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. 

Oh How Things Have Changed

Growing up, we always went to Nana's on the 4th of July. Always. There was no option, no variance, it was always to Nan's for the noon meal. We took day-works - firecrackers, snakes, sparklers, poppits, jumping Jacks, and the like. Lunch was burgers and hot dogs. There was always watermelon and homemade ice cream. When my cousin Russ was alive and still mobile, we cousins would gather around him in the living room floor before and directly after lunch and play dominoes or Boggle. The women cleaned the kitchen and visited, the men dozed off in the post-meal tradition.  Then finally! We'd climb the chat pile out back (hello, lead poisoning!) and Dad and Uncle Mike would oversee the explosives. That was Dad's side of the family. Mom's side of the family was fairly fluid in their plans. Sometimes it was our house, sometimes it was Uncle Larry and Aunt Sue's, occasionally we gathered at Papa's farm, it depended on where he was with harvesting or mowing or how sick Memaw was at the time. They were the evening festivity people. More sparklers, plus fountains and all the other fun, booming, high-in-the-sky stuff. It was always a day of cousins and food and stickiness and dirt and fun.

Then we grew up and as soon as the meal was over, we left whatever house we were at with our respective boyfriends and girlfriends to go see a movie or go to their family's shindig. I dated a guy in high school and they had a lake house and a pontoon boat and a lot of money. I hated the whole scene (they were *gasp* Republicans) and I really just wanted to go back to my family where we had cheap hot dogs and not filet mignon for lunch.

When Sis and I started families of our own we were just excited to have reason to buy fireworks once again. Paul and I were so broke when the kids were little, but starting in June we would scrimp and save up $100 for fireworks. It seemed like a lot until we got to the tent, then it seemed paltry and like it never bought enough. Sam always picked out something that pooped, Abby like the screaming chicken laying a fiery egg, Kady usually cried and whined that one of her siblings picked out the firework she wanted and the world was surely coming to an end. Most of the time the gathering was at our house because Mom lived in town and Sis did until she briefly lived in the country for a few years. One year we caught the field on fire. That was scary and fun all at once.

When we moved to Wyandotte I forced Paul's family to get together for the holiday. They are definitely not like my Big Family™. They don't actually like getting together. Mine anticipates the next one before the current one is over. My family lingers in the kitchen, there is always noise and laughter and eleventy-seven conversations at once. His family gets a plate. Quietly. Then some sit in the living room, some go outside, some sit at the picnic tables, some sit on the porch. There is rarely conversation and if there is, it's quiet and short. Mostly one syllable replies. Some nodding. That's just how they are. 

But the ONE thing I always anticipated with Paul's family coming up on the 4th - blowing shit up. We would trek to Academy the week before to buy a stupid amount of Tannerite and unfortunately, it seems there is always an appliance to go out some time during the year to provide the explosive entertainment. We've blown up a washer, a dryer, a dishwasher, and I think a hot water tank. It was always a good time.

Last year I had surgery on the 3rd, so our 4th was quiet. I came home from the hospital that morning and just rested the rest of the day. Apparently it would usher in a series of quiet 4ths.

This year we are empty nesters. Kady has an apartment attached to our house now, but she's her own person. She cooks for herself, pretty well stays to herself these days. (Although she still relies on us some since she STILL doesn't have her driver's license.) I slept until 8 this morning and when I woke up Paul was gone. He had gone up to Abby and Dakota's on the tractor to fix their perpetually washed-out driveway. He wanted to get up there and back before the humidity got to swimmable. I made coffee, unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, made some breakfast, checked Facebook, and just kind of marveled in the fact that we bought ZERO fireworks this year, no one is coming over, we aren't going anywhere (unless we decide to venture to Lowe's for some trim to finish the dining room later), and how different our life has become. The grandgirls are still too little for fireworks of their own, although Petal likes the noise where Wemberly HATES it. My Big Family™ will be over on Saturday, but even then we aren't doing any fireworks. We are volleyball obsessed, so there will be a pool and slip-n-slide, much food and MUCH volleyball. We don't play by many rules and there is a lot of smack talking and laughing and even more of Abby and me avoiding the ball at all costs. But we will be together and that will be the best part.

As we got onto the interstate last week headed for Branson for Big Family™ vacation, Paul kind of sighed and reached over to pat my leg. "It's pretty strange.....looking back and seeing your kids driving their own cars, following you to vacation, when just a few years ago they all three were right there behind us in the backseat, with us." He is far more sentimental than I these days, so I just squeezed his hand and said, "Yeah, but they're still with us, there are just more of them now. And besides, when they were in the car with us, it was much louder. And I was usually reaching back to smack someone at any given moment along the way. It's not bad, the way we are now. Just different. Enjoy, Mr. Hoover. We've earned this. This quietness, this calmness, this getting to watch them now instead of being immersed in it nonstop." He shrugged. He's seeing this part of life much differently than I am. I was in the trenches, doing most of the work when the kids were little. He worked, I stayed at home. I never got a day off. I was on the job 24/7. He had a 30 minute drive to and from work ALONE and if the house got loud, he just went out and mowed the yard or piddled in the barn. And now that my work is mostly done, I am enjoying the break, the quiet, the calm, the spectatorship of it all. Maybe he feels he missed out. I can't say for sure. I know I didn't miss anything. I was in the trenches, covered in blood, guts, gore, sweat, tears. It was exhausting. Rewarding as all get out, but also exhausting.

