Chicken and the Egg

Our First Egg

Thelma has been laying for about a month, beautiful tan eggs with bright orange yolks. She's very proud of herself, Millie's become quite jealous (see 2nd pic from the top) but heavily gaurds the coop from any poor soul who dares venture by when Thelma is in there laying eggs.

PS - the golf balls are in there to get the chickens to lay in the nesting box, once Millie starts laying then we'll take them out.

"I'd rather be in a room with 3-Maggie farts . . ."

I have dubbed it "one of the most ill-fated Thanksgiving road trips in American history ".

That's how this sad tale begins.

When it's all said and done, you may wonder just as I have been, if God is sending me a message: "Thou shall stay closer to thy home."

It all started the Sunday before Thanksgiving. Since Super Nova Baby Tova's birth, TG has been my favorite holiday. I was thrilled to be taking 8-days off of work and was looking forward to the drive from SoCal to Austin. Singing rounds! Playing the alphabet game! Drinking pop and eating Cool Ranch Doritos! What could be better than 21-hours of family togetherness in our brand new 2007 minivan?

Huh?! My friends, what could be better?

Well, we left the house 3-hours later than expected. No biggie, cause you can drive 80-MPH once you get out there in the desert.

3-hours into our road trip and only just past Yuma, Baby Tova Margie said, "my tummy hurts." We took her chips away from her, had her take a sip of water and that was that. Moments later, she said it again and then . . . hork. Barf down her face and car seat and legs and so on. A couple more barfs, now with me in the back seat cupping my hands beneath her mouth. We were finally able to stop at a rest stop that had no facilities. We did our best to wipe the muck away from Tova's seat and body, changed her clothes. We diagnosed her with car sickness, hopped back in the van and turned off the little t.v. we brought along to entertain the kids.

Shoulda turned around. Mark my words, we shoulda turned around.

Tova proceeded to vomit all the way to Tuscon, which normally is a few hours from Yuma but in our case was many hours due to frequent stops for fresh air and emesis evacuation. By this time, of course, Soren was in the way back complaining of a tummy ache. We pulled into Tuscon, only 5-hours from our home, with me straddling the seats holding a cupped hand under Tova and a plastic bag up to Soren's mouth. And as we did, in reference to the bile-ish vomit smell that had overtaken our new car, Petra exclaimed, "I'd rather be stuck in a room with 3-Maggie farts than this." Lars and I heartily agreed.

We passed many horrified guests in the lobby of the Holiday Inn as we tried to discretely rush past them to our dinky room for the night. Holiday Inn was kind enough to lend us their laundry so I machine washed the car seat covers while Lars hosed them out in the parking lot. We scrubbed Tova clean and did our best to catch vomit from Soren and Tova as they barfed their way into Monday. While my favorite son has the wherewithal to aim and place his vomit in sinks and toilets and trash cans, Tova does not. Her puke hit the beds, the floors, the walls, the chairs. It was a full-on revival of Airplane.

The next morning by 6 am both of the pukers were stable and no one else was complaining. We called Per and Kathy, consulted with them, did they want us to still come? If not, we were only 5-hours from home and it would be no thang at all to just turn around. "Come!" they urged. So we forged on, only 5-hours into our trip, it would make for a long day.

Feverish, but not nauseous, we got Soren and Tova comfortable in the middle row and sent the girls to the back for safe keeping and sister-time. We angled our way to two lane country highways in the middle of Texas, crossing paths with deer, jack rabbits, armadillos and big black things that looked suspiciously like hairy hippos (it was dark, the mind plays tricks on you).

Blessedly, at 2 a.m. on Tuesday morning, we made it to Austin, to the home of my brother- and sister-in-law. 15-minutes after settling into bed, Petra appeared at my bedside. It wasn't good.

