Great Accomplishments

With all the little children running around lately it seems I am in the midst of potty training more than I care to be. Lily pretty much trained herself while her younger sister Laney is a bit more challenged by the whole thing. Still, she's trying and that's all anyone can ask of a two year old.

I've just started keeping my nephew Dewey a few days a week so we're finding our common ground with the potty training thing. He's coming along quite nicely. If only I could figure out how to explain 'hold your penis and watch where you're aiming'. It ain't like I can teach by example.

To make things more interesting and to hopefully encourage Laney to go potty by herself (instead of having me take her for mandatory pee breaks every hour) I have invented the "Clean pants happy dance". You can sing-song 'clean pants happy dance' anyway you want to. Around here it varies from Buddy Holly tunes to Klingon opera. The dance should suitably match the tune. (Have you ever tried to dance to Klingon opera? Go ahead. I dare you.) The happy dance has become so popular than anytime someone in this house takes a pee it's a potty training production of "Annie". Yep, making peepee in the potty is a really big deal around here.

A couple of days ago the girls were here and we were messing about like we always do. You know, disco dancing in fairy outfits and shit like that. I try to sneak off to the bathroom to do my thing because like all young children, the girls are fascinated with the bodily fluids of everyone they know and most everyone else too. Sometimes I try to remember what it was like to go to the bathroom by myself. I sat down on the toilet and just as I started to pee Laney came in. Her little face lit up like sunshine. She ran to me and wrapped her little arms around my neck so tightly I thought she would choke me. In between the kisses she was smothering my face with she said brightly "You made tinkles in the potty!!!" I've never had anyone be so proud of me for anything but suddenly, the most important accomplishment of my life was taking a piss.

They say you get what you give. I hope I've made Laney feel half as good as she makes me feel because getting that much love is AWESOME!

When Life Sucks

I'm out of pain meds. It sucks when the arthritis targets everything from my earlobes to the joints in my toes.

10:30 go to bed

11:00 get up and put heating pad that Marvelous Maggie made for me into the nuker.

11:02 go back to bed and wrap heating pad around whatever it reaches that hurts.

11:30 get up and turn TV on.

11:33 put heating pad back in nuker.

11:35 tune into Letterman and wrap heating pad around me.

11:37 revel in the fact that Robert Downey Jr. is on Letterman

12:00 finally made it through Letterman's obligatory shit to RD Jr. He's wonderful.

12:15 tuned to CSI:NY on USA

It is now 1:52 a.m. and I'm finished with the bottle of wine. I hate being drunk on a normal day but I especially hate being drunk when it doesn't accomplish the target goal of getting rid of the pain.

Maybe later I will go into how much it hurt when my sister gave up on me today when we met for lunch. I won't do that again.

I want to apologize to my mom who complained of pain and who for years I wrote off as being a giant wuss... It has all come back to me with a vengeance.

For some reason my PA cut my pain meds and here I am in the middle of the night desperately wishing I could go to sleep. Lily and Laney will be here in 3 hours. I will be totally crazy in pain when they get here and will not be able to deal with them with any sort of patience. I'm sorry babies. I love you. Honestly I do.

They think I don't love them. I wish I was dead. For a thousand reasons, I wish I was dead. When you're dead the pain stops, right? Please tell me the pain stops. I don't know how much longer I can take it.

Ah, the Good 'Ol Days

It feels like forever but it's only been 18 months since Hubby lost his job. Hubby builds bridges and he's damn good at it. You would never know it from the shit he slaps together around here. Every single building/shed that acts as a feed room/stall/barn is collapsing in on itself. This place is a health hazard. Fences are falling down and if I can't figure out some way to stop the steer from flipping the water trough I'm going to shoot his ass and bury him. OK, maybe not because I like steaks and it won't be long before Beefcake will be headed for slaughter. Hell, even the supports underneath this dump of a trailer I live in are collapsing. I'm rather curious as to how this is all going to end. Good to know I have a sturdy, warm sleeping bag.