However, I do know this: I am enjoying the hell out of my empty nest right now. Maybe I'll get lonely? Maybe I'll get bored? I doubt it. For right now I'm still Kady's Uber driver, I find myself drowning in hours of homework every day, I am learning to cook for two rather than the NINE we had in the house just a few short years ago. I like my clean and tidy tiny little half-house. I like it when the kids come to visit and bring the noise and chaos and I like it when they go home again, back to their own homes where they now do their time being young adults, growing families, learning how to be adults, getting educations, becoming the amazing individuals we raised them to be.

And if they need us? They know where to find us.  ❤️

Gettin' My Survivalist Redneck ON! (A review)

Occasionally I get requests for product reviews. Some are legitimate, some are not. And sometimes I am just simply not in the mood to review bulk fiber laxatives or "websites for seniors".

But when Angie from Offroad Power Gear sent me an email a few weeks ago I definitely knew I couldn't pass up her request!

She sent out some of their Permanent Matches and some Bullet Earrings to check out in exchange for my review. 

Pauly and Sam instantly started playing with the permanent matches and they are now attached to both guys' keychains. It's a good thing she sent three because I have one for my purse, too! 

These little bad boys have the power to be lit over 15,000 times! If you're like us, you're always in need of a lighter or match because, well.....because you're always blowing stuff up or setting something on fire. It takes a little bit of practice to get the strike right, but once you figure it out, you can strike it on the first try every time. Don't be daunted by the $14.99 price - they are worth it!  

Refillable with your lighter fluid of choice, these are a must-have for all good preppers, outdoors-y type folks, and of course -- rednecks. I've seen others in stores, but I like these better because they strike fast and the price is lower than I've found. And the fact that they're good for at least 15,000 strikes, well, you can't beat 'em.  

She also sent us a few pair of their Bullet Earrings and I gotta say, while the permanent matches were awesome, the girl in me was squealing (yes, literally) over these earrings. The girls and I had seen a version of these over the summer and all three commented on how rockin' we would all look in them, but the price the store wanted was way out of our price range. Imagine how excited I was to see that Offroad Power Gear has them WAY cheaper! 

The pair Miss Kady is sporting here is the opal in yellow gold. These are real Luger 9mm* casings that have been cleaned and polished and the stones are Swarovski gems.  And the opal stone catches the light and shines like crazy! They're nice and heavy, but not uncomfortable to wear. They just look so cool. Oh and? They. are. awesome.   

She also sent a pair of the Midnight Diamond and those are mine. Only mine. And I'm not a good share-er.  

(And aren't Kady's little cheek freckles just the cutest?)

Most of the bullet jewelry is on sale right now and hey, Christmas is coming! All the redneck women in your life need a pair of these in their stocking. And if you don't have a redneck woman in your life, you can always just buy me some. My birthstone is garnet. 

Go visit their website and check out all the wicked cool truck gear they have. From truck decals, clothing, jewelry, gear and more, they pretty much have you covered no matter what you need. Or want. (They have a sweatshirt that says "Certified Redneck" that I also hope to find under the tree this year...hint hint, Paul....sweetie....honey...) And be sure to like them on Facebook! 

*Caliber and make of bullet may vary.

Sort-of Camping

Originally posted in the Miami News-Record, May 31, 2015

This past year a new family joined our homeschool co-op and while I had their oldest son in my class, we hadn’t really gotten to know each other that well. Eventually I asked the husband to speak to my inventions class and they asked my son to play on their basketball team. Slowly, slowly (because turns out, we’re all just a bunch of dadgum introverts), we started testing the waters of becoming “family friends” and thankfully, it worked. Our son and their oldest are good friends (and involve the middle brother in moments of brotherly kindness), their little guy is still enchanted by my youngest, and all of us adults get along insanely well. For a bunch of introverts, that is.

Toward the end of winter we decided to have a camp-out here at our house. We had to start planning it fairly early because she’s a nurse, he’s a firefighter, and their schedules call for creativity and very little spur-of-the-moment stuff. The plan was for the boys to camp out at our pond and we girls to stay in the house in the air conditioning. I’m not opposed to tent camping; I would just rather, given the option, hang out in a house if one is nearby. (I am far more diva than redneck, no doubt.) The plan was to fish, shoot guns, watch fireworks, and my husband even got us permission to ride four-wheelers on the trails over at D-Day, the paintball place just behind our property.

After months of anticipation, the camp-out day finally arrived. They pulled in our driveway in their minivan full of a giant tent, food, fireworks, and boys. We had to re-configure the camping a bit because back in March we had no way of knowing that Oklahoma would have a monsoon season and our pond would exceed its banks, thus running every snake for higher ground. That made camping down there a seriously bad idea no matter how much emergency training anyone had. We ate lunch, visited, did some front porch sittin’, drank some sweet tea, shot a few guns, and just generally enjoyed relaxing. Finally we could put the kids off no longer and loaded up on the four-wheelers and my brother-in-law’s UTV for a very muddy, hot, and sweaty adventure. I forget how rough four-wheeler riding is on a hind-end until I ride for an hour – and then walk like my Granny Glenn for awhile after I dismount.

After our ride, about 2/3 of us stunk to high heaven thanks to some stinky, stagnant puddles and the males’ attraction to splashing their cohorts with said disgustingness. We made the boys hose off so we could stand to be around them, then sent them off to set up the fireworks display. Abby’s dog had been bitten by a snake while we were gone, so we women tried our best to get some Benadryl down her. Then we needed hosing down because we were covered in dog slobber and pond water funk. That dog hasn’t quite figured out that snakes are not fun toys.

