Life Playlists

 I've been slowly recovering various abilities... today's physical therapy was trying to get into our van (last week I was able to get in and out of the Element, but the Element has the suicide doors, so there's way more space to get in and out. The Element is great, but I need the van to carry my wheelchair.) Anyway... 

As I managed to get ready to get in (with my entourage of floor shark pups swarming around), the radio burst out with "Hit Me With Your Best Shot", giving me lots of positive energy to get in and get it done.  I was able to sit down but I couldn't quite get my knees in. But that gives me something to work on - we'll get it Monday. As I was getting ready to get back out, we switched over to Stand By Me... again, perfect timing. 

Nothing Much Can Be Everything

 It's Sunday here on the ranch - not a lot going on today, other than Roger cooking up a lovely pork roast for pulled pork, and various puppies cruising by for a snuggle in between supervising the pulled pork thing. I treasure these kinds of days - watching some political news on TV, doing a little FB surfing, and just relaxing with my loved ones.

The Universe: "I'll Give You Something To Write About, Girlie!"

 Lately, it feels like life has just been a "a series of unfortunate events".  Even more than usual, I've felt like the universe is tilted against the wind, and while I recognize that I've got absolutely no call to complain when I've survived far longer than my doctors ever thought I would, still... it would be nice to get some breathing room.  But I think I've finally figured it out.

It started out with the double Dad deaths - in the same week, both Roger's father and my own passed away.  At that point, I recognized that yeah...  I had some serious issues that I really hadn't processed around my relationship with the Original Roger (I was thinking of referring to Dad as Roger Prime, but really...  he was grade b chuck at best. My husband is such an upgrade, frankly.) I thought I should probably go ahead and write it out, give myself some thinking room... but I moved on to holiday madness and the feeling passed.  

Then there was my 10 year anniversary of being diagnosed with uncurable cancer and given 18 months... I should have wrote out my feelings of survivor's guilt and my questioning whether or not my current life is worth the pain I live with (yes, by the way - it is. But I can see the day coming when it isn't anymore.)  But I handled that by throwing a party and buying everyone temporary tattoos of a cosmic hourglass on it's side, making light humor out of a morbid day.  It's a coping mechanism and I recognize it as such... but it works.  

So...  the universe apparently decided that I was not paying attention, and maybe I needed a more severe nudge - possibly with a cattle prod.  Necrotizing fasciitis, aka flesheating bacteria eating away half my thigh and putting me flat on my back in a hospital then a nursing home for two months - that ought to get me writing again, right?  Nope. I was too busy/tired/in too much pain to pay attention.  

Which leads us to where we are now...  vague writing, because I can't actually say what's happening, but I get the point.  I'm writing, ok?  I'm writing.  Praying that the talisman of putting words down in this blog of mine will save my family from further savaging by the whims of fate.  I'm going to try for every day, but I'll commit to once a week.  

I am so freaking tired of this... Whining Warning

My body is seriously pissing me off. Actually, no...  my brain is pissing me off. My body has been recovering nicely - I'm getting back to the point where I can do things that I was not able to do (like use the freaking toilet.) But my brain... is terrified. I hadn't realized how bad I was, until I ran out of the anti-anxiety medication I've been on for physical therapy.

See, in the rest home, I found myself frozen when I was trying to transfer from the wheelchair back to the bed. I had my first big panic attack over the fact that I might not be able to lock my knees when I stood up (mostly because I was having trouble locking my knees when I stood up, naturally.) So, I was prescribed Hydroxyzine to help with the panic attacks. It helped - I hadn't realized how much it was helping until... 

I ran out on Saturday, and at that point, I had figured that hey... I've been doing well. I was able to stand up fine off the toilet, I've been moving around the house well since the catheter was taken out... I even managed to get in and out of the car for the first time since May. I was well on my way to mobility - even celebrated with some Chinese take-out. The local economy celebrated with me - I always go big when I order hungry.

But yesterday, I noticed I was having some hesitancy issues - it was harder to make myself get around, although I did it. But this morning...I was brought to tears by my inability to make the damned Poise stick in its place (I've been taping them down, but the tape fell and of course, rolled away). Then, it took me 10 minutes to get myself psyched up to getting up off the toilet. I knew that I could do it, I've been doing it for the past 4 days... but my brain was busy catastrophizing, knowing that I would fall and be laying there, dachshunds licking my face, until Roger woke up and tripped over my bloody corpse. 

I'm not sure what all to do about this - other than put in an urgent request for a refill of the hydroxyzine. Of course, that means going through Tiffany the Tyrant, my doctor's nurse, who a) never returns my phone calls; and b) has a history of "forgetting" to follow through with refill requests, especially for things like pain medication or depression/psych meds. So... that'll be my Monday adulting task.