Pattyboomers and I rushed to the bathroom. I held back her hair, while she puked in the sink. As I was shoving her emesis down the drain with my bare hands, Lars poked his head into the bathroom . . . and just in the nick of time. With one fist wrapped around Petra's hair as she continued to launch her cookies into the sink, he had his right hand wrapped around my hair as I upchucked into the toilet. Over and over again, Petra and I went and after each session I cleaned up with bleach because Lars does NOT do puke. This is how our night went.

By late afternoon, we were well enough to endure laying on the couch, cradling ginger ale. The next day we all managed to eat a little. By Thanksgiving, Per and Kathy's middle child was hugging the porcelain, too.

Tarnation! We had brought the plague 1/2-way across the country and infected the innocents.

Then Soren was bit by a spider and his leg swelled up to the size of my big ol'butt and he couldn't walk.

Friday I was well enough to borrow their neighbor's steam cleaner. I cleaned out our car, Lysol'ed the car seats and all the hard surfaces.

Saturday it was time to head back home. We wearily piled in the car (except Soren, who limped/staggered), each of us 3-lbs lighter than before and started off.

Now Tova, that Tova girl of ours, well she can be a handful at times. As we were rolling through the countryside, Tova quietly and timidly mentioned that she had a boogie. I handed that squishy bunned baby a tissue and focused on the map. "Mommy," she whispered, "owie boogie."

I turned around. It seemed the crayons and coloring books that I had handed back to my beauties had inspired Tova to be artistic in non-traditional ways. With an orange crayon dangling from her right nostril, Tova had tried to entertain herself rather questionably. She quickly removed the crayon, smiled at me, but I could see the tip was not on the crayon.

Rather, the tip of the crayon was stuck way the heck up her nose. Try as we did, that tip would not budge. It was causing her pain, not to mention distorting her face with a distinct bulge up in the bony part near her eye. Seriously.

Ohhhh man oh man. We followed Lars' iPhone instructions to the nearest ER, checked Tova in, and then sat down next to a decrepit cowboy. The staff was sweet and kind, which was good, because Petra was having a holy conniption feeling all sorts of guilt for having handed Tova the big kid crayon and not the fat baby crayon. As the nurse was fixin' to prepare us for a removal of a foreign object from the nasal cavity, Tova sneezed. And then again. And again! And I'll be damned if that little orange tip didn't wiggle it's way down. We all sat, holding our breaths as Lars gently stroked Tovey's nose until POP! Out it came! Hallelujah. Praise the Lord. And amen. We high-tailed it back to the van and sped off westward.

The next day was Sunday, November 28th. Of course it was Tova's birthday, but we were still on the road so we didn't tell her. Didn't want to get too crazy with our celebrating and then have karma come and chew our arms off for being too jubillant.

Finally, home to the crisp, dry plot that holds our crumbling, termite infested house with a loving and farty Bassett Hound there to welcome us back. Ahhhh, no place like home.

Pig in a Blanket

Ours has been a house of various plagues this week, to tell you the truth I'm surprised the health department hasn't shut us down . . . or quarantined us . . . or culled us.

Anyhow, we're in survival of the fittest mode, and when it's like that I just can't give you chicken updates. I can, however, provide you with riveting visuals of our aging hiefer hound who insists on sleeping on the softest and highest points in the house that her stubby legs can heave her to. She also likes a blanket for swaddling. Oh to be a dog! One round of grass and voila! You have an episode of puking on the lawn, you lick it back up and you're good as gold.

God Bless the Wild Beasts

I went outside to take some snap shots of our bountiful garden but Maggie followed me out and ended up distracting me with her smooshy face. Poor hiefer got her lip stuck up in her cheek. When I pointed it out to her, she got all sensitive on me. Too late for sensitivity. Lordy, I have a stomach ache from laughing at this hairy pooch.

She's a lot like Tova: doesn't speak much English and smells a little funny.

Despite the language barrier, though, you gotta help a sister out when her face gets lopsided. It's kind of like not telling a perfect stranger that she has a piece of broccoli stuck in her two-front teeth. It's the right thing to do.

