I blame the spider

Originally published in the Miami News-Record, May 2019 

“Terrified” doesn’t adequately express how I feel about spiders. Abject horror, paralyzing, gut-deep fear is more accurate, but not quite. When bad weather is imminent, someone else must sweep the cellar. I would rather face down an EF5 tornado wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt, leggings and my Crocs flip-flops rather than go into the cellar with creepy crawlies. We knew the storms would get going early in the day, so that morning Kady swept it out. I inspected and found it to my liking. 

For most of the other warnings (so. many. warnings.) that day it was basically get the kids, babies, and dog in the cellar and I stayed out. If I did go under, it wasn’t for long. It’s my duty as a lifelong Okie to stand in the yard during any tornado warnings. I think it’s in our DNA and I’m pretty sure my parents signed some kind of oath when I was born that they would continue this tradition with their offspring. 

Once Paul got home from work, he and I kept our vigil together on the porch while our little brood was tucked safely underground. After warning Number ?, we knew we had about an hour until the next one hit, so everyone came up, we got out stuff for sandwiches, and let the girls run a bit. I had no more finished making my sandwich when another warning went off. We were so tired of the chaos it took to get everyone down there so we waited a bit. I stood in the yard and watched the clouds. It felt different. Finally I told everyone to GO. I stood at the door of the cellar and watched the clouds start to rotate. Abby came up to video it and then the wind switched direction and even Paul, the tornado naysayer said, “GET UNDER!” The grandgirls were happily watching “Bubble Guppies” on their tablets, the dog was asleep on her bed, we had to threaten the men to refrain from any and all farting. It was pretty calm inside while the outside was a hot mess. Petal got sleepy, so I sat down in a lawn chair to put her to sleep. I felt a plop on top of my head.

About the time I said, “I think someone needs to check my head to make sure that was rain and not a bug,” Abby said in the calmest voice I’ve ever heard, “Mom. Don’t freak out. [absolute certainty I was definitely going to freak out] There is a spider over your head.” If she had said that while in a house, I’d have simply gotten up and run. In an 8x8 cellar you don’t run. You are trapped. You are trapped with a spider dangling menacingly over your head and there’s not a doggone thing you can do about it. It was actually a raindrop that had hit my head, but I imagined a virtual waterfall of spiders raining down from the tiny vent over my head. I let an involuntary whimper escape. Everyone in the cellar was just staring at me. Abby, again so calm, said, “Mom. I’m going to take off my shoe so I can kill it. I need you to slowly get up and not drop my kid, okay?” I got up and went as far away as I could get while she whacked that eight-legged monster with my favorite flip-flop (her shoes had gotten soaked earlier, so she was in my Crocs flips - shame I have to burn them now. Or at least, the left one.) “Okay, it’s done. It’s stuck to the ceiling but—“ I interrupted her with a shrieked, “IT’S STILL ON THE CEILING?!?!” And once again, my eldest, the voice of reason, said, “Mom. It’s the best I can do. It’s dead. Stay calm.” And then my youngest asked if she could wipe my tears. The tears I didn’t realize I was crying because I was so blasted scared out of my mind. It was not my proudest moment. But I did learn that my girls definitely know how to take care of their momma. 

The Doghouse

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on November 29, 2015 

If we were smart and wanted to get creative on our taxes we could probably call ourselves a farm and use our two dogs as “cattle” and write off their food bill. Bolt is our four-year-old German Shepherd. Hero is a not-quite-eight-month-old Husky and Great Pyrenees mix. Bolt weighs in at about 80 pounds. Hero is the size of a 1982 Buick Riviera. We don’t typically worry about anyone messing around our place because the sheer size of the dogs is enough to deter even the most dedicated burglar. Bolt has run more than one person back to their vehicle and a poor unsuspecting dump truck driver who only wanted directions refused to get out of his truck no matter how many times I assured him I had Bolt by the collar.

But poor Bolt has a problem; Bolt is claustrophobic. Poor fella cannot handle small spaces or anything that has a roof any closer than four feet from the top of his head. This strange dog has been this way his entire life. He will lie out IN the snow before he’ll go into a dog house or shelter. He’ll lie under the cars in the summer, but only if his head sticks out. Last winter Paul retrofitted a doghouse that was left here by the previous occupants and opened the entire front of the shelter for him. He did pitifully go inside eventually, but whined the whole time he was in it. I’m not sure he ever even slept while he was in it he was so tense.

Last week Paul decided to build the dogs a big, open doghouse for the upcoming winter. Seeing as how they are huge, it was going to be a BIG dang doghouse. Since Sam is his usual right-hand man for projects but he has vo-tech in the mornings, I volunteered to help. A big project needs a helper, right?  Now, y’all might have figured out by now that my Paul isn’t a talker. For 23 years now our relationship has consisted of me chattering and asking questions and him grunting occasionally or spitting tobacco in order to answer with a one word reply. The building of the doghouse was no different.

“Can I help?” was met with “Ayuh” or “Nah”. Mostly “Nah.”

“Here, let me hold that!” got a head shake followed by a spit then “I got it.”

“Do you need my help?” was answered with, “Not really. Don’t you have something else you could be doing? Something out of my shop?”

“Oh, you dropped your pencil. Let me get that for you!” On that one he just sighed. After he spit.

I eventually decided to clean the shop. I organized some drill bits. Tsk’ed at his lack of organization and told him that come spring I am taking my label maker out there for some serious rearranging and identifying. I threw away a lot of stuff – like 47 empty spray paint cans (What on earth has he been painting??), 13 empty dog food bags, some rusty screws and bolts, and a Sawzall blade that was bent almost 90° and was missing over 80% of the teeth. I squealed every time a cricket jumped at me even though I tried hard not to. I sneezed a lot. I hummed. I chatted happily while he worked, not caring that it was completely one-sided.

I was happy to be out there with him. I wasn’t sure he’d say the same thing when it was all said and done, but later, after the dog house was completed and the boys had placed it on the south side of the shop out of the wind, he kissed me and said, “Thanks for your help today, dear.”

Oh! Be still my heart! He loves spending time with me and apparently thinks I am a GREAT helper! I have SO many projects in mind for this winter! He’ll be thrilled!     

Spelunkin' (A continuation)

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on October 18, 2015

Back at camp, Lana praised me for passing my free cardiac stress test, but kept a close eye on me. I know she loves me and all, but really didn’t want to do CPR on her friend. I drank a bottle or seven of water, rested my shaking legs, and was excited to hear Tour-guide Lumberjack Barbie say that the cave entrance was “only a minute” from our camp. I was fairly certain I could handle a minute of walking. As we started for the cave I tried to ignore the nagging voice in the back of my head that kept saying, “This path is preeeeeetty steep which means coming back up later is going to finish you off where the other hike didn’t. You better call your mom and tell her you love her.”

At the entrance, the guide warned us about low hanging ceilings, fluttering bats, and slippery surfaces. He cautioned us to not touch anything with our hands and to stay on the path because some of the critters living in there were so small we could knock out an entire community with the toe of our shoe.  “Horton Hears a Who” flashed in my head. He said if there were hand rails we could touch those, but to be very careful to not bump other surfaces with any body parts. I vowed to lovingly make those hand rails my new best friends.

And thus we began our descent. Our friends’ youngest son had been very nervous and scared to go in the cave and they had been praying God would help him overcome that fear in the weeks prior to the trip. I know in my heart of hearts that God conveniently placed some salamanders in the stairwell as we entered. Ezra was fascinated with those scurrying boogers and we were 20-some feet underground before the little guy knew it. I, on the other hand, didn’t do so well on the trip down. I am terrified of heights and the stairs were steep. In order to keep from breaking my hip, I had to look down at the steps. Looking down made me light-headed and I lost my balance and bumped the wall….and felt something wiggle. I called down the stairs. “Uhm…..Nathan? I’m pretty sure I just killed a salamander with my butt.” Paul whacked me on the shoulder and shushed me. He said didn’t want me banished before we even got in.

We went 170 feet below the ground that afternoon. We saw all the usual cave offerings: stalactites, stalagmites, bats, lizards, frogs, unknown drippy things and wiggly things. I saw this cool looking stuff on the handrail and hollered to the guide to see what it was. “Oh that? It’s a fungus growing in some guano.”  It was then that I shone my flashlight further onto the handrail and realized that the rail that I had been clinging to was pretty much covered in bat poo. So. Much. Bat. Poo.