And I'll be doing it on no sleep...  I couldn't make myself go to sleep last night, because every time I put my Kindle away and closed my eyes, I started to panic about Roger. I don't have any clue what I'm going to do if I lose him... but that's another post.  

Tax Preparation Ain't For Sissies

 I'm committing storytelling again...  

First off, establishing a few facts.  I have a fairly high IQ.  It's not Marilyn Vos Savant level, but I typically peg out somewhere between 145 - 155 on a standard IQ test, I scored in the 99th percentile on my ASVABs back in the day... You know - I can generally figure things out.  My dad, bless his heart, was a functional illiterate, so yeah, I got it from my Mom (she dropped out of high school in 10th grade to have me - intelligence doesn't always equal smarts), and her sister is similarly blessed in the brain department.  All three of us are well-seasoned bureaucrats (Aunt Sherri was a postmistress, I was a purchasing agent, Mom was mid-to-high level IRS - this will come back into relevance), and we all know how to work with red tape and speak fluent bureaucrat.  

Moving on to the next fact - we're all small town Mormon women.  (Well, we are now.  Mom and I both tried to escape our fate by getting the hell out of the state as soon as possible, but you just can't fight genetics - and yes, in our family, it's more of a genetic than a religious thing.) Our family came across the continent pushing handcarts full of our belongings - to misquote Stripes, "Our foremothers were kicked out of every decent state in the US..." and as a result, we're bred for civic duty.  (A lot of other things too, but for the purposes of this story, civic duty.)  You get 5 Adams women in a room (you need an odd number - otherwise, a card game happens), and a  quilting bee will naturally occur - along with some pies, funeral potatoes for a gathering of 60, and in a pandemic, a surprising number of masks and/or hospital gowns.  Especially once we retire.  

Then there's our family's unique method of dealing with unfortunate news... we build a brick wall and run as fast as we can away from actually addressing grief. Usually, that brick wall is made of whatever project we can find - especially for my mother the project manager.  So, since just since October, we've had a massive fight with the third of the sisters, both my father in law and my father passing (in the same week), Sherri catching a breakthrough case of COVID, Mom breaking her foot, Daniel being diagnosed with cancer...  we've been needing distraction.  

So, Mom decided to volunteer us. Because yes, of course, when she's told to take it easy and stay off her feet for 6 to 8 weeks, naturally, project management is the first thing to pop up. I swear, the woman bleeds GANTT charts. She decided we need to set up a free AARP-sponsored tax-prep center for senior citizens here in the Basin.  Which, yeah... fluent in bureaucrat, Mom's got that IRS experience, Sherri has been a bookkeeper, Daniel has excellent community knowledge due to our vaccine work... you'd think it was a perfect fit.

Oh, how the mighty are fallen. First off, you wouldn't think that it would be all that hard to find a space to work out of for a couple of months. You would be wrong. Senior centers?  We've got a couple here in the Basin - nope. Empty storefront, maybe?  No one wants to get on the bad side of some corporation who will remain unnamed, but who have been cursed by Ken Jennings.  Finally found space in a library that will let us in 3 hours a week (but who will be kicking us out promptly because they need the room for the Lego club.)

But that's nothing compared to... the Chromebooks.  See, in order to maintain confidentiality and make sure that nothing gets hacked, we have to use a secure connection (ie router) and dedicated computers. Ok. But these little beauties are so secure that we can't actually get into them - the user names and passwords we were given don't work. Ok, so for training purposes, I'll go ahead and use my own computer, and work on that issue in January... log on to the "training portal", do the practice exercises, easy peasy, no problem.  Right?

Three women, above average IQ, seasoned bureaucrats, motivated to help.... we're half way through the class, and we're at the point where we've stormed off into separate rooms, if not completely separate houses, the men are all avoiding us if at all possible (amazing how many trips to town have suddenly *needed* to happen), and the dogs are incredibly happy because angry snacks tend to be high calorie and easily dropped.  There have been words... lots and lots of words, mostly things like "What do you mean, I can't use a # in my password? It's a special freaking character!" and "It worked yesterday - look, I wrote it down, I entered exactly the same..." or "Look, Box 5 on the SSA1099 is not the spouse's income, I don't care what the teacher says!"

Fortunately, Mom was finally able to summit Mt Paperwork and do the homework this afternoon.  I'm in the system and at the point where I can do the homework tomorrow - next class is Tuesday.  I'm hoping we're at the summit... we'll see. But might I suggest that rather than building up an arsenal of bombs, we just drop IRS Pub 4012s and Chromebooks on our enemies?

 

Dog Vignettes

 On the way to town today, Lili tried to come with (well, so did the red-heads, but that's a different story.)  Once I made her leave, she stood there, face into the wind. Here in the basin, we get some serious wind - and she was doing a L'oreal commercial. Her hair was billowing, and so were her ears.  I was expecting a Scottish Terrier in a kilt to come along and pose for a romance novel cover with her.

