Update

A stressful few days.

I examined my Jungle Shrubs Friday and decided that I would wait until the fall - or at least later in the summer - to trim them since each of the larger shrubs has several birds nesting in. I don't want to disturb any of my wild birds so I'll just live with the jungley look right now.

I'm scrambling to finish my new biddy condo as my turkeys should be shipping tomorrow. The chicks will be moving into the new digs and the baby turkeys will go in the warmer brooder pen.

I lost three of my baby geese to my own stupidity so I'm down to two timid little girl geese. I thought briefly of putting them in a cage in with the older pair but my hen is laying and I'm afraid that that would cause her to come off her nest.

Speaking of nests, one of my ducks is on hers, one of my bantams just hatched out four thumb-sized babies and another is about to hatch hers. It's a reproductive melee around here.

Excepting me, of course.

The huge old oak behind the house had to enormous dead limbs hanging out over the babies play area and the deck. Fortunately, I found a nice young man to trim them (and gained some firewood). Unfortunately it cost quite a bit of money I didn't have to spare.

Here's the after pic. You can see the size of the limbs on this tree.

Here's some of the wood. I've already cut and split about 1/3 of it and it was only two limbs!

But the really good thing that happened recently was this:


This is Turkish, a purebred Anatolian Shepherd (He's named after the bloke in Snatch. Anatolians were originally from Turkey). They're livestock guardian dogs and so his job is to live with the goats and sheep and protect them. Despite being super sweet, his appearance alone should give most predators pause. His shoulder comes up to my hip joint (I'm 5'8").


'Scuse him, here, he's having a slash. Dog can't wee around here without getting his picture taken! That's a five foot gate behind him, BTW.

Gratuitous baby pic (after almost choking and frightening his mother almost to death):

And that's it for today.

Degrees of separation

Aaagh! I'm reading too many blogs! I swear I'm reading over 35 a day.

Now, I'm a fast reader, but this is insane.

All you funny, talented bloggers STOP THIS INSTANT! Leave the internets right now!

I blame Tertia, since it was she who decided to let us all list our blogs and tell a bit about ourselves. I found twenty to read immediately (I judged them by their own description. V. Interesting that. There were quite a few who, when I got to their blogs they were much more - or occasionally less - interesting than I originally perceived), then blog hopped from their blogrolls, and so on.

It's fascinating to me how one can go from interesting, like-minded, blogger to totally-not-my-style blogger in a few hops. Just because you like a blogger doesn't mean you'll like a blogger that blogger reads.

Political content is a good example. A large number of bloggers that I read are liberals. I don't know why this is. Is it that women tend to be liberals, or that bloggers tend to be liberals? I don't know (or care). Everyone is entitled to her opinion and is entitled to voice it, especially on her own blog.

Being liberal doesn't preclude ones being witty or funny, or having suffered infertility as I have, or raising small children as I do. Besides, as a Libertarian (albeit right-leaning), I agree with some of that stuff, but politics makes me itch so I don't like reading about it all the time. If a liberal blogger I like goes all Chicken Little Borealis on me (The sky is falling! The sky is falling! I'm moving to Canada!) my eyes glaze over and I just click away. Come back tomorrow. No prob.

But then they'll have a link in their sidebar to another, more liberal blogger, and then that one will link to an even more liberal blogger whose ratio of funny, clever stuff to spit-when-they-talk political rant is low. This is fine, of course, but not what I prefer to read, and I got there in a few hops.

I just find that cool and interesting. We all have our different styles.

----

In the interest of completing my list from yesterday (or starting to) I went on a haircutting rampage. Boy looked like a rockstar.

Gene Simmons?:

M*rilyn Mans*n?:

And afterwards as His Own Self (right out of the shower):


I still can't quite get the front right. Part of the problem is that he just wears it kind of brushed straight forward ("brushed" is probably not a really accurate word to apply here, but ...) and I HATE a fringe (bangs). Perhaps I could begin parting it ...