Sam entertained us all with random Batman quotes and declarations to save Gotham from the Joker. Everyone over 5’ tall whacked their heads. For once Kady and I felt pretty fortunate that we’re short. We saw a pile of guano that had to have been 12-feet tall. I heard the folks at the head of the line say, “We’re almost there!” and I assumed that “there” meant “exit”. No, “there” meant “as far as we can go and now we have to turn around and walk all the way back out.” It was a half mile in and the same half mile out, but it took a quarter of the time to get out than it did to get in.

It was a really cool experience and I’m glad we did it. I’d even do it again someday. But I’m hoping that between now and the next time, that special cave snail pays for a golf cart and paved pathway to and from the cave. Nature schmature. 

The Great Outdoors

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on October 11, 2015.

Awhile back, Mike and Lana, the friends that came over to sort-of camp in our yard and go four-wheeling back in the summer, asked us if we would be interested in visiting an underground laboratory in a cave in the Ozarks. How does one say no to such a proposition? Kady and Sam are studying earth and space science this year, so I thought caves would go right along with such a trip and you know us homeschoolers and the constant educating of our children and stuff. We were SO in.

We were only going for an overnight stay and would really only spend about 24 hours on the property, but goodness gracious it looked like we were packing to stay a year. We had lawn chairs, flashlights, coolers, bags, sleeping bags, enough bug spray to kill half of Missouri’s insect population, plus hot dogs, sandwiches, and I made enough blueberry muffins for an army. We arrived, grabbed a bite for lunch and finished up just as our tour guide showed up. He looked like a lumberjack. He had a beard and wore a flannel shirt and very serious-looking hiking boots. His name was Nathan, but in my head I referred to him as Tour-guide Lumberjack Barbie. He was adorable.

He took us on a hike through the beautiful wilds of a tiny dot on the map called Protem, Missouri. He explained about the cave and its impact on the environment. He told us about how the owners were working very hard to protect the endangered species that lived in their cave. He said, “The elaborate septic system that keeps the groundwater free of waste was paid for by the snail.” And rather than wonder why or how a snail paid for a septic system, all I could think was, “Where is this snail and will he pay for stuff for me, too?” Turns out, there is a species of cave snail that is only found in this particular cave in the whole wide world. It’s a VIM (Very Important Mollusk). And apparently when you have a VIM on your property you are a VIP and people pay for your toilets.

Not far into our hike we came across a pygmy rattlesnake. But being homeschoolers, we didn’t run screaming; we all gathered around to inspect it. Tour-guide Lumberjack Barbie nearly had a stroke. “Folks, that’s a poisonous snake. Folks? Rattlesnakes are poisonous. PEOPLE! RATTLESNAKES ARE POISONOUS SNAKES.” Poor fella. Apparently he had never led a tour for homeschoolers before. We are a curious lot.

Little did we realize that our hike was taking us downhill. (Or at least, I didn’t – maybe everyone else did.) When I heard, “Okay, let’s head back to camp for a quick rest then we’ll walk down to the cave,” I was thinking, “Oh, it’s been such a lovely trek so far. I can’t wait to see the rest of the trail.” Then about 10 minutes later after a nearly vertical incline that would make a mountain goat faint, I was sucking so much wind I was seriously considering trying Kady’s inhaler even though I’m allergic to albuterol and it causes my throat to swell shut. I was pretty much just thinking it would bring about death quicker than the heart attack I was certain I was going to have. Lana is an RN and Mike is a firefighter. They both looked ready to spring into action if I keeled over – something I think we all felt was fairly imminent. However, I made it. I survived all 4,270 miles of that hike.

I also exaggerated a few times in the previous paragraph.

You’ll have to come back next Sunday to hear the rest of the story. I know, I know… I’m not one for suspense either, but such a tale requires more than my 650-ish word limit. And believe me, you will all want to read about how I’m pretty sure I killed a salamander with my butt.

All Things Rodentia, Part II

Originally published in the Miami News-Record, March 15, 2015

A few years ago, in a moment of parental miscommunication, my oldest daughter was allowed to buy a hamster. Before we knew it, we had gone from zero rodents to four and my husband is completely to blame. He knew our deal was that if the kids asked for hamsters we were to pass if off to the other parent for the rest of eternity, thereby avoiding actual procurement of any hamsters forever and ever amen. But whether it was batted eyelashes or a sweet voice saying, “Daaaaaddyyyyyy…” that caused him to say, “I don’t care,” is beside the point now. We are knee-deep in rodents.

Last summer Abby’s precious hamster, Pearl, passed away. There were actual tears shed for sweet Pearl. She was smart and loved macaroni and cheese. We placed her tiny, furry body in a shoe box and my husband was charged with the burial. I expected a shovel and a shoe box-sized hole. Oh, no. By the time it was all said and done, it looked like we had buried three grown men out by the garden. He said he didn’t want the dogs to dig her up. No chance of that – I’d be more worried about the devil himself getting to her as deep as she went. The next to go was Bugg’s hamster, Sundae. She had a little rodent stroke. She, too, was buried in a shoe box, however the hole dug for her was more appropriately sized for a rodent and her memorial is behind the barn. Abby lost her original hamster, Hanna, this winter, but the ground was too frozen to bury her so she went into a barrel (in a shoe box, of course – we aren’t total heathens) out by the barn with the intent of a burial on a warm day. We just remembered her last week. Oops. She’s still in the barrel. Above ground. Maybe we are heathens.

Both of Abby’s hamsters have now since gone on to the big hamster wheel in the sky but she replaced them with a pair of fancy mice – Lily and Chrysanthemum. The lady at the pet store told us that mice are social and are better in pairs. She didn’t tell us that they would also MOURN THEMSELVES TO DEATH if their companion dies. On one particular cage cleaning day, Chrysanthemum refused to go into her exercise ball and it took much coercion. Imagine the horror about 10 minutes later as Abby and I looked over and noticed that one exercise ball was moving with a very much alive hamster inside while the other was….still. Upon further inspection we realized that Chrysanthemum must have gotten so stressed out over the whole thing that she died of a little mousey heart attack. What followed were two weeks of a very sad Lily who finally died of a broken heart. Both mice were given Viking burials at sea. Okay, they were set sail in shoe boxes in Sycamore Creek.

Last weekend Abby came home with a teensy, tiny baby mouse.  She named the new baby Petal. She is insanely friendly and cute – so cute you want to just stare into her little furry face all the time. (And for me to make such a statement of adoration is a big thing since you know, a regular ol’ house mouse in my house is cause for me to scream and refuse to put my feet on the floor until I see a corpse in a trap, so yeah, she’s pretty doggone cute.) She has escaped once. My first instinct was to scream for her head on a pike, then I remembered how cute she is and just curled up in a chair until she was safely in her cage again.

And the only way I can think to end this story is that y’all must think my family buys a lot of shoes because it seems we have a never-ending supply of shoe boxes around here…   

Cat-tastrophe

Published in the Miami News-Record on October 12, 2014

About a month ago one of the kids noticed that our momma cat, Chuck Norris, was putting on some weight.  I inwardly groaned because I knew it meant that Chuck was in a family way. Her last litter of kittens was about four months old at the time and while we like to keep a cat or two around, we don’t want to get crazy with feline overpopulation.

Typically when we notice a cat is pregnant around here there is usually time to prepare for the blessed event. I told the kids we had about a month before the kittens came, but Chuck Norris, well, she likes to keep us on our toes. A mere week after our discovery, we had another discovery: four teeny tiny kittens in a barrel out by the shop. Our oldest daughter’s pup, Josie, took to barking at the kittens, which wasn’t much of an issue considering their ears were still shut, but apparently Chuck didn’t much care for it. A little over a week ago she moved her babies to an unused doghouse right by our front porch. Josie didn’t bother them there and all seemed right with the world. They figured out how to crawl and wiggle out into the sunshine and loved being paid attention to. They just needed giant sunglasses and they’d have been little kitty Kardashians.

And then the rains came.