Hubby got a new job about five months ago. It pays 1/3 less than what he was making but it is more than unemployment so hallelujah on that one. He wakes me up on the four mornings a week he goes to work (Believe me it's on purpose. Gods forbid I should sleep while he is awake even though on weekends/holidays he sleeps until 11 while I'm up at 5) and comes home every evening at whatever the time the job allows. Sure, he gets up 30 minutes before me during the week and he comes home late every once in a while but when he has time off I still get up before daylight and do the same thing I do every other day of the week/month/year/decade/millenium. I am grateful I have a husband who works because around these parts that isn't a given. This county is Big #1 in meth production and has been for several years. I could be living w.i.t.h a meth junkie instead of living between them. My big bitch is I gave up my life for something that was promised but never happened. That has resulted in some bitterness. As it is, I do what I'm supposed to do every day, 24-7-365. I never get a day off. It's the same. All the time. It will make you fucking crazy. I gave up a job I loved with all my heart to make this marriage work. I kept up my end of the bargain. I'm still waiting on the other end.

Hubby worked out of town for six or seven years and it was wonderful. It is probably the reason we haven't killed each other before now. He came home on Friday night and left on Sunday night. It was a dream come true in more ways than one. You see, I have learned to like being alone. I like sitting quietly in front of the TV and crocheting my hard little heart out while a glass of wine or a cold beer sits on the table beside me. When Hubby is here he talks incessantly about everything in the universe I care absolutely nothing about. Would you want to hear all about how Hubby is the be all-end all of construction and how so and so working his first job in construction made a stupid mistake? I don't like making fun of people or using them to make me feel better about myself (unless it's the women on People of WalMart whose asses hang out of their too short shorts but that's only while I'm here by myself and never something I talk about.) I have never met the people Hubby works with and I don't want to so why would I give a shit about what they say all day? That coupled with Hubby's commentary on why he is always right and everyone else is always wrong (as well as the fact that nearly every word out of his mouth is a lie) pushes me to press the volume button on the remote and hope he gets the hint. He never does.

If I could only go into why I don't pack my few clothes, hit the road and never look back you might understand. I used to hear/read stories about women who took shit from their husbands but never left. I used to boldly announce that they must like it because they stayed with the bastards. I am not suffering physical beatings but the mental and emotional abuse can be just as painful. Hubby follows me through the house yapping like a little dog. It can make you crazy. I do what I do to keep things smoothed over and avoid being picked on or pushed around. I have no place to go and no way to get there. Even if those two problems were solved I have no way to support myself. I'm stuck here until one of us dies. At this point, I don't care which one of us goes first.

Tonight it is rainy and warm but it's the best evening I've had in months. Hubby has gone to Raleigh and won't be back until tomorrow evening. I didn't have to cook supper and I wasn't cleaning the kitchen at 10 pm. It's the best vacation I've had in 18 months (not counting San Francisco of course). I knew having Hubby around was a lot of extra work but you know how much time I had to myself tonight simply because he wasn't here??? Three hours!! Three hours to myself just by not having him around to wait on. I have so missed having time to myself.

He will be back tomorrow night and I will be washing dishes in the middle of the night because I have to work around his schedule. Believe it or not, he works a full time job and still gets three or four hours more sleep per day than I do. The best part is he gets his all in one chunk. I am lucky if I get six hours sleep in two hour sessions. After all I just chase toddlers, take care of and clean up after eleventy hundred animals, take care of the house and once all that's done, cook for and clean up after Hubby who thinks the world was put here to wait on him. Some day I might be able to go into the details of why I am here and have no choice in the matter. Until then, I am loving this one day to myself and praying that I get another one soon.

My philosophy... If there was a god, I would be dead. If there was a merciful god, he would be dead.

For now, it's quiet and I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts.

Security is a Full Fridge

As I was cooking supper tonight I started thinking about a time when my kids were young and money was super tight. I know... money is always tight but at this particular moment in time we had been abandoned in Kansas by my ex-husband. I was attending a community college as well as working as a tutor and a chemistry assistant and doing third shift at a convenience store. I dropped the third shift job the day after I fell asleep and ran into a ditch on the way home to change clothes so I could get back to my 8:00 class. I didn't think dying would help much.

