Unfettered, gratis, etc

Argh! Sorry for the double post. I suck. But, y'all know that.

Even I'm not that big a pimp! ROTFL!

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OK, on to the post.

In today's paper, in the Ask Marilyn section (I'm a huge fan of Marilyn Vos Savant) someone asked her:

"What is your favourite word and why?"

And she replied:

"My favourite word is "yes". I love to hear others say this to me and I love to be able to say the word myself!"

Of course you immediately pose the askers question to yourself, don't you? Well, I thought initially that this would be one of those questions that would require a great deal of thought for ME to answer but the results popped right into my head:

I love the word "FREE".

Not only in a Thriftymom sense but in a political sense.

I love Freecycle and scrounging around stuff people have left at the kerb.

I love that, as bad as my taxes are, it's not 50% of my income whether I like it or not.

I love that I live in a country where I can own a nice pick-up truck, have a decent job, where my children can get vaccinated against horrible diseases, and I can visit my dump every Sunday.

I love that I can choose my own GP, my own RE, my own OBGYN, my own pediatrician and go to another if I don't like the one I'm with.

I love diving in dumpsters and using coupons at sales so that the net cost is ... Zero.

I love that I live in a country where my fellow countrymen can bitch on bulletin boards and blogs about how the current administration (or the last one, or the next one ...) suck arse and that they're all moving to Canada.

FREE.

That's what I love. Free to dive, free to bitch, free to drive, free to own.

Now if I was just FREE to do with my own body as I wished (of my own FREE will, of course), I'd be set.

What's YOUR favourite word?

I seem to Meme (when I'm not pimping)

(Gratuitus pimping follows:)

First, four new t-shirts from the Evil Genius Store!

For parents of twins:


For strong, no-nonsense girls (comes in a bib, onesie, toddler tees, kids tees, and sizes to fit mommy):
For any mom who's ever been asked the stupid question: "So, do you work?"

And just because it's funny:


Aaaaaaannnd on to the meme:

From Michele over at Mommycakes!

I AM BLESSED: with what I have.

I WANT: to get motivated to finish more of what I begin.

I WISH: my knee didn't hurt all the time.

I HATE: helpless people

I MISS: the beach. More than I can say.

I FEAR: that something will happen to my children.

I HEAR: those idiot lambs, who just got moved to a new pen yesterday, yelling their fool heads off.

I WONDER: if they'd taste good with favre beans and a nice bottle of Chiante

I REGRET: that Evil Genius Husband bears the brunt of my rage whenI'm frustrated, annoyed, put upon, or just hormonal.

I AM NOT: physically attractive.

I DANCE: rarely. Sometimes in the kitchen with my children. .

I SING: fairly well. I enjoy singing lullabyes.

I CRY: about stupid things.

I AM NOT ALWAYS: engaging my brain before I put my mouth / typing fingers in gear.

I MAKE WITH MY HANDS: pens and gates and cages and sheds.

I WRITE: this blog, although I wish I could write science fiction.

I CONFUSE: boredom with hunger.

I NEED: to feel like everything is under control.

I SHOULD: write on my stories that I have started and offer something to a publisher.

I START: everything, every little home improvement or barnyard project I think of.

I FINISH: almost none of them in a timely manner.

And I'm tagging Bodog, Mrs Chili, Zach &Brie's Mom, and Anna (ANNA! Email me. I can't post comments on your blog and I don't have your email *sob*.)

Expectations

Well, I haven't lost any weight on the Shangri-la diet! What a crock!

*snicker*

Have you ever met that person? The one who shoves potato chips in her gob then complains she's not losing weight? The one who has a big slice O' cheesecake at supper because she "deserves it for sticking to her diet" (WTF?). I once had a co-worker who had rather sit on her arse and watch her little portable telly she'd brought from home than take a quick walk after lunch with the rest of us. She'd then grow so sullen over our weight loss that she'd refuse to speak to us.

*sigh* There is no magic pill. You have to put forth a little effort in everything.

As a side note to the diet, I found a forum (or rather they found me *waves* Hey guys!) and I've been perusing it this morning. It seems helpful, informative and civil (something I'm unused to on a bulletin board - can you say "fertility friend"?!), so go check 'em out if you want to learn more about Seth's Thingy.

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Speaking of weight loss makes me think - inevitably - of body image, which makes me angry (more than you know) as a person who's been hounded to conform to an 'ideal' all her adult life.

All that did was make me belligerent, make me unhappy, and make me eat even more.

We women spend a lot of time being asked to, or trying to ourselves, conform to someone else's expectations, don't we? Or their expectations, societies expectations, become our own and we almost go mad trying to 'live up to them' or crash into depression when things don't go As Expected.

Think about it. We, as women, have all these (really stupid!) expectations. The perfect prom, graduation, college, fiance, The Perfect Wedding, pregnant instantly, baby shower (or 3 or 4!), Perfect Nursery,the Magical Perfect Birth Experience, bonding with baby instantly, seamless segue into breastfeeding, Perfect Baby who sleeps through the night ...

Could it be that the reason so many women are blindsided by motherhood is because we have been trained to expect these perfect events in our lives? When things don't match up to these idiotic ideals we are ill prepared to handle it?

Women (not just women, of course, but using them as an example), should NOT be led to believe that everything will be this story book perfect ... or that everything SHOULD be.

Girls are brought up thinking that if they don't go to the prom they're social failures (who gives a flying rip about some high school dance?), if they don't have a huge, lavish, wasteful, self-centered wedding then they're not worthy as a female (what a colossal waste of time and money! A day where I dress up as a fairy tale princess and inconvenience all my friends, act as spoiled and self indulgent as I can, get scads of gifts I'll just return, and basically shove myself and how special I am in everyone's face? GAH!) (incidentally, if all this hoopla and waste had anything to do with making the marriage stronger, I'd be all for it, but 38% of these circuses still culminate in divorce) (not that I have a problem with weddings, you understand)

Eh ... where was I?

Oh, then we're assured that we should just get pregnant right away (that's what 'normal' people do! How may girls have I seen on TTC boards breaking down in heartrending posts because they aren't pregnant "and we've been trying for 6 months!), that we should have that perfect full-term baby and breastfeed with ease, that the baby will be this ideal angel who sleeps and eats and never, ever poos in her lavishly co-ordinated and decorated nursery that cost more than the family car ...

Is it now wonder we women freak out about stuff? That we panic over our weight? Beat ourselves up over babies who won't latch?

It's as if our consumer society (you know I was headed there, dincha?) has told us that if we throw loads and loads of money (and daddy's money and hubby's money) at something (a prom, a wedding, a nursery) that that will fix everything, make everything be PERFECT ...