"I'm gonna strangle you for doing this to meeeeeee!"

Self portrait Tuesday #1

Yeah, yeah, so I cheated! I warned you not to expect too much. Gratuitous adorable baby notwithstanding, I am in the shot! Look there's my horrid ugly fat foot. Right there! Blech!

I always fancied it looked rather like a manatee's flipper. Which is in keeping with the rest of me. Girl's gotta match, right? If you're keen on seeing more of me you can go to Blue's Blog (Mature audiences ONLY) and see my list of " six more things than you really wanted to know about me" meme and the photo of my weird fingers.

Anyway, in the interest of starting small (babysteps as Flylady would say!) here's Six Things I Should Be Doing Instead of Blogging:

1) Finishing my pen for my baby geese. My baby turkeys are arriving next week!

2) Cleaning my bathroom. I mean .. ew. I should be ashamed, especially after this pic of Linda's bathroom (not counting the loo paper). It looks as if you could eat off that floor!

3) Cutting my son's hair. He looks like a hippie and he's complaining about hair in his eyes. I just so hate cutting his gorgeous hair!

4) Doing something about the Jungle Shrubs in my front yard.

5) Get my tools and finally fix the phone line from the box. I got two new (retro, baybee!) phones and all my phone lines have been torn up (by me) for years.

6) Shelves in the library, shelves in the library, shelves in the library!

Excesses

I'm not gonna apologize for the derth of posts as I have no excuse!

Seriously, I'm obsessed with the farm/house blog needing lots of pics and I just don't get around to taking/uploading/resizing/cropping, etc. I'm that lazy! It's terrible.

On to the blog.

I got my shipment of biddies (5 Rhode Island Red pullets, 20 brown Leghorn straight run) and my six Toulouse goslings. I installed them in the biddy pen and quickly realized that I'd made a mistake.

The geese, despite being shipped with the bids, are much bigger and their growth rate is greater. It didn't help that we had a cold snap the day after they arrived and they crowded under the heat lamp ...

So I had several squished chicks that next morning and the geese moved out into a dog crate.

I should have their new baby goose palace finished today soon and I plan to put a run on it so that I can open a door and let them out to get some sun.

----

After I finish that I HAVE GOT to do something about the Jungle Shrubs in my front yard!

The right of the porch:

The left of the porch:

The Honeysuckle From Hell!

Eee, what do I do? Chainsaw? I tried to entice a blogger I just discovered into coming over with her SawZall, but, alas, I don't think she will.

Suggestions welcomed!

Introspection

I have decided to do something called Self Portrait Tuesday.

I discovered a blogger who participates and another blogger that I read does something similar (she calls it self disclosure Tuesday) and I plan to do a combo of the two: a pic and a list of things; stuff about me, whatever.

Don't get all excited that I'm gonna post a picture of my whole self. I don't allow photos of myself but I figured that I could start small: perhaps a pic of my really disgustingly ugly little toe or something. Hey, you've already seen two of my fingers, smashed.

I'm really interested in the list. Stuff I love, stuff I hate, things that scare me, things I should be doing, things I shouldn't worry about doing. We'll see how it all goes.

----

My follow-up mammogram at the breast centre is the second week in May. I hadn't really thought much about it (other than; "Jeez, what a pain in my arse") since everyone at my OB's office was so low-key about it. But I got the official paperwork that I need to take over there in the post Friday and when I opened it and read the words: "abnormal mammogram" it kinda chilled me.

I don't know why I felt the need to say that.

I guess 'cause I'm the one who always 'maintains an even strain' and I'm feeling a tad out of control and vulnerable. I'm the one who's calm in an emergency and takes care of everything (or attempts to!). I'm the one who doesn't get to scream or cry or throw things (much as I long to, sometimes). If I lose it, who's going to deal with everything?

Why is that?

Have you ever noticed how some guys hold a baby facing outward? They hook their forearm under the baby's arms, then as they get tired, their other arm up under baby's legs?