Hubby passes the fancy grocery store in Mars Hill that caters to the professors from the college on his way home from work. They have much better food at that store than here in this podunk town we live in. Every now and again he picks something up and that's how we treat ourselves. I cook better than any local restaurant so our night out is something special cooked in. I searched my favorite recipe site and decided to fix sea scallops with burgundy wine sauce. Making your mouth water, eh? It should. The stuff was delicious. Anyway... I was standing at the stove reducing the wine and cream when I started thinking about the time one of my friends made me (and I do mean MADE me) go to social services for food stamps. I had never had food stamps and it really bothered me to have to ask for them. I don't harbor harsh feelings toward anyone who gets them. It's just that I had never had to get them and it made me feel like a total loser. I'm sort of independent and I've always believed I should take care of myself and my children. To have to get food stamps meant I was a failure as a mother, as a provider, as a role model... the list goes on. I was face down in the mud and worthless.

I was given just a bit over $200 worth of stamps for a month. That was a small fortune in grocery money to me. I went to the 24 hour grocery so I could shop at 2:00 in the morning and hopefully not be seen by anyone I knew. It had been over a year since I had been able to really shop for food. We lived on the bare necessities. I purchased a whole chicken and the next day all I could think about was that chicken. When I got home from the day's classes I rubbed the chicken with butter and salt and put it in the oven. After a while the aroma began to permeate the house. My children and I migrated toward the oven and stood there with our mouths watering waiting for that damn chicken to brown. Nobody said a word. We just stood there inhaling. Eventually we started laughing about it but in my heart it didn't feel funny at all. That's when I realized just how fucking hungry we all were. The chicken never did get properly browned because we couldn't wait any longer. It was the first proper meal we had eaten in months. Veggies and everything. I remember that meal like I ate it yesterday.

I look back at the times when I was doing the best I could but it was hard on us. I think about all the times I feel like I failed my kids no matter how hard I tried not to. I also think back on the times when I wasn't doing my best and needed a kick in the ass. Not much I can do about any of it now. My children have grown into wonderful people and I love them. I adore them. I explain their goodness by saying they grew up good not because of me but in spite of me. They are loving, caring, hard working people who make me proud. And they love me. I don't know why but they do. Someday I would like to do one thing to deserve it.

My Ugly Duckling

A while back I mentioned a duck coming off her nest with six ducklings. There are two left. *sigh* I was hoping the last two would make it without insult or injury but like everything else around here, it wasn't destined to be. One of the ducklings is doing great but the other suffered a broken leg. I knew the little thing didn't stand a chance so I caught it and brought it into the house hoping it might have a chance to heal before becoming some predator's supper.

I set up the playpen I use during kidding season. It takes a lot of newspapers to soak up a duck's mess. Not to mention the fact that they smell horrible. Add some antibiotics to the mix and with the ensuing shits... OMG!!! You can hear the shit squirt from the next room. Before you can find a safe place to hide, the odor climbs over you like a thousand fire ants blinding you with pain that you can never imagine unless you have actually had the meat ripped out of your nasal passages with a dull deer antler. Nevertheless, I did the best I could, holding my breath and cleaning the little bastard two or three times daily until I totally ran out of newspapers. I sort of felt good about that but immediately felt guilty for feeling good about it. I need opiates. Then I wouldn't care about a motherfucking thing.

It didn't take long before I discovered the leg was broken in the joint and was knitting back at an awkward angle. Once I ran out of newspapers to line the playpen with, I asked Hubby to take the duckling out and put it down. I really couldn't imagine the little thing having any kind of quality life at all. It didn't work out quite the way I wanted it to. Instead of cracking the duckling's neck, Hubby took the 22 rifle with him. d'oh. He set the duckling down and before he could come around with the rifle, little duckling had run off and disappeared. I wasn't thrilled with that because I've gotten totally sick of the little things being eaten by the bigger things. Little duck was nowhere to be found.

Several days passed and I was certain the duckling had been ripped to shreds by a critter with nasty, pointy teeth when lo and behold, I went to feed the chickens and there it was trying it's best to get into the coop with the laying hens. There are a few ducks in there as well so I thought maybe they would accept the little one. I crashed through the underbrush and fought my way through the briers for nearly half and hour before I finally got my hands on the (enter many expletives) duckling. If it hadn't gotten it's crooked leg stuck in the chicken wire I never would have caught it. I put it with the Mama Duck who has been setting NO eggs all summer hoping that maybe she would think her five months of diligent setting on absolutely nothing had finally paid off. She seemed to be fine with it but that evening the little one was gone again.