When that's not true. It's not even close. Success doesn't require money, or status, or looks ... it needs effort, work, and LUCK. And the ability to handle anything life throws at you. We shouldn't put so much pressure on ourselves to conform and rob ourselves of the ability to cope. Nothing is perfect.

But it can be wonderful

OK, I'll bite

... or not.

I am fascinated with this newest fad diet: The Shangri-la diet.

Basically this bloke, Seth Roberts (who, incidentally, is kinda tasty himself), says that back in the neolithic our bodies grew used to 'feast or famine' food availability and still 'think' that way. All we have to do is trick the ol' bod into thinking it's Famine Time and it will adjust our appetites and metabolism accordingly.

I'm intrigued because I'm a super science geekynerd and am interested in genetics and our evolutionary history.

So intrigued that I'm going to try it.

(Well, a modified version of it, anyway. I'm determined to shed some tonnage since I'm convinced that my Return Of The Cursed Infertility is due to my weight and what better way to do it than by turning oneself into a human guinea pig?! I'm not fat, I'm fluffy!)

I do not believe in fad diets. I believe in the Denis Leary Diet ("Put the fork down!"). I think that one loses weight by burning more calories than one consumes. Plain and simple. You wanna lose weight? Eat less.

Now, before you wig out let me say: I know of which I blog.

Remember that I once lost 180lbs. Half my body weight.

(My maximum estimated weight was 360lbs - that is THREEhundred and sixty. I say estimated because 350 was as high as the doctor's scale went and I maxed it out. *step* CLANG!)

I formulated my own diet, slashed calories, eschewed butter, mayonnaise, and fried crap, walked every day ... I consumed less calories than I burned.

I do believe that fad diets can work - counting fat grams was in when I started and I counted mine simply because most high fat foods are high in calories and I liked the simpler numbers. I also think that a lot of it is mind over matter. You read the book, talk to friends on it, get pumped, get psyched, you have faith that it will work, then you stick to it and voila! It works.

I don't think it's the diet, I think it's YOU. We are responsible for out weights, whether it goes up or down. It's nobody's fault but our own if we gain weight. Not society or our parents or fast food joints or Krispy Kreme (Mmmmm). The only reason I myself have gained back so much weight is because I allowed myself to eat like a crazed pig-creature through four closely spaced pregnancies.

It wasn't the pregnancies, it wasn't that my weight loss plan was 'bad' and I was 'bound to gain it all back' (can you tell I've heard that before?), it was food-in-mouth disease. And Krispy Kreme. Oh, and chinese.

So, I begin tomorrow. I'll keep you updated!

(PS: Now watch me turn up pregnant just as I get started. Then I'll be trying this next year with even more pounds to lose. *rolls eyes*)

(PPS: Nicked from Jo over at Leery Polyp *smooches*)

(PPPPPPS: The book, The Shangri-la Diet by Seth Roberts, is here if you're interested. More links about the diet here, and here at Kateri's blog)

Self Portrait Tuesday #5 (on Wednesday)

Sorry this is a day late. I had it done yesterday but our effin' DSL went down in the afternoon ...

I really like this pic:

I like it because it's got external elements in that describe me; my incredibly ugly, incredibly comfortable ("I am never taking these off. I'm going to sleep in these."*) RICS clogs from the Tractor Supply, one of my dozen or so planters/pots that are on and around my back door (this one is a dark gold mum), and our concrete hare, left by the former owners (along with a live dog, 2 cats, 4 goats and a pony) that helped inspire the name of our house: The Burrow.

Five things I am so grateful for:

1) My Evil Genius Husband, my Superman (to my Kryptonite), even though sometimes he am Bizarro.

2) My fabulous sweet, smart, well-behaved, and helpful children.

3) My home. It is in every way the house of my dreams and suits my personality perfectly.

4) My lifestyle. I'm incredibly lucky to be able to stay home with my children, homestead, piss about on the internet with cool ladies, and make a tiny bit of extra cash selling tee shirts that I have almost childish fun making.

5) My family (such as they are) and EGH's family.

* bonus points to anyone who got that reference

The drunken post (#1)

I keep writing this post, revising, erasing, starting over ...

I'm moved to post about the nature of mothers and daughters and what we owe, what we are obliged to, nay, entrusted with teaching our girls. Perhaps I'm touched by Moxie's ruminations on being the mom of two boys who will only ever be the dreaded MIL. Perhaps it's MacBoudica's thoughtful musings on the sad state of women the world over. Or the dozens of posts all over the blogosphere, some prompted by Mother's Day, some just random.

Honestly, though, It began with my uncensored response to one of the items in a meme passed on by Michele over at Mommycakes (I'll do the meme in a later post). One of the items was: "I HATE"

And now, aided by Jack Daniels, and in my own peculiar style, let me tell you what my answer is: (I swear I'm getting to the mother/daughter tie-in)

I hate helpless people.

Unfortunately this trait is oftimes exhibited by females. You know the one. She who simpers in the corner pleading ignorance: "I just don't know what to do ..." when anything short of changing channels on the telly or shopping for purses come up.

I can't stand this woman.

And should an emergency arise? Forget it. They live their lives in a permanent state of potential victim-hood: "I didn't know I had to put oil in it!" "I just had to wait until the plumber showed up!" "I had no idea I could get pregnant if he pulled out!"

Give me a f*&^$in' break.

Perhaps It's because I'm the flip side of the coin. Like my own Mum, I can make something from nothing. I can fix almost anything from a dead phone line to a broken heart. I'm the one they always called at work; "Get Blue, she can fix it" "Ring Blue, she'll come in and cover" "Blue will know what to do."

I'm sick of my status as The Fixer (my son, Boy, actually calls me that: The Fixer) but I am cool with it and I guarenDAMNtee you I want this for my baby girls. I want them to be Fixers. I want them to be Anti-victims.

It's a damned shame that women perpetuate this needy, helpless stereotype with their daughters. They pass on the status of I'll-just-wait-here-for-someone-to-rescue-me. *giggle*

SAD!

Every female over the age of, oh say, 16 needs to:

-know how to open the hood on her car and check the oil and fluids! She needs to know how to sheck her tyre pressure. It's not that effin hard!

-know that if her toilet overflows how to reach behind and shut the water off!

-know the basic workings of her own unique female body (you would be stunned at the grotesque ignorance of some grown women I've read on various TTC/pregnancy boards - that's a whole post unto itself)

-know how to cook a meal for herself and another person - even if it's boxed mac and cheese with hotdogs cut up in (MacWeenies!)

-know how to balance her chequebook and understand how much debt she has on her credit cards and how BAD that is.

