I have a few travel stories to tell. Unfortunately, after typing a lengthy expose of the obstacles involved in trekking with four children, I lost half the blog due to a login issue. Right now I’m just too tired to recreate it. Part 1 has been saved as a draft. I’ll post it if and when it seems decent enough to do so. For now, I’ll send some postcards and leave you with a few thoughts.
No chickens were harmed in the writing of this blog. Or otherwise. Yet.
If you are offended by boys toting toy weapons, do not scroll down to the pictures.
Mama’s Boy still refuses to trust me on matters that require any adjustment. Nothing much has changed there.
I am really enjoying the total lack of traffic. And cars. And car related sounds.
The deer and antelope play here.
Sorry. It’ll be stuck in your head indefinitely. It has been in mine.
Tonight I went to Kohl’s with my mother-in-law. She went with me to save me 20% and to keep me from committing a crime against eyes across America.
I’ve been lying to myself about what size jeans I wear. The truth is, I haven’t worn any REAL jeans in like 8 months. Maybe a year (the lies blur the dates for me). If you were around last summer when my blog went limp and dead, you might know that I spent the summer writing the text for an iPad app which is a choose your own adventure style book thingie. (You can get it on iTunes if you want to support the arts…or the arts wannabes. Search on ebook Time Machine and it will come up. Time Machine: Age of the Emperors. It’s not as weird as it sounds.) During that summer, I was up to all hours every night, working on some pretty stiff deadlines. Looking back, I have no idea how I did it. I guess I did it with God’s help, the help from 1000 other people, and quite a few 3 a.m. pop tarts.
Which brings me back to the jeans.
If you sit at your desk long enough and eat enough pop tarts, you will part company with your jeans.
I did.
And then I began lying to myself about what was actually going on.
Tonight, I found the truth. Even after working out like a dog for 5 days and eating like a Jenny Craig poster child, I still haven’t lost enough to go shopping. And my jeans still don’t fit. Nor do most of the pairs I tried on at Kohl’s tonight.
I did find some that fit reasonably well. They did not take 20 pounds off me, as I had hoped, or make me look like an Olympic hopeful. Rumor has it there’s no shortcut for that.
They did teach me a thing or two about self-deception, though. You can tell yourself anything you want about what size you wear. But if that isn’t actually your size, you won’t have a fighting chance of stuffing those lies into a pair of Levi’s. I tried it.
And then I left the pack of lies on the floor of the fitting room and went home with a larger sized truth.
I wish I could say that I feel really honest and noble. But I kinda just feel like I own bigger jeans.
This is a quick wave from a wheat farm out west. Our travels have been crazy, lengthy, and blessed. God has gone with us every phase. This post is from my phone, and i have much to say when i get the network password.
Today I will kill and pluck and fry a chicken. I will do it because it is an adventure. It is like the bungee jumping of a farm. The chicken is the jumper. I am the cord. It can’t end well. certainly not for the chicken. Probably not for me either.
Here are some tips from a very savvy traveler. I won’t say who that is. I won’t say when these tips were acquired. I will just list this very powerful advice and let you do with it what you will. The Informinator’s husband (Mr. Informinator) once looked a group of us in the eyes and said, “I hear what you are saying….andddddd, I’m gonna flush it.” He then made a cute little flushing motion with his left hand and that was the end of what we were saying.
So it may be with you. It’s your choice.
If you have a long day ahead of you, traveling or otherwise, do not stay up past 12:30. Definitely do not post blogs when there are other things on your list that haven’t been done. Or, if posting blogs is on your list, place it higher than the other things so you can post the blogs without guilt. I am so dumb sometimes.
If you have a hankering to rent a car, do not randomly choose large cities in western states to rent the car. It might cost you the life of a human, plus another human, plus your plasma, plus $9000, and then plus one more human. That’s 3 humans, some plasma, and $9000. No car is worth that.
If you do indeed have a stupid car rental hankering, though, at least check into the cost before choosing your flight city. I mean it. Do this one. Otherwise, you better be figuring out which humans and whose plasma are preceding your $9000 payment.
Avoid Louisiana. That one is so obvious I almost left it off. But really it should be on here twice.
If you absolutely must traverse Louisiana, stop in Baton Rouge and stay at the Best Western Richmond Inn and Suites. It’s an oasis in a dry and sinister place.
If you should choose to spend a length of time in a valley (this is not a metaphor. We’re talking literal valleys here.) and you think there is not cell phone signal in the abode, climb up onto the side of the tub in the guest bathroom. You might just find what you are looking for…and get a text while you are up there.
If you give up your side of the bed to your son for one night, you will lose your place forever. I have no idea how this one happened. I’ve been on the couch ever since.