While I was at homeschool co-op and our oldest was at home, she discovered one had nearly drowned after she wiggled out of her house. After some drying and lovin’-on, she perked up, Abby secured them all back into the doghouse while the rains kept coming. Then Chuck decided that her accommodations were worthy of a scathing Yelp review and left her kittens high and dry. Actually, low and soaked. So in the middle of a downpour, we moved a barrel to the porch, put the kittens in it, and Chuck deemed it suitable.

And then the winds came.

The barrel started filling with water, again soaking the poor critters. When I went out last Monday morning one kitten was gone, two were soaked to the bone, and one was barely breathing. Chuck would have nothing to do with them and kept bolting away when we tried to put her with the wet little varmints, running for cover like she was insisting the rain was going to make her hair frizzy.  We found most of our Monday school day whittled away by bottle feedings and mewling kittens. My husband was less than thrilled that our No Indoor Pet policy had been pushed aside in our humanitarian (felinatarian?) attempts. I was adamant that we were doing the right thing and that we were only showing our kids how to be kind to animals.

But at 3 am when those kittens started hollering that the milk replacer was gross and they  missed their momma and could they see Santa and “Are we there yet?” all rolled into a bunch of  “She’s touching me!” type shrill squeals and meows, I found myself having misplaced my kindness. I found myself with a scratching, wiggling ball of fur in one hand while I blearily tried to fill a miniscule bottle with milk replacer and warm it so as to not scald the poor thing’s gizzard. It was a flashback to when my own kids were newborns, although with less scratching, but pretty much the same amount of yowling.

Since then Chuck has been forcefully placed into a confined area with her kittens and is only let out when the little ones aren’t screeching with all their might. She glares at us when we let her out and I’m pretty certain that look says, “I’d rip your heart out right now if I could.” And again, it is reminiscent of when my husband and I had a newborn. I’m pretty sure I blearily directed that thought at him more than once at 2 am.

The Helpful Place

I absolutely love going to Ace Hardware because they greet you at the door, ask you what you are looking for and immediately direct you to the aisle you need. Then as you walk away, they get all Secret Service-ish and speak softly into their mic, "I have a customer heading to Aisle 4 in need of a sink drain," like suddenly your plumbing needs are vital to national security.

Today I had several things I needed and was going to visit more than one aisle. I wasn't sure where to begin. We're getting ready to clean out the cellar in anticipation of 'Nader Season here in Oklahoma and there are brown recluse, black widows and wasps in there. With that many critters taking up residence in my 'Fraidy Hole, I'd rather take my chances with the twister. The kids and I had planned on de-bugging and cleaning it this weekend and I needed serious varmit destruction.

When the friendly greeter at the door said hello and asked what I needed today, smiling I said, "Oh.....I have a lot of things to pick up. I think I'll just go it alone." She smiled and said, "Great! Thank you for choosing Ace!" and as I walked away I heard her softly speak into her mic, "I have a female customer..... walking down the main aisle.....she's wearing a black sweater and says she has a LOT of things to buy. Someone find her and HELP HER!"

I was laughing so hard by the time I got to the spider traps because I had about four guys in red vests trailing me as I leisurely browsed each and every aisle between the front door and the pest aisle. A super nice guy with gorgeous silver hair "won" me when I finally stopped at the spider traps and after we visited about those horrible demonic vermin and squared that nasty bit of business away, I inquired about wasp traps.

He stepped in closer and his voice got low as he looked around. I felt like we were in an alley and he was going to offer to sell me a watch out of his vest. He literally looked over his shoulder twice before he finally  said, "Well, I can sell you one of these here, but just last night on Facebook I saw the directions on how to make your own...."

When I got back to the car, the kids nearly in chorus asked, "THEY DIDN'T HAVE WASP TRAPS!?!?" (We might have some anxiety about wasps at our house...) I then told them about the silver-haired Facebooker and his homemade traps and how we, too, were going to make our own. They were completely unconvinced and one of them offered to pay for store-bought guarantees themselves.

Abby just shook her head and said, "Uh, Mom. You should've just totally friended him right there. That's what we teenagers do! Then you'd have the directions right there on your wall!"

Pest Control the Gen Y Zuckerberg way.

Woof

Back in the Spring our pup Little Joe met with an early demise via school bus. It was a horrific experience seeing as how our two youngest kids witnessed the whole tragic ordeal. After that awful business we solemnly and vehemently declared we would never have another dog again, or at least not have one we liked so much. And trust me, we have had our share of unlikeable dogs around here, so we figured the chances of getting another miscreant mutt was highly likely.

And then Paul's brother called one night and said his female German Shepherd was on the nest and offered us pick of the litter. He said they'd be born around the end of June and we could come get ours six weeks later. While I've always thought German Shepherds are beautiful dogs, I didn't have high hopes for liking one or welcoming it into our family. I figured it would be just another dog, something to feed and then leave us gigantic dinner-plate-sized piles of poo in the yard. I was less than excited.

But the kids were thrilled and not a week went by through the spring they didn't inquire about the puppies. We received a call when they were born which only served to up the anticipation level by oh....about six hundred and thirty seven gazillion. Then lo and behold the blessed day came when the brother-in-law called and said, "Come get your dadgum (okay, he didn't say "dadgum", but you can probably insert any expletive and it would be close to correct) dog. There are a bunch of 'em and they won't stay in the pen anymore." Squeals from three kids promptly ensued. Paul probably squealed inside. I was less than excited.

My brother-in-law's dogs are vicious animals. The male, so large and so mean, he has to be kept on a logging chain. Yes, I said logging chain. A mere dog chain will not hold the beast. The female is mean, but less so. The puppies had to be carefully procured by my brother-in-law and brought to us, two at a time, to cuddle and partake of their cuddly, fluffy, skunk-breathed puppy-ness. The kids narrowed it down to four. Then three. Then two. And two is where we stayed. So with a sigh I said, "Okay, fine....take them both," while thinking Lovely. More elephant-sized piles of poo to keep Conner from stepping in. We labored over names for days and eventually settled on Boo for the female (after Boo in Monsters Inc)  and Bolt (from well, Bolt). Yes, we Disneyed our dogs.

Bolt didn't come off the porch for four days. He cowered in the corner by the front door and wouldn't eat, would barely drink, it was awful. Boo, however, would nearly mow you over with skunky kisses and whines all while piddling at your feet. Finally, Bolt came around and while he's still the more calm and collected of the two, his sister still remains highly neurotic and extremely rambunctious. She has literally sat on her brother's head to keep me from petting him and has on more than one occasion nipped just a little harder than I'm sure she intended in a fit of jealousness. She has, fortunately, stopped piddling at our feet. That's a blessing.

I'm afraid we've become the pet owners who will defiantly and adamantly defend the honor of the breed of their choice. Pit Bull owners say it's not the breed, it's the owner and the care. Rotweillers will say the same. Chihuahua owners will say the same, too, but folks, we all know those dogs are just a half a bubble off plumb and there is no fixing those overgrown mice. (I kid, I kid. Please don't send me hate mail. I've known one really cool Chihuahua. He wears an elf outfit around Christmas time. Any dog that can pull that off has my admiration.) But yes, we defend our Shepherds and their precious demeanors. Yes, their parents are nasty and mean, but heck, there are a lot of people I know who have nasty parents and we don't keep those folks on a logging chain just because their parents need a swift kick to the tail end. We have never hit our dogs and their faithfulness and loyalty reflects that. Well, we're still trying to convince them that pooping that close to the front door doesn't make friends with their human counterparts.

I guess what I'm trying to say with this whole post is this: We have fallen head over stinkin' heels in love with those dadgum dogs. There. I said it. We love them. *sigh*

Wednesday we took them to the vet to be fixed. Paul had to build a giant dog box for the back of the truck because they are the size of small Tyrannosaurus Rex. This dog box looks like we should just strap ol' Granny Clampet to the top and take off for Bev-er-ly. Hills, that is. I told him it might have been a bit much considering if he had built it in town we'd have needed a zoning permit for it. His justification was that now they have one seriously cool dog house for the back yard. Kady asked if she could have it for a playhouse. It's that big. We looked ridiculous driving to the vet and I was just glad we brought them after general business hours and no one we knew saw us.

They cried when we left them. We cried, too. Well, at least Kady and I did because we adhere to Truvy's strict policy of "No one cries alone in my presence" and we apply it to dogs as well. I called Paul for something on Thursday and in the conversation asked if he was having a good day. He sighed and said, "Yeah, I was just sitting here thinking about Boo and Bolt. Do you think they're okay?" We're all so dang smitten it's ridiculous.