This one, though . . . sheesh, this one huffy breathed at me and then acted like she had some other business to attend to. Somehow Surfin' DJ next door is, you know, just so very meaningful for a Bassett Hound with collagen deficiencies to monitor.

She tried to ignore my guffaws. She tried, but I was really rolling on the ground by now because a Bassett Hound is just one of those types of creatures that once you start laughing about 'em you can't even bring yourself to stop. Even now I have a little chuckle in me, ooh owww my abs.

Her lip had almost completely plopped out of her mouth, but she still wouldn't give me any eye contact. She was rankled. A wrinkled and rankled stubby legged cow of a dog.

Back to the lip tuck trick. Do you think she does in on purpose?

And then suddenly, she flopped to the ground (2-inches below her floppy belly).

Turns out she was just trying to work in her daily exercise. Treadmill is in the shop, don't ya know.

Pilates, mostly she does pilates.

This is one of her favorite yoga poses, though, it's called Side Down Dog.

It's a good thing she stays in such good shape. She has her work cut out for her, all that protecting of eggless chickens from nightly raids by coyotes.

This is her ab workout. I believe she calls this one Upward Facing Dog with Toe Touch, the toe touch is for added difficulty -- of course. Maggie LOVES to feel the burn.

Don't let your eyes betray you, this nose to the ground maneuver quite honestly requires years of training and dedication.

Post work-out C-Shaped Stretch.

Then snap up to four paws to do the final Shake Off.

It's imperative to engage the ears and lips in a bidirectional trajectory, otherwise the work-out is pointless.

And lastly, stare regally off into the distance with your lip untucked and your muscles bulging. That, my friends, is how you dissuade mockery and laughter while gaining respect of mammals everywhere.

PS - Her 10th birthday is 12/07/2010; send bones, bricks of unsalted butter (she's watching her blood pressure), organic crunchy peanut butter, fluffy pillows, and loaves of freshly baked bread.

Desperation

Back when Tovey was a teeny-tiny and wouldn't take bottles from Daddy while I was doing my long nights at the hospital, Tova manage to find solace in a battered old baby blanket of mine. The blanket, which I named Mankee (pronounced main-key), is as old as I am. He, Mankee is after all a boy, cuddled me on countless occasions quieting my prickly nervous system as I waded through playground disasters and boy troubles and even an occasional college mishap. Mankee maintained his lovely bright yellow rectangle shape, lovingly knitted by my recently departed Grandma Peg (this is the grandma for whom Tova is named!). No wonder Baby Tova took to this relic of love and peace and comfort, Tova and Mankee -- meant for each other.

Sadly, these days, Mankee is more of a mangled and knotted lump of entangled 70's yellow and orange yarn. I sometimes think the only thing holding dearest Mankala together are those knots. But Tova doesn't mind one bit. As she dozes off to sleep at night or when she's stressed and needing a little loving, she sticks her head into Mankee's big gaping holes and fixes her fingers through small openings in Mankee's ragged flash. Then she'll press Mankee tenderly to her cute nose and inhale Mankee's pheremones. Quickly her eyes will roll back in her head, a little drool with dribble from the corner of her mouth and she has become serene.

You just can't give away your baby/childhood/teenage blanket! This is a perfect and very natural transition for my old pal. However, given Mankee's current health issues, my mother sought fit to knit Tova a new blanket. This new blanket, lovingly knit just like Mankee Sr, has been renamed Gwamma Blankie by Tova and instead of replacing Mankee it appears that Mankee has become the mentor for Gwamma Blankie. Instead of fresh and taught Gwamma Blankie accompanying Tova to school (where she stays in Tova's backpack until naptime), Mankee still assumes nap duty with Gwamma Blankie filling in as the role of Robin to Mankee's Batman. In fact, both are frequently snuck into Tova's toddler backpack by a sympathetic older sibling where the two blankies bulge out willy-nilly but happily fulfilling their baby soothing duties.