I saw this several times at the sale Saturday and it makes no sense to me. It's clearly a guy thing, though. I see moms doing it very rarely. Is it anthropological? Is it because women have nice wide hips to rest a baby-crotch on and men have strong arms to ... uh, hang a baby over? Are we just more cuddly? More protective? Is it a breastfeeding thing? Are women instinctively drawing the infant to our breast?

Heck, I dunno. It just kinda strikes me as odd and I wondered what your theories were.

----


While I'm asking questions, here's another: what is it about pet food that is so irresistible to babies? You make them good food and they act as if you're trying to poison them but they consider the dog's dish to be a lovely gift of treats from the gods put there for their snacking pleasure.

Take the other day. I was in the family room and suddenly I heard a loud and very excited voice from the hall:

"AH! Bleem Ma'dagh!"

Followed by a rattling noise then an ominous silence. Well, it was definitely the Incredible Bulk: nobody else speaks Klingon. By the time I got up and investigated, though, I found an innocently happy baby crawling toward me. Everything in the hall looked five by.

It was only when I went to change his nappie a minute later that I discovered something amiss. I was crouched down, one hand up on the Bulk (who was on the changing table), and the other rummaging through my sadly unfolded Heap O' Nappies when I heard a gravelly series of crunches.

I froze. Was that someone chewing? On something unsafely hard?

*Crunch*

Sweet Mother of Stan Lee, perhaps it's the Purple Lady from my obgyn's waiting room.

*Crunch*crack*crunch*

I looked wildly up at Bitty Girl who was in the doorway. "Bitty? What have you got in your mouth?" She obediently opened wide to show a empty pink maw.

Then from above my head: "Am ba-ba-BAH! *crunch* GLUR! Gah!"

I shot upright and grabbed the startled Bulk's face with both hands, prising at his mouth. Well, that only made him angry, and folks, you wouldn't like him when he's angry.

He clamped his jaw shut like an English bulldog and seized both of my wrists in his hands. We struggled briefly while the other three sibs watched , slightly open-mouthed, from the doorway. Seriously, if there had been popcorn for sale at this event ...

Anyway, I quickly realized that the round little(!) baby of a few months ago was now a 25 pound, buff and chiseled, almost-toddler, who had been building his muscles for weeks by crawling determinedly around my house and up every set of steps we had. He was a baby athlete at the top of his game and there was no way I was getting his mouth open!

I had no recourse but to cheat.

I snatched him up, flipped him over my arm (much in the way some guys carry babies) which squished the wind out of him and patted him firmly between the shoulder blades as I would have done had he been choking. It worked perfectly. It made him cough and he finally, reluctantly, drooled out about a dozen partially masticated bits of spit-slimed cat food.

Ew.

I wonder where he got that supreme scavenging ability? Hmmmmmm.

Well ... huh.

I got my results back from my tests.

FSH, LH, and estradiol are just fine. No menopause, no peri-menopause, ultrasound shows my lining looks fine. He didn't see any really good looking follicles (the u/s was done last week) but it was a very quick peek. There were follies there, he just liked to see them bigger.

So what's going on? Nurse Cheerful said (wait for it ...) that I "just needed to relax". Yep, she went there.

The results of my mammogram were less clear. They're sending me over to the breast centre for more films and an ultrasound.

Super.

If you need me I'll just be over here ... trying to relax.

What a crap day

*grrrr!*

So, I get back from town so late yesterday that it's almost dark and I still need to catch the sheep and goats that I'm taking to the sale, right?

Well I look in our local farming newspaper thingy and the sale is not listed. I decide to forgo loading animals and email a friend about the sale.

8 am: I get reassurance from said friend that there will be a sale. So I'm scrambling to load these animals. Well, the babies are up (by then) and somebody's got to watch them so I have to catch all 6 of the wiley little bastards myself - 4 goats and 2 sheep - and load them one by one onto the truck.