Thursday they came home, minus a few gonads and happy to see their people. Bolt immediately attacked a cat and announced his presence on the place by peeing on every tree and blade of grass with 100 yards. Boo, who had a hernia repair on top of it all, was a little less than rambunctious. She's still hobbling around today and the vet said she'll take awhile longer to heal. I did, however, lure her out of her barrel with a slice of pepperoni pizza yesterday, so I have no doubt she'll be back to normal in no time, terrorizing cats and sitting on her brother's head to keep us from possibly loving him more than her. Note to self: Call vet about puppy Prozac.

Kady, Bolt, Abby, Sam and Boo

November 2011

It's shockin', y'all. Literally.

The day after Abby got bit by The Spider from Hades, as we so affectionately call it, I got sick with a sinus-y, cold type affliction that made me run a fever, which made my skin hurt, which made me whiny, which made my husband banish me to the bedroom. I was in bed by 8:00 that night, shivering under about six blankets, wearing sweats and a sweatshirt. I'd have worn a sock hat, too, had I remembered it before I got in bed, but as it was I wasn't getting out from under those covers unless I had to pee and I was going to have to be at emergency level then.

Abby was still feverish from the bite, had a horrific headache and her joints hurt. Even though I was at Death's door (ha.) I had her sleep with me that night so I could keep an eye on her. She was watching TV while I laid under my mountain of blankets, occasionally whining or moaning just so the world would know I was still alive, when my phone rang. It was my momma. I answered with a pitiful, "*sniff sniff cough* hello?" and was greeted immediately by both parents going, "Awwwwwwwwwwww! Poor baby!" I guess the text I had sent about an hour prior to their call worked in letting them know I needed sympathy.

After I was properly babied Mom then proceded to tell me about a thing she read online where this doctor was tasering spider bites and having amazing results with it. I'll be honest, my initial reaction was that there was no way in hecky darn I was going to have my daughter tasered. I mean, we try to reserve that for bad grades and overages on cell phone minutes. I thanked Mom for the research but in my mind I dismissed it due to the extremeism of the whole ideal. When Abby asked what she wanted I non-chalantly said, "Oh, Gram heard about a doctor who tasers bite victims and thought it might work for you." Her eyes got big as dinner plates and she sat straight up in my bed and said, "You grownups are smoking dope if you think I'm gonna let you TASER ME!" I laughed and assured her there would be no tasering. As long as she kept her grades up.

Fast forward one week to when my daughter then had TWO! BLACK! SPOTS! on her leg at the site of the bite, the red area around it was increasing and it just generally looked bad. I Facebooked that it wasn't healing and sent the same message to Twitter. Within a few minutes a gal from OKC tweeted back and asked for my email address because she wanted to share something with me about a guaranteed (!) remedy. I happily sent it on because I was at the point where I was going to believe in unicorns and husbands who don't leave their short little shaved whiskers all over the bathroom counter providing someone used the word "guaranteed" when they mentioned them to me. She emailed me about the doctor in the practice she works in who is shocking spider bites and having 100% positive reactions to the therapy. Most within 24 hours from what I gathered.

When Paul got home that night I had already prepared a speech for him about why we needed to pull her out of school and make a trip to the City to let a doctor essentially taser our daughter for the sake of healing up the cavernous rotting hole in her leg. He listened and kind of grinned. I only hoped the grinning meant he was on board for a trip to the City for tasering and a visit with my sister and her husband. But no, instead he just spit in his spit cup and said, "You know we've got a shocker thing here at home, right?"

And it hit me - his mom was on a herbal/homeopathic/alternative medicine kick a few years back and after I made him quit chelation therapy because it made him smell like creamed corn, she bought him the shocker thing for here at home. It's supposed to balance the body, remove heavy metals, kill germs, bacteria, viruses, worms, parasites, bring Mars out of retrograde, allow Roscoe P. Coltrane to finally catch those Duke boys for good and rid the world of jeggings once and for all (and I'm pretty sure the informational flyer also said cure cancer, but I wasn't quite believing that claim) (the jeggings we can only hope) all from the comfort and privacy of your own home. But all I could think was THIS THING IS CAPABLE OF SHOCKING! HERE AT HOME! SHOCKING! IN OUR LIVING ROOM! and while I miss my sister desperately, I just kept thinking it was going to save us a lot of money on gas, food and an out-of-pocket doctor visit if it actually worked.

And then we had to get Abby on board the whole shocking issue.

Fortunately, she is 14 and all I had to do was explain that a little minor discomfort while being shocked was better than PERMANENT! DISFIGURATION! via the rotting holes in her leg.

She hitched up her pant leg, flopped down across the chair and said, "Let's get this over with. I want to wear shorts again someday."

From what I've read, if you get shocked or tasered in a medical office it's one big whopper of a shock and it's done and within 24 hours you see dramatic results. Since the shocker we have here at home isn't quite that powerful, we've been administering the electricity to the area around the bite for 10-15 minutes at a time and we've been doing it since Friday. The redness is going away and the skin has a generally just better appearance all around. I don't think it's coincidence, considering these bites take so long to heal - it's not like we just happened to start shocking when the bite was already healing. I honestly think there is really something to it.

And on the positive side, Abby can make a grilled cheese sandwich in her bare hands now.

******************

I know y'all are probably a bit disappointed that here I've taken all these months away from the blog only to come back now and every stinkin' one is about this spider bite, but just hang with me. I have the worst case of writer's block right now (and have for awhile) and I'm slowly breaking through. Right now I'm baby-stepping back into it and unfortunately, you get to read about The Great Spider Adventure of 2011.

Hang in there.

It's spider-rific! NOT

Abby's leg is still trying to rot off. I am so sick of dealing with this stupid spider bite I could scream. I hate spiders, have since I was a teenager and this just fuels my loathing of them even more. Over the past week and a half I've heard just about every comment under the sun:

"It's probably not even a spider bite. Most 'bites' are actually MRSA."  I agree, most "bites" probably are, but dude, we had the spider. I carried it in a Dixie cup in a ziploc bag IN MY PURSE to the doctor's office. It's definitely a brown recluse spider bite.

"Well, when my uncle's brother's cousin's friend who works at the CoOp with a gal he graduated from trade school with got bit the doctor put him on high-powered antibiotics and steroids IMMEDIATELY! Tell your doctor that's what you want." Telling her doctor that's what we want and him actually doing it are two different things, friends and neighbors.

"You need better insurance." Yeah, well, you pay the premium, bucko, and I'll be happy to sign the kids right up. As it is, they pretty much treat us the same as someone coming in with no insurance. We get the bare-bones treatment. Talk about making you feel super special and making you feel like they don't value your child's health one bit. It is a warm, fuzzy feeling, lemme tell ya.

"Try [remedy X]. When I got bit I [soaked my foot in gasoline] [peed on a gerbil] [walked around my house 12 times while playing the kazoo] [sucked the venom out like they show 'em doing to snake bites on old episodes of Gunsmoke] [dug it out with a spoon]." *sigh* Sorry, I'm probably not going to soak my daughter's leg in gasoline no matter how it worked out for you. And we are definitely not bringing a gerbil into this house. It would probably bite someone.

"Pray." Oh, we are doing this. Fervently. I don't think it would be doing as well as it is if we weren't. But God also gave us doctors. And herbs.

And believe me, there are more. I appreciate everyone's honest, good intentions, but you can only hear "When my brother got bit..." so many times before you start to chuckle.

That all being said, we are taking her to some random, total, complete stranger tomorrow afternoon - a random, total, complete stranger who apparently makes a wicked herbal poultice that will heal the bite up in two weeks, she says. How did we hear about this random, total, complete stranger? A lady at church was at the beauty shop and someone there had a family member who this woman helped. Folks, I couldn't make this up if I tried. I believe in herbal remedies, I really do. Otherwise I wouldn't be taking my daughter to a random, total, complete stranger.