Attempts to fix Mankee, to piece Mankee back together with new knots and knits and stitching, have all failed and alas Mankee has become even more jumbled and knotted and therefore, even more loved. Given the fragility of Mankee's loose strings and 33-year old yarn, and also recognizing that Mankee was with us for better or worse, my mother brought us a mesh bag designed for washing intimates. Much to Tova's horror, we place Mankee and Gwamma Blankie in that bag together for a good routine washing. After soaking through her diaper last night (Lars was in charge, I was at work), Mankee was pungent and terribly needful of a cold cycle.

Though I tried, unlatching Tova's curled fingers from Mankee's impaired physique as she slept sweetly, her sympathetic nervous system went into flight-or-fright mode and she thundered at me to cease and desist. I, somewhat taller and stronger than Tova, won that worrisome tug-of-war (worrisome because it's hard to imagine Mankee can take much more abuse without pouffing up into a big fluff cloud). I quickly threw Tova's blanket friends into the intimates bag and hit go on our washer. This brought her to near hysterics as she watched the carnage ensue from her spot perching just outside the washing machine. Her face contorted with absolute worry and sorrow.

And now, I have a sleepy baby restlessly pining for her Mankee, ohhhhh Mankee, MankeeMankeeMankee, little fingers searching for a substitute at the fringe on the scarf around my neck, imploring me to bring her fuzzy yellow buddy back from the brink.

Treacherous Mommy. Traitor.

Goodbye Old(ish) Friend

Dearest Vee Dubby,
The other day, when your transmission went gorky as I was pulling into oncoming traffic and you wouldn't go into first . . . well, you came through for me. You did your darndest, thunked into first after a harrowingly long interval and then sputtered me off the in the right direction. I'm sorry for what happened after that, and well after that and after that and even after that. Fact is, Dubby Dude, you're better off now. I appreciate the way you made me look cool, the way you perched me high above all the other cars so I could see their drivers texting and driving, the way you fit 2-surfboards, one Bassett Hound with a window phobia, and four children (two of whom are very prone to motion sickness) all in your muy fabulosa back seats.

Okay, so here it goes: I'm sorry we decided to sell you to Henry and Kate, I'm sorry we decided to replace you with a brand new 2007 fully loaded (cloth seats, no DVD) shiny Honda Odyssey, I'm sorry it didn't work out. I miss you, I care about you and I want good things for you.

Live long and prosper. May the spirit always be with you. May your new transmission, put in by your new ma and pa, be everything you've ever dreamed of.

XOXO,
K-Mama

Bionic Arm Days

Soren sustained a fracture in his right hand while riding a bike at a birthday party (I won't go into anymore detail for fear of embarrassing the parents of the birthday boy). To tell you the truth, Soren was really stoked about his bright green cast and all his new super powers (mega handball serves, weapon like abilities for threatening sisters, etc). His pain was also immediately relieved when the cast went on.

Much to his dismay, the cast did have to come off. That was yesterday. He was a little nervous about the circular saw bit, so he got a quick tutorial from this totally straight-laced guy here.

And away he went . . .

It was very noisy.

And a little scary!

He could finally tie his shoes again!

Then we had to wait for x-ray. Tova was exceptionally disturbed by it all and explained to Soren, in arresting detail, how "Guy. Cut. It. Cut. Cut. Cut. Soren owie? See me arm?".

So, Soren showed her his poor little dirty arm. There was a piece of artificial turf stuck to it, other than that he was good to go. We go back next week for another follow-up.

Reconciliation

Let's make-up and be friends again, okay?

Half Dozen I've missed you, so let's give it another go around.

Since September 27th all sorts of stuff has gone forth -- and more not. I'll list a few things, but because I don't want to spoil future posts (yes! future posts!) I'm not givig it all up.