If you again have the rental car hankering for a spankering, call the LOCAL number for the agency. LOCAL. At the other end of 800 numbers are people with no soul, no personality, and possibly no pulse. They might be angry robots. Do not talk to them.
Louisiana is bad. People named Louise are good.
Trust God. He is watching over even Louisiana.
I am going to have to repost my previous two blogs about jean shopping. They are basically worthless, but I messed everything up and I’m trying to fix the blog so things are in the correct order. Forgive me if you have seen them and already agreed in your head that they were worthless. But at least I’m doing this while you are sleeping. Maybe you will not notice.
I should not be talking to you like you are in my living room. This whole thing has a very unnatural feel to it. I should find some friends that are not rental car salesmen.
If you were writing a blog about squeezing into too-tight jeans and I were reading it, I would want to ask the question: Why are you buying them if you aren’t happy with it, nim nim?
My mother in law said you have to cover your hiney with SOMETHING.
True. But there’s an awful lot of elastic available that people go for when dieting. So why jeans?
Well, I’ll tell you, since you didn’t ask.
I’m leaving Monday on a Wheat Farm Adventure. As in, I’m going to visit with some friends on a wheat farm. I don’t know what farmers do or what occurs on farms. I am suspecting it’s bad. Bad, bad things occur on farms…things they can’t tell you in the grocery store when they are scanning the barcode of your enriched wheat flour. I imagine walking through the wheat grasses and being bitten on the ankle by a mole hog. Or a pig. Or a coyote.
A farmer might tell you this is not an accurate imagining, but it’s my imagination and my jeans. You can’t take that away from me.
So when I asked what people wear on farms in July, I was told: WEAR JEANS.
That’s why I went shopping last night. And came face to face with the lies, then with the truth, then with the bigger sized jeans.
Also, my sister in law, inspired by my recent skating landslide victory, challenged me to a race in a local roller rink. Why do people keep torturing themselves trying to beat me?
I won. This time I beat TWO OLD PEOPLE.
I know. I may wear bigger jeans than some skaters, but I still skate like a greased vapor. She really should have known not to challenge me; I was wearing elastic pants…
There are activities that are obviously, CLEARLY age appropriate and then there are ones that are not. For example, a 10-year-old should never drive a car. A 64-year-old shouldn’t give birth. A 93-year-old shouldn’t walk unaided. Those are obvious.
There’s about a 20 year period of life, however, where everything becomes gray. When I turned 30, the number sounded shocking to me. My husband helped me ride it out by planning the second coolest surprise birthday party ever. The coolest was my 40th, but that’s not part of this blog. At any rate, I wasn’t upset by a number and in my mind I was still 19. I still felt 19. I was still pretty fit. My ears had not begun to fail me. I was living the dream. Somewhere between then and now, I got old. Older, fluffier, stiffer, a WHOLE lot deafer, and went up a size or SO in clothing. Even so, in my mind, I still almost feel 19. I can at least remember feeling 19. And often, I base my activity choices on the fact that I can still remember feeling 19. My memories are young and fit.
Another factor in my decision making is my competitive edge. I was never a champion at anything, but I was just good enough to not embarrass myself and to act quite a bit more obnoxious than my skill set could uphold.
So, when my friend, Baron Wetty, rolled up next to me in the roller rink the other night and said, “Hey, when racing starts, I’ll race you,” I was forced by my very nature to say, “yes.” It was, to a 41 year old, the equivalent of a triple dog dare.
I feel like I need to step back for just a second and address the fact that I was even skating in the first place. It isn’t my joy in life. Skating is for 12 year olds, give or take 5 years. But every Monday night, my little Christian college has a contract with a local skating rink and it is closed to the public. Only Florida College people are there. But man, are they there. There are a lot of people skating at these things. I skate mostly because I have to. Mama’s Boy and Beloved wouldn’t tolerate the evening as well if I were not on wheels.
I do the whole thing. I hokey pokey, as awkward as it is. I cha cha slide…on skates. You cannot imagine how bad that looks. No, I mean it. Try to picture it. You can’t. If you ever watched Seinfeld and if you ever saw the episode where Elaine Benis dancing, then put roller skates on her and you’ll get close.
I can’t dance.
But I can skate. Reasonably well.
So I said yes to the racing challenge.
Once the “yes” was out of my mouth, I got nervous. Just the word “race” alone indicates a pants-wetting possibility. But that’s not where this story ends. Sorry if that disappoints you.
The next thing I knew, I was standing in a sea of young girls, with two whistle-blowing skate refs ready to call the races. How did I get here?
My first concern was that I was grotesquely out of place in this grouping of females.
My second concern was that we were instructed to sit. Sitting meant quite possibly never getting back up, falling upon the attempt to get back up, or exposing some skin that definitely ought not be exposed.