(Getting ones animals to a livestock sale early is essential. Many folks will, by mid-sale, have either reached their quota or spent all their money and so the later animals bring less. Much less.)

9am: I decide to take Boy at the last minute and make myself 30 minutes later by having to install a carseat in the truck (I have no other discernible talents but two: I can catch a horse and I can install a carseat, by golly). I then fly out the door with cries of: "I love you" and "Are we sure there's petrol in the truck?*"

(do you see where this is going?)

Fast forward to 30 miles down the road when the truck gives a couple of dramatic gasps and then dies on me.

A phone convo with Evil Genius Husband and a half hour later (he had to snag the gas can, load Bitty Girl, the Human Crash Test Dummy, and the Incredible bulk into their carseats in the van, AND hook the small trailer up (just in case the truck had something really wrong with it we'd have had to transport the animals back home)) he arrived and - sure enough - truck was out of petrol.

10:30am: Finally we're on the road.

Noon: We arrive at the sale.

The sale goes fine except that I was trying to bid on some gates and keep Boy right next to me in the crowd and some chickie hands Boy a chocolate bar. Well that just blows. Number one, you don't just hand someone else's kid candy. You ask the mother first. I don't generally allow mine to eat candy so I had to tell Boy that we'd talk about eating it later. By the time I looked up, the gates had been sold. For almost nothing. V. v. Angry.

I did pick up a nice goat and her baby, plus make a bit of cash for the ones I took.

6:00pm: It's getting bloody late and they just started auctioning off the fowl. Bugger it, I'm going home. They don't have any peafowl anyway and they just sold a crate of guineas for $14 apiece. We load up our goat and head out.

7:30pm: I arrive home to find the gate standing open to the feedlot, all the goats and sheep out, PLUS the door to the feed room is standing open and they've gotten in the feedbags. (edited to add: *I* had not used that gate or passed through the feedrom door.)

7:35pm: All hell breaks loose as I commence to having a conniption.

The perfect end to the perfect day. ARGH!

10:15pm: And now I'm going to bed. Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day.

*stomps off upstairs*

*The gas gauge doesn't work on the truck. Or the CD player. (edited to add: not that the CD player has a gas gauge ... I meant that the CD player doesn't work eith-- ... oh, you know what I meant!)

Back from the big city

Sweet Mother of Stan Lee it was prime people watching today! I wish you all had been with me.

I shall heretofore refer to my adventures in observing weird looking, badly bred, poorly behaved people as Trashspotting. Not to be confused with dumpster diving. At least the trash you see in a dumpster can be useful.

Anyway, on with my day.

I saw Dr SIL and BabyI. SIL looked fabulous, but tired, and TypeA SIL was there which was a surprise (she lives in Texas) and a pleasure since we don't get to see her much (did I mention she lives in Texas?). I found a lovely, bright flower bouquet for Dr SIL and a cute little vase the colour of my front door. I also took chocolates. Flowers are great but new moms need FOOD!

BabyI is an adorable, perfect, hefty (8lbs 4oz), scrunch-faced little love magnet who looks like a cross between his dad (Soon-To-Be-Dr BIL) and Evil Genius Husband ... so he is gorgeous. He let me sooth him to sleep which made me feel like a pro (I'm not: it was time for his nap) and very wistful in wanting three ... uh, ONE more of my own.

He is apparently eating well (mom is breastfeeding, good for her) , sleeping fitfully, and doing a good bit of spitting up. Totally normal, in other words. I wonder if it makes you more confident a mom if you just happen to be a pediatrician?

----

My mammogram went fine, they send the film out to be read so I won't know squat for over a week. So what's up with all the mammogram horror stories? That was my first one and it wasn't unpleasant at all. Aside from having my boobs handled by a female (which squiked me out; this is why I see a male OB) it was quick and kinda boring.

Yeah, your boobs do get squished for a second but it didn't hurt. When she got done I was all like: "Is that it? Where's the gruesome torture everyone talks about?". She just rolled her eyes.

