't buy coughdrops and get home without many wishes for better health. There was no comprehension of a secret relationship occuring. Especially with Fern and Amelia as close, personal friends. This was indeed an unexpected twist in the plot, and Fern could barely absorb the shock of it. She sat heavily down in her red recliner, staring at the crookedly hung print of Marilyn Monroe framed in gold plated plastic. It was too much to take before Days of Our Lives. Then a horrible, delicious thought occurred to her....
"Amelia! Do you think, " and a pause for a gulp of coffee for courage, "do you think she could've been murdered?"
The sound of a phone clattering to the floor could be heard through the earpiece.
" I'm calling Joanie! She lives right next door to Clara. If anyone knows anything, it's Joanie. Besides, she's got to bring dessert, now."
Bran muffin crumbs sprayed all over the shiny gold enamel tabletop, as Fern sputtered in shock. Her frazzled grey curls were fairly shaking with shock as she tried, not very successfully, to regain control of her thoughts and the despised muffin.
"But she was supposed to bring dessert to bookclub on Thursday!"
How very insensitive of Clara to die right before the best night of the month! And to leave the girls without dessert, too! She WOULD do that. Clara had always been an obstrucionist, where events were concerned, jealous that she hadn't thought of them first and preventing thier success at any expense. This was going too far.
"Are you sure? Clara was healthy as my hog, Amelia. She was always making broccoli brownies and trying spinach recipes. And JOGGING! At her age, it's indecent to wear running shorts. I really can't see her tipping over suddenly, in the middle of her Healthy Request soup bowl."
Fern fluffed around her little egg-yolk yellow kitchen, rolling her eyes and looking in every drawer for her stash of emergency chocolate. Her magenta flowered muu-muu was hindering her progress, being worn mostly for effect and not for the serious work of locating dark chocolate truffles in tight spaces. Finally, in the dusty wine glasses on the bookcase, she unearthed one lonely, stale-ish irish cream filled bon-bon and popped it into her incredulous, matching magenta mouth. With a sigh of relief, she continued in her cranky dialogue with the well-informed Amelia who happened at that very minute to be tearing apart her own oak paneled kitchen for a similar confection.
" Well, who in the world FOUND her? Her kids only call once a month, you know, and I'm not sure either of them would have the good sense to realize something had happened! They'd probably assume she was out for a run to the farmer's market for more spinach. And I can't blame them. I couldn't bring myself to call Clara more than once a month, either, and only to tell her what she needed to bring to supper for bookclub....she was so...sour, all the time. You know, that's what happens to a person when they cut out all the fat and sugar from their diet. They just shrivel up and get mean."
Fern paused to take a breath and pour a cup of coffee that would dissolve an ordinary stainless steel spoon with it's strength and viscosity.
" She had a BOYFRIEND?!!!! HE found her?!!!"
In a small town like Homer, a person couldn't buy coughdrops and get home without many wishes for better health. There was no comprehension of a secret relationship occuring. Especially with Fern and Amelia as close, personal friends. This was indeed an unexpected twist in the plot, and Fern could barely absorb the shock of it. She sat heavily down in her red recliner, staring at the crookedly hung print of Marilyn Monroe framed in gold plated plastic. It was too much to take before Days of Our Lives. Then a horrible, delicious thought occurred to her....
"Amelia! Do you think, " and a pause for a gulp of coffee for courage, "do you think she could've been murdered?"
The sound of a phone clattering to the floor could be heard through the earpiece.
" I'm calling Joanie! She lives right next door to Clara. If anyone knows anything, it's Joanie. Besides, she's got to bring dessert, now."
Warning!
*Just so you know....
Starting today, I'm collaborating with Denise Dykstra of Life With Four Boys on a serial story. We are both bored with our blogs. So, for the next 6 or 7 days, we will go back and forth with segments of the story. I have no idea what she will write, she has no idea what I will write. The story starts on my blog, then continues on hers tomorrow.
This will either be really fun(ny) or really awful. Either way, it'll get us through one winter week!
Hang on....here we go!
Starting today, I'm collaborating with Denise Dykstra of Life With Four Boys on a serial story. We are both bored with our blogs. So, for the next 6 or 7 days, we will go back and forth with segments of the story. I have no idea what she will write, she has no idea what I will write. The story starts on my blog, then continues on hers tomorrow.
This will either be really fun(ny) or really awful. Either way, it'll get us through one winter week!
Hang on....here we go!
Saturday, February 06, 2010
Letters from the cave
Dear Followers (if there are any left),
It has been a LOOOOOOOONNNNNNGGGGG winter, hasn't it? I have single-wide trailer fever, which is the less glamorous version of cabin fever. Cabin fever brings to mind a cozy fireplace, stew on the stove and Nordic sweaters. Single-wide trailer fever, on the other hand, conjures up microwave popcorn, ratty sweatshirts and Jeopardy blaring on the television.
FaceBook has been interesting, this winter. My classmates are organizing a 21 year class reunion in August, in conjunction with a GCHS all-class reunion. Seeing all of them signing in makes me panic a little....bringing out insecurities I thought were long buried! I found myself wondering if I could somehow lose 15 pounds, get a degree in Animal Science, photoshop and re-do the yearbook pictures of myself, and volunteer in some noble cause....all in about 6 months time. Really! And before you all start telling me it's just about seeing each other again, and no one cares what you are doing or have done, I can assure you I already know that. It's crazy. My high school career was not brilliant and I don't want to have to painfully revisit those days, so I think I'm trying to distract my classmates with new stuff. Of course, no one is MAKING me go to the reunion, either.
Anyway, as God's great plan would have it, I was asked to help with a simulcast about....insecurity. I know. And I was voted Most Likely To Lead The Local Dissection And Discussion Of The Book On A Blog. Just so I can't be in denial and get out of anything, I assume.
Drats.
Valentine's Day is fast approaching...my very favorite holiday! But someone moved it up on the calendar, apparently, because I just turned the calendar over to February and only have eight days to make valentines for 80 people, AND 103 with the kids for friends, cousins and classmates. (That is, of course, an exaggeration, but sitting in front of a pile of construction paper and lace, it feels like that.) Does anyone else make valentine's by hand, anymore? Or is it all e-greetings?
You just read about my battle with the cows, I assume. Big news, there.
I finally relented and got a library card in Miles City; we'll see if that helps the book budget out.
We're going to Glasscocks for Super Bowl. Actually, we're going to Glasscocks for contact with other human beings, with the Super Bowl as a convenient reason.
Bookclub is this upcoming Thursday....stay tuned for the report!