And so on and so forth ....

Are we hamstringing our litle girls? Making them delicate, dependent blossoms whilst preaching feminism? Instilling the message that you can be a doctor or a lawyer but isn't-this-outfit-cute? Teaching our girls that daddy and brother hunt and fix cars and mow the lawn ...

What are YOU teaching your baby girls, readers?*

For that matter, what are you teaching your baby boys?

I want ALL of my offspring to be able to cook, clean, mow a lawn, weed a garden, fix a lawnmower, change an alternator in an F-150 Ford truck ... Ok ... maybe I'm odd, but you get my drift.

*I realize that I'm preaching to the choir with many of my readers. I know that many of you are of the beat-'em-to-death-with-a-tyre-iron-and-serve-his-carcass-up-for-supper bunch and I love you and hope that my sons marry your daughters. Seriously. Arranged marriages work still, right?

Good lizard

Gratuitous adorable baby behaviour item of the day: Bitty Girl managed a few drops of wee in the pot yesterday, much to my delight, and when I shared that with Boy and the Human Crash Test Dummy they acted genuinely pleased and both congratulated her effusively. HCTD even hugged her and said: "Well done!" in a v. grown up manner.

The look on Bitty's face was priceless - she was so pleased that they were pleased. I wish I'd had the camera (for the look, not the wee, lol)

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Here's an update on the happenings about the farm if you've a mind to read, including a (rather crappy) pic of the new lambs. If you're not interested in the rural stuff but are a dab hand at decorating (like you wonderful lot who commented before!) PLEASE drop by over there and give me some tips and ideas about what to do about my kitchen. Please. I described the style I'm going for. Help. *sniffle*

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Since I seem to be in a picture mood today here's some shots from my garden.

The hummingbird that showed up within a hour of my hanging my new feeder (sorry for the bad pic; he/she kept startling at the beep my camera makes before it takes a pic):

This lovely bloke, a Green Anole, was hunting and flirting and defending his patch all at the same time:

A male 5-lined Skink eyeing me suspiciously. Can you imagine what it was like when these guys were 20 feet long and eating our distant ancestors as snack food? Eee!

In case you're a lizard-hater, don't forget: these blokes eat insects including cockroaches, and the Skink will even tackle small mice. As far as I'm concerned anything that eats flies and roaches is my good mate!

I also got a good pic of a nesting Carolina Wren. She's over on the farm blog at the bottom.

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Final adorable baby behaviour item: While cleaning up the family room last night, Boy picked up the Magic Eight Ball:

Boy: (shaking it vigourously) "Are the sisters being bad?"
Boy: (consulting the ball) "Most likely!"
Human Crash Test Dummy: (after a long moment) "HEY!"

New additions, new addition?

My last ewe of the season, Alice's Big Daughter (yes, that's really her name) had her lambs - a ram and a ewe:


For some reason she wasn't 'caught' by our Katahdin ram, Steve:

and is the only one to be bred by our baby ram, Domino, a Katahdin/Dorper cross. I'm using him exclusively this season and I'm really pleased by this 'preview'!

ABD is easily one of my best ewes and if this little ram of her's looks nice I'll be keeping him.

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Here's a pic of my mystery dibs that came in with my turkeys - you can see a turkey poult there at the bottom for comparison:

As you can see, they're a mixed bag mystery. Those two tiniest black ones (above and below the spotted chick on the left) are actually from my yard bantams. I discovered a nest that had been abandoned just as the eggs were hatching and these two were orphaned so they went in with these.

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gratuitous shot of Turkish:

He's made himself a nest in a pile of hay. It's right next to one of the water buckets. He is such a water dog! He'll submerge his whole snout up to his eyes in the water, and that's, like, eight inches of dog nose.

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Please don't forget that I'm seriously needing advice on the kitchen. I need your help!! Hopefully I'm getting the pantry added soon and they'll have to remove a window to make the door and make a bit of a mess. I might as well be working on the kitchen at the same time.

So ... paint the beams and trim dark? Paint the walls dark? Bright? How can I get the sheetrock walls to look like old, hand-applied plaster?

Remember, I'm going for an English country cottage look!


This lady has her house just like she wants it. A Carolina Wren (state bird of South Carolina) decided that one of my 3lb coffee can feed scoops would make an excellent nest site. She built this lovely construction in one day - right on top of a half a can of chick starter!

Self Portrait Tuesday #4

In honour of Mother's Day and womanhood in general, a pic of me, the Human Crash Test Dummy, and Bitty Girl catching the sunshine in our kitchen:



Ten random facts about me (nicked from her self-meme over at Lioness's and trimmed a bit)

Accent: Southern. Not a hills-of-Tennessee-or-West-Virginia twang or the slow drawl of coastal Georgia or 'Bama, just kind of medium Southern, although fellow southerners often ask if I'm from up north(!)

Booze: Jack Daniels Black label. Diet coke, ice, and glass optional.

Chore I Hate: Inside: emptying the cat box, although washing silverware is a close second. Outside: watering the livestock. Our stupid well will run dry if you try to fill more than two water troughs at a time so you can't just wander off and do something else. It sucks.

Dogs/Cats: Dogs: Baz (black lab x German Shorthaired pointer, v. tall, v. sweet, v. v. dumb), Tee (JRT x Rat Terrier, the only small dog I've ever owned and I love him but I'll never own another), Molly (black lab x ??, tossed out of a car and rescued by Evil Genius Husband), Reggie (Aussie x ???, survived Parvo and utterly insane), Jake (Aussie. came with the house and has a mad hatred of trucks towing boats ... and we live at the lake), and Turkish (Anatolian Shepherd, v. sweet, v. unassuming, v.v.v.v. BIG). Oh, and four cats: Barn Cat, Broule', Abe, and Johann.

Most Admired Trait: Thrift, of course! I don't know how much it's admired though ...

Phobia: Dead bodies (human) and anything associated with; graveyards, morgues, bodybags, etc I can't watch Six Feet Under without EGH being right there on the couch with me. Nightwatchterrifies me but I own it because it has Ewan McGregor in. I have nightmares for days after watching it.

Quote: "Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could; some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it serenely." - Emerson

Time I usually wake up: 5am

Vegetable I refuse to eat: Mustard greens. Bleh.

Yummy Foods I make: Shepherd's Pie. My Tuna casserole is pretty good too.

Night and day

Y'know, sometimes I look around bewilderedly and wonder where these little dichotomous humans came from.