Technician Humourless drew blood to test my FSH, LH, and estrogen. No one could tell me when those results would be back. I figure I'll give 'em a week. What really boils my noodles is that no one could agree what the doctor meant by "mid-cycle". The nurse said between day 15 and day 18, but I'm on CD14 and my cycles are 32 to 35 days long.

I hope the timing isn't so bad that it skews the test results. We'll see.

----

Trashspotting time!!

How about the vast woman in the waiting room of the obgyn? I don't mean that she was just large, she was quite tall as well and sported an elabourate hairdo, braided and piled up high on her head, held up by unseen forces. She was dressed quite nicely in a multilayered affair of a deep rich purple that unfortunately made her seem even more huge. The whole effect was of one of those Spanish galleons with the swelling sails (in purple in this case).

She was also one of those olifactorily impaired people who douses themselves in their perfume. I mean she was soaked. My eyes were watering. Seriously.

But here's the weirdest part. I was sitting there attempting to read one of those horrible rags like Us or People or whatever which was liberally splattered with juicy tidbits about celebrity pregnancies, celebrity adoptions, and celebrity babies and I was debating the relative guilt factor associated with my fleeing to the far corner of the waiting room to escape the Eau De Pirate Ship when I noticed a noise.

It was a bizarre, annoying, intermittent cracking sound.

What the heck?

I cast around the room surripticiously, trying to find the source, when my gaze settled on Purple Lady. Oh, surely not. I'm gonna have to blog about this chick ...

Yep, sure enough, her huge jaw was moving, bovine-like, and one carefully manicured hand with it's 2 1/2 inch acrylic nails was hoarding something. What was it? Rocks? Charcoal? It sounded like she was chewing gravel.

Alas, I never found out. Technician Humourless stepped out and mispronounced my name at that moment and I had to go get my boobs squished. *sigh*

----

I did get some consolation at the Food Lion afterward. I saw a brace of twinkies both in their bedroom slippers. Now, I'm sorry, but that just offends me. Call me elitist if you will but If I see you out in public in your bedroom slippers I'm gonna immediately think: "What a trashy slut".

Twinkie number two offered the added bonus of being dressed in pajama bottoms of a cotton so thin that I could clearly see her underpants. They were pink.

They were mere amateurs, however, compared to Greens Lady.

I was on the phone with Evil Genius Husband as I stepped into produce. He was reminding me to get something or other and I stopped hearing him at some point as I watched this chick. She was a normal looking woman, could have been some toddler's mom, except for her demeanour. She was standing, partially shielding the greens (in case you're not from the South and/or have no idea what greens are, they're dark green leafy veggies that you boil up in a pot with a touch of salt and perhaps a ham hock and eat with rice and beans. Food Of The Gods in other words.)

She was slightly hunched and kept sneaking furtive glances over her shoulder. What was she doing? Fondling carrots in an obscene manner? Stealing artichokes?

I stepped over far enough to see (I admit that I was gawping rudely. I mean, it was fascinating) and discovered that this chick had one of those thin plastic bags that you put your produce in and was rooting though the bin of mustard (It may have been turnip) greens, stripping the leaf off of the stem, stuffing said leaf into the bag and tossing the stem back into the bin.

For those of you ignorant of greens, they are just leaves. All leaves have a stem. Depending on your preference and the tenderness of the green, you cut out and discard all or part of the stem.

What this chick was doing was the equivalent of someone bringing a paring knife to the Publix and peeling their potatoes onto the floor of the produce section then happily whistling their way up to the check out with their potatoes a few ounces lighter (and thus cheaper).

WHAT THE HELL?

What sort of person would do such a thing? The same women I see in the Wal mart grazing their way through the fruits, eating a handful of grapes here, a strawberry there? This is STEALING, people!