The school bus driver for our route is leaving us, to be a minister in Harlem, Montana at the end of this month. So no bus after that! And that was our favorite part of school, too!
Also (and I've been avoiding this) Wayland's grandpa died last Saturday, and we had the funeral yesterday. Even though he had been very sick, and died at home, quietly, it was still very difficult. For some reason, funerals and memorials are harder in the winter. It's already so bleak! We saw a lot of family that we hadn't seen in a while; bittersweet gatherings.
I've missed you, this last week, and have great plans for upcoming posts. (I know. You're on the edge of your seat. Well, you'll just have to wait!)
One of my friends recently floored me with the news that he only looks at the pictures and scans the posts for mention of him. This is sort of how it went...
"You don't READ the posts?"(incredulous)
"Sometimes. If it has pictures." (flippantly)
"I thought you were following along! You said you read the blog!" (still stunned)
"Well, I don't have time to read EVERYTHING" (defensively)
"Yeah, well I take the time to look at your People of Walmart forwards..." (a bit righteous)
"Well, THOSE are hilarious! That's good stuff, there!" (on to a new topic)
(Thinking to myself, now...) "Well, there won't be anymore pictures for a long time, now. AND you may never see your name in the Chronicles again, buster." (fluffed)(and retaliatory)(I'm sure he will suffer because of it)(although now he's chortling, because he just earned an entire paragraph of dialogue)(drats)
Thanks for sticking with me during this season of blah!
Much love and many hugs, (especially to the kind reader who sent me cookies and coffee, knowing the fragility of my sanity last week)
The Farmer's Wife
It has been a LOOOOOOOONNNNNNGGGGG winter, hasn't it? I have single-wide trailer fever, which is the less glamorous version of cabin fever. Cabin fever brings to mind a cozy fireplace, stew on the stove and Nordic sweaters. Single-wide trailer fever, on the other hand, conjures up microwave popcorn, ratty sweatshirts and Jeopardy blaring on the television.
FaceBook has been interesting, this winter. My classmates are organizing a 21 year class reunion in August, in conjunction with a GCHS all-class reunion. Seeing all of them signing in makes me panic a little....bringing out insecurities I thought were long buried! I found myself wondering if I could somehow lose 15 pounds, get a degree in Animal Science, photoshop and re-do the yearbook pictures of myself, and volunteer in some noble cause....all in about 6 months time. Really! And before you all start telling me it's just about seeing each other again, and no one cares what you are doing or have done, I can assure you I already know that. It's crazy. My high school career was not brilliant and I don't want to have to painfully revisit those days, so I think I'm trying to distract my classmates with new stuff. Of course, no one is MAKING me go to the reunion, either.
Anyway, as God's great plan would have it, I was asked to help with a simulcast about....insecurity. I know. And I was voted Most Likely To Lead The Local Dissection And Discussion Of The Book On A Blog. Just so I can't be in denial and get out of anything, I assume.
Drats.
Valentine's Day is fast approaching...my very favorite holiday! But someone moved it up on the calendar, apparently, because I just turned the calendar over to February and only have eight days to make valentines for 80 people, AND 103 with the kids for friends, cousins and classmates. (That is, of course, an exaggeration, but sitting in front of a pile of construction paper and lace, it feels like that.) Does anyone else make valentine's by hand, anymore? Or is it all e-greetings?
You just read about my battle with the cows, I assume. Big news, there.
I finally relented and got a library card in Miles City; we'll see if that helps the book budget out.
We're going to Glasscocks for Super Bowl. Actually, we're going to Glasscocks for contact with other human beings, with the Super Bowl as a convenient reason.
Bookclub is this upcoming Thursday....stay tuned for the report!
The school bus driver for our route is leaving us, to be a minister in Harlem, Montana at the end of this month. So no bus after that! And that was our favorite part of school, too!
Also (and I've been avoiding this) Wayland's grandpa died last Saturday, and we had the funeral yesterday. Even though he had been very sick, and died at home, quietly, it was still very difficult. For some reason, funerals and memorials are harder in the winter. It's already so bleak! We saw a lot of family that we hadn't seen in a while; bittersweet gatherings.
I've missed you, this last week, and have great plans for upcoming posts. (I know. You're on the edge of your seat. Well, you'll just have to wait!)
One of my friends recently floored me with the news that he only looks at the pictures and scans the posts for mention of him. This is sort of how it went...
"You don't READ the posts?"(incredulous)
"Sometimes. If it has pictures." (flippantly)
"I thought you were following along! You said you read the blog!" (still stunned)
"Well, I don't have time to read EVERYTHING" (defensively)
"Yeah, well I take the time to look at your People of Walmart forwards..." (a bit righteous)
"Well, THOSE are hilarious! That's good stuff, there!" (on to a new topic)
(Thinking to myself, now...) "Well, there won't be anymore pictures for a long time, now. AND you may never see your name in the Chronicles again, buster." (fluffed)(and retaliatory)(I'm sure he will suffer because of it)(although now he's chortling, because he just earned an entire paragraph of dialogue)(drats)
Thanks for sticking with me during this season of blah!
Much love and many hugs, (especially to the kind reader who sent me cookies and coffee, knowing the fragility of my sanity last week)
The Farmer's Wife
Cow-tastrophe
It started with one cow.
#920 found a little patch of alfalfa that Wayland opened up when he plowed around the yard with the tractor. She would, with great purpose, come up the hill from the feed grounds where the other cows were lollygagging, to graze near the yard. She kept one eye on the house (where squealing and barking eminates with regularity) and one eye on the rest of the cows down the hill. We named her Millie. And we thought she was cute.
Apparently, Millie could bear the secret of the alfalfa-cicles no longer, and just had to tell one of the other cows about her richness. And that cow told three of her friends. I think somewhere in the telling, the little patch of alfalfa turned into a glorious field of alfalfa, because Millie ended up with 4 or 5 cows accompanying her the next day. The 10 square inches of heavily grazed alfalfa didn't live up to the advertisement, but the little bunch of cows noticed that beyond the flimsy two rail yard fence, there were trees and sunflower stalks.
They sent a scout.
She reported back that, indeed, there was a wonderful opportunity for forage, if only they could slip through the fence. The other cows (and this is pure conjecture) basically said, "Fence, shmence!" and proceeded to make a plan to crack the yard wide open. (When you see cows with their heads together, don't be fooled into thinking they are simply trying to stay warm or keep flies off one another. They are plotting. Or gossiping. Cows are the worst gossips.)