One second they'll be tearing the pages out of books and throwing their sibling's lovies up on high shelves so they can't reach them and the next will be hugging one another - unbidden - in apology for some insult. They'll be bright and articulate around me but then sit in stunned silence in front of a stranger, unable to recall their own names or say how old they are.
They crash and roar through my house like wee terrible forces of nature but will sit quietly in a shopping cart or walk closeby for a long, slow trip through the Wal Mart, never straying, running, whining or touching things on the shelves. They'll shove their younger siblings out of the way, push them down, but then console and soothe all hurts and tears before I can even get across the room.

Is there some goodness/badness switch on the backs of these things that I'm unaware of?

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Convo overheard from their bedroom at naptime:

Boy: "I want that!"
(pause)
Boy: "Human Crash Test Dummy, may I have that please?"
Human Crash Test Dummy: (murmurs something unintelligible)
Boy: "Thank you!"
HCTD: "You're welcome, Brother." (which she pronounces 'brudder')
(stretch of silence, rustling)
(CRASH!)
(crying. I get up and head toward the room)
Boy:"Are you OK, HCTD? It's OK, HCTD." (loud bump) "Oww!"
HCTD: "I'm sorry, Boy!"
Boy: "It's OK, HCTD. Thank you." (pause) "Here, you be Venom!"
HCTD: "OK!"
(sounds of raucous playing)

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I have a bunch more bloggers to check out today via all the Bloggity Love flying around ( Long Live the Koolaid!) so I'll have plenty to do and will give a shout out to anyone and everyone whom I start reading daily. Gah! I need to update my sidebar list as it is.

If I'm a regular commenter on your blog but you don't appear in my blogroll, I promise I'm working on it. If you'd like to give me a leg up (not to be confused with a leg over, hah!) and send me your URL with a note: "Blue, you spaz, put me on your blogroll" that will be helpful!

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I have new t-shirts in the shop - scroll down to the black tees - and new baby bibs coming soon. If there's something you'd like to see in the way of apparel, don't hesitate to ask!

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On the homefront I'm girding my loins for toilet training number three: Bitty Girl, but I'm not anticipating much of a hassle. It's bloody amazing how confident you get after having 'done' one already. I have seriously waited too long with Bitty - she was ready at 23 months - but her language skills hadn't caught up and I need her to be able to communicate with me. We're sitting on green now, though!

I swear, I'm convinced that I'm going to have forgotten all my small baby mothering skills (sleep training, weaning, toilet training) when the new baby gets here (IF a new baby gets here ... ). Something else to fret and worry about. Jeez.

Speaking of mothering, my last ewe had her babies - two lovely, fuzzy black lambs - yesterday morning. I'll try to get pics up on the Farm Blog later today or tomorrow.

And that's all I have right now. Off to read new blogs! Wait ... what was that crash?

Sarcasm? Moi?

Remember that girl (or girls) in middle school who inexplicably* hated you?

No matter what your clique, there was always that girl - or maybe two - who always seemed to be watching you, her face like a fist, radiating disapproval.

Maybe you were a popular girl and she envied your friends. Maybe you were a shy nerd who caught the eye of a sought-after guy. Maybe you had a good homelife and her parents were divorcing. Maybe your hard work earned the favour of a much-loved teacher.

Whatever it was the hate was always fueled by envy and jealousy and that girl just couldn't seem to let it go. She begrudged you something and had nothing better to do than shadow you, scowling, smirking, talking behind your back, trying to feel superior.

Well apparently some of those girls never grew out of it and are now in the blogosphere being true to their puerile selves: whispering and gossiping and not-so-surripticiously vying for attention as only middle schoolers can ... but oh! Wait! This isn't middle school, is it? These are grown women with too much time on their hands who are apparently unaware of the Golden Rule of Blogs:


This sort of behaviour wasn't cute or funny then and it's not cute or funny now. It is, however, a bit sad. Awwww ...



*My word of the month seems to be inexplicable. I have no idea why (it's inexplicable ... get it? ... hahaha ... what?!). Perhaps someone will do a satire of me wherein I overuse it, dig in dumpsters, smash my fingers with various implements, and fail to wash my children. Oh, wait! That's my real life! I am my own satirization! Doh! *strikes forehead in overly theatrical manner*

A dirty post

*NOTE* In the interest of furthering the cause of the Great Mommy-Blogger Love-In 2006 we have been given a task by HerBadMother to spread the bloggity love with lavish links to our fave bloggers. Michele started us off, and even though I have (ironically) just done a Blog Crush List, I have sprinkled some more of my faves throughout this post. If someone is linked, it's a blogger I love and read, and again, this is nowhere near all the ones I read daily - just a few more white chocolate M&M's from the bag.

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Today I will clean my bathroom.

Really, when you look at your bathroom basin and think: "The children cannot brush their teeth this morning. This sink is revolting" then you, sister, need to clean your friggin' bathroom.

I don't know what's up with me and cleaning. If it weren't for Flylady and the rare visitor, my house would be like Howard Hughes' hotel room. Without the genius.

Take the babies (please! Hahahahahah! .... What?). They spend an appreciable amount of time pretty cruddy ( I said it a whole lot more purty in a comment on Laid Off Dad's blog, I think I described it as a 'patina of filth'). I just hosed off wiped down the Incredible Bulk - he was achieving layers like an archaeological dig site - and discovered a happy pink teething baby underneath the grime. Who knew?!

Part of the Bulk's dirt problem is that 1) he's mobile (no more staying on the nice clean, uh ... clean ... uh ... OK, there's not anywhere 'nice and clean' in my house, but you get the drift), and 2) he's self feeding (the definition of which for an eleven month old is: snatching up the entire mound of scrambled eggs off your plate and shoving it in the general area of yer gob), and 3) it's warm out, so we're out, so he wanders about, writhing up under the deck, tasting various shades of dirt, getting licked by dogs, having his sisters put sand in his hair, etc.

And we're not big on baths, either. Not that we walk around stinking up the place (this last sentence is null and void when applied to Evil Genius Husband on the week-ends or during school holidays) but I do NOT bathe my babies every day. They bathe when the need arises (read: they're so nasty and wild-haired that I begin mistaking one for the other and have to identify them roughly by height as compared to nearby pieces of furniture.)

So today I WILL clean the bathroom. It's either that or the CDC breaks down my door and you know what a bother that can be ...

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Tid Bits:

I want to direct you to a good post by Evil Genius Husband over on his blog. It's about his responsibility to provide a good example to his kids (both the kids he teaches and the kids he raises) by doing his job, even if they don't like it, even if he doesn't like it:

"It's our job to show them that you can be patient. You can plan ahead. You can follow the rules. You can do all of these things and still be a child, and still have fun..."