If I don't see intensely real, true results from the herbal treatment by about mid-week next week I am making an appointment with a doctor in Oklahoma City who is having amazing, guaranteed results with "zapping" spider bites, mainly brown recluse and black widow bites. He uses a low voltage charge, similar to what a chiropractor uses to stimulate muscle contractions and shocks the bite. It changes the molecular makeup of the venom and the zap stops it from poisoning the tissues. From what I read, healing - visible healing - begins within 24 hours. So why am I waiting on this one? The one that seems the quickest and most sure? Well, mainly because Abby has already missed two days of school this semester, she gets behind very easily (especially in math) and I just would like to not have to drive to the City in the middle of the week, although the thought of seeing my sister does make my heart go pitter patter. I miss her something awful. 

I never dreamed a stinkin' spider bite would get this involved and cause this much turmoil in my brain!!

In a positive development, she isn't checking her bed quite so obsessively anymore. It was at least a heartbreaking 15 minute ordeal involving her pulling back every blanket and me shining a flashlight on every square inch of blanket and sheet, her throwing each and every pillow onto the floor where she would then proceed to stomp the living daylights out of each one, then finally, before actually getting into the bed, she would bounce on it repeatedly to scare any little buggers out, then one more pass with the flashlight and she would finally get in bed. Now we're just down to shining a light down at the foot of the bed, fluffing the pillows and bouncing once or twice.

She's just dadgum disappointed that she can't shoot a web out of her wrist. Peter Parker totally got the best deal around.

Aaaaaand....we're back

Christmas was hectic and fabulous. We managed to get where we needed to go, see who we needed to see and do all the hullaballoo involved.

New Year's Eve Paul and I ran away to Branson for our 18th anniversary. We certainly did not party like it was 1999 or even 2009. As soon as we hit the motel room we were sprawled out on that big ol' King-sized bed watching a show on NatGeo about the fascinating sting ray trade in Singapore. We were asleep by 11:15 and 2011 slipped right past us without so much as disturbing our exhausted snoring.

The next day we spent the day shopping at the craft stores in Branson, acting like two goofy love birds and enjoyed being together. We came through Joplin, MO, on the way back toward home and were going to see True Grit, but the line at the box office was out to the edge of the sidewalk and Mr. Grumpy Anniversary Pants didn't want to stand outside in the cold to wait our turn. I was kind of pouty and asked him to just drive me through Starbucks so I could spend a ridiculous amount of money on a coffee, something I just don't do very often. I told him to order me a "Grande Caramel Brulee' Latte". He gave me a sideways look and said, "Ooooookay." He rolled the window down and when the chipper voice on the speaker asked what he'd like he said, "Uh, yeah....Gimme a grand-ay goo-lay car-mel hoo-lay lot-tay....or something like that....I think." I busted out laughing and said, "No! A grande caramel brulee' latte!" He again started speaking a hillbilly form of Pig Latin into the speaker again and this time my laughing was so loud the chipper gal taking our order started laughing, too. She finally said through her chuckles, "Sooooo....a caramel latte'?" I said, "Close enough!"

About five miles down the road I offered Paul a drink. Without taking his eyes off the road he said, "Nope. I cain't drink somethin' I cain't even pronounce."

And that is just one of the many reasons why I am so thrilled to have been married to him for the past 18 years.

*********************

The kids got up last Tuesday morning to go back to school after two weeks off.

And Ab got bit by a brown recluse spider while putting on her jeans.

At 6:15, mere minutes after the bite, I called the Nurse Advice Line through their insurance and she said to keep an eye on it and monitor her for breathing difficulty or severe allergic reactions. I then called my mother who freaked me out by saying, "TAKE HER TO THE ER IMMEDIATELY." So then I called the hospital and had them page her PA. I didn't feel so bad because chances are the dude was probably already up by 6:30am anyway, right? He gave me the same info the advice line nurse did which didn't settle well with me. She was feeling fine and only complaining of the bite itching like a mosquito bite. I drove to the school during her lunch hour and checked it and frankly, could hardly see the bite at all, however by 3:45 when she walked in the door off the bus she was chilling, her joints ached and was complaining of severe abdominal pain. I loaded her up and hauled her - and the dead spider in a Dixie cup - to ExpressCare where the PA looked at the bite and very unsympathetically dismissed us and refused to give her antibiotics, steroids or a pat on the back, much less some compassion. I took my crying teenager home, fuming all the way.

She missed school Wednesday, fighting a fever and joint aches the entire day. I got her an appointment with her PA when the bite started looking like a bruise, something the ExpressCare PA said would happen if the bite was going to necrose. I don't like the word necrose, much less the actual act of necrosity....uhm necroseness.....necrosing.....oh, you know what I mean. He looked at the bite and said as far as bites go it looked really good and he felt pretty certain it would not necrose. I asked about a thousand questions, most of them worst-case-scenario and he tried his best to lay them to rest. He assured me repeatedly that antibiotics and steroids are not standard protocol for recluse bites these days and time was what it needed.

And now today, five days after the bite happened, there is a divot the diameter of a pencil lead in the center of the bite and it appears it is indeed going to necrose. She is still easily tired out, still achey and has a nearly continual headache. Her body has reacted so violently to this bite I am very frustrated with the medical community. I'd like to bring both PAs into her room every night and spend the 15 minutes it now takes for her to get ready for bed, let them hold the flashlight while she obsessively checks the bed sheets and pillows for spiders, let them sleep with her because she's so achey she's crying (and Ab is not a cry-er), let them reassure her that yes, she will be able to wear shorts again and no, she will not be a freak of nature with a hole in her leg. Yeah, that's what I'd like to do.


*****************

Yesterday was Kady's first two basketball games of this season. On the way to the gym I gave her my usual pre-game pep talk. I reminded her to dribble low and close, elbows out, head up, be aggressive and tough. She rolled her eyes at me, but listened politely. Then Paul said, "Alright, are you done with your pep talk?" I nodded that I was. He said, "Good. Daddy's turn. Bug, go out there and kick some butt." I broke back in with, "Oh yeah, and K? Most importantly? Play like a Christian. Okay?" Kady grinned from the back seat and said, "Uhm....I'd rather play like Daddy said."

Game one was ugly. The team she is one is comprised of two 3rd graders (she being one of them) and the rest are 2nd graders. It's a very inexperienced team full of teeny tiny little girls who are just learning the game and frankly, having a blast out there. Their coach is a patient woman trying to teach the girls fundamentals and sportsmanship and discipline. Unfortunately, the two teams they played yesterday have fiercely competitive coaches and the girls are downright mean. Our girls were elbowed, scratched, tripped and generally annihilated. Kady got so upset after one girl shoved her friend in the chest then tripped her she was crying hard enough to go into an asthma attack. The assistant coach ushered her off the court and as she disappeared through the doorway I noticed she had her arms over her head. It hit me she can't breathe! I grabbed her inhaler and ran out the gym doors where she was trying desperately to breathe the cold air. After three hits off the inhaler she finally got her air again and went back in. We never managed to score that game.
Game two was uglier. And the fans were uglier than ugly. When Kady made a basket we all cheered. The other team's fans behind us started making fun of us. I asked Mom if it was Christian-like to punch someone and enjoy it. She just patted my leg and said, "Probably not, dear." We managed that one goal the entire game and the other team never got nicer.

I do not understand why you'd want your children to play that way. Granted, at one point I marched over to the bench where my nine-year-old was sitting and said, "Honey, now it's time to get mean. You have to play ugly. Now." I'm not necessarily proud, but since most of the team was crying at that point I felt it had to be done. I don't want these girls to think this is how good sportsmanship goes. I am appalled that parents and coaches think it is acceptable to make fun of seven-, eight- and nine-year-olds on the basketball court AND their parents who are congratulating their children for the small victory of a basket.

I just don't get it.


And I haven't ruled out the punching either. I guess I need to talk to the pastor. And Jesus.

Viewer Discretion Advised

We have reached a very uncomforable place in our house.

We have satellite TV and the 250-channel package of mind-numbing entertainment on two, count 'em TWO TV's. We have three kids and I babysit my two-year-old cousin during the school year. I don't mind the kids' shows at all. I have an intense crush on Mover Scott from Imagination Movers and I sometimes watch iCarly when the kids aren't in the room. It's also no secret that I think Phineas and Ferb is one of the greatest cartoons of all time. Paul would rather attend a Mary Kay party than watch iCarly. Drake and Josh makes him nauseous. Those two twins that live in a hotel? He considers them boils on the butt of humanity.