I went back over where she'd been after she left and the floor was littered with stems, the bin was full of them (thrown down on top of the other greens). I even spoke with the produce manager and he said that it happened all the time. He also said: "And they wonder why the prices are so high". He even said that if he tried to tell them to stop they got angry with him. One lady actually called the cops on her cell phone.

DID I SAY WHAT THE HELL?

In which Blue feels ...

... happy for someone else and sorry for herself. Can you be happy and sad at the same time?

I'm ecstatic to announce that Evil Genius Husband's younger older sister (did that make sense?), Dr SIL, had her baby yesterday! Baby "I" was born about noon after a short-ish induced labour. I'll have more details this afternoon.

I'm inundated with conflicting emotions. I'm so delighted that baby "I" (we need to come up with another blog name for him soon!) is here safe and sound and I can't wait to see him. I'm happy that there's another cousin to add to TypeA SIL's adorable daughter (who needs a blog name as well. Hmmm).

....

....

But I'm terribly unhappy that I'm not pregnant right now. If it weren't for the Insurance Company That Sucks, the worker's comp case, and the Operation That Did No Bloody Good, I'd be right on track. Due about May.

I just want to break something every time I think about it.

-----

So today will be filled with ironies! I've (ironically!) got an appointment with my obgyn to get some blood pulled for some basic tests (FSH, estrogen, etc). Perhaps we can find out why I'm not preggers yet. The current theory is: I'm old and my body just doesn't feel like playing any more. I also have a mammogram - my first - that I'm not looking forward to for a few reasons, not least of which that breast cancer is a close personal friend of my family.

On the way I'm picking up some flowers for Dr SIL, adoring Baby "I", and gazing wistfully at all the newborns through the nursery glass.

I think I'll see if I can get her some roses. I finally had to acknowledge that the dozen white roses that EGH had gotten me for our anniversary had given up the ghost and throw them away. I love white roses. I wonder if Dr SIL would like some as well?

Perhaps it will make us both feel better.

People watching

The second Saturday of every month is Sale Day.

It's a stock sale that I go to ... well, more of a junk sale with a bit of livestock. The owner won't pony (heh, 'pony' get it?) up the cash to get bonded and so he is legally unable to sell anything larger than a turkey. This leaves a rather small little sale, more of a social outing than anything, but I go (not least for the social aspect) and rub elbows, talk stock, shoot the ... uh, breeze ...

Anyway, the junk is pretty cool, you can find really great deals (for example, they sold a '96 four-wheel-drive Blazer for $800) and they have whatever the people thought to bring; from tractor attachments to chicken feeders to kitchen chairs to baby toys.

I have picked up some good stuff - mostly tools and small pieces of furniture - but I really go for the chickens (fowl, actually: pigeons, geese, turkeys, guineas, etc). I also love to people-watch. There's some interesting ... types.

There's the rawboned, loud, obnoxious northerner with the classic grating accent whom they just call 'Yankee' (like it's his name. I find that pretty rude, myself) who refuses to speak to me. Seriously. I asked him a direct, friendly question one time and he literally walked off. I accidentally spoke to him Saturday. They'd just sold the Blazer and I leant over (didn't realize it was him) and said "Was that thing missing on one cylinder or was it just me?" and turned to find him staring at me as if I'd grown tentacles.

There's also the abrupt, mannish little woman who seems to wear the exact same clothes every sale (it's kind of an outdated polyester business suit thingy like you'd imagine fierce female corporate climbers wore ... in 1974). She bids on every bit of junk offered. Every bit. Broken clock? Bid. Box of cheap kitchen knives? Bid. Worn out filing cabinet? Bid.

The only thing she leaves alone is baby stuff and large livestock items like gates and feeders. She must spend hundreds of dollars each sale. What does she do with the stuff? I know she works at the women's prison and she takes some of the clothes and stuff up there. But what about the rest of it? I overheard her say that she'd buy something and "take it up the road".

To another sale? A flea market? Inquiring minds wanna know!