Later I found it with it's mother. She didn't want it around at all. I understand where she's coming from. She's worried about protecting the healthy duckling and doesn't want the deformed one around. I can't blame her for that. It's nature's way. Still, that little duckling has fought so hard to survive I can't help but want to help it. Despite it's crooked leg, the little sucker can move pretty damn fast. If I can ever get my hands on it I will do the same thing I did with the last duckling I had to care for (which by the way is huge and beautiful). Maybe if I can protect it until it gets big enough to hold it's own with the older ducks it will be OK. But, I've got to catch the little shit first.

Is there a patron saint for ugly ducklings? I should put him/her on speed dial.


Update... Little ugly duckling has reconciled with her mother and all is well in ducky land. I love it when good things happen.

A Weekend Away From Poop

My friend Yvonne makes the best goat milk fudge known to man. Seriously, it's the best fudge ever. Since the beginning of time. I'm not lying. I think she does mail order if you're interested. This weekend I'm helping her sell her fudge at a local craft fair. I hope we're able to increase her income enough so that she'll be able to tell her husband to go fuck himself. He's fucked everyone else in the county. He might as well have a go at himself. Yvonne deserves better but for now she needs help with the farm as she works several jobs and cares for one toddler and a tween while useless marriage partner has drawn unemployment for the last three or four years while complaining about doing anything to help. I'd wish bad things on him if it would help my friend draw on a large life insurance policy.

I have one of the last remaining ducklings in the house recuperating from a broken leg. I don't know if it will survive this. That leg is pretty useless and I would have higher hopes if it stayed tucked up under the duckling but it drags behind and that's not a good sign. I'm not too fond of having a duck in the house but for now I really can't leave it outside. Have you ever smelled a duck? Ew. Ew to the nth degree. I'm changing the papers several times a day. Oh yeah, loving the duck poop I am... not.

Sunday has gone back to jumping the fence and meeting me bright and early in the yard. If only I could find where she's getting over the fence I could fix it before she gets hurt on a pile of hubby's garbage (piled everywhere without rhyme or reason. I'm considering a call to Hoarders. It's genetic with this bunch). I've walked all over the place looking for the tell-tale landing hoofprints but I can't find anyplace that gives the most remote suggestion where she's getting out. Sunday can coon jump 5 ft so anything under that height is easy pickings for her. (Mules and donkeys, unlike horses who need a running go at something, can jump from a standstill. They raise up on their hind legs and then spring across whatever is in front of them. The term 'coon jump' came from when mules were ridden on racoon hunts and had to jump fallen logs, etc. Mule Trivia 101) I'm starting to think my dear Sunday is levitating herself to the middle of the yard. I wouldn't put it past her to have this particular skillset. She is after all a mule and mules are magical creatures. Trust me on that one.

Best quote I've heard in a while... A half-ass is better than a whole horse. Love it. Want a tattoo but will settle for a t-shirt.

Time to fill my pockets with noms and head out to do the morning feeding. They all get so excited to see me. 'Hey look, it's the bitch with the grain bucket'!! It's not much but it's better than 'Hey look, let's stomp her'.

This and Thats

If you noticed, I've got several blogs I follow and it seems that my favorites haven't been posting much lately or if they have posted it hasn't tripped my trigger. I shouldn't say I haven't enjoyed all the posts. There have been good ones just not many of them.

Pioneer Woman has gotten so damned sugary it's hardly worth the effort but she has good recipes so if you like to eat by all means visit her blog. My long distance blog friend, Amanda who does What Not To Crochet has been on the ball lately and I love her so go there and comment on that fucking ugly turtle. If you are on Facebook, look at the pictures of her new palomino filly. My heart melts every time I see that one. My beautiful daughter (inlaw but who's counting?) Meredith hasn't done a new entry in ages. Yes, feel guilty my dear one and amuse your mother (inlaw) because she's bored shitless and requires mental stimulation. Me? I've been hanging around here changing Laney's pissy panties because she has decided she doesn't want to be potty trained until maybe the day after she isn't allowed to start school because she's too lazy to go to the bathroom. Seriously. I'm going to choke her.

Aw, shit. Not really but dammit if I don't feel like it sometimes. Sheesh.