The next day, while Millie was pretending to graze on her little patch of now-trampled alfalfa, two of the other cows slipped into the yard. The whole herd had come for the show, and they were standing by the newly discovered parking shed/cow barn.
I saw the cows in the yard and ran (in my pajamas, mind you) to put on my muck boots to run them out.
Perhaps you've seen pictures of the 4 foot drifts in our yard that support cats, dogs, birds and kids, but not adults or cows.
The two villianous cows knew exactly where I could maneuver and where I was helpless, and they sneered at me while I staggered through the drifts, trying to run them out. They'd take a couple steps toward the opening in the fence, then look at me and taunt with their ears and snooty noses in the air.
Wayland took pity and came into the yard to help. They noticed that we were playing man-to-cow offense now, the number of each being the same, and decided it would be in their best interest to leave the yard. But they were mad about it, and instead of going through the 5 foot opening in the fence, they chose to leave by jumping the fence, taking the top rail down in two different places. Aren't they spiteful, wicked creatures? And the other cows were applauding and egging them on!
It was unclear who had the victory, but they got bonus points for adding insult to injury.
Thus began the battle.
Cows love a challenge.
So far, in the last 10 days or so, they've managed to sneak in to the parking shed/cow barn in the middle of the night, jostling for position as not all 65 head will fit at once. When run out by the returning person, they are absolutely huffy and act as though WE are the interlopers.
They've discovered my front step, and delight in squeezing their bovine butts around the corner, BACK into the yard, to stand by the garden shed where they leave cow plops and chew on dried sunflower stalks.
We close the big gate from the pasture on them and they try all sorts of things to get back in....first they try to look hungry, hoping we'll take pity and open the gate. Then, seeing that our hearts have hardened (and they can't understand why) they take to L-E-A-N-I-N-G on the gate, hoping to pop it open. No dice. They stare. They glare. They pace, stopping only to glare some more.
Wayland said, last night as we were returning from Vern and Naomi's, "I'll bet they walk all the way down the hill and around to get in." Sure enough. Those old girls had figured out the OTHER open gate, down the hill from the yard and hustled around...WAY around, through another pasture....to bed down, literally, on my doorstep. And the others in the cow barn (which is no longer the parking shed), of course.
We exchanged insults, and they grudgingly allowed us to park near the house.
There are cow plops, frozen and otherwise, all around the driveway.
They always seem to get in the last word.
(To be continued....)
#920 found a little patch of alfalfa that Wayland opened up when he plowed around the yard with the tractor. She would, with great purpose, come up the hill from the feed grounds where the other cows were lollygagging, to graze near the yard. She kept one eye on the house (where squealing and barking eminates with regularity) and one eye on the rest of the cows down the hill. We named her Millie. And we thought she was cute.
Apparently, Millie could bear the secret of the alfalfa-cicles no longer, and just had to tell one of the other cows about her richness. And that cow told three of her friends. I think somewhere in the telling, the little patch of alfalfa turned into a glorious field of alfalfa, because Millie ended up with 4 or 5 cows accompanying her the next day. The 10 square inches of heavily grazed alfalfa didn't live up to the advertisement, but the little bunch of cows noticed that beyond the flimsy two rail yard fence, there were trees and sunflower stalks.
They sent a scout.
She reported back that, indeed, there was a wonderful opportunity for forage, if only they could slip through the fence. The other cows (and this is pure conjecture) basically said, "Fence, shmence!" and proceeded to make a plan to crack the yard wide open. (When you see cows with their heads together, don't be fooled into thinking they are simply trying to stay warm or keep flies off one another. They are plotting. Or gossiping. Cows are the worst gossips.)
The next day, while Millie was pretending to graze on her little patch of now-trampled alfalfa, two of the other cows slipped into the yard. The whole herd had come for the show, and they were standing by the newly discovered parking shed/cow barn.
I saw the cows in the yard and ran (in my pajamas, mind you) to put on my muck boots to run them out.
Perhaps you've seen pictures of the 4 foot drifts in our yard that support cats, dogs, birds and kids, but not adults or cows.
The two villianous cows knew exactly where I could maneuver and where I was helpless, and they sneered at me while I staggered through the drifts, trying to run them out. They'd take a couple steps toward the opening in the fence, then look at me and taunt with their ears and snooty noses in the air.
Wayland took pity and came into the yard to help. They noticed that we were playing man-to-cow offense now, the number of each being the same, and decided it would be in their best interest to leave the yard. But they were mad about it, and instead of going through the 5 foot opening in the fence, they chose to leave by jumping the fence, taking the top rail down in two different places. Aren't they spiteful, wicked creatures? And the other cows were applauding and egging them on!
It was unclear who had the victory, but they got bonus points for adding insult to injury.
Thus began the battle.
Cows love a challenge.
So far, in the last 10 days or so, they've managed to sneak in to the parking shed/cow barn in the middle of the night, jostling for position as not all 65 head will fit at once. When run out by the returning person, they are absolutely huffy and act as though WE are the interlopers.
They've discovered my front step, and delight in squeezing their bovine butts around the corner, BACK into the yard, to stand by the garden shed where they leave cow plops and chew on dried sunflower stalks.
We close the big gate from the pasture on them and they try all sorts of things to get back in....first they try to look hungry, hoping we'll take pity and open the gate. Then, seeing that our hearts have hardened (and they can't understand why) they take to L-E-A-N-I-N-G on the gate, hoping to pop it open. No dice. They stare. They glare. They pace, stopping only to glare some more.
Wayland said, last night as we were returning from Vern and Naomi's, "I'll bet they walk all the way down the hill and around to get in." Sure enough. Those old girls had figured out the OTHER open gate, down the hill from the yard and hustled around...WAY around, through another pasture....to bed down, literally, on my doorstep. And the others in the cow barn (which is no longer the parking shed), of course.
We exchanged insults, and they grudgingly allowed us to park near the house.
There are cow plops, frozen and otherwise, all around the driveway.
They always seem to get in the last word.
(To be continued....)
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Chilled out...
I've been going to write about this for a long time. It's a curious phenomenon observed in my home, and I'm ready to share.
My husband is allergic to hot food.
He MUST be!
I have yet to make a meal that he comes directly to partake. Usually he makes a circuitous route the moment I announce it's ready. The route may contain, but is not limited to: the bathroom for 15 minutes; the porch to feed the dog, followed by the bathroom to wash up; the bedroom to find the rogue gun magazine from September 2008, followed by the bathroom to wash up; blows his nose, followed by the bathroom to wash up; some obscure webpage that must be read THAT minute, followed by...you guessed it....the bathroom to wash up.