My third concern became the race. Was Baron fast? Could I beat her? How does one get set on a “starting block” at a roller rink? Is “Roller Rink” a phrase people still use or is that totally 1976?
Some young girls raced. As I watched each race go by, I was more and more convinced that we were morons. Finally, it was our turn: the race for 35-42 year old ladies.
When we got up to the starting line, I actually had no idea what to do with my feet. They were slipping around like I was strapped to a couple of greased pigs. I looked at Baron. She was turned at an angle and ready to go. At this point, I was pretty convinced I was going to lose. And then the whistle blew.
What unfolded during this race, I will leave for you to watch. In case you don’t know either of us too well, I am the one with the big, white man calves. Baron will be the one flailing. Wait. Did I give it away? Also, the Informinator will be the high cackler you can hear as the video closes. I’m sorry the video is so far away. I have another copy coming that highlights the flailing a little better.
Upon watching this pitiful, pitiful exhibition, you might think to yourself that falling is definitely the awkward piece here. I would agree. However, it is also excessively awkward to race around a rink by yourself, shouting like you just won the Spanish-American War. And that is what I did. You could have heard a pin drop in there. Hey, look, everyone! A too-old person is skating alone, whooping and hollering like she’s in a cattle roping contest.
Yeah.
There was no real winner there.
Oh, who am I kidding? I won. Bigtime.
Got myself a free freezer pop out of that deal. And a firmer picture in my mind that I am not as young as I used to be.
I seem to have a couple of fatal flaws when it comes to blogging. I go along for awhile, writing every day, and then I go completely blank.
Why?
Well, apparently I can’t write when:
I’m stressed out.
or
When I’m writing anything else.
One night, about 2 weeks ago, I had a Night-of-the-living-dead kind of night. It began with a bad television choice; the choice to start a movie at midnight. I quit just after 1:30. If the planets had aligned for the rest of the night, that one choice would have been able to right itself. But when a storm started up and kids got bug bites and now I can’t even remember what else went wrong, the time marched on and I was still up–as in, had not gone to sleep for the first time–at 4 a.m. That’s what you get, midnight movie watcher. Idiot.
And then, because you are wondering why I’m even telling you this stupid story, THEN….my great American novel came it me. In an opening sentence, which was followed by a paragraph.
It aggravated me at the time. I had just gotten them all settled. It was 4 a.m., for crying out loud. But I knew if I didn’t write it down, it would leave me and never return. So I grabbed my ipad off the floor and plinked out my opening paragraph in the dark. Then, I got 2.5 hours of sleep.
After that, I got overwhelmed by the summer schedule.
And the daily blog just sort of got stuck under the mire.
Since then, I’ve driven through Louisiana without incident.
DID YOU HEAR ME?
It really deserves its own blog. Except where’s the fun in that? All the fun comes from the incidents. At least, after the fact this is true. When doing the real-time driving, I definitely prefer the “without incident” status.
I do have a blog coming that you’ll want to read. It involves a grisly skating accident.
I had six kids today. So in the interest of reducing chaos and causing disease, I took them to McDonalds with the Play Place. On a day when I bought 30 minutes of sleep with pop tarts, McDonalds seems to fit the theme. I’m not proud of this. You can scoff quietly to yourself. I do have a backyard garden. There’s just nothing alive in it right now.
At any rate, we all got happy meals because it’s $1.99 day. And then the kids ran off to climb in the tubes. I was watching them and spacing just a little. It apparently doesn’t pay to look away from your table in a spacy way, because when I looked back over, there was a squatty toddler eating one of our happy meals.
It was a strange moment.
“Hey!” I said. That’s all I said. It’s all I could think to say. His mother was at the next table, engrossed in her smart phone. I do mean ENGROSSED. She never looked up. Her older kids were watching the younger ones. Or not.
I guess that’s what you get when you go to McDonalds.
When I got home, I forced all six kids into some role of cleaning the chicken coop. This was way, WAY more disgusting than eating a stranger’s happy meal. Honestly. Chickens. I had no idea…not one…what I was getting into. Did I think they were going to take showers and cuddle with me? Did I really believe my kids would remain interested in them after 90 minutes and help me take care of them?
What I would actually have is a new task that no one would help me with. I’d have poop, pecking roosters, and maggots. Yes, maggots.
Ick.
So I decided to google how to keep a coop clean. I figure I’d let some experienced chicken farmers help me out. So I began my research.
I read. And I read. And my eyes grew large. And then squinty. And I kept reading.
Finally, I stopped. Because it became apparent that, not only do I not keep a quality chicken coop, I don’t even know the correct vocabulary to discuss keeping a quality chicken coop. Manure box? I don’t have one of those. Laying mash? What is that?