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I want to thank everyone for any and all comments and suggestions about my kitchen woes. I am moving the discussion/experiment/project/debacle over to my farm blog since that's where I generally agonize over house stuff. Please join me there because, I've! Made! A! DECISION!

(I ... uh ... think)

I'm at that crossroads where Time, Money, Desire and Fate collide (strangely, that happens to me often) but at least I have some starting ideas (thanks to you guys). Rock on!

Or in the words of the Incredible Bulk :"EH! g'Morgh!" *

(*which may translate to "More qagh, Mother!" ... I'm not sure.)

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And finally: My Boy and Bulk about seventeen years from now, in May, the few days before Mother's Day. (*smooches* to Sheri at Days of Deerledge for this link)

Self portrait ...

I've been wrestling with this post for two damned days.

With Mother's day coming up, a lot of us here in the blogosphere have been doing some introspection. Pondering the raising of children, how well we're doing, how we're influencing our kids - particularly our daughters - and for those of us trying to conceive/adopt, well, there's all that.

Y'know being a woman is hard. Sometimes it really blows (obvious naughty references aside) and it's so easy to get bogged down in your own narrow view of your own narrow life.

I think that's why I love reading blogs and blogging. I'm not a social person. I don't have friends per se. I don't really require them, I'm content with a houseful of small people, an Evil Genius Husband, and my geese (ok, and the rest of the barnyard), along with an occasional trip to the Wal Mart.

But I genuinely and sincerely adore the ladies whose blogs I read. Maybe I DO require friends and they are them. I don't know, but I get so much from reading. I feel like I'm part of something. I feel like I have people I can ask if I have a question - who won't pull their punches if they answer. I feel like I learn something. Every day.

And here's what I learned over the past few days: I learned that I will never instill in my own daughters a good body image if I constantly reveal my own bad one. They will never learn self-confidence if they see my lack thereof. It is not enough for me to reassure my girls that they are beautiful no matter what size or shape they are (in direct contrast to the way it was for me) or of value no matter what they choose to do. I must overcome those deadening experiences from my life: the disapproval, the disappointment, the comments ("you have such a pretty face", "When are you going back to school?", "if you were in better shape you'd ... feel better") that stripped me of my self-confidence and sense of worth and have some love (or at least some tolerance) for myself.

Now, at this point in the post I've been trying over and over to write about how I've been inspired by Sherry and Michele and since I missed Self Portrait Tuesday I'd do a Self Portrait Thursday (now Friday) and list 10 things Good about me.

That quickly became five things. Then I realized that I can't honestly say five good things about myself.

Talk about introspection.

There's nothing physical to offer. I have nice hair. That's it. I'm not remarkable in any way. I'm pretty good in an emergency. I can make do with almost nothing. I can even live that way (and have).

I'd love to confidently type: "I'm a great mom" but I'm not so sure about that. In fact, when it comes to my daughters I'm frustrated and bewildered and the oldest is only three.

I lie awake at night worrying that I'm doing a really crap job.

So for those of you moms who have the strength to throw off the wet, heavy cloak of guilt and uncertainty, I am in awe. Rock on. I'll be here by the wall, watching, and hopefully learning.

The kitchen ... hmmm ...

OK, here's my latest idea for the kitchen. (Go here if you're not familiar with the debacle project in question.)

Number one, I guess it would help if I shared with you my decorating style (duh!).

Well, the house is 120-140 years old ( a Victorian) and I'm going for an English Country style (not to be confused with American Country wooden-gingham-ducks-and-rag-doll-shelf-sitters style), sometimes called English country cottage or cottage style. Basically a lot of older hand-me-down pieces, rich dark colours, some intentional clutter - a comforting and welcoming look.

I want my house to be elegant but also seem like it's alright to come through my parlour in your wellies with all the dogs in tow after a nice walk, ya know? (Yes, I want my life to be an episode of All Creatures Great and Small.)



I don't want my kitchen and dining room (those pics are really the north wall of the dining room) to be bright. I want it to be dark. It originally had huge dark beams across the ceiling and at the tops of the walls until some moron painted over them. What I really want is those dark wood accents back and deep red or evergreen or cinnamon coloured walls.

Rather like this:

But, alas, I can't get those back so I'll have to make do.

I could paint all the 'wood' dark (like dark brown) but I'm afraid that would look naff.

Bugger it. I don't know what to do!

I will tell you my idea for the walls, though. I was watching the British telly series Ballykissangel (which takes place in Ireland) and I always keep my eyes peeled for decorating ideas while watching these shows. I noticed that many of the interior walls appeared to be rough plaster painted over. I LOVE this look. That's what I want my walls to look like.

Here's an example (NOT that colour mind! holy cow! Just the texture I'm looking for.)

So what would YOU do? I don't have much cash or time (two big problems here) and it's v. hard doing any sort of work with four small curious children about. This was why I suggested the sanding-of-the-doorjambs. It'd be a quick fix.

Well. I'm gonna go be peeling wallpaper while y'all are thinking about it.

Quick post this morning - UPDATED

I know you all dashed over to my store yesterday and bought yourself T-shirts, right? Right?

What if I beg? *makes puppy dog eyes*

Oh, fine. Very well. Take a shufti at these T-shirts then. They're for an excellent cause (better than the Help Keep Blue in Benadryl for her Bee-Eating Son cause) and are by that Horkin-est of chicks: Sherry, (one of my fave bloggers, and sister of Sharpie, mentioned below).

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Speaking of helping me out, I am desperate for advice on what to do with my kitchen. Seriously. Check it:

No, that wasn't the errant fingers of a toddler that did that. It was me. I'm just bloody sick of it, folks!


The cutesy flowers, the 'country' border, that gag-worthy bright yellow paoint! What colour is that anyway? BILE? (no ... that's green ...) JAUNDICE?

BLEH!

So I'm determined to change it. Here's a little idea and where I need your help:

I have bells hung on my back door because 1) I inexplicably like bells, and 2) it lets me know - at the other end of the house - if anyone has opened the door. Well, the brass bells have rubbed the paint off the doorjamb:

I saw this and thought: "That looks kinda cool. Kind of a distressed, vintage look that spendthrifts drop a wodge of cash to get on cheap new furniture so that it will look OLD"

I think I like the juxtoposition of the jaundice yellow with what appears to be white-trash-spandex-capris turquoise blue that the previous-previous owners had.

So. It woul be v. easy for me to lightly sandpaper the yellow and get that bright, distressed, aged, whatever look.

My questions are: 1) what colour do I paint the walls to go with it? and 2) is this a really really bad, tacky idea (so much so that I should just go buy paint and repaint everything?).

Be honest. I seriously need some hints here.


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OK, that's it for today. I'm off to get my follow-up mammogramme at the big scary cancer breast center. I'll attempt to update later today.