Most of the time when Paul gets home from work the TV is off because if I didn't the children would sit there slack-jawed and drooling all day long in the summer. While I enjoy most of their shows I, too, have my limits. I like the sound of a quiet house. Sometimes the TV lends to intense sensory overload for me and I cannot stand having it on one second longer. It's off more than it's on during the day.

But my darling husband comes in from work, sits in his recliner and magically the remote is in his hand and the TV is on the Reality Channel, something I consider a boil on the butt of humanity. He also loves Animal Planet and CourtTV. Typically he's asleep within 10 minutes and the kids draw straws to see who gets to slip the remote from under his hand. Then it's flipped to Nick or Disney. I'd rather watch those annoying twins than anything on Reality. After dinner, though, Paul's after-work nap out of the way, the reality begins anew. I do not understand why watching cops arrest drunken prostitutes and wrestle a gang member to the ground while dodging a spray of bullets is entertainment to him. He gets a kick out of watching those "caught on tape" shows where, for an hour at a time, you can watch people repeatedly fall through the ice, trip over dogs, straddle a hand rail while skateboarding, do backflips off trampolines and break their arms in 47 different ways. I don't get it.

His latest love is Billy the Exterminator.

 

I am not a fan. I frankly just can't get past the dude's sunglasses. And his hair. And his gloves. And that thing on his chin. I think Billy is a okay guy, don't get me wrong. I think he genuinely likes helping people and tries to capture and release animals when he can rather than kill, but uhm....if Billy can get a reality show why can't I???? Seriously. We made it down to the final two families in the running for My Big Redneck Christmas two years ago, but we weren't trashy enough and the folks that ate possum won. I guess we need to kick up the trashy. And the leather and tattoos.

Forget cowbell, we need more possum.

Paul is constantly imparting wisdom from good ol' Billy to anyone who will listen. He told me the other night that if I will just look at a snake's eye I can tell whether it's poisonous or not and therefore whether I can risk a bite or not.

*blink blink*

Okay, here's the dealy-o, Mister Animal Pants. I will not be getting voluntarily close enough to a snake to see the shape of its pupil, THEREFORE I will not be in charge of judging whether or not a snake is dangerous or not. Snakes are dangerous. Always. And here's why: I will hurt myself getting away from one regardless of the color, shape of it's head, pattern, rattle, tongue, pupils or whether or not it buys its clothes from The Gap or Gap Outlet, thus rendering it dangerous. Snakes are dangerous. Period.

And now our son has jumped on the Billy Bandwagon. I am about to have a Billy Ban in this house.

As we were coming up the drive the other night there was a possum in the driveway. Paul swerved to hit it and succeeded. As we got into the yard we saw an armadillo digging a hole. Paul again swerved to hit it, but missed. Armadillos are far craftier and more agile than their non-armored counterpart, obviously. After we got in the house Sam was sitting in the couch all pouty. When I asked why he looked so angry he said it was because Daddy had killed the possum and had tried to kill the armadillo. I explained that they are nasty, disease-ridden creatures who serve no purpose on our property whatsoever. Unless you consider making my dog bark at 4am a purpose -- which I don't.

Then Sam went into this ridiculous diatribe about how horrible we were for killing them, they didn't deserve to die, why couldn't we just let them go about their merry little animal ways. He got all kinds of fired up. Fired up or a non-confrontational 11 year old, anyway. I told him we're rednecks, we kill the critters that invade and destroy our property and well, he'd better start cleaning his room better, 'sall I'm sayin'. He grinned and eventually gave up, figuring out he wasn't going to win an argument where he was trying to fight for the rights of marsupials and reptimammals everywhere.

Then after he had gone to bed there was a segment on Billy the Exterminator where Billy and his leather-clad brother had to remove armadillos from a prayer garden. Because of the diseases they carry. Even Billy admitted that armadillos are more than just nuisances, they are a health hazard.

And, in a moment of parental surreality, I found myself hollering down the hallway to my half-asleep child, "Hey, Sam! Guess what? BILLY THE EXTERMINATOR SAYS ARMADILLOS ARE NASTY. BILLY THE EXTERMINATOR JUST REMOVED ARMADILLOS FROM A PRAYER GARDEN. BILLY THE EXTERMINATOR SAYS ARMADILLOS CARRY DISEASE AND ARE HARMFUL TO CHILDREN."

Mmm hmmm. I told him.

Paul just sat there in his recliner staring at me, the TV paused, while I yelled insanely down the hall to where our son had more than likely been sleeping, but probably wasn't anymore. When I was done, I breathed in a heavy breath, feeling satisfied, feeling like I had justified all past and future armadillo issues by ..... *sigh* ...... imparting the wisdom of Billy the Exterminator to my child.

Paul then grinned, pushed play on the TV and said, "Way to go, Momma. Way. To. Go. Now, let's see what Billy says about alligators."

Ever Elusive

This past Friday was my little sister Tater's 34th birthday. Mom, Pops, Tater, her beau and the Tots came out Saturday evening to ride 4-wheelers and whack around on a few golf balls. The original plan had been to play Redneck Croquet and smack around on the golf balls while on the 4-wheelers, but it was so dastardly hot and Abby had been sick and we just didn't put too much effort into the outdoor activities that night. Abby was still pretty weak and she'd have been disappointed if she hadn't been able to play.

(Anyone else think Sam looks more like he's trying out for a baseball team than hitting a golf ball?)

While we were watching Pops and Paul teach the boys how to hit those itty bitty orange balls with those long, skinny poles on the redneck driving range (one flag in the middle of the field, mowed weekly with the brush hog and the kids earn money finding balls by driving the 4-wheelers out in the field - who needs a country club?) one of the adults suggested we take the kids snipe hunting.

If you're from Oklahoma you are probably grinning right now because you yourself went snipe hunting when you were a kid, right? And snipe aren't indigenous to Oklahoma only - I hear Missourians hunt 'em, too.

Instantly the four youngest kids were interested and excited. BJ, Tater's beau, took them out to find sticks to tap together to call in the elusive, mysterious snipe. I grabbed the camera. (Stay hooked. The first part is hard to hear, but it gets louder.)

 

They didn't rustle up any snipe in that first pre-dark attempt, but they did scare up some chiggers as you can see by the way Sam was digging at his ankles.

Finally at dark BJ and I headed toward the hay bales with four kids and their sticks. He was totally making it exciting for the kids, saying he heard one, whispering, "Was that a snipe? Did you see that?" and I was just praying a possum, raccoon or snake didn't cross my path because it would've been so embarrassing to pee my pants in front of Tater's beau.

After a few minutes BJ grabbed a paper grocery sack out of one of the kids' hands and took off running. He threw himself on the ground and in a flurry of noise, grunting and wrestling, jumped up and declared, "I GOT ONE!" The kids cheered, Tater and I hid our giggles as the kids ran out to see what was in the sack. Pops came out and asked BJ if he could see inside the sack. He instantly withdrew his hand and said, "OW it bit me! Oh wow....I'm bleeding kids. You need to be really careful. It's an angry snipe."

That's when Kady started crying.

Mom came out to see to Pop's "bleeding" finger while Kady all but climbed up my body in an attempt to keep herself off the ground and away from any wandering snipe that might find her toes a tasty snack. After all the grownups looked in the sack it was decided it was a baby snipe and should be let go because the momma might get really mad we'd kidnapped its baby.

That's when Kady's crying turned into hysterical wailing and screaming.

That's also when Abby took Kady inside and assured her that Pops was okay. (Moments after they got inside Abby sent me a text that said, "Please can I tell Kady what's going on. She has a nosebleed she's so upset." Ahh...compassionate big sister.)

BJ "let" the snipe "go" and we were going to go in the house for drinks and air conditioning when Pops whispered to Tater and I that Paul had changed into a dark shirt and had snuck out back to scare the kids. We relayed that info on to BJ who then decided we needed to catch another one. He rallied the remaining troops and off they went again toward the hay bales in the field. We tried a snipe "call" thinking Paul would return the call, but we found out later that while we were calling, he was trying to untangle himself from a batch of blackberry briars out behind the barn and hadn't even made it to the hay bales yet.