I've tried giving him the old Two Minute Warning, thinking that the problem was my methodology in "springing" the meal on him. (Never mind that I had been clattering and stirring in the kitchen for 30 minutes prior to the announcement...) Apparently, the Two Minute Warning just means he has two minutes to formulate a new route, thus avoiding the steam from the food.
I've tried pretending that we're ready to eat, before anything actually IS ready to eat. I'm not fooling anyone, least of all The Farmer. The dog fell for it a couple times, but is now immune to the scam.
I've tried explaining how it makes me FEEL, when he misses lunch or supper by 15 minutes, due to diversions. He doesn't show a bit of remorse, even though his lips say, "I know. I'll be there next time..." (The whole FEELINGS thing stopped working a few years back, but it's worth a try.)
I've tried not preparing anything until he inquires about the menu, indicating sincere interest, but by the time I get it all hustled together, he's formulated a route.
My Gramps was EXACTLY the same way. If you were to look at their wiring diagram, I'm sure you wouldn't be able to tell one from the other. And that's not a bad thing; in fact, I loved my Gramps dearly and it was amusing to me, as a child, to watch him vanish into the bathroom while we were all sitting in front of the roast beef lunch Grandma spent all morning preparing. Now it's MY roast beef cooling, and I've decided that's just how it's going to be.
That's not a flag of surrender. I'm still thinking of plots.
But I'm not going to get mad about it anymore.
My husband is allergic to hot food.
He MUST be!
I have yet to make a meal that he comes directly to partake. Usually he makes a circuitous route the moment I announce it's ready. The route may contain, but is not limited to: the bathroom for 15 minutes; the porch to feed the dog, followed by the bathroom to wash up; the bedroom to find the rogue gun magazine from September 2008, followed by the bathroom to wash up; blows his nose, followed by the bathroom to wash up; some obscure webpage that must be read THAT minute, followed by...you guessed it....the bathroom to wash up.
I've tried giving him the old Two Minute Warning, thinking that the problem was my methodology in "springing" the meal on him. (Never mind that I had been clattering and stirring in the kitchen for 30 minutes prior to the announcement...) Apparently, the Two Minute Warning just means he has two minutes to formulate a new route, thus avoiding the steam from the food.
I've tried pretending that we're ready to eat, before anything actually IS ready to eat. I'm not fooling anyone, least of all The Farmer. The dog fell for it a couple times, but is now immune to the scam.
I've tried explaining how it makes me FEEL, when he misses lunch or supper by 15 minutes, due to diversions. He doesn't show a bit of remorse, even though his lips say, "I know. I'll be there next time..." (The whole FEELINGS thing stopped working a few years back, but it's worth a try.)
I've tried not preparing anything until he inquires about the menu, indicating sincere interest, but by the time I get it all hustled together, he's formulated a route.
My Gramps was EXACTLY the same way. If you were to look at their wiring diagram, I'm sure you wouldn't be able to tell one from the other. And that's not a bad thing; in fact, I loved my Gramps dearly and it was amusing to me, as a child, to watch him vanish into the bathroom while we were all sitting in front of the roast beef lunch Grandma spent all morning preparing. Now it's MY roast beef cooling, and I've decided that's just how it's going to be.
That's not a flag of surrender. I'm still thinking of plots.
But I'm not going to get mad about it anymore.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Toofless...
She lost it! And she lost it good.
While Angus and I were mixing up a cake for PopPops, Maggie was sitting at the table busily working over an apple and glaring at us, because SHE wanted to make the cake. (Never mind this was the first cooking project for Angus and she's had countless...)
Right before we were to crack the eggs, I hear a little voice behind me, saying
"Did I lose my tooth?"
Maggie opened her mouth and there where the tooth had been was a little hole with a tongue feeling around, looking for the tooth.
Two thoughts occurred to me, intantaneously:
1. She swallowed it.
2. There will be more drama than Broadway has seen in twenty years of production.
We looked the apple over with great care, and she kept insisting that she HADN'T swallowed it, but she had no idea where it was. (Meanwhile, the boy was standing at the counter hollering "Can I stir it, now? NOW can I stir it?" And there were eggs there, too.)
Finally, we decided to write the Tooth Fairy a note; a heartfelt, pleading note of explanation. But NOT this very minute.
Last night, with a little jewelry pouch and a green plastic bead (stand-in for the tooth), we wrote a fairy sized note. She was trotting down the hall to put it under her pillow when her dad and I both hollered that she'd squish the Tooth Fairy in her sleep if she tried that. It took some talking to get her to ensconce it, instead, in her ballerina jewelry box.
This morning, there was $1.00 in nickels and dimes, which looks like a veritable fortune to a five year old.
Much jumping up and down, much squealing; AND she has a GREAT show-n-tell today. No more tooth envy for HER!
Saturday, January 23, 2010
What happens when a man gets ahold of a bookclub:
I was dying!
And after I got done wiping tears away, good belly-laughing tears, I wanted all the followers to get the benefit of the comment left on my last Underground Bookclub Report and Post.
*The commentator, Robert, is my cousin. Yes, I'll admit that. We are related by blood and not marriage. We are the same kind of weird, only his kind of weird is a little smarter than mine. And his wife, bless her sweet little heart, has just started up with a bookclub of her own. I'm not sure what the rules are with her bunch, but perhaps they should consider adopting this code.
Robert said...
Welcome to Underground Book Club. The first rule of Book Club is: you do not talk about Book Club. The second rule of Book Club is: you DO NOT talk about Book Club! Third rule of Book Club: if someone yells "stop!", goes limp, or taps out, the book is over. Fourth rule: only two girls to a book. Fifth rule: one book at a time, fellas. Sixth rule: the books are bare knuckle. No shirt, no shoes, no weapons. Seventh rule: books will go on as long as they have to. And the eighth and final rule: if this is your first time at Book Club, you have to fight.
I guess an Underground Fight Club would be real similar to our bookclub, with the exception of the "no shirt" addendum. The only weapons we've seen have been desserts that render us speechless. And we bend the rules for those.
And after I got done wiping tears away, good belly-laughing tears, I wanted all the followers to get the benefit of the comment left on my last Underground Bookclub Report and Post.
*The commentator, Robert, is my cousin. Yes, I'll admit that. We are related by blood and not marriage. We are the same kind of weird, only his kind of weird is a little smarter than mine. And his wife, bless her sweet little heart, has just started up with a bookclub of her own. I'm not sure what the rules are with her bunch, but perhaps they should consider adopting this code.
Robert said...