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UPDATE - The boob squishing went fine, they had a technician on-site who read the x-rays and, after three films and an ultrasound, they decided that I have ... a lymph node. That was it (and it looked pretty damned scary up on the screen, too. To me, anyway.) So aside from my getting teary on the sonogramme table (I'm used to getting to see a baby during these things), it was uneventful and I was shooed away with vague smiles and admonitions to get another mammogramme next year.

PS: thank you for the well wishes and the kitchen suggestions! Keep those decorating tips coming. I'll try to explain what I want a bit better later. I've had another idea (more ominous music) ...

PPS: Grammar Nazi's bugger off. I was in a hurry.

Ahh, spring!

With the advent of warm weather I've now got 25 projects started - at various stages of completion - and virtually nothing finished. Just as I'm completing one, I begin two more. *sigh*

So here's what I've gotten done:

Turkey pen before:

and after:

I still have to put a door on it (opposite side), cover those gaps with wire, and that roof is not nailed down yet, that's why it looks weird. The poults won't be able to go in just yet, anyway. They're still in the brooder:

That's nine Bourbon Red turkey poults (originally ten) and ... and I don't know what. These wee fluffy biddies were in with the poults when they arrived. What are they, live padding? Were there a few leftover chicks from other hatches and the hatchery just says: "Oh, just drop a few in each box as bonus prizes!"

I'm NOT complaining, mind you. I think it's cool and can't wait to see what turns out. I know that they're bantams and I have a few Cochins in there. It's a nice mystery!

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The rest of the chicks are doing well in their new pen and the two remaining goslings are in excellent health and growing v. well. I was going to take a pic of them for you last night but they decided to bathe in their drinking water and, since they still have down they looked like those poor birds they rescue from oil slicks! Not exactly photogenic.

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My one pigeon squab is getting hard to tell from her flock-mates AND she looks as if she's solid red (and so breed standard), so that bloke was telling the truth about them breeding true.

[update] I have a NEW squab!! I think she had two or three eggs but I know at least one squab has hatched out! I'm so excited! They're almost impossible to photograph, the parents keep them well tucked under unless they're being fed. I'll try though.

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Turkish has been doing well and the whole place is refreshingly free of varmints. Despite his being in a different pen altogether, I haven't had one egg eaten or lost one fowl since his arrival.

He has got some strange thing in his head about wanting the goats and sheep to be in a certain part of the feedlot - the back bit where the hay is. He not aggressive about it, he's just determined. He patiently gets up from his position by the gate and moves them back if they come around.
This is no problem except that 1) the water is in the front part, so they're not really getting to drink freely, and 2) they ARE in a feedlot with limited space and I'd like for them to be able to move about.

I'm putting him in the bachelor pad (with the buck and the ram) temporarily until school's out and Evil Genius Husband can work with him a bit. He's an excellent dog but has clearly never been trained, which is a pity.

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I'll try to get more pics in the next post! Plus I need to tell you about my kitchen ... (cue ominous music)

The bee's knees ... are tasty

My baby tried to EAT A BEE!

I am not kidding. We were all out in the backyard enjoying a lovely day Friday when the Incredible Bulk, with his finely developed pincer grasp, plucked up an unfortunate bumble bee who happened to be, erm ... bumbling by, and attempted to pop it into his mouth like so much floor candy.

"Wow, what a pretty, bright, bite-sized crawly thing. I wonder what it tastes like?"

Ouch!

Fortunately, he had no other reaction save the swelling and redness and that was gone the next day. I offer the following pic as proof that, while he may not be 'normal', at lest he's OK:

"Mini devilsfood cupcakes taste better than bumblebees any day!"


Yes, he very often sits in his highchair with his foot up like that; yes, he is quite filthy; yes, that is an Auburn shirt. I'll bet in 18 years or so when he's an undergrad at Auburn he'll look eerily similar to this very pic! War Eagle!

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I do not beleive in 'lessons' of any sort (or organized sports for that matter) for pre school-aged children. This is just my opinion and I know a lot of parents feel differently: flash cards, homeschool-type lessons, structured pre-schools, pee-wee sports, etc.

I think children should be read to, encouraged to play, given some discipline and responsibility, and taught some manners in their first 5 years. They have 12 years of formal schooling to teach them the other stuff.

That being said (and done), Boy reads quite well - three and four letter words mostly - and can read whole books (Go Dog Go, for example) as long as he can sound out the words. He writes as well but his penmanship isn't at all good since we don't 'work on' it. I just give him pencil and paper - or his magnetic drawing pad - and he goes at it.

His latest amusement is forming words and sentences with his brother's blocks:


I was quite proud when he showed me this. (he carefully pointed out the 'DVD' he spelled at the top, as well) He's not quite up to Julia's son, Patrick's speed, but I'm pleased and had to brag just a little.

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Check out our NEW black T-shirts at the Evil Genius Store!

COOL, huh?!

These are just two of several NEW shirts. Please stop by and send the URL on if you have someone whom you think would be interested.

Thanks!! More to come!

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And last but not least, let me direct you toward a few bloggers whom I am reading right now. Please note: these are by NO means the only new blogs I've found! This is just the first handful of white chocolate M&Ms that I pulled from the bag ... so to speak:

-Macboudica of Boudica's Babies. I love this chick. I'm serious. I just love how she puts words together. Politically she's left of me but I can still see her from where I'm standin' and it's all good. She writes some terribly thoughtful and provocative posts of which I am jealous.

-Michele over at Mommycakes. Now this is a lady who will open up her mouth (or her blog) and say anything that she thinks needs saying. I just adore that. But, unlike myself who can go from zero to RANT in a sentence, Michele seems always poised and articulate while being frank and to-the-point. Did I mention how much I adore that?

-Contrary, she's just so very ... what can I say? She's totally outspoken, whimsical, and slightly odd. Gee, that sounds like someone I know!

-Sharpie of Not Winning Mother of the Year. Sharpie makes me totally laugh and if that's not her actual photo in her banner, well, it should be. Yet another chick with no blogging inhibitions (can you tell I admire that trait?), she's always running right on the manic edge of reason and having a fine time doing it.

-finally Rebecca at NinePoundDictator. I returned to Rebecca's blog the second time because of her deliciously idiotic annonymous commentors. Rebecca is a columnist and author and has a lifestyle that some folks seem to love to hate. I find her funny and insightful and ... aw,hell, who doesn't love to snigger at Comment Trolls?

Mine! All mine!

So we had the power company on our property.