1) Annike's kindergarten teacher wants her to do 1st grade part-time
2) Petra completed a fantastic first competetive gymnastics season, made it to sectionals, where she fell off the beam (her best event) and she still scored high enough that she qualified for the State Meet coming up mid-November
3) our beloved bus broke
4) I'm sadly not expecting
5) I delivered a breech baby
6) our Mildred and Thelma still have not laid one darn egg
7) we were completely surrounded by howling coyotes last night
8) Tova uses the potty with 50% accuracy
9) Lars and I went on a date
10) Soren is no longer damaged goods . . . (see next post)

Flies

Down here in this dusty corner of the country, summer passed by without so much as a whisper of a hot day, let alone a heat wave. My kids spent the first month of school wearing jeans, t-shirts and the occasional sweatshirt. We even had a smattering of light rain, a completely uncharacteristic event for my new home.

Did you know we've been here three years now? Three years! Leaving Ann Arbor doesn't hurt quite so much now, everyone was right the pain isn't so sharp but just sort of stingy and throat lumpy. Thanks all of you, Everyone, who told me I was going to be okay and that time would heal these wounds. Everyone, except Carolyn, that is. Carolyn read some geologic study about how California shouldn't even be here and soon enough it was going to crack off of the continent. She warned me not to buy real estate and she told me to hold on tight in case the cracking episode happened while I was still here. Love that friend of mine, though, I didn't take her real estate advice and second guess it every time we get a little jiggle from being perched atop these big old fault lines.

Now, here I am in my real estate digressing about things. My Coca Cola Zero is sweating, I'm sweating, my kids are sweating and my dog is sweating. I've got sweat rolling down that space between my boobs that most California women proudly call their cleavage (price approximately $10k), but my boobs are still solidly Michigan and so I am fortunate enough not to have a little pond gathering at the apex where my girls meet.

The weather has changed suddenly. It's hot and crispy. You singe your hand on the handle just trying to open the ding car door. And because we don't have air conditioning we have every fan in the house on pointing them at our faces.

I boiled some pasta for dinner while some of the kids were at the neighbors and Tovey was sleeping. There is just no reasonable excuse to cook dinner with everyone in the house on a dry 94-degree day. I threw together a pasta salad and some corn bread and then when I put it in the fridge to set and gather all it's flavors I also shoved my head in there for a quick couple of moments. Until I saw the strawberries sweating. Sweaty strawberries are even less attractive then a sweaty, full-grown mama of four so I crawled off that bowing little shelf next to the left-overs and tried to get pragmatic about it. At least I wasn't having to witness the "beauty" of all those wretched fall colors that old people and people with country kitchens wax nostalgia about. I find nothing fabulous about fall colors. Hello?! Fall. Is. Cold.

Who the heck cares about hot ciders and woolly sweaters and homecoming games? Ugh. Fall means winter and winter means snow and crawling around on Highway 94 in a white out at 19 MPH heading off to the hospital to catch some baby in the middle of a snow storm. One time it was soooo cold that I slammed my fingertips into my old VW hatchback, I didn't even realize it until I tried to walk away from the car but couldn't cause part of me was still in that ding car.

I do feel a bit like an 3rd world: lethargic from heat, a skinny baby at my boob and flies hovering around my face. And what exactly is it about that heat that brings out all those flies? But no sirree, I cannot say that I could swallow another Michigan winter. The milk and honey on this side is just as sweet, thank you very much.

Git tuh gittin' . . .

I know, I know, I whine bunches and gobs.

Thing is, if you end up totally satisfied with your life then what else is there to work for? Huh, huh, huh?

Since I've been in a bit of a hippy phase since I was 12-years old, I am more than familiar with all those songs out there about seasons changing and how it really means that babies get older. There's some peace and love in 'em, too. I do remember those parts. But it's the parts about the winds coming in from the West and blowing yer baby clear up in to personhood with legs that can walk and mushy cheeks that can talk . . . it is those parts of the songs that sting me like hot pokers.