Finally after some calling and stick tapping (and wondering on my part if my husband had been eaten by a cougar) the kids, in a tight walking huddle, rounded the side of a hay bale and all we heard over by the fence was RAWR! IIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!! and then the sound of six feet running toward us. We were all doubled over laughing and the snipe were forgotten.

Back inside we treated everyone who had chigger bites and Paul put alcohol on his briar scratches and the mystery of snipe hunting was revealed. Unlike all of us grownups who, too, had gone on our own childhood snipe hunts, our children, however, did not laugh when they realized they had just spent over an hour in a field hunting a bird that wasn't there, tapping on sticks, imitating their call and believing they were about to gain a new pet. They sulled up and pouted and one cried. They called us "mean". They said we were "horrible".

We adults were all able to recall our very own snipe hunting experience and told our stories. The children were not amused. They asked how we could lie to them like that.

I shrugged and said, "It was pretty easy, actually. And someday you'll see just how easy when you take your own kids snipe hunting."

They all agreed they would never do such a thing.

But something tells me ..... when my grandkids are about 11 or so we'll hold a new generation of snipe hunting and the legend will live on.

Here's hoping, anyway.

Many, many things

Abby rocks!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (of course!) :-) =) :-p

(The above is what happens when I leave the laptop unattended to go tuck in her little brother and sister.) (Almost-twelve-year-olds are fun.) (Makes me re-think that later bedtime for her...)

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I am so sorry that that last time I blogged it was about my hair that I don't shampoo.

That's not a real pleasant note to leave the innerweb hanging by for an entire week and a half.

But in the meantime, I got my hairs cut. I forgot to tell her to leave my bangs alone. Nothing good ever comes from letting someone else trim your bangs.

Oh and I bought some conditioner. My hair thanked me. It sent me a card and some flowers. Swear.

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Did anyone notice the earth stopped spinning on Sunday? Yeah, my husband went with the kids and me to Silver Dollar City. He loathes Branson and all that is in it - or at least he used to. I only had to ask him one time if he would go and he immediately said yes. AND he was in a good mood the entire day. AND he wants a season pass of his very own for 2009. AND wants to plan a week-long vacation there. After I felt his forehead for a fever and didn't find one, I wondered if he was a pod person.

We had a blast, though. We listened to the soundtrack to Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat most of the way there. Showtunes aren't my redneck's favorite (yes, really) music, but since country music makes my ears bleed, he tolerated the kids and me singing in Elvis voices and correctly reciting EVERY color in Joseph's coat - a talent that you should really admire - and then, bopping along happily to the medley remix at the end of the CD. Donnie Osmond was a really good Joseph, just for the record.

My favorite Texan, the Queen of Dirty Laundry, and I texted a good part of the way there, too. So much so that by the time we got to Branson I had very little battery left on the ol' RazrII. But I still had enough to live-Tweet from an indoor roller coaster. Because I'm dedicated like that.

(Speaking of Tweeting - if you haven't discovered Twitter yet, I am sorry. You really should.) (If you follow me I'll follow you and not in a totally creepy Fitty kind of way. Promise.) (Well, unless you're Kirk Cameron. Seeing him on the Today show yesterday totally revived the crush I had on him my entire teenhood. So Kirk, if you follow my Tweets I will SO stalk you. Don't be surprised.)

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Two Sunday night ago the kids and I pulled in the driveway after a delightful lunch at my sister's to find Paul waiting at the door telling me to hurry up there was a new show on and he thought I'd like it. The show was Fringe and yes, I like it. It is bizarre and far-fetched and incredibly creepy, but I still like it.

I am worried that if I combine Fringe with LOST in my brain it will explode. Too much thinking.

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Parent Teacher Conferences were last night.

For the first time in my parental life I came home and cried after meeting with my kids' teachers.

I will post about it all tomorrow (Yes, Mrs. Coach I really will) (Maybe) because it's too lengthy to get into tonight, but let's just say that I feel like an inadequate parent these days.

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After weeks of hearing nothing, today I got a phone call from the production company we made a tape for awhile back. Honestly, we had all given up. Turns out, we are still in in the running!! We've been asked to make them another tape. We'll tackle that this weekend and after they edit once more it goes on to the network for a final decision.

This has the potential of being a very busy fall.

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Kirk Cameron is beautiful.

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Thank you to Lauren, a commenter who left this in my comments. That song makes me happy. So very, very happy.

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David Blane is creepy. So creepy I have to leave the room when my husband insists on watching him on TV. Something about him makes me very uncomfortable.

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Kathie Lee Gifford is not the way she used to be. I like Hoda Kotb, but I don't think she can reign in Kathie Lee like Regis could.

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A panther screamed in our front yard the other night. For the first time in like, ever, I nearly wet the bed. I had just opened the bedroom windows when that sucker let loose with what sounded like a child screaming. I've heard them scream before where they sounded like a woman, but this was the first one that sounded like a child. The dogs barked and growled for quite awhile afterwards. We left the porch light on for them that night. Poor puppies.

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I had been putting the dogs in their crate when the kids went down to catch the bus in the mornings to avoid any further pet vs. car drama. Gravy would go in easily enough, but Biscuit thought it was a delightfully hilarious game to make me chase him around the yard in my sock monkey slippers every morning. Finally the other morning I gave up and as they tore off down the driveway I put my hands on my hips and yelled, "Fine! Fine! Go! But if you get hit by a car again, don't come cryin' to me!" He literally looked over his shoulder as he ran. I think he grinned. Half an hour later I stepped out onto the front porch to let Nonner look at the trees, only to find both dogs curled up together, asleep in the carrier. I swear, they're like children. They nearly got grounded that day.

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Sometimes, just every now and then, something very unexpected happens that aids tremendously in helping to restore my faith in people in general. I like when that happens.

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Hour and a half long phone calls in the middle of the morning to a long-distance friend are tremendously wonderfully nice. Thanks, friend.

You're the cheese to my macaroni

Or the Gravy to my Biscuit.

Ladies and Gentlemen, meet Gravy --




Okay, so it's not the most traditional of dog names, but there was only one vote for "Jelly" (Kady) and one vote for "Butter" (me), so Gravy won by popular vote.







He's a Jack Russell terrier, which basically means that if you did a DNA analysis on him, the result would be that his mother is a ferret on crack and his father is methamphetamine.


Oh my gosh, I have never seen a dog with SO MUCH ENERGY!







A guy Paul knew was playing at the casino the other night and offhandedly asked, "Hey, you want a Jack Russell pup?" and of course, he took the guy up on it. He and Abby went down to the casino at 9 last night to pick him up in a torrential rainstorm.


Poor fella was soaked to the bone by the time they got home. (Now, had I been the chauffer, he'd have ridden on my lap, but Paul thought pet taxi in the bed of the pickup was adequate.) I assumed the shaking was a result of being rained on for the 25 minute ride home, but turns out the shaking was just all of the energy this dog generates.

He spent the night in the Dog Condo Paul built for Biscuit when he was a teeny puppy and wow, was he not happy about that. We let him out this morning and he promptly tackled Biscuit, tried to eat three kittens, but not once did he try to eat my pants, so he totally got points for that.


Mamacita, the resident kitten machine adult cat, loathes him with the white hot passion of a thousand fiery suns.
All of the sudden, Biscuit seems incredibly low-key.
But he has such an amazing personality and he's awesome with the kids. He may be blazing a trail around and around and around and around and around and around a tree in the yard, but the second he hears Kady hollering for him he comes running and I swear if I could understand puppy he'd be saying, "WhatcanIdoforyoucutesmallhuman?Huh?Huh?Huh?Huh?" More than once this evening I saw Kady carrying him around the yard like a baby and he was eating that up with a spoon.
Biscuit has exerted his authority over the new puppy and Gravy totally respects it now. It took Biscuit biting his ears a few times, but he's a smart one, that Gravy.


I didn't take any more pictures today of the two dogs together, but this is one I took a week ago, the day poor ol' Biscuit was hit.
He sure loves that boy.
It's so mutual.

Good news/bad news

Good news - Jake came home!

When I came home from getting my new Rockr that I am going to sleep with tonight, under my pillow, clutched in my hand because I love it so much, he barked at me. As soon as those three kids heard him bark they were flying out that front door so fast Jake hunkered down like he was in trouble. Bless his puppy heart. He's been in a fight, has a couple of pretty good scratches on his back, but other than that he's fine.