What about the Woman With The Hair? Perhaps y'all can help me with this one. There's this chick; tall, slightly overweight, youngish (hard to tell. She smokes and wears a LOAD of makeup but I'd estimate late twenties.) and she has this hair ...

The first time I saw her it was a drizzly day. It'd been raining off and on but wasn't when the sale got started (the junk is all outside, next to the sale barn). When I caught sight of The Hair I had to stop myself simply gaping at her in wonder. It's long, down past her waist, and was originally a mousy kind of brown I think. At any rate it's been streaked with a pale yellow and permed so that it's wavy. The bizarre bit is that she puts some sort of stuff on it, a gel or cream or Crisco or something that makes it: a) look wet (this is why, when I first saw it on that rainy day, I wasn't stunned - I thought it was wet) and b) lay in lank, greasy-looking, wavy locks like tired snakes hanging down her back.

But that isn't all. There's the front.

The front, her fringe around her face, is short, blow-dried-crispy, and teased up real big and stuck together with hairspray - giving the effect of a huge croissant perched up there on here forehead.

What the HELL is that all about?! Is she in some freaky weird religious hair cult? Is she being sedated in the night and forced to have her hair that way by some insane stylist out for revenge? Is she really an alien in disguise and they had really bad reception on their View-O-Matic as they were approaching our planet and so accidentally put together 3 different hairstyles?

WHAT? I have to know.

Then there's the generic assortment of jaw-droppers: the idiot whitetrash twinkies who show up in flip-flops or halter tops and frown and whinge about it being cold or wet or hot or boring or it smelling like a barnyard. It IS a barnyard you twit! If you'd just let poor Billy Wayne get out by himself every now and then ...

And the people who bring their young children. They kill me. The sale starts at 9am and ends about 4pm. Most 8 to 18 month old babies need to be fed and have a nap sometime during those hours. Sure enough, about noon, there's a few very tired, very crabby crawlers/toddlers whining in the sale arena stands while someone attempts to keep them quiet with a few Doritos.

On the subject of small children at the sale: I've seen a mother and grandmother liberally apply Jim Beam whisky out of a fifth onto their infant's gums (presumably for teething pain(?)) and a woman pour Pepsi into a bottle to give to her (guessing) 4-6 month old. I once saw a woman give her same age baby - about 4 -6 months - a enormous whole dill pickle which she happily sucked on. I've seen sets of young siblings with their teeth rotted completely out - just brown stumps.

And there's not just the Whisky Tango factor. The sale will net the occasional ex-suburbanite we-have-a-house-in-the-country types. This last Saturday I parked my wee Toyota nose to nose with a vast, shimmering Cadillac Escalade and was able to pick out it's owners instantly: two walking L.L. Bean advertisements who lingered, bewildered, on the fringe of the crowd when the bidding started.

I could tell they were confused. It's not like the rules are posted anywhere, and if you've never been it can be overwhelming. The woman (in her lime green gardening clogs) caught my eye a couple of times and I tried smiling in a friendly fashion but she apparently thought me too intimidating. Did I look too white trash? I do wear my wellies - my barn boots - and a cap (hey, it has a suede brim!) with my long, hippy-looking braid hanging down my back.

Maybe it's the facial piercings.

I dunno, but at any rate it's loads of fun to go and just gawp at folks (and have them gawp at me) and I'm going to another one this Saturday. I think I'm addicted to the people watching ... I, uh, mean I need to sell some goats!

Yeah.

A tale of two klutzes

Today is my oldest daughter, the Human Crash Test Dummy's birthday. She'll be the big 3.

She and I share a trait (as you may have noticed). We both are the teensiest bit accident prone. I don't know whether it's genetic or coincidence or what, but we both have it. Let's look at our last two mishaps:

For the HCTD, part of the problem is that she's a bit clumsy. She toes-in (is pigeontoed in a common condition called femoral anteversion - much more likely in girls and one that rights itself over time) and tends to trip over her own feet.