After more gun shootin’, tea drinkin’, and porch sittin’, we roasted hot dogs on the fire pit, shot off fireworks, ate watermelon, and then when all threat of bad weather was past, the boys set up the tent close to the house, away from snakes (we hoped). Eventually, the boys settled down in their tent and we grownups kicked back in the recliners, turned on a movie (that we didn’t really watch) and visited some more. The next morning after breakfast, the men went out to build gates for our new front porch, the boys shot more guns, we moms talked curriculum, birth stories, parenting woes, and other mom-ish things. When the rain moved in, all nine of us piled onto our couches and watched “Jurassic Park”.

So….how many rednecks does it take to get dirty, drink a lot of sweet tea, and make some memories?

Apparently, for us, nine is the perfect number. 

Okies Underground

Published in the Miami News-Record, April 12, 2015 

Those who know me best know that I am kind of a weather freak. I become somewhat obsessed with the weather this time of year and I consider Dr. Greg Forbes, Jim Cantore, and Mike Bettes the holy trinity of The Weather Channel. I love Dr. Forbes so much I have considered writing him fan mail or at the very least, naming my next cat after him.

As a kid, when the TV (a console behemoth that commandeered 85% of the living room) began emitting the ear-splitting tone that for most meant “Take cover now!” all I heard was the siren song of the National Weather Service warbling “Go stand in the yard and look for the funnel!” I can only remember there being a handful of times as a kid that we actually drove the mile-and-a-quarter to Papa’s where there was a cellar – and never once did we ever step foot underground. I remember on one of the rare stormy treks to Papa’s, very vividly seeing the tail of a funnel cloud dip down out of the clouds and Mom pointing it out. Sis and I stood on that little back porch and simultaneously spoke a reverent “Wowwwwwwww”. But we never ran for that cellar. Probably because Mom knew there were mice in it and she’d rather be swept up in a funnel straight into Jesus’ arms than seek shelter with a host of rodents.

Now, some 30 years later, my kids know that when Momma says TOR:CON more than about 10 times in a day, they should probably go ahead and pack their tornado bags because it is almost certainly inevitable we will go underground at some point. If you look up my family on Ancestry.com you might very well find we are descendants of moles as much as we go below the ground’s surface in the spring.

Last Thursday afternoon Sis called and asked if I had been watching the weather. I answered, “Duh.” She then asked if we had a cellar at the new house. Again, I answered, “Duh.” Then she asked if we were going to be home. You don’t need me to tell you how I answered. After confirmation she said, “Good. We’re coming out. I’m bringing pizza.” Yessssssss. We had an all-out party while we watched radar images online, TWC on TV, and had the NOAA radio on the kitchen counter. Once the NOAA radio started going off I hollered for a mass bathroom visit for all of the kids seeing as how a few years ago it was when the tornado was visible in the sky that everyone suddenly had to pee. When everyone’s phones started screeching A TORNADO IS IN YOUR AREA – TAKE COVER NOW we managed to get four parents, one adult child and her 60 pound dog, five kids, and my infant nephew in the cellar in under two minutes. It was nothing short of military perfection.

We were safe and sound – albeit not altogether comfortable – underground for about half an hour. The baby barely fussed and eventually fell asleep. The dog took up more room than anyone and eventually started to snore. The boys said the pizza made them gassy. The girls played games on an iPad. We talked, passed the baby, texted people on the outside for updates.  And even though we had two teenage boys in an enclosed 5x8’ concrete box, we weren’t even gassed out by anyone’s noxious fumes. Maybe my sister’s vehement threat of dismemberment if anyone so much as thought about farting had something to do with that. ‘Tis the season for storms, my fellow Okies. Get a weather radio and keep batteries in it. Friend me on Facebook – I’m quite dedicated in my meteorological annoyances. Find a shelter and make a plan. 

And if you have teenage boys, throw a bottle of Gas-X in your emergency kit. Just in case. 

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.

Canned

Published in the Miami News-Record, September 14, 2014

This past week I had my first experience with canning. Well, I say first experience, but I guess I should clarify. I witnessed my mom and Uncle David canning before now, but I was a kid and I was sitting on a barstool in the kitchen at my Papa and Memaw’s farm eating a piece of Roman Meal bread with real butter on it, swinging my legs, chatting up a storm about nothing in particular, not being at all quiet or even remotely un-annoying. So, yeah, this experience really was altogether new.

One of my husband’s brothers has had this amazing apple tree for years now, but this is the first I have ever heard of it. I’m sure proximity has something to do with it, seeing as how we used to live 20 miles away and now we have clear line of sight between our two houses. Paul walked in the house the other night with four Walmart sacks just full of apples and I was like a kid on Christmas morning, clapping my hands and squealing with a strange glee that surprised even me. I don’t even really like apples all that much. I will eat apple pie and apple crisp, but it’s very rare you’ll see me eating a raw apple and you’ll never, ever see me eating applesauce. Why I got so excited at the sight of those apples is beyond me. Maybe it was because I was still feeling adventurous after this summer’s first garden, maybe it was because I felt nostalgic for those childhood days at the farm, or maybe it’s because I’m a glutton for punishment and like to pile my plate as high as I can with as many activities as I possibly can. I’m going with the last one.

And really now, who couldn’t use about 40 pounds of apples just sitting around their kitchen on any given day?