The cut (right-of-way or easement) runs right along our left hand property line - on our side. They've had huge trucks with bucket arms, the Turbo Chipper and it's accompanying truck into which it spits the remains, and that cool thingy with the strange spiked scoop on the front that is hinged in the middle (v. v. cool!)
Well, I do as I always do with county, state, and federal types, I am ultra polite, friendly, really earth-mother-crossed-with-aunt-Bea sort of thing. You catch more flies with honey, and all.

So it occurred to me, about mid morning, that while most of the trees being cut were pines, a good few were hardwoods (this crossed my brain as I watched some little twit-worker-ant chainsaw down my pecan tree that I'd been nursing for 3 years which was nowhere NEAR the cut)

I pulled on my wellies, told the kids I'd be right back and marched my large self determinedly out there.

Nothing like a vast, frowning, full-bosomed, gumboot-wearing female appearing at your elbow to shake you out of your reverie.

I smiled sweetly and commenced my spiel (note: I never mentioned the pecan tree. It was gone. No use crying over chainsawed wood.) I told them that since they were cutting hardwood that I'd like any branches bigger around than my wrist tossed aside so that I could scavenge them for firewood.

The slightly stunned Twit-Worker-Ant nodded quickly and we were joined by another worker ant Nice-Worker-Ant. I restated my plea, sweetly, and NWA agreed that it would be good for me and make things easier for them - they'd just cut the wood and throw it, not having to mess with it again.

Then Crabby Old Boss Worker Ant arrived.

"We can't do that", he huffed.
"Why not?" I asked, and this convo ensued:

Crabby Old Boss Worker Ant: "We have to remove all the wood..."

Me: "... from the right-of-way."

COBWA: "We have to put it on the trucks or chip it ..."

Me: " ... normally. I'm trying to save you some work. Just leave it to the side."

COBWA: (inflating himself) "Can't do that. This wood belongs to the [name of power company]."

Me: (dangerously) "Excuse me? This wood is mine that you're cutting."

COBWA: "Lady, this cut belongs to the [name of power company] and these trees ..."

Me: "... are mine. This is MY land, sir, and the trees on it! The [name of power company] has a right-of-way through MY land, they don't own the land. They simply have the right to come this way to maintain the power lines!"

His mouth opened and closed a few times, then he gave the two worker ants an exaggerated Jeez-women-these-days shrug and eyeroll and stomped off.

The next day I went down the cut and Nice Worker Ant had carefully piled up the wood, cut into about six foot lengths, in batches all down the side of the right-of-way.

Wasn' t that sweet?

What we have here is ...

I cannot abide people who can't communicate properly.

I don't expect everyone (or anyone) to be an orator or poet but everyone should be able and willing to make themselves easily understood in writing and upon speaking.

People with no comprehension of grammar or of punctuation or with speech patterns so bizarre as to only be understood by one's neighbours drive me mad. Likewise folks who hesitate to speak up or, just the opposite, talk too much and so don't so much converse with you as lecture you. Drives me nuts.

Now, before someone snarkily points out my above incomplete sentence: nobody's perfect, and everyone makes mistakes. I'm not talking about random misspellings, grammar slips, typos, or things done for effect. I mean people who can't write (or speak) their own language - to the point where one has to read, and re-read (or mull over in ones head) to figure out what they mean.

So what brought this wee rant on? Three things:

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1) I rang about an advert for goats for sale: "Hello, may I speak with WT Smith? I'm calling about her ad in the Farm Paper."

Silence.
Me: "Hello?"
As Yet Unidentified Female Creature: "Zis 'bout thuh goats?" (now, at this juncture I must attempt to explain the pronunciation of 'goats' in some South Carolina communities. Say: 'guh-OWH-tdz')
Me: (brightly) "Yes!"
AYUFC: "Theys sold"
Me: "Oh, well, thank you"
AYUFC: "uh-huh"
*click*

Nice. Her mother clearly taught her the essentials of not only elegant speech but graciousness as well.

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2) I recently went to pick up an animal from someone and I'm following her about as she ostensibly searches for some accoutrements for said animal.

Ms-Sorry-She-Missed-Woodstock: "... and so I built the barn, I used to milk out there in the rain and I am so glad that I don't have to do that any more, and I have these doors, see these doors? I open them, see? and it creates a breezeway where, ya know, breezes can come through ... I think that this is his [accoutrement] but I'm not sure ... so you have goats? what sort of goats do you have? I just love the [goat breed] and ... is this his [accoutrement]? ..."

Me: "Yes! I love the [goat breed] as well. I was a member of the [local goat club] back when it first start--"

Woodstock:"... you should really think about getting [goat breed] ... I get this feed specially ground that's ... now where'd he go?"

Me: "yes, I used to have the [goat breed], I showed them for years and--"

Woodstock:" ... he's right there, whew, I thought he'd run away ... I'd definitely try the [ goat breed]. I'm in a local goat club the [local goat club] and we could really help you. You could even show ..."

Me: (through clenched teeth) "I had [goat breed] and I used to show them I was in the [local goat club]!"

Woodstock: "... ah! here's the [accoutrement]! What goat club? Was that up north or something? You had dairy goats? What breed?"

And then I loaded my animal and his [accoutrements] and kicked up a plume of gravel leaving.

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And the biggest cupcake of the batch (alternate title: 'you can't effectively communicate if you run'):

3) I'm sitting here at the computer, babies are in bed for their naps, the Whisky Tango Jogging Chick From Hell has come and gone (and come and gone), all is peaceful.

Then I hear a chainsaw in the woods.

Our house is right on the gravel road, sort of in the upper right hand corner of the property if you were looking straight down on it and facing north (house faces north as well). The upper left hand corner is our unused pasture (long story, mostly involving my sloth busy-ness) . The rest of the property is woods. It's roughly 75% in timber.

Now, it's only 6 acres and we have folks behind us and beside us so you can hear dogs barking and chainsaws pretty well. But this sounded like it was right by the goat's feedlot. I'm not yet sure of the efficacy of Turkish when it comes to chainsaw wielding humans, so he may or may not be an indicator.

We've had the power company in the right of way cleaning and cutting wood, and I've been retrieving it as I can, and others might be doing the same on their property ... but, man, that saw sounded close. So I jumped in the truck and drove down the cut. I only went about halfway - just past the goats - since it scares me to go too far from the house even if all the babes are safely asleep in their beds and the house and yard are full of big dogs. The land climbs upward toward the barn and I can see the house clearly from there.

Right at the property line about a hundred yards away is a bloke in overalls and boots and nothing else (except a chainsaw). He turned abruptly away when I stopped and walked off. As I got out of the truck I could hear him sawing something in the trees. I stood there a moment, debating trying to speak with him when I look down at the closest stack of logs - which were a hundred yards onto my property. It had been sawed into stove-lengths.