Welcome to Underground Book Club. The first rule of Book Club is: you do not talk about Book Club. The second rule of Book Club is: you DO NOT talk about Book Club! Third rule of Book Club: if someone yells "stop!", goes limp, or taps out, the book is over. Fourth rule: only two girls to a book. Fifth rule: one book at a time, fellas. Sixth rule: the books are bare knuckle. No shirt, no shoes, no weapons. Seventh rule: books will go on as long as they have to. And the eighth and final rule: if this is your first time at Book Club, you have to fight.
I guess an Underground Fight Club would be real similar to our bookclub, with the exception of the "no shirt" addendum. The only weapons we've seen have been desserts that render us speechless. And we bend the rules for those.
It's a blast!
A blast of cold air and snow, that is!
I love this illustration! The tricky thing about going to the sun, this time of year (besides the financial restraints) is the lack of a tropical physique. So, I guess I'll stay here. Besides, I can't get the car out.
This picture was taken from the front of the house around 4 o'clock this afternoon. Nice, huh?
Our front step...what you can't tell from this picture is the two foot drift in front of it.
Toward our cattle guard on the hill.
See the little tree on the right, nearly buried? That little tree is four feet tall.
Okay, flashback to Wednesday....
Here's Angus, eating a warm chocolate chip cookie on our deck. He seriously stayed out on the deck with me for about 15 minutes; not a shiver.
The only flamingos in Garfield County, Montana! I took this picture of our mailbox for Patricia and Pam O. My sister-in-law Pam Cayer gave us three pink flamingos for Christmas, about 5 years ago, as a joke. She thought trailer trash should, of course, have the gratuitous flamingos. We put them at the mailbox for the whole world to see, and they've become a landmark of sorts. We get UPS packages with maps drawn on them and the note "South of flamingos".
This is a typical view on the commute from our house to Miles City and back.
It looks like this the WHOLE WAY!
Occasionally, there will be a little house or farm in view of the highway, but for the most part, this is it.
This shot was taken at the Glasscock turnoff, our friends who are at this very moment bagpiping and flinging in Miles City without us.
Blizzard attire.
Makes less laundry if you just don't wear clothes.
They were just up from their "naps", which actually consisted of about 15 minutes of near quiet and slowed down wiggling.
Apple pie for afternoon snack.
I think her mouth has snake jaws that unhinge when she needs more room to swallow the rabbit/pie.
Armed and ready.
Ready for what? Weeeeeelllll....not for naps, that's for sure.
Hope you all have a good night! I leave some lights on the trellis because it looks less lonesome.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Here's what I've been up to...
...because I just know you've been dying for the report.
January is March's ugly second-cousin, twice removed. They are related only by the fact that they are both months of the year. Where March holds hope for bright days, soft mornings and growing things, January smothers the light and leers at those who smash their noses to the frosty glass of their cells.
*On a side note....if you are still with me....I've been having a terrible time leaving comments on the blogs I read. I'll post the comment, then new pages start opening rapidly...like every second....and I have to shut the computer down to stop them. Talk about making someone crazy! So I AM reading your posts, and when I'm feeling all brave, I attempt a comment.
Erin, I loved the Bunco hats! Cowboy's Sweetheart, American made is the only way to go, and Dad looks very fine. Lori, I'm trying to keep up! Rosie, let's get together and talk Twain. Marina, have you thought of moving more northerly? I can hardly stand that Rhys is growing so fast without the benefit of some strong Dutton influence. Mark; man, I'm about a week behind on Daily Montana. I'm working on it.
- Sorting socks. For this I went to college...
- Loading the dishwasher, unloading the dishwasher, repeat. Every once in a while I unload the top rack first, instead of the bottom rack, just to shake things up a little.
- Preparing meals for a family of foodies. It turns out, they like the finer things in life. Things that can't be created with a package of hamburger and a box of pasta. Things like weed-rat and that shrimp stuff...
- Eating hidden cookies, and trying to look as though I was rearranging the cans of beans and spinach. (Note: if you want to hide delicacies, hide them in the canned vegetable section of your cupboard. No-one is going there.)
- Letting the dogs and cats in and out of the house. I read something one time that defined cats as the animals that were perpetually on the wrong side of the door. Ain't that the truth?
- Trying to decipher QuickBooks for the school board accounting. Let me tell you this: there is NOTHING quick about QuickBooks! More on that later.
- Corresponding with an author who is coming to Montana the end of February, bless her heart. She's funny, East-coast native, liberal, Jewish and brave. We shock and delight each other (I think) and that's been fun. (Look for "Good-bye Wifes and Daughters" by Susan Kushner Resnick)
- Putting together more 100 piece jigsaw puzzles together than I ever knew possible. It always seems like a nice quiet activity, then disintegrates into hoarding of crucial pieces and debate over who is the prettier princess in the puzzle. And the kids get a little ornery, too.
January is March's ugly second-cousin, twice removed. They are related only by the fact that they are both months of the year. Where March holds hope for bright days, soft mornings and growing things, January smothers the light and leers at those who smash their noses to the frosty glass of their cells.
*On a side note....if you are still with me....I've been having a terrible time leaving comments on the blogs I read. I'll post the comment, then new pages start opening rapidly...like every second....and I have to shut the computer down to stop them. Talk about making someone crazy! So I AM reading your posts, and when I'm feeling all brave, I attempt a comment.
Erin, I loved the Bunco hats! Cowboy's Sweetheart, American made is the only way to go, and Dad looks very fine. Lori, I'm trying to keep up! Rosie, let's get together and talk Twain. Marina, have you thought of moving more northerly? I can hardly stand that Rhys is growing so fast without the benefit of some strong Dutton influence. Mark; man, I'm about a week behind on Daily Montana. I'm working on it.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Put on your sunglasses....
Now, without further ado, Underground Bookclub January 2010:
You can't see the label very well, but this is Middle Sister white table wine...
Traci is the middle sister in her family and was excited to have a wine that exalted the virtues of the birth order she landed in!
(I saved the bottle for her. Hopefully, I can peel the label and put it on a card.)
Anyway, this is how the evening began....
....promptly dissolving in hilarity!
(This was during the FIRST few sips of Middle Sister. Pretty much, we could have chocolate milk and the photos would look the same...)
After appetizers of tortilla pinwheels and shrimp lettuce boats, we moved to the kitchen for the serious business of the main meal.
It should be noted, here, that most of us "store up" for the evening, meaning we save caloric room for supper, so that we will have no guilt about eating seconds on whatever we want.
One of the early and cardinal rules of the Underground Book Club is that there is no talk of dieting and no evidence of it.