Our oldest daughter had a minor surgery last week and I had cleared our schedule for the days after. I figured it was as good a time as any to try my hand at canning. I was going to can apple butter. I’d never had apple butter, but it seemed like an obvious choice with that many apples in my possession. Mom also gave me a recipe for apple pie filling and I was determined to can that as well. The first thing I had to do was go to Walmart for a water bath, a jar grabber, some seals (I had jars and rings), and some lemon juice. Then I forgot the lemon juice and had to have my sister-in-law pick some up on her way home from work. (Thank God for a Walmart associate in the family.)

The first day got away from me. Then, there was the next day. On Thursday I managed to start. Bright and early that morning, with paring knife in hand, I was determined to show those apples who was boss. Then I saw the recipe for apple butter called for TWELVE POUNDS of apples. I measured out one pound and realized that I didn’t own a stock pot big enough to hold 12 whole pounds of apples. I used my math skills to cut the recipe down by 1/3 and got started.

I referred to my recipe and directions a lot. I consulted the internet a lot. I texted and called my mom a lot. I finally got the water bath to agree to a “vigorous boil”, started ladling my hot apple butter into my hot jars, to realize that four pounds of apples yields… about four measly pint jars of apple butter.

I won’t even tell you how my first experience at blackberry butter went. Let’s just say that after five hours of reducing, I now have two pints of blackberry syrup that is so strong it’ll put hair on your chest, strip wallpaper, and remove corrosion from car batteries.

I might just stick to gardening. 

Well. That's a Problem.

From The Miami News-Record, July 6, 2014

Growing up we lived in a house in the country with rural water, so when the electricity went out and all our neighbors on wells were without water we were still drinkin’ water and flushin’ toilets with wild abandon.  Paul and I lived in town for 5 years on city water then moved to our Hudson Creek house which was again on rural water. There was only a short 10 month period as newlyweds that we had a well. It took a section of pipe with a hole in it to throw us into a waterless two day span marking what this spoiled girl thought was the seventh level of Hell. Fast forward to one day last week at our Wyandotte house when the kids and I were happily washing dinner dishes and the water just kind of fizzled out then …. stopped. I turned the water off and turned it back on, as if that magical routine would fix the problem. It didn’t. So then I did what I always do when something goes wrong: hollered for my husband.

He called the brother that lives closest. They both crawled under the house, scratched their heads a few times, then they called the other brother. Then they called a neighbor. Well, called the neighbor after Paul came in and asked if we had any money. I said we did, but not to get all high-falootin’ with that notion. He nodded and rushed back outside. Not long after that it was declared that some wires or something or ‘nother was shorted or burned or cut or possibly sabotaged by garden gnomes, heck I don’t know. Regardless of the actual problem, there was a bigger problem: by this point, all of us girls had to pee. The boys take advantage of Nature’s Toilet quite frequently out here, but we girls are a bit more delicate. Actually, I used to be quite adept at the ol’ pop-a-squat, but age and short chubby legs make it a bit more challenging these days. I mean, if I want to do yoga, I’ll ju—oh, who am I kidding, I’m never going to want to do yoga. Anyway, my girls just screeched at the thought of going outside even though their daddy told them to just get over it and go. I was going to, until I got out there, got myself all limbered up and then the coyotes that I’m pretty sure were attracted to the whites of my thighs started in with the howling and I vapor locked.

It is in times like these that I am glad I am a worrier with doomsday prepper tendencies because, see, I’ve been hoarding water in jugs since we moved out here. We moved in the middle of the winter to the top of a hill where the power lines run through the jungles of Wyandotte. The threat of ice storms periodically through the winter had me planning ahead for power outages. I’d nearly tackle a family member heading for the trash with a milk jug or juice bottle. Those were the precious receptacles of flush-water, I told them. They scoffed. I stood firm in my hoarding. When no ice storms came, I told them to just wait until the spring storm season. And even that has been mild. So turns out, I was just preparing for a shorted something or ‘nother in our well pump.

Because the well guy obviously had a life outside of coming to fix our well at 9pm, we were left with no choice but to employ the motto “If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down,” further into the next day than any of us wanted. To be honest, you just don’t realize how pampered you really are until you are forced to piggy back your – ahem –efforts with family members and flush your toilet with hoarded water. We are definitely spoiled and incredibly fortunate, but more than anything, glad that’s over. 

How Does Your Garden Grow?

From the Miami News-Record, June 22 (with a few extra pics!)

I have never been a gardener, nor been interested in gardening. It has been a long-standing rule around our house that I am not allowed to touch any potted plants or hanging baskets because when I do, they die. I moved to Stillwater at 19 and my mom sent a philodendron because, as she said, “You can’t kill a philodendron. Anyone can grow them.” When I moved back home six weeks later, along with a new collection of Eskimo Joe’s cups and t-shirts, I also brought my poor, dead plant. Last spring I received a hanging basket of beautiful pink flowers. I tried not to touch it, but I also didn’t want someone to think me rude by asking them to keep it away from me and whisk it off to the safety of my car before I had any effect on it. But I politely admired it and carried it myself and ….yeah, it died.