Bloody hell. I looked around. All the stacks had been cut up.

The guy is standing on his property behind some trees. I can hear the saw idling. I made a decision and went striding down there. As I get close, I can see him walking quickly away through the trees. I called, loudly: "Excuse me!" but he hunched his shoulders and kept walking. I walked forward, he walked away; forward, away.

This grown man was running from me.

As my father loves to quote: "only the guilty flee where no man persueth"

So I drove back to my house, checked on my babes, grabbed some gloves, and came back and took every stick of wood, sawed and otherwise that was on my property close to the line. Which was all of it.

See, his failure to communicate effectively (!) cost him some effort and gas and netted me some pre-cut firewood.

A cheeky little post, but mostly pointless

Hmm.

1) I found my camera! YAY! I have even taken some fab pics of (parts of) myself for the next few Tuesdays (plus other cool stuff ... erm, cute babies ... it's mostly cute babies.)

("Put the Photoshop disk down, Mrs EGH! Back away from the computer!")

2) My temp has plunged but AF has not arrived and you and I and all the random molecules in the universe know that this means bugger all. I will most likely get up from this post, go to the loo, ect, etc (edited for our more delicate male readers. I'm just considerate that way. You hard-core ladies, well, as Quint said: "ya folla?!")

[edited to add: I kid you not ... no, really ... I just got up, and ... yep, you guessed it. So. That's the end of this cycle. Keep me in your thoughts for the next one. I'm only giving myself four more tries.]

3) I want to assure everyone that, as soon as I get up off my lazy arse and DO it, I will be putting up the links in my sidebar to all these cool new bloggers I'm reading. Have patience! Some of these chicks rock so hard. I'm thinking of saying a few words about a few of them (nice words!).

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OK, so here's my question.

If the Incredible Bulk (aged almost one YEAR, OMG, where is his next sibling?! Oh ... that's right ...) drops a green bean off of his highchair and his mother in her infinite sloth busy-ness fails to retrieve it immediately and Evil Genius Husband steps on it in his bare feet not once but THREE times ... is it my fault?

I mean, he stepped on it once. Why didn't he pick it up then? Or the next time, hmm?

OR THE NEXT?

I finally had to come in there, pick the squashed bean remains up from right in front of him, and dispose of them.

(note: EGH claims that he, himself, picked up those bean remains. I dispute this. Forensics has been contacted.)

Now EGH has always been a tad perceptionally impaired. He never fails to fail to find the three huge tubs of cottage cheese that reside in exactly the same place every time in the fridge. True, our fridge is just a weensy bit crowded, but still. If it's smaller than a gallon of milk he will not be able to locate it without assistance.

Speaking of the fridge, mayonnaise is apparently invisible to him. Which is a shame since he eats. it. on. everything. Everything must have cheese and mayo. Everything. But he can never find them. The mayonnaise, which we buy in whatever the next-size-down-from-gallon is, can be sitting at eye level in the front and I'll hear him roar: "Are we out of mayonnaise?!"

Me: (stomping up hall)
EGH: (cringing a bit as I stride into the kitchen) "I can't find I--"
Me: (snatching the mayo up from it's position eight inches from his nose and placing it in his hand)
EGH: (plaintively) "I didn't see it!"
Me: (stomping back down hall to open Blogger)

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This is terrible terrible influence of EGH genes! Witness the horror:




(And you thought I was lying about finding my camera. Hah!)

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This personality test is cool and nicked straight from Mommycakes (thanks Michele!). The manner in which you answer the questions is unusual. I'm a Cautious Thinker, BTW. Notice the rather alarming results. I'm one big bruiser of a chick, all authoritarian and masculine and stuff. All I need now is some piercings and a muscle car!

Oh ... wait ...

Self Portrait Tuesday #2

Well, here it is, Self Portrait Tuesday and I can't find my freakin' camera!

(No, this isn't some lame cop-out, I swear! I really can't find it.)

So I'm gonna limp through this Tuesday with this pic:


This is my mother, the Original Thrifty Mom, and my oldest daughter, the Human Crash Test Dummy. I think of it as a snapshot of the past and the future journeys of my genome. I look very much like my Mum only not as good. And fatter. Much fatter.

Oh, and my nose is huge.

Anyway ...

Here are the May challenge questions from Self Portrait Challenge:


-How do you spend your weekdays?

Not cleaning my house.

-Who lives in your house?

Myself, Evil Genius Husband, Boy(age 4), the above pictured HCTD (age 3), Bitty Girl (who does the best Evil Laugh in the world, age 2), the Incredible Bulk (keeping the floors clean of edible refuse for 11 months now), three dogs (Baz, T, and Molly), two cats (Abe and Johann), two Budgies (Ewan and Deirdre), and assorted spiders, 'cause I love spiders and I don't, erm ... clean.

-Favourite pastime and worst job

Fave pastime is ... blogging I guess. Worst job was working night shift in a convenience store in Conway SC for this Whisky Tango old bastard who fired me because I organized the cigarette cartons. He simply piled them up on a shelf so if someone asked for two cartons of Camel unfiltereds, you had to hunt around for the second one because they weren't together. It was the only job I was ever fired from.

-Why are you doing self portraits?

Because I have a terrible self-image and thought this would help. I think It's just made me realize just how unattractive I am. I mean, a pic of me a 1200 pixels wide? Ew!

A crap few days

Sorry for not posting, O faithful three readers. My last few days have sucked. I hope yours have gone a bit better.

Briefly, 1) I'm looking at yet another cycle gone to hell. I'm not sure I even ovulated this cycle. My temps have been strange. My deadline for all this madness is August.

2) The incredible Bulk has gotten to the eating stage of wanting to cram everything in front of him into his mouth simultaneously. I still cut his food into tiny bits if it is in the least bit hard, but if there's 18 pieces in there ...

Well you get the picture. At any rate, he almost choked himself Friday, scaring the crap out of me, so now I'm feeding him a piece at a time out of paranoia.

3) Three of my baby geese died Saturday and I spent the majority of the remainder of the day walking around sobbing.

On a less depressing note these things happened:

1)I've weaned the Incredible Bulk off of his bottle and off of [edited: I meant to say formula, here] simultaneously over the last 3 days. (This is entirely coincidental to them being bad days. He's done quite well, the little sweetheart.) (Yes, yes, I know that he's only 11 months old and that you shouldn't begin milk until one year, but I always start mine at about 11 months as they take different amounts of time to wean. I figure, worst case scenario, they'll be off by one year.)

2) I got a nice new dog.

And that's all I have for you today. Hope your Monday goes well.