You'd think that with all the peacing and loving we listen to in my little shack that my husband would go ahead and gimme another baby. He, apparently, thinks peace and love also means not overpopulating our planet.

Sometimes I try to get all Holy on him, seeing as that was his fire and brimstone upbringing, but instead he finds some diversion like playing "No Woman, No Cry" on his guitar with his chin pointed up to the stars. Hello? Anybody in there? He's gone and tuned out.

Tova may be our last Viking. I can't hardly believe it.

And then, you know what -- aside from me having all sorts of good baby names left -- you know what?

Today was Tovey Marge's first day of preschool.

The long walk to the front door, giving my baby away to the baby snatchers at our preschool.

Already busy with Montessori work.

Bye-bye, says Mommy.

Don't let the door hit you on your back porch on the way out, says Tova.

Two Down

She got hit in the mouth with a soccer ball, got some loose teeth, couldn't take it anymore so Daddy done pulled 'em out. First night, Tooth Fairy gave her a down payment so then Annike got to bring the teeth to school in a baggie for show and tell the next day. Second night, Tooth Fairy was apparently busy and didn't come back. Third night, $6 appeared and all was right with the world.

How do you make time fly?

(That's a joke.)

How do you make time fly?!?

You throw a clock out the window.

Or . . . you become the mother of the most amazing children in the whole world and you send them off to school.

And before you know it, three years go by.

The first picture was taken on the first day of new school right after we moved to California. Soren was 4 and starting preschool, Petra was 6 and beginning 1st grade, Annike was 2 and starting preschool and our little Tovey wasn't but a twinkle in our eyes. Now the kids are in 2nd, 4th, and kindergarten! Other than a few tears at the door, Annike's first day of school last Monday was a success.

Farm Girls

How are the chickens you ask?

Millie and Thelma celebrated 3-months of life on the 5th of this month. They're plump and juicy with only a few more months left of growing. Hopefully we'll get some egg laying action toward the end of winter 2011.

After a lil' Viking unlatches their coop in the morning, Mildred (a.k.a. Millie) will walk down the bridge to the feeder below while Thelma jumps out. They usually have a bit of breakfast under the coop, make plans for the day, clean their beaks on the cement and then head out into the wilds of the backyard.

For the most part, Maggie is fairly ambivalent about them. But, around 7:30 in the morning they'll start pecking on the slider, begging for treats and that's when Maggie typically jumps into action. I usually send the kids outside to scatter organic oats and flax seed, they usually let the girls peck some bites from their hands before throwing it onto the grass. Sometimes we feed them parsley, apricots, apple cores, corn on a cob, even bread. They love it all.

Maggie loves to help them, and they let her without giving up their own position in the pecking order. It seems Maggie's just another one of the hens to them.

And that's how they spend their day, picking at worms and bugs, sharing oatmeal with Maggie, chirping at each other and pecking at our windows. At dusk, they head back up the ramp to their coop on their own volition and snuggle up on their roost. By dark, Lars has the door latched and the girls tucked in.

It's a good life for my animals -- cowish doggies, sea monkeys, hens, Viking children and bearish husband.

The Ship Came In

My new cell phone arrived today, I've activiated it and it's set to go. Could you do me a favor and text me so I can put you back in my contacts. Make sure to say who you are.





Oh, and I do fully understand that I could just transfer info from my old sim card to my new. Feel free to pull the old one out of my besieged phone, step right up.

Stories of a Viking Matriarch

This is a true story.

You will read it and hope it's not true but it is.

It all started on Friday. Maybe it started on Thursday.

It all started on Thursday night. I couldn't find my cell phone charger for my cute little green Samsung. It was plain gone, not anywhere. Vaporized.

Back to Friday now. Friday I began my day with my usual -- lip gloss, hair in a bun, heels on feet, a quick check in the mirror, brief case over right shoulder, car keys in hand and kisses to the kids. I cloppity-clopped down the walk to the driveway with my dying cell phone in my bag, and except for keys my hands were empty. Lars hadn't made the coffee that morning, I was going to have to shell out some cash for my usual SBux that day. I hopped into Hope's little sports car, as per our usual car trading when she has more than one of my children at a time.