When we moved and I got this idea to plant a garden, my husband said it was a bad idea. He reminded me ever so gently of my plant-killing background. He was sweet about reiterating to me the fact that I do not have a green thumb. Yet I kept insisting, so he just went along with it and started tilling me a garden. He picked up some tomato and pepper plants and I excitedly called my mom from the seed aisle at Walmart because I didn’t know the first thing about what types of seeds to get - you know, because of the whole not-being-able-to-grow-stuff thing. Upon her advice I settled on yellow crookneck squash, okra, cucumbers, zucchini, peaches and cream corn, and green beans, then some jack o’ lantern pumpkin and watermelon seeds for the youngest (who actually does have the ability to grow things). I wanted eggplant and radishes and broccoli and lettuce and all the really tasty and wonderful things garden people grow, but no one here likes broccoli but me. And you can forget about eggplant – no one is actually sure they hate it seeing as how none of them have ever tried it, but they’re all relatively certain they do.

So. Hott.

We planted late because we were garden novices and had no clue what we were doing, but in our ignorance we saved ourselves some work because of the chilly spring freezes that took out a few gardens. Then when things started growing we had week after week of rain and things started looking pretty bleak out there. Enter the usual veggie-loving bugs and we all but threw in the towel. I didn’t check it for about a week, and then to my surprise one night we had pole beans in need of poles because they were attacking each other. After telling them to play nice while I unwound vine after vine, we drove in a few stakes, realizing quickly we needed more than a just “few” stakes. Paul took off for the shop while I pulled weeds. When he came back I could only laugh – he was carrying a cattle panel. Like for a corral. It actually works great and just kind of completes the redneck atmosphere we’ve got going on around our entire place.

Our little garden won’t win any awards, but we’re excited every time we find a new tiny veggie. I didn’t even bother with a scarecrow this year – I just grab my daughter’s pink Red Ryder BB gun and shoot the birds from the back porch window. I’m making a list of all the stuff we did wrong and things I want to try for next year and I’m finding that I actually like this new adventure and don’t mind the dirt and sweat too much. I find a strange peace while pulling weeds (and on evenings I’m particularly frustrated, it makes for a great stress reliever) and am in awe of seeing God’s handiwork firsthand in my little redneck garden with a metal cattle panel right in the middle.

Gardening ain't for sissies - or those who dislike dirty piggies.

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.

Have a seat. I'll make you some bread while I crochet you some new underpants out of recycled bread wrappers

I hate to admit it and I resisted as long as I could, but folks, I fell prey to The Pinterest.

(By the way, I am following the Code of the Midwest and probably for the South, too, that some nouns must always be preceded by "The" in order to sufficiently convey their importance. For example, The Walmart, The YouTube, The Sonic, The Diarrhea. You must always capitalize both words, in writing and in speech. It's a real rule. Look it up.)

Anyway, I heard the hullaballoo over The Pinterest and I thought, "No way it's as awesome as everyone says it is and therefore I shall resist." And I'd hear people talking about their homemade laundry detergent and see these amazing party decorations and wreaths of every shape, size and make-up for every imaginable holiday or occasion and think, "Nope, still not jumping on that crafty bandwagon of crazy," and then carry on with my life. I mean, some days it's all I can do to keep the children alive and not burn the house down myself, much less create homemade salsa and gluten-free tortillas. In the words of Sweet Brown, "Ain't nobody got time fo' dat!"

Abby got to where virtually every sentence the child spoke began with, "OH MY GOSH, the other day on Pinterest I saw..." or "MOM! I totally saw this thing on Pinterest where you..." and would go into an excitedly animated speech about the scarf made out of old t-shirts or the headband made from "upcycled" six pack rings and expired medication (I totally made that second one up.) (Or did I...) and I would smile and nod and think, "My child is a crafty lemming zombie," and then carry on with my life. Then my cousin, Courtney, whom I was babysitting for at the time, came in one morning wearing an adorable scarf made from t-shirts and was going on about the wonderful-ness of The Pinterest and she thought she could get me an invitation (yeah, we're talking about back in the beginning where it was an exclusive club for the crafty-est of crafters) and I said, "No, thank you, but I do love your scarf!" And I did love her scarf. I just didn't have time for crafting what with all the other really important stuff I was doing at the time which included watching her son, but for the life of me I can't think of much else I was doing back then....but still, I didn't have time for crafting. Or homemade laundry soap. Or The Ultimate Valentine's Day Party Decorations made entirely of those little slivers of soap no one will use. Or a necklace holder made out of an old yard rake.

And then one day I looked.

Just a look. I typed in the dreaded URL www.pinterest.com and I looked. First off, it didn't look threatening in any way, my soul still felt intact, but all I saw were just rows and rows of picture after picture. Most of those pictures weren't even of crafts. There were a ton of Channing Tatum and some of those snarky eCards and photos of seascapes and mountainscapes and tablescapes. I saw one t-shirt scarf and no garden rakes. I was confused as all get out.

Something seemed amiss, so I quickly closed the browser and decided to cleanse my brain with some Facebook stalking browsing. Soon The Pinterest once again became something I heard people talk about and still held no interest in joining. Besides, Abby was out of invitations.

Then I heard through the grapevine that The Pinterest Powers That Be had opted out of crafting exclusion and had just opened it all up for any Suzy, Jane or Martha Stewart-wanna be to join. Still, I didn't want to be so .... cliche' by joining. I mean, I kind of pride myself on going against the crowd whenever I can. I mean, I liked black nail polish before everyone liked black  nail polish. That right there makes me cool. So I still resisted The Pinterest even though ALL my friends were doing it. Well, I have like three friends and actually none of them were on it, but ALL of other people's friends were doing it and I wasn't having any of that.