We had (besides appetizers) a green salad with dried tomatos, fresh cherries, homemade croutons and homemade bleu cheese dressing; blueberries; hard rolls and butter; seafood enchiladas; and finally but not leastly, a really glorious tirimisu.
(And, just because....we also had a box of Sees Assorted Fine Chocolates, between the main meal and dessert, to tide us over. We HAD to keep up our strength for the discussion...)
We get pretty animated, when making points. Do you see the printouts and notes?
Penguins and Golden Calves brought out a lot of our personal beliefs and opinions, discussion of faith and God, examination of backgrounds and even how we read!
It's impossible to encapsulate the discussion on the blog, really.
Celestia, looking for a passage in her book. This was one selection with underlining and writing in the book, and pieces of paper tucked in, odd little reminders of random thoughts.
Celestia, incidently, is the next hostess and she chose the book The Fountain Overflows by Rebecca West.
(For those who are following along in satellite bookclubs....)
Here's the members who made it! We were down by four, and missed them terribly.
This picture pretty much shows how we end the evening, every time.
Aren't they beautiful?
Celestia has often said that after an occasion like this, the house holds the happiness for days, and I really agree with her.
Chocolates and crowns,
candles and wine.
Could it get any more girly?
Wayland took this picture while we were all saying good-bye.
It's suitably blurry, because I was about to fall over, so tired!
(AND filled to brimmy-brim-brim with food and thoughts and friendship.)
Anne called in the middle of the meal, homesick for her bookclub, and asked me to tell her exactly what was going on. So I narrated the jewels and food for her, and she could hear all the fun. If I could've somehow magically transported Anne, Beth, Marisa and Thelma to my house last night, I would've done it in a flash.
But we sent them love and I'll bet they don't miss the next bookclub, come illness or miles!
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Changing
Okay, just to prepare you all....
This is not a deep, meaningful post about how my life is making a turn for the better and the introspection about that progression. (Have you EVER come to my blog and found anything remotely like that? So why would you now?)
However, I want to caution Traci and Beth to sit down, before reading on. Swallow the coffee, if you have some in your mouth, and prepare to be amazed.
(The rest of you all, well, I hope you're not horribly disappointed after this build up.)
(It's a True Confession sort of post.)
Yesterday, I voluntarily entered a clothing boutique with no intention whatsoever of buying anything, and spent an hour trying on clothes that cost more than my yearly book budget.
The key word here is "voluntarily".
Here's the story:
I don't like to shop. And I really, really don't like to shop for clothes. It's torture for me.
The rare occasion arises when I must go to a real store and muster up the courage to pull something off the rack and try it on.
First of all, I can never decide what size to pull. Do I take the size I think I am, the size I was last time I tried something on (high school) or the size that I'm hoping swims on me but probably will be perfect? Tricky.
(And don't let saleswomen help you "find" something. They'll want to. Under that perfect little outfit they are wearing beats a black heart, as I will explain further down the post.)
So, I grab about 3 things that should "go with everything" and humbly request to be let in to the fitting room. Turns out, if you spend time cultivating a relationship with a salesgirl, you'll get the covetted room furthest from the door opening into the store. I never have that kind of time, so I have to put up with the crummy room.
Here's where it really gets ugly. The dressing rooms are 2ft squared, which is NEARLY enough room for a full grown woman, her purse and some clothes. I'm not the most coordinated of people, so I really need more room. I have to figure out where to put the clothes I just took off, how to get the try-on clothes on my person without marring them, and somehow slip out discreetly to find a mirror.
My reply (because I'm not going to play her wicked game and ask for the size I really need) is, "Doing fine. Everything's fine. Don't need another size, especially not larger...thank you!"
The salesgirl saunters out, snickering under her breath, and I try to get all the clothes BACK on the hangers, and redress myself.
It was fun.
This is not a deep, meaningful post about how my life is making a turn for the better and the introspection about that progression. (Have you EVER come to my blog and found anything remotely like that? So why would you now?)
However, I want to caution Traci and Beth to sit down, before reading on. Swallow the coffee, if you have some in your mouth, and prepare to be amazed.
(The rest of you all, well, I hope you're not horribly disappointed after this build up.)
(It's a True Confession sort of post.)
Yesterday, I voluntarily entered a clothing boutique with no intention whatsoever of buying anything, and spent an hour trying on clothes that cost more than my yearly book budget.
The key word here is "voluntarily".
Here's the story:
I don't like to shop. And I really, really don't like to shop for clothes. It's torture for me.
The rare occasion arises when I must go to a real store and muster up the courage to pull something off the rack and try it on.
First of all, I can never decide what size to pull. Do I take the size I think I am, the size I was last time I tried something on (high school) or the size that I'm hoping swims on me but probably will be perfect? Tricky.
(And don't let saleswomen help you "find" something. They'll want to. Under that perfect little outfit they are wearing beats a black heart, as I will explain further down the post.)
So, I grab about 3 things that should "go with everything" and humbly request to be let in to the fitting room. Turns out, if you spend time cultivating a relationship with a salesgirl, you'll get the covetted room furthest from the door opening into the store. I never have that kind of time, so I have to put up with the crummy room.
Here's where it really gets ugly. The dressing rooms are 2ft squared, which is NEARLY enough room for a full grown woman, her purse and some clothes. I'm not the most coordinated of people, so I really need more room. I have to figure out where to put the clothes I just took off, how to get the try-on clothes on my person without marring them, and somehow slip out discreetly to find a mirror.
These dressing rooms are hot. I struggle, and finally emerge in a fashion don't. I try to slip over to the full length mirror that was bought, incidently, at a circus supply store. You know the kind. Your bottom looks gargantuan, as does your face. My face, of course, is red from the dressing room fight. This is where the evil heart of the salesgirl kicks in.
She pretends to be getting clothes out of an empty dressing room to rehang, but secretly is looking to see if I managed to pull together an outfit. The MINUTE I re-enter the dressing room, discouraged and disillusioned, this woman who was sent by the devil himself, stands by my dressing room door and says in a sweet voice, "How are you doing in there? Do you need me to get you those jeans in a different size?"
She knows darn good and well how I'm doing and that I need those jeans about two sizes larger. She SAW me, for heaven's sake!
My reply (because I'm not going to play her wicked game and ask for the size I really need) is, "Doing fine. Everything's fine. Don't need another size, especially not larger...thank you!"
The salesgirl saunters out, snickering under her breath, and I try to get all the clothes BACK on the hangers, and redress myself.