Work was anemic with a puny patient load that had me cutting out of the office early and a little cranky. Before I ran home, the next stop was Starbucks and Best Buy. Well, probably Best Buy and THEN Starbucks. It's not like you want to have an incident where you get some electronic equipment all frizzled out because your shakey hands dribbled coffee onto the Nokia display.

After getting a ridiculously priced replacement charger for my cutie pie phone, I headed to Starbucks. Because I'm a nice employer, I made sure to call Nanny Hopey first to get her order too. Hope advised me that she and most of the kids were at the beach, and could I please pack everyone a picnic lunch to have before I met up with them? Suddenly, it was my turn to place my order . . . oops, instead of ordering a half-caf, non-fat, tall vanilla latte I just ordered a non-fat, tall vanilla latte with all the caffeine that SB has to offer. Oh well, I needed a pick me up, or something like that.

I rushed home to throw a lunch together, tossed towels and swim suits into the beach bag and then zoomed off to get Annike from her gymnastics boot camp by noon. Made it to Annike in time, still sipping on my latte with my empty stomach. Felt a little jittery, but finally managed to parallel park at lifegaurd tower no. 30 -- only 2-towers away from Nanny Hope and the kids. I finished the latte just in time to feel all that caffeine settle into my bladder.

Annike and I bounced toward the beach with all our gear, including my brief case which held my now semi-charged phone that I had plugged in for a few moments while making lunch at home. Man, did I have to pee. After plopping our stuff onto the beach, I got my car keys from Hope and then schlepped over to my car with my briefcase among other things that didn't necessarily benefit from being on a sandy Pacific beach in the hot sun. On my way to my Bus, I passed a port-a-potty, it made me shiver but at least I fully understood what my options were. I dropped my briefcase into the car and grabbed my cell phone out of it. Then, on the way back down to the beach I decided that I would indeed absolutely need to rendez-vous at the port-a-potty.

Before stepping in to that blue little silo of depravity, I took a deep breath, held it, then burst into the stall.

And success.

Almost.

As I reached for my cell-phone, gingerly resting on the sloping lid of the toilet paper dispenser my body refused to forget that fully caffeinated latte I had poured into it that morning. My jittery and shakey left hand did not firmly close around my adorable, green celly. As I whirled around to step out of that azure tower of terror my fingers released . . .

and my cell phone went flying . . .

with a sickening 'kerplop' (lots of emphasis on 'plop') . . .

it landed into the juicy goo below.

Yes. It landed into the toilet.

In it.

OMG.

I stepped out of the port-a-potty. My heart racing. What to do?

Leave it. Just leave it.

Oh no! I just bought that charger! That expensive charger. And now, come to think of it, I remember the guy at the AT&T store telling me that if I ever break or damage another cell phone all I needed to do was bring it back in and they would replace it for me.

Talk about OMG. There were no other options. I went back in.

I stared down into the abyss, surveying the landscape. The toilet was filled with a blue solution that smelled like an elementary hallway just after the janitor cleaned up puke off the floor. I couldn't gauge depth, but I could definitely tell that my darling phone wasn't alone down there. It had plenty of company, if you know what I mean.

I cried a couple of tears. Then I transferred my bracelet to my right arm, mysteriously forgetting about my wedding ring on my ring finger. I rolled up my sleeve of my tres chere Banana Republic blue-and-white-striped oxford. Just to be safe I rolled it up to my underarm. And since deep breathing seems to be a habit of mine lately, I filled my lungs with putrid, rank, blue-goo, port-a-potty air.

I plunged my left arm into the center of the toilet. Objects burst away from my extremity from the force, only to bump back towards me, lightly tapping my forearm. I quickly tried to remember anything I learned from Mr Troost's AP physics class, recalling equations involving trajectory and points of initial impact. Bingo, search the left Kelly, stay to the left.