So here I sat with no t-shirt scarves, no faux-paneled walls, no belly detox slim-down drinks ("Straight from Dr. Oz!"), no pins, no boards, no copycat Sonic Cherry Limeades, no baby shower centerpieces shaped like a tractor and made entirely of diapers, no flourless chocolate cake, no refinished kitchen countertops and definitely, definitely, definitely NONE of THE PINTEREST.

Then you know how sometimes you're just sitting around avoiding some major task like housework or fixing dinner and the internet is having like a super unexciting day where Twitter is boring and Facebook is annoying and even though you've refreshed it a hundred times, no one is sending you any emails? And you have played Spider Solitaire, read about the actor who played Buckwheat on the 1990's movie Little Rascals, organized all of your church camp photos, cleared your brower's cache, changed your desktop background and still don't want to go make dinner? And you decide to re-type your Christmas card list and create a spreadsheet for this year's taxes even though tax season is like, eight months away? And then you accomplish all those things and you still just don't want to fix dinner?

That was when The Pinterest got me. I was avoiding work and boom, I was suddenly a Pinterest user.

I downloaded the app first and found it engaging. Then I checked out the actual website.

Did you know you can find approximately 458,792,444,201 pinned recipes for Cracker Barrel's Hashbrown Casserole on The Pinterest? They're all the real thing. Just ask each person who pinned it. You can also find the "only" way to poach an egg, make a single-serving microwave brownie in a coffee mug and yes, make scarves out of t-shirts. Also, skirts, headbands, bulletin board border, socks, stuffed animals, tutus, quilts, wall hangings, baby slings, purses, toddler rompers, wreaths, bracelets, necklaces, vests, bibs, pillows, baskets, and rugs from t-shirts. Seriously, when the zombie apocalypse finally happens it won't be Twinkies or bottled water we're all killing each other for - it will be t-shirts.

I've had to cut myself back from the rapid onset addiction that ensued after that first fateful day, simply because our internet bandwidth is capped each month and we've discovered that because The Pinterest is so image-heavy, it was sucking our bandwidth down like crazy. That is actually a very good thing. It keeps me from spending all day, err' day in front of the computer in my upcycled t-shirt pajama pants and t-shirt scarf and headband set, pinning recipes for homemade Mod Podge, marshmallows and mayonnaise. I check it once a day, pin what catches my eye since the last time I checked it and then go about my business.

It's a controlled addiction.

I've discovered Black Magic Cake (so to die for it's not even funny), the most amazing beef tips and gravy recipe, cinnamon roll cake (yes, seriously), TONS of homeschool resources and am systematically ridding my home of chemical-laden cleaners. I am not even joking when I say I am saving money, learning a lot and making the most of what I have in my house without having to buy unnecessary things.

I also now have a heartfelt, deep and meaningful relationship with baking soda. And vinegar is my new BFF. Now, when we have a cleaning day (or "Home Ec" day to us homeschoolers), the house smells like tea tree oil (a natural germ-killer!) and the showers have never been so white (thanks to baking soda!). Abby's allergies are better and she isn't continually broken out in hives. Our grocery bill has dropped. We spend more time together. We aren't eating as much junk and the "junk" I do make is preservative free and made with love. Everybody needs more of that. Love, not preservatives.

Sam, my outspoken 14 year old, calls me a hippie. He says it's not fair we have to do without store-bought Oreos now that I've pinned a recipe for homemade ones and one of these days will get around to trying it out. He hated the fact that when I attempted to make homemade body wash, the house smelled like Irish Spring for a week until I finally gave up on the non-sudsing jellied mass lurking in my stock pot and dumped it all out. He doesn't care much for the fact that his sister and I are constantly concocting, creating and collaborating, but I think he's starting to warm to the merits of it because the dude is a junior prepper (Doomsday Prepper for those not as neurotic and paranoid in the know as we are) and I've been sharing some tips and how-to's on how to survive when the zombies attack and the government is thrown into anarchy and we all have to learn the value of a good head shot and the boy is reluctantly intrigued.

It won't be long and he'll be right there with the rest of us, crocheting himself a machete holder out of his old t-shirts and discussing the proper way to create fire-starters from dryer lint and candle wax.

We'll bring him over to the Pinterest side before long. In the meantime, I'll just keep pinning those "authentic" Cracker Barrel Hashbrown Casserole recipes and saving used dryer sheets and soap slivers while I wait for him to wake up and smell the tea tree oil.

Dealin' for Some Wheels

Back in September of last year I wrote a post about our desperate need for a new van. Well, apparently it wasn't so "desperate" because it took us 10 months to take the plunge.

Yes, we finally bought a new-to-us van.

*sigh*

Oh, don't get me wrong - it's lovely! Seriously, very lovely. I just hate change.

I had become quite attached to my Inferno Red van with a dent in the back and the fact it wore that coating of red dirt like a champ. I was used to the noise the heater vents made, the fact that the perfect setting on the AC no longer worked so you either blasted it on "Arctic" or "Not Quite Enough to Keep Me From Sweating" and the fact that the passenger side front door lock only worked about 34% of the time. I was very recognizable in my red van. I liked the sense of persona it gave me. And apparently, so did all of Ottawa County because now....NO ONE KNOWS ME. I honk and wave and people are like, "Oh, great, some crazy is waving at me again." I like being recognized. Let's face it, I'm kind of curmudgeonly most of the time, so if I decide to be friendly enough to wave at you, I'd like to be recognized for doing it.