The dressing rooms are hot. I struggle, and finally emerge in a fashion don't. (The clothes I wore in.) Using all the grace I can possibly muster, and a lacksidaisical air that is fooling no one, I hand off the three hangers of clothes to the saleswoman, and say that I don't really think any of them will work for me today, and leave the store.
I try not to run until I turn the corner.
My only consolation is that the saleswoman has to put the clothes back, but I wish I could warn that poor dear soul that just entered the store with hopeful eyes.
I told you that so I can tell you this:
(Still with me?)
I went to Miles City yesterday for a doctor's appointment, without kids and husband. After the appointment, I got the requisite short triple shot breve, and still had about 20 minutes to kill, so I went to the new (and only) clothing boutique in town. Annie has been gushing about this place for a month, and I thought I'd go in and look around, to placate her.
She swore it would be wonderful and she told me to be ready for big prices. Big prices, to me, are double digits on the tag, with no red printing showing their original cost.
I went in and I have to agree....it's really wonderful clothing! I would try to name drop about designers, here, but I wouldn't have a clue whether it was cool or humiliating, so I'll leave you to imagine exclusive lines of garments.
The saleslady was engaging and excited about her wares. The more she showed me, the more animated she got. We looked at darts, fabrics, lines and colors in great detail. She'd swoosh something off the rack, tickled to her toes by it, and then dash to the next rack, performing the same thing.
Apparently, I was hypnotized, because the next thing I knew, I was in a cool dressing room with three lovely outfits that altogether cost more than what I could sell a bred heifer for. AND, get this...I told her my REAL size and she didn't bat an eye or snicker or anything. This bode well. (bade? boded?) I made the mistake, however, of looking at a price tag on one dress before I tried it on. I nearly chickened out.
I ended up spending 45 minutes, trying on everything she tossed at me in my size. She was very kind and sincere, but she didn't flatter me. When something was off, we both knew it, and I'd go back to the dressing room and start over with outfit #16.
It was fun.I really, really wish I could've purchased something, because I enjoyed myself so much, but I had to break the spell and buy groceries, instead.
That's my confession. That's the story.
I still can't believe it happened, and neither will Traci and Beth, until I show them the card with the prices written down of the top 5 outfits.
Monday, January 11, 2010
To start your day...
(This post is for my friend Traci, who is always getting calls from me in the middle of the morning, with thoughts like "Do you suppose Lazarus was really, really mad at Jesus for yanking him BACK from Heaven, just to prove that He's the Son of God? After a long, agonizing illness, God carried him home, then bam! Jesus brought him back to Earth. Wouldn't that make you mad?" Bless her heart, she just rolls with them, but I'm sure she's thinking..."Caller I.D. Next time, look at the caller i.d....")
So, I was thinking....
(In the middle of the night, where all my most profound thoughts take place; somewhere between 2 a.m. and coffee.)
Do you remember the story in the Bible, about Daniel in the lion's den?
If you aren't familiar with the story, here's a Reader's Digest condensed version. I urge you to go to the Bible for the whole story without my editing and commentary.
Daniel was a really smart man who (with God's help) worked his way to second-in-command to the king. The king's other poohbah got jealous of Daniel and devised a scheme to do away with him, only it would have to look like a legitimate thing, because the king really loved Daniel. (Long sentence; stay with me...) SO, they knew that Daniel prayed to "his" God (having been a foreigner, taken slave long ago. Another story for another day; stay tuned.) every day. They came up with a most evil scheme that centered on flattering the king's ego while taking out his second-in-command, our friend Daniel. It was foolproof. They got the king to sign and seal a law that said, basically, anyone caught praying to a god that wasn't the king would be put to death. (I wonder if the law wasn't passed like a lot of ours, with so many addendums that the king didn't really worry about it.)
Anyhow, they, of course, "caught" Daniel praying to God, just as they had planned, and brought him to the king with the law in hand. Gotta put him to death. So the king, in angst that his beloved second-in-command was to die, had him thrown in the lion's den, and returned to the palace to spend a sleepless night fretting about his friend who was lion lunchmeat.
The next morning, the king returned to the lion's den and hollered down, found Daniel alive because God had shut the lions' mouths up tight, brought him back out, threw the wicked advisors to their deaths, proclaimed that Daniel's God would be the one worshiped in all the land henceforth, and they all lived happily ever after. (Cue swelling orchestra music, dim the lights....ahhhh!)
Now don't you wish you'd just gone and read it for yourself?
Getting back to the post....
Almost every study and reading guide for this story focuses on Daniel's unwavering faith in God, and that's very true. It's the main point, really, along with God doing amazing things to prove He's the one and only, the one who's really in command of every situation and the One and only God who should be worshipped. Those are points that should be examined and studied, deeply.
What came to me last night was how the king RETURNED to the lion's den and called down for Daniel! If you yell for someone, don't you half expect an answer?
Think about it. I think the king had some pretty big faith, too, wouldn't you say? It wasn't grounded, like Daniel's faith, but apparently, just being around Daniel and watching him live his life had planted some seeds in the king. I would imagine as second-in-command, Daniel ended up having as close a relationship with the king as anyone could, and that once in a while the king might enquire about why Daniel did certain things that were different, things that had to do with his beliefs.
It sure makes me think a lot more about my walk with the Lord, and pray that any seeds He's sewing grow like those in the king, that would make someone holler down into a lion's den and expect an answer.
Obviously, this is not deep, theological thinking at it's best.
And now you understand why every Bible study I join, eventually moves their time and location, while my postcard gets "lost" in the mail....
So, I was thinking....
(In the middle of the night, where all my most profound thoughts take place; somewhere between 2 a.m. and coffee.)
Do you remember the story in the Bible, about Daniel in the lion's den?
If you aren't familiar with the story, here's a Reader's Digest condensed version. I urge you to go to the Bible for the whole story without my editing and commentary.
Daniel was a really smart man who (with God's help) worked his way to second-in-command to the king. The king's other poohbah got jealous of Daniel and devised a scheme to do away with him, only it would have to look like a legitimate thing, because the king really loved Daniel. (Long sentence; stay with me...) SO, they knew that Daniel prayed to "his" God (having been a foreigner, taken slave long ago. Another story for another day; stay tuned.) every day. They came up with a most evil scheme that centered on flattering the king's ego while taking out his second-in-command, our friend Daniel. It was foolproof. They got the king to sign and seal a law that said, basically, anyone caught praying to a god that wasn't the king would be put to death. (I wonder if the law wasn't passed like a lot of ours, with so many addendums that the king didn't really worry about it.)