Part of it is that she is the Baby Without Fear.

Take the step down to the family room for example. When Boy was a baby we lived in The Other Place (notice I didn't say house) and it was beastly hot (imagine three bugs in a Coors can in the blazing sun) and I'd prop open both doors. There were steps going down on both ends and Boy, when he got to crawling, would get to the top step, look down and inch back into the room. He wasn't about to even attempt to get down them.

Fast forward to about a year later, we're here at the Burrow and the HCTD is crawling. I learnt very quickly that babies are different. I just assumed that since Boy never did, HCTD wouldn't.

WRONG.

She never hesitated at steps, up or down. She threw herself fearlessly down every set of steps we owned until she mastered them. She went straight from walking to running. She climbs like a monkey, she opens doors and lids, and attempts to push and lift things that are twice her size.

All of this combines to result in bruises, bangs, bumps, and occasionally, blood. Every day. Usually several times a day.

It's become so routine that it doesn't elicit much comment. We cuddle and console and go about our business ... after all, Mommy spends a fair amount of time dabbing blood and bandaging herself.

Occasionally, however, the HCTD comes up with something really spectacular.

Tuesday we were all outside (a rarity as Evil Genius Husband hates the out of doors. Hates it. He's firmly anti-bug, anti-heat, anti-cold, anti-dirt, etc. His ideal environment is Couch, Comic Book, Coke (diet)). Well, we have tricycles for the babies, but nowhere really for them to ride them yet. The whole yard slopes sharply, there's no smooth surfaces, and the drive is gravel. Because of this I have all the tricycles parked on the deck until they acquire the prowess to handle the bumpy, steep back yard.

Being babies they like to sit on the trikes and pedal them around the deck. They all know to stay away from the openings and I keep the broom laid across the top of the steps just in case.

Not that any of this deterred the Human Crash Test Dummy.

I don't know whether she did it on accident - got up enough speed to bump over the broom handle and fly down the deck steps in a stunning, hair-flying, arc that tumbled both my gardenias and my un-planted blackberry bush down after her - or whether she did it on purpose, but it was a short flight for her and a mighty case of deja-vu for me. I myself, about 40 years ago and about 40 miles from here, did precisely the same thing. I remember it like it was yesterday.

She wasn't hurt, (she never seems to be, thank goodness), just shaken up and was laughing about it a few minutes later.

I wasn't able to recover so quickly from mine:

We were in the check-out at the Wal-Mart after a big day of playing in the park, eating at Arby's - while the Incredible Bulk clamoured so loudly for bits of mozzarella stick ("Just give me the whole thing so I can cram it all in my mouth, momma!"*) that I feared they'd kick us out - and visiting the feed store (woo hoo!). Boy, suddenly and inexplicably wanted a hug. He never wants hugs unless he's done something wrong and is trying to suck up, the little scoundrel.

Anyway, he weighs just over 40lbs and my back can't take it so I usually just bend down to him. Well, yesterday he decided he would jump up into my arms. That would have been disastrous in itself except that he didn't make it. The top of his head hit me squarely under the chin, snapping my jaw shut with an alarming crack. Unfortunately my tongue was in the way.

So I staggered back, feeling like Russell Crowe in Cinderella Man but not looking nearly so good. Evil Genius Husband dashed to the loo for some paper towels while I tried to talk to the clueless check-out girl through clenched teeth. She wasn't at any point aware that I was trying not to dribble blood on her card reader, that's how cool I was. *snort*

So Happy Birthday, my baby girl! Sorry about those clumsy genes.


*translated from the Klingon

Oh, yeah ...

Today is my and Evil Genius Husband's wedding anniversary (yes we were hitched on April Fool's Day ... it just seemed so us.) We've been married 5 years today.

I saved up and sprang for this for him:



What do you think? Too much?

(Shhhhh ... don't tell Dad, but I'm getting him one for his birthday.)

Happy Anniversary, baby, I love you so much.