My own mother still doesn't register that it's me when I drive into her driveway.

We're still waiting on a title (giant red tape issue with the car lot and the previous lien holder), so right now I'm still sporting what appears to be no tag at all (the dealer tag is on the inside and the back window is so tinted it's un-seeable) (which, as a side note, makes me appear to be a soccer-mom-van-driving methamphetamine dealer) (which, now that I think about it, may be why no one recognizes me when I wave....apparently I am driving the far less cool version of the Batmobile). I think once I get my RDNKDVA vanity plate back in place I'll be a little more recognizable -- at least to those behind me.

 This was our very first experience paying cash for a vehicle. We are bigtime Dave Ramsey fans and agree that car debt is unacceptable debt. We have been debt-free for many, many moons now and had no intention of changing that. We had a budget in our heads (actually, we had cash in our hands) and knew what we wanted. We also knew, that the right vehicle was out there - we just hand to find her. We were armed with Dave's advice to flash the cash and let the power take hold. We soon learned that the power of cash is better utilized at small, mom and pop car lots. Big dealerships don't like cash sales because they make no money on the financing. The flashing of the cash bit us on the hiney a few times before we learned this and just kept our mouths shut.

We really like the size of a mini-van, but the fact they sit so low to the ground is an issue out here in our seldom-graded dirt road. We considered going up to an SUV, but would lose the gas mileage a van gave us. Paul scoured the internets for the perfect vehicle, sometimes staying up to 2am on his quest. (He's a bit obsessive, bless his heart.) I am a very literal person and seeing a vehicle in a picture just doesn't do it for me. He would research and research and then show me a picture and then want to punch a baby when I'd say, "Okay, cool, let's go look at it in person." It meant nothing to me in that flat picture on the screen. I want to look, feel, touch, smell, etc. Yeah, I'm weird.

Our first visit was to the Chevy dealership in town. He had a Town & Country van, but wanted nearly $30k for it. He had a Yukon, but it had $150k miles. He had a b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l Suburban that had e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g we wanted, though. We drove it. We loved it. We wanted it. He let us take it overnight.

We never got it to register over 10.1 mpg.

Yeah. That wasn't cool.

After arguing with another salesman over the fact that the GMAC website said we'd get 18 mpg and I repeatedly told him, "Okay, prove it. Show me. Make it happen on the dashboard readout and we will buy this vehicle today," we bid adieu to the beautiful behemoth and moved on.

A dealership website in Kansas showed a pretty Inferno Red Town & Country on their website. Paul called them and asked if it was on THAT LOT and they assured him it was. He made an appointment for us to see it at 2pm. At 1:45 we arrived at the lot to find that the van was not there, was on its way down from Kansas City and would be there by 5pm. We didn't have that much time and the next week was church camp, but we said we'd be back the following Saturday. We called the next Friday only to be told that the vehicle still hadn't made it to the lot (funny...I guess I had a different idea in my head as to what "ON THE WAY" means...), but would be there the next morning. We called the next morning. Still wasn't there. We told them to sell that van to someone else because apparently if they couldn't even give us a straight story on the whereabouts of the vehicle, we were pretty sure they wouldn't give us a straight story on anything else.

I was angry.

Paul was frustrated.

We ended up at a Kia dealership that afternoon. We told him our budget and what we wanted out of our van. He showed us a lovely Borrego and assured us the price was in our range and hey, it was the last day of the month and his boss was in a dealing mood. We drove it. We loved it. We wanted it.

He went to his good-natured, wheeling and dealing boss and came back with a "deal" of $19,500. I laughed. Loudly and borderline manically. I thought Paul was going to break a tooth or seven because his jaw was so clenched. I then told the salesman he was insulting and had wasted two hours of our time and that he could take his Borrego and his "deal" and just sit on it. We walked out. Mad. Then the guy called me three times a day for the next week. He was skeevy.

The next day Paul found a Chrysler Pacifica and a Town & Country at a dealership in Aurora, MO, an hour and a half from home. Both had decent miles and the price was right. The Pacifica sold within hours of him finding it, but the T&C remained. He spoke to a salesman, got a few more details, told him we'd be up there the next day and then we prayed. He took off work early and we gathered up our three kids, my niece and nephew and headed for the Show Me State. We drove it. We loved it. The passenger sliding door didn't work quite right. We addressed that. The salesman offered to fix it, but it might take two weeks. We told him we'd take it off the lot right then, the way it was, for a discount. He talked to his mechanic. He knocked $1000 off. We wheeled. We dealed. We offered. he counter-offered, Paul was enjoying the game, my blood pressure was nearly at stroke range.

But we got it. Paid cash. That felt really awesome.

It has leather, Stow & Go seats, a six-disc DVD player (we drove to Tulsa on Tuesday to The Aristocats and ran errands yesterday to Tangled), an on-board navigation system (that is nowhere as user-friendly as the Garman) and is a lovely mix of Cornflower and Sapphire blue. She rides like buttah, y'all.

And she wears that fine coating of red dirt pretty well. For a city girl.

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

The Storm's A Comin' and Facebook Can't Help You Now

It is April and I live in Oklahoma. This can only mean one thing: I live in a perpetual state of heightened meterological awareness. In other words, I am absolutely cuckoo bird crazy and carry my NOAA weather radio around petting it lovingly and calling it "My presshhhhhhhhusssss" and never take my shoes off and when I hear an actual train I am convinced it is indeed a twister coming down the plains until I hear it blow its horn.