In the left corner of the hole, my finger tips found my cell-phone, fully submerged and resting at the bottom of the unit. I pulled it out, flicked off a bit of saturated toilet paper and then with the phone tightly in my fingers I ran from the port-a-potty as fast as my former track star legs could go. At that moment Hope turned to see me running toward her, but instead of stopping at our beach blanket I continued my sprint all the way to the chilly water. I plunged my left arm over and over again into the water. I dropped to my knees and with my right hand I grabbed fistsful of sand and scrubbed my left arm under the waves.

Hope's initial look of alarm turned into muted laughter, her mouth frozen in a wide-open lockjaw, eyes squeezed shut as she gasped for air. Apparently, other beach goers found me alarming -- my crazy run down the beach, my screaming, the vanilla latte pouring from my nostrils in my emetic coniption.

The kids were paralyzed, questioning looks on their faces. What the Hell is wrong with our mommy?

Finally, slowing my breathing down to a mere 50-breaths per minute, I walked back to our blanket. My hands white and shrunken from the water, I finally let go of the cell phone, chucking it into the sand angrily. I silently poured an entire bottle of hand sanitizer onto my arm, sniffing and feeling the pain of e. coli and listeria permeating through my skin. I relayed my tale to Hope, gesticulating wildly when half-way through my story I felt my wedding band fling off my finger and land onto the sand.

"Don't move," I screamed. "Nobody frickin' move."

The kids looked at me with horror in their eyes, our neighbors clicked their tongues at my monstrous language use. Hope, near hysterics with her legs crossed to keep her bladder from failing her, spotted a man 50-feet down the beach with a medal detector. She brought him over to our site and he set to finding my wedding ring.

We eventually found my wedding ring. The day eventually, mercifully ended.

When I got home, I tried again to sanitize my arm with rubbing alcohol and then Scrubbing Bubbles spray. When I felt quasi-reassured that I had killed every agent still living on my skin, I got into a scalding hot shower. After that, one final application of rubbing alcohol.

That evening we delivered my cell phone, sealed in a zippered sandwich baggie, to the AT&T store. It turns out the insurance plan does indeed cover port-a-potty incidents. Tomorrow, a third party will deliver my new phone. Niether cute, nor green but definitely de-shat and safe for human use.

Sadly, this is a true story. It will follow me always. It will never leave me. I am forever altered.

The moral of this story (it has nothing to do with Starbucks coffee or bringing one's cell phone into dirty environments): piss yourself, it's more convenient then a port-a-potty.

Chevaliers de la table ronde . . .

"Chevaliers de la table ronde . . .", it's an old French drinking song. Some of my mom's French buddies taught it to me long before I knew the difference between cabernet sauvignon and riesling. Not that I didn't know my colors at the age of 4, but when you're a little half-breed traipsing across the European continent in a 20-year old Peugot with an equally aged tent to you wine is just wine, regardless of the color.
Mostly these days, I'm trying to drink more wine. It's better for my heart, it's better for my initial 2-3 hours of sleep and night, and it's better for my husband that I'm cross-eyed when I swat at him for farting on me.
Tovey doesn't mind it. But what I really should be drinking is dark beer because my breastmilk supply is pitiful. Heineken Dark and a couple of tabs of fenugreek.
I just wanted to check in, say hi and tell you to come back for a visit soon. I'm working on some thoughts, trying to figure out how they'll sound on "paper".
Much love from your glass-is-half-full, hen-loving, mother of four but wantin' more,
Kelly

Cow Girls

There's nothing like watching your babies shed their down and grow feathers.

They're doing a great job at scratching in the dirt, pecking in the grass and they just love to roost.

Nothing like an old rusty Radio Flyer to get a cow girl in the mood to get her roost on.

Now if we could only get the coop finished, er . . . started, and get them out of our dining room.