Here’s a quote from one site:
My hens always have plenty of fresh water and quality laying mash. I supplement with greens, fruits, and vegetables every day for treats. Any uneaten treats also go into the compost bin. Chickens love their protein, as much as their grain. Do not be alarmed if your chickens eat a mouse, small lizard, grasshopper, snail, worm…these are also perfectly natural foods for chickens.
She gives her chickens treats. Her chickens have a manure box and laying mash and fresh bedding in their nesting boxes. My chickens have the ground. And the thing they sleep in. And that other thing.
Ground and things. And no treats.
I think I need to find a more remedial website. Or just get my eggs at the store like other posers.
I did make the kids help me do things all wrong, though. And somehow, for today, that makes it all right.
My husband just pointed out that my answer to the “I’m hungry” at my bedside this morning was, “Get yourself a pop tart. I’ll be up in a minute.” When he pointed that out, I defended myself with, “Some families don’t promise to be up in a minute.” I probably should tell Family Circle that I’ve moved to the country, in case they want to write a feature story on me. I’m not sure they’d be able to find me back here.
We have been taking it slow the last week. Once July 14th arrives, we’ll be moving at breakneck speed and the summer will pass me by.
After I sent my boy into the kitchen with his cooking instructions, I fell into a brief sleep and had a very strange dream. In the dream, I was in a locally owned downtown toy store. The owner was a 60something-year-old woman named Mary. She showed me around. I liked what I saw. I kept saying that I needed to come back and buy a skateboard. By all means, Missy, buy a skateboard for the country where there is no pavement. That will go over GREAT. Anyway, when I walked out of the store, Mary invited me onto the company jet and said that my husband and family should join me for a quick tour of New York City at Christmastime. And then we were off. Without warning. Without strapping in. Without even sitting down. And without the husband and kids she invited along. The next thing I know, I was on a rickety wooden back deck that had been added to the tail of the plane. We were walking around back there. In space.
There were stars. There was conversation. Never in the conversation did I ask, “Why can’t we sit in the seats INSIDE the plane and have a coke?” I never asked why someone thought rotten wood porches were good on the backs of jets. Then Mary got very close to the edge and I gasped as a section of wood crumbled under her weight.
“Watch out!” I yelled to her. She stepped closer to me, unruffled. I pressed my back up against the jet and grabbed a handle. When I turned back toward Mary, she was gone.
She fell off the back.
Dead.
And then I woke up. Disturbed. Maybe if I hadn’t sent the child off in pursuit of a pop tart, that would have gone better…
There are people who are really good at distracting a child away from distress. My mother in law, otherwise known as Barrel Flap, is rather talented at this. I am not. When a meltdown occurs, or just bad behavior in general, my sense of panic sets in. What if I can’t stop it? Why is it happening? Will they pull it together before we have to walk through the doors of the church building? Maybe I should raise my voice. Maybe I should lower my voice. Maybe I should try duck voices.
I never know.
I often panic.
I have been known to sing the Brownie Song. This amuses some and totally frustrates others, depending on the day and the child and how well I perform it.
Today, we were on our way to VBS at my parents’ church. Beloved began to unravel before we were out of the driveway, because she had forgotten her dear little Pinkwee, a pink stuffed penguin. I couldn’t go back. We were already barely scraping by on time. We needed that 2 minutes. Plus, they do need to learn to remember their own things. I can’t get the essentials, the people, AND the Pinkwees out the door.
I had to let that one go.
She didn’t think she could.
And so it began.
Then there was this big conflict over Zoobles between the girls. Sometimes I just look at AG and shrug. He shrugs back. The difference between him and me is 30 years and the fact that he doesn’t have to do anything about it. I’m supposed to.
Today, in a Distraction Stroke of Genuis, rare to me, I assure you, I remembered the Space Ghost soundtrack on my iPod. It’s ridiculous. It’s the Musical Barbeque CD from the old Space Ghost cartoon. The kids have always laughed at the songs sung by Brak. So, without a word, I selected this directory.
Here are some sample lyrics, if you’ve never listened. It’s very refined stuff.
I love Beans. By Brak
Here’s a lovely song about my favorite food
Lima, lento, soy, and pinto
Navy, northern, and garbanzo
Kidneys and frijoles negros… I love beans
I love beans Woo woo woo!
I love beans How ’bout you?
High in fiber Low in fat Hey, I betcha didn’t know that
When I eat beans I sit in my own little cloud
Nobody comes to visit me In my little cloud
(I don’t know why Maybe ’cause I’m cuttin’ muffins)
Two songs into this play list, the conversations in the car were peaceful and harmonious. I was thankful I had gone this route, over making a speech.
I did have to make one speech. I had to explain what it means when no one comes to visit me in my own little cloud. It’s possible I created a situation worse than my first…
Snappshots.com 