Yeah.

I am not frightened of these storms, no. I am obsessive. There is a difference. The main one being: I probably need medication.

For two days now I have been checking the NOAA website many, many times a day, watching The Weather Channel expectantly like I was expecting eaglets to hatch (Why yes, I have been watching those Illinois eagles hatch their baby birds, why do you ask?) and gathering a small pile of irreplaceable items and papers to stash underground in the cellar. Yesterday morning I woke with this feeling in my guts, like I was suddenly seven years old again and it was Christmas morning and I was absolutely certain that Santa had indeed brought me a Malibu Barbie just like I had asked.

The casino was scheduled to begin their weekly employee golf outings that evening at 5, but Paul moped around while getting ready for work because I kept hollering from the bathroom things like, "WOOHOO We're up to a SEVEN on the Tor:Con!" and "BASEBALL SIZED HAIL, PEOPLE! BASEBALLS!" and "Kids! Do you have your electronic devices charged and ready to go? Because we are going UNDERGROUND TONIGHT, BABY!" I don't know why he felt so blue about his much-anticipated golf plans....

After everyone left for school and work I turned the TV to channel 214 because that's where Dr. Greg Forbes lives in magical TV land and he and I? Yeah, we be buddies and all. I can't tell you what any of the other channel numbers are, but TWC I have had memorized for years. Sometimes the TV just goes there on its own out of habit. They had us shaded in red, had the words "tornadoes", "very large hail" and "severe storms" emblazoned on every graphic and every commercial break faded from a graphic telling all us Okies to abandon our double wides and never, ever try to outrun a tornado in a car. I'm sure the car warning was because they knew TBS had played the movie Twister all weekend and Bill Paxton and Helen Hunt made it look so easy.

Then some time around 3pm while trying to update my Facebook status from my phone I discovered the error message "Invalid Destination". Say WHA?? I have used FB Mobile texts for over a year and suddenly the destination is invalid? No, this was some cruel joke the universe was playing on me and haha, guys, that's real funny, now FIX IT, you heartless universe! I tried and tried and tried again to send a message and the same nasty message popped up. Invalid. Destination.

Grr.

Then in a moment of sheer and utter stupid, I deleted my phone number from my Facebook account. In my brain it made sense: delete and re-install. It works on my iPod when an app isn't working right. You just delete, re-install and all is right with the world again. Except in this case remember MY PHONE WAS TREATING THE MOBILE NUMBER AS INVALID. Instantly I was alone and helpless in the vast wasteland known as OH HOLY CRAP I CAN'T UPDATE MY FACEBOOK FROM MY PHONE ANYMORE AND THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO ABOUT IT! Yeah, it's a mouthful to say, but it's real, people. Very real.

I searched the help pages on Facebook for anything, something, a tidbit about this. Nada. When Abby got home from school I had her try and hers was giving the same message: Invalid destination. Ugh. I warned her to not do anything rash like delete anything and then I placed a call to US Cellular. The friendly fellow named Mark didn't even laugh at my panic-edged voice as I pleaded with him to FIX THIS PROBLEM because there were people who were depending on me to keep them updated on my whereabouts and silly antics my children did and if the twister was tearing through  my yard at any given moment. He actually sounded somewhat geeky and I figured he probably knew that feeling of desperation when suddenly you can't communicate with all 415 of your closest friends or harvest your lilacs and feed your poncho llamas. He came back on the line and informed me that Facebook had made some changes that very day and they were the cause of the problem, not US Cellular, and to just log on to a computer and click on the Mobile tab and the solution would be there. I was skeptical since ya know, I'D ALREADY TRIED THAT, but I thanked him for his help anyway. Then he thanked me for being a US Cellular customer since 2002 and asked if anyone had talked to me about one of their new Belief plans. I told him that I had looked at them some online, but couldn't find one that seemed to fit us. He then started to try and sell me a Belief plan! I politely stopped him in the midst of his script-reading and said, "Mark, I appreciate your desire to help me make the most of my US Cellular plan, but right now there are storms getting ready to hit here and my children are on the trampoline and they haven't packed their "'nader bags" yet I just really don't have time to discuss my mobile plan right now. PLUS I really have to get this Facebook thing lined out before a tornado wipes me off the planet." He matter-of-factly informed me that he was in Tulsa and the storms had already arrived there.

Well, whoop de doo. I didn't realize we were trying to one-up the other there, Mark-o my buddy.

The storm was rather boring if I may say so. Well, at least here it was. To the west and to the south of here it was quite exciting and probably not at all that much fun. It was so anticlimactic here we ended up just turning the TV off altogether when some friends dropped by to visit. The NOAA radio would holler at us occasionally and we'd listen, but it seemed that once again someone had sprayed Bubba's Tornader Repellent all over Ottawa County and we avoided any hook echoes, bow echoes or rotations. Our friends would've stayed longer had the NOAA radio not informed us that the storm was 9  miles south of where they lived. They decided that a nearly-16 year old and a 12 year old probably needed some adults at home with them if a storm was that close, so they high-tailed it outta here.

Shortly after that we sent the kids on to bed, Paul fell asleep in the recliner and I started nodding off watching Jim Cantore and Dr. Greg Forbes misprounce the names of numerous Oklahoma towns. I took the NOAA radio with me, tucking it in gently next to me, giving it a kiss good-night and drifted off to dream land where I didn't even have my usual tornado dreams.

I blame Facebook.

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.