Anyhow, they, of course, "caught" Daniel praying to God, just as they had planned, and brought him to the king with the law in hand. Gotta put him to death. So the king, in angst that his beloved second-in-command was to die, had him thrown in the lion's den, and returned to the palace to spend a sleepless night fretting about his friend who was lion lunchmeat.
The next morning, the king returned to the lion's den and hollered down, found Daniel alive because God had shut the lions' mouths up tight, brought him back out, threw the wicked advisors to their deaths, proclaimed that Daniel's God would be the one worshiped in all the land henceforth, and they all lived happily ever after. (Cue swelling orchestra music, dim the lights....ahhhh!)
Now don't you wish you'd just gone and read it for yourself?
Getting back to the post....
Almost every study and reading guide for this story focuses on Daniel's unwavering faith in God, and that's very true. It's the main point, really, along with God doing amazing things to prove He's the one and only, the one who's really in command of every situation and the One and only God who should be worshipped. Those are points that should be examined and studied, deeply.
What came to me last night was how the king RETURNED to the lion's den and called down for Daniel! If you yell for someone, don't you half expect an answer?
Think about it. I think the king had some pretty big faith, too, wouldn't you say? It wasn't grounded, like Daniel's faith, but apparently, just being around Daniel and watching him live his life had planted some seeds in the king. I would imagine as second-in-command, Daniel ended up having as close a relationship with the king as anyone could, and that once in a while the king might enquire about why Daniel did certain things that were different, things that had to do with his beliefs.
It sure makes me think a lot more about my walk with the Lord, and pray that any seeds He's sewing grow like those in the king, that would make someone holler down into a lion's den and expect an answer.
Obviously, this is not deep, theological thinking at it's best.
And now you understand why every Bible study I join, eventually moves their time and location, while my postcard gets "lost" in the mail....
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Postcards from the edge....
....of sanity.
They got married.
Angus wore purple harem pants and I'm not even going to begin to describe the bride's ensemble.
Taaa-daaaa!
(Made her own wedding dress....)
The pumpkin pie playdough cake that started it all.
(Note the pink gloves on the groom...)
Molly's indoor sport is trying to "beam down the food" from the table.
The hat wears him!
I love this picture.
Thrilled to be getting ready for bed!
Arrrrgggghhh! That's a GREAT puzzle!
Maggie goes out, no matter WHAT!
Twilla, "watching" t.v....
The cows, stalking the feed pickup.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
Winter Wonderland
It goes something like this:
Wonder if I have enough coffee for four more days?
Wonder where that cat went?
Wonder how many movies the kids can watch without causing permanent brain damage?
Wonder what is taking my husband so long, coming in from work?
Wonder if we have any chocolate hiding in the back of the cupboard?
Wonder why I hid the chocolate in the wine glasses?
Wonder why the kids are being so quiet?
Wonder why the (now reappeared) cat has pink whiskers?
Wonder what is taking my husband so long, coming in from work? (This gets asked a lot when snowed in...)
Wonder why two bodies under 40 pounds can create 200 pounds of laundry in five days?
Wonder when they're wearing these clothes?
Wonder where I put my cross country skiis?
Wonder if I could still ski?
Wonder what to have for supper?
Wonder what is taking my husband so long, coming in from work? (Again)
Wonder why the kids are giggling hysterically?
Wonder if having a glass of wine at three o'clock in the afternoon would seem desperate?
Wonder who would know if I did?
Wonder if all the other stay-at-home ranchwives are wondering about dumb things like these?
That's why it's called a Winter Wonderland.
Wonder if I have enough coffee for four more days?
Wonder where that cat went?
Wonder how many movies the kids can watch without causing permanent brain damage?
Wonder what is taking my husband so long, coming in from work?
Wonder if we have any chocolate hiding in the back of the cupboard?
Wonder why I hid the chocolate in the wine glasses?
Wonder why the kids are being so quiet?
Wonder why the (now reappeared) cat has pink whiskers?
Wonder what is taking my husband so long, coming in from work? (This gets asked a lot when snowed in...)
Wonder why two bodies under 40 pounds can create 200 pounds of laundry in five days?
Wonder when they're wearing these clothes?
Wonder where I put my cross country skiis?
Wonder if I could still ski?
Wonder what to have for supper?
Wonder what is taking my husband so long, coming in from work? (Again)
Wonder why the kids are giggling hysterically?
Wonder if having a glass of wine at three o'clock in the afternoon would seem desperate?
Wonder who would know if I did?
Wonder if all the other stay-at-home ranchwives are wondering about dumb things like these?
That's why it's called a Winter Wonderland.
Sunday, January 03, 2010
To Willie, From Ma '48
My Aunt Bert gave me a book, recently, that belonged to my Gramps. Gramps loved reading and I don't ever recall seeing him without some form of literature or pamphlet or letter. He especially liked the poetry of Robert Service and Robert Burns; I remember "The Cremation of Sam McGee" and not understanding why it was humorous, until I got older!
This book is Robert Burns. I was reading through the poetry on New Year's day and found many, many great writings that I had forgotten about. There are a lot of "Scotchmen" around here (as Gramps called them), and Burns is held in great esteem with a special evening of celebration for his birthday in Miles City at the end of January.
I'd never before thought about how this rough old prairie may have seemed like home to Scotchmen, but one of Burns' poems sounds just like he's writing from Montana. (The spelling, though odd, is correct to Burns' writing. He wrote like he talked, so Scottish it had to be read aloud to be understood.)
Here, for your wintry reading pleasure, is his poem:
This book is Robert Burns. I was reading through the poetry on New Year's day and found many, many great writings that I had forgotten about. There are a lot of "Scotchmen" around here (as Gramps called them), and Burns is held in great esteem with a special evening of celebration for his birthday in Miles City at the end of January.
I'd never before thought about how this rough old prairie may have seemed like home to Scotchmen, but one of Burns' poems sounds just like he's writing from Montana. (The spelling, though odd, is correct to Burns' writing. He wrote like he talked, so Scottish it had to be read aloud to be understood.)
Here, for your wintry reading pleasure, is his poem:
Winter: A Dirge
The wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth
The blindidng sleet and snaw:
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.
'The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,'
The joyless winter day
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May;
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!
Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here, firm, I rest; they must be best,
Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want (O do Thou grant
This one request of mine!),
Since to enjoy Thou doest deny,
Assist me to resign.
After reading and typing that, I miss my Gramps so much, in his wool shirt with the woodstove blazing, reading and writing in his diary from his little red plaid chair by the window, amidst a nest of papers that only he could recognize the order of! I'm grateful I have this little book, and those dear memories.
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