Bad news - No podcast tonight.

We ran down to Wyandotte to visit with Paul's brothers and on the way home Abby said she wasn't feeling good. We walked in the door and she immediately started yakking. Poor kid. We haven't decided yet if it was carsick or if she's got a bug. Regardless, she's still really dizzy and queasy, so any attempts at recording anything are put on hold until tomorrow after church. Tater's on board, so unless someone else starts ralphing between now and then we should be a go.

Oh yeah, more bad news - No hair pictures either.

Because I have yet to actually fix my hair. I know, I'm a skank. Actually I just didn't feel like fixing it, plain and simple. If I'm going to show the entire innernets my hair, I want it to look good because I am vain that way.

So Jax, honey, you might as well go rent Enchanted or watch the new SpongeBob followed by the Kids Choice Awards or paint your toenails. Nothing to see here tonight except a puking eleven year old and me in my pajamas with really bad hair.

Gardasil Jake Phone Hair Mistaken Identity Enchanted

Yesterday I took Ab to the doctor at 7:30 to get her 2nd Gardasil shot. I hope beyond hope that she never needs to protection its giving her.

Jake is missing. He's been gone since Monday. He ran off last spring when he got all twitterpated and came home a week later, skinny, hungry and tired. As he came up the driveway after a week's reproduction vacation we looked like an episode of The Waltons as the kids tackled him, Paul got down off the tractor, I stepped out on the porch, drying my hands on my apron......wait, I don't own an apron. Nevermind. Paul said as he scratched Jake's ears, "If I'd been doing what you've been doing all week, dude, I'd need a few sandwiches and a nap. Good job, bud." We're all still hoping that he's just out giving Bob Barker something to do commercials about, but Paul says for some reason he doesn't think that's the case this time. I am remaining hopeful, but Paul's already calling around for a replacement beagle. I don't know how he thinks you can replace a lab/chow with a beagle, but oh well.

Paul and I spent our morning off together phone shopping. Our phone batteries wouldn't hold a charge anymore and since Paul's phone *gasp* didn't even have a camera or Bluetooth on it we decided it was time to bring him on up to this century. He picked out a Motorola [insert meaningless series of numbers here]. It's nothing fancy, but has Bluetooth capabilities, a camera and can even receive picture messages. He feels like a real pioneer in modern electronics, bless his heart. I picked out a Motorola Rockr, which of course, they did not have in the store that day. However, as I type this, my brand! new! Rockr is sitting at the Radio Shack in Miami with a post-it on it that says "Redneck Diva" and that makes me happy. Okay, so it doesn't really say Redneck Diva. It says "Hoover." I'm waiting on the water heater to finish doing its thing since my asshat husband literally ran down the hall, underwear in hand, to jump in the bathroom before me. He doesn't have new colored hair to fix or make up to put on, but somehow he thought he cleanliness was closer to godliness than mine. Asshat.

I got my hair done yesterday. Story and pictures in upcoming post.

Last night we watched the two-hour Dateline about the Indiana girls whose identities got switched after a horrible car accident. I cried. A lot. I also kissed my kids extra long and decided they are never going to college. Or on dates. Okay, actually I decided that they're never leaving my sight again.

We also watched Enchanted last night. I can honestly say that it is probably one of the best movies I've seen in a very, very long time. I had seen the park song scene on the internet before, but seeing it in the movie last night had me laughing out loud, rewinding it and totally wanting to make a dress out of curtains. You need to click that link right now and watch it so that you, too, will know. And maybe we can make matching curtain dresses.

Tater and I are planning on recording our first webcast sometime today. Details soon - Keep checking back throughout the day!

If he were my kid, he'd SO be grounded

This morning before 8 I got a phone call from the neighbor up the road. I was online so I called her back from my cell phone. Her voice was shaking. I immediately thought something was wrong with either her or one of the kids. Oh, something was wrong alright, but it was one of my family members causing her to call and be angry.

Jake the dog, not one of the fruits of my loins. Do I even have loins? I guess I do, but I tend to think of loins as primarly male, don't you? And besides, I'm guessing you'd probably already know that my children don't run amuck in the neighborhood all willy-nilly and stuff.

We've had Jake since he was 6 weeks old. We hadn't lived in this house very long when we got him, so he's kind of established his territory as we've established ours. He's a good dog, very protective of the kids, he kept the stinky septic tank guy from viciously attacking me with his smelly work glove and he barks when anyone drives in. He's not so good at protecting us from man-eating racoons and possums, but hey, we all have our faults.

Oh wait....Jake has one more fault - HE CHEWS ON AND STEALS THE NEIGHBOR'S STUFF. For the last year or so, Jake has decided that what is at their house should be at our house and if it's not nailed down, he steals it. Oh, it was cute at first. In fact, in the beginning we couldn't figure out how their daughter's four-square ball kept getting up here. It can get windy sometimes, but there's a little patch of woods between the houses and it isn't that windy. Then one morning we went out to find a decorative scarecrow and a big green watering can. Hmh. Cute. Sure is windy 'round here these days. Windy enough to blow a scarecrow through the woods even. Sometimes we are not the brightest bulbs in the chandelier.

One day, the neighbor laughingly said, "You know that Jake steals stuff from us, right?" We replied like all parents/owners in denial reply, "Uhh.....yeah.....ha ha ha....silly dog, isn't he? (Honey, did you know that Jake's stealing from the neighbors? No? Me either.) Yep, that Jake, he's a rascal." A few weeks later, we went out in the morning to find the scarecrow had returned and so had the watering can, along with the cushions off of their outdoor swing, several balls, a length of plastic decorative fence and a cowboy boot. It was then that we loaded up their stuff in the truck, apologized with red faces and gave them permission to shoot our dog in the butt with a shotgun if they caught him up there. And if we caught him bringing anything home, we'd shoot him, too. We've known these people for years and years, we trusted them to not just go all crazy and shoot the dog for no reason. We wanted our dog to stop stealing because if our kids were stealing then by cracky, we'd expect the neighbors to shoot them in the butt with a shotgun, too. Oh wait. No. We wouldn't want them to shoot the kids. Nevermind. Forget I said that.

They were hesitant about shooting our dog and frankly, we understood, but we were adamant. Short of us camping out in their yard so we could catch him ourselves and shoot him ourselves, we didn't know of a better solution. I like camping just as much as the next guy, but copping a squat in their yard all camoed and stealthy-like just wasn't on my agenda.

But this morning ol' Jake crossed a line. I guess last night he chewed up a $50 bottle of horse medicine and then this morning they caught him red-pawed chewing the seat of their brand new lawn tractor to shreds. Shreds, I say!! I asked her if they'd been shooting him when they caught him. She said her husband had popped him with the bb gun a time or two, but no, not the shotgun. Agh. I told her I was sending Paul up immediately and promptly hung up the phone, threw open the front door and to the cowering dog, peeing all over himself at my feet yelled, "YOU ARE SO DEAD!" And of course, this statement sent Kady running to me where she threw her arms around my knees and said, "Jakey's DEAD??? OHHHHH NOOOOOO! Wait. Siwwy Momma, he's wight thewe!"

Paul went up the road and honestly, not that I think my neighbor's a liar or anything, but I was expecting Paul to come home saying that Jake had maybe gnawed a little spot on the seat cover and that things were blown out of proportion. But no, instead Paul called me from his cell phone, his voice shaking now when he said, "That stupid (cursing) tore that seat to shreds!" And of course, because my husband is a man with a very colorful vocabularly, there were many more expletives, descriptive words and curses galore.

We are now going to replace anywhere from $300 to $500 worth of destruction that our stupid canine son has wreaked on their property. It's only right. They've put up with his antics longer than most neighbors would have and I have to give them that, but Paul's patience has run out. Not to mention the fact that we are having a hard time buying our kids new winter clothes, but now we're having to fork over hundreds of dollars to mend not only their things but what might be left of a relationship so that things remain neighborly out here on Hudson Creek.

When he brought Li'l Divinity this morning, I asked Mr. Divinity if he knew much about dogs. Poor guy. He's not a big talker, that man, but his hysterical babysitter attacked him with queries about dogs and property damage this morning. He said that getting him fixed might slow him down, but considering his age, it might not. Dang.

I want to ground him, tie him up awhile. Paul wants to kill him. I hope I win this one.