After I got back from the vaccination station, I went to lie down, and all four of the small pups somehow knew that I needed comforting.  Daisy sat on top of me, Lili tucked into my knees, and the red-heads tucked in around (Daisy wanting to get as close as possible, Toby wanting to be in between me and whoever is getting attention...)

My First Job

 I'm sure this is going to surprise you, but I've been a feminist all my life.  When I was 8, I struck a blow for womanhood (ok, little girl hood) by taking a job as the first female paper carrier in Salmon, Idaho.  

Ok, I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to define that for anyone born in this millennium, but (slipping into my rocking chair, hiking my glasses up my nose....) Back in the day, people often got their news from newspapers.  Salmon being a basic hick town did not have its own newspaper, but the Idaho Falls Post Register was willing to pay me to drop off its screed on people's doorstep daily - after school, I'd ride my bike over to the post office and grab my stack along with the other urchins.  The Post Office guys sort of adopted me - they called me George, so that they didn't have to acknowledge my gender, and we got along well.  

Dr StrangeGoat (Or how I learned to love the farm)

I've had a few people ask me about LaRaeDough - specifically, what the hell happened to get me here, but generically, why am I on a goat ranch in Northeastern Utah, when I'm obviously better suited for more urban climes.

Well... to start with, I was born in a small town in Southwestern Utah, so part of it is genetics.  My mother always had a rambling spirit and a firm believe in geographic cures, so we lived pretty much everywhere while I was growing up, but home base was always Grandma and Grandpa's place in Washington, Utah.  Washington, however, is not the Washington of my youth - it's blown up, going from 400 people to close to 20,000 (which is frankly unsustainable).  So, my family all moved north, and Aunt Sherri and Uncle Ron ended up buying a place outside of Whiterocks, Utah (pop. 321 as of the last census), and when the acreage next to them opened up, Mom moved in.  It feels a lot like Washington used to - close knit community, you know everyone, there's a DIY feel...

Gratitude, schmatitude...

Quick recap - I've been living with ULMS (aka Hank the Tumor) for about 7 1/2 years now.  I've finally managed to wrap my head around the fact that I've been given a miracle - this disease that was going to kill me has been stopped in its tracks, somehow. It took me a long while to get here - mostly because when I think miracles, I think in terms of saints.  I ain't no saint. Not that I'm particularly sinful either, but I've never had the kind of reverence associated with (say) Mother Teresa or the blessed Virgin.  That, and receiving a miracle seems to imply a debt - a requirement to proselytize or at least stop swearing quite as openly. 

The Follower

Naturally, she followed Liam.  He brought sunshine into the world - how could she not?  She followed him onto the ship, across an ocean. She followed him into the yoke of a hand-cart, walking across the continent to Zion.  His joy led her onward, until the sickness hit the company. His last breath was spent on trying to make her smile.

She wrapped their best clothes up in oilskin, to leave for those in need.  Then she made her way to the river, gathering stones as she walked, to wash her sins and follow Liam once more.

My Protest March

Ok, in the middle of Nowhere, Utah, Mother, Jaime, the girls, and I would not be an effective march - especially since anyone driving past to see us would probably be a relative, so this is my virtual march - it will probably get more eyeballs, and last longer than I would walking out in the heat.

Indefinite detention is not appropriate for children. Regardless of the cleanliness or feel (and cages and space blankets are definitely not appropriate), locking children up is not who we are reaching to be as a nation.  More, though - indefinite detention for anyone who has not been *convicted* of a felony is not appropriate - it's not just that it's inhumane (which should be enough for anyone), it's not cost-effective.  Instead of doing what should be done (actually funding the initiative properly, including adequately staffing immigration judges and both prosecuting *and* defense attornies, rather than expecting 3 year olds to defend themselves in court) we're throwing money at the private prison industry.  Yes, we're taking one of the few things that should be the definition of  a governmental function, and we're outsourcing it. What could possibly go wrong with giving a profit motive to locking people up?  So, we're paying around $750 a day for each child ripped from their family... and now proposing to lower that price to around $250 a day for each family locked up until we can finally get them through the backlog... instead of being sensible, using an ankle bracelet to monitor while they're released on their own recognizance at around $25 a day.  These are people who committed (at most) a misdemeanor by going around rather than waiting up to 2 months in line.  Now, I'm not talking about this for the 240 actual dangerous gang members (who we could concentrate on with the resources freed up by not prosecuting families). (Yeah... 240.  All this yelling about rapists and murderers of MS13 is based on 240 desperadoes.) 

While I'm thinking about this - how about doing the same thing for non-violent potential offenders who *are* US Citizens?  Our current bail system has people waiting in jail to be tried for potentially months just because they're too poor to pay bail.  Let people out until their court date - pilot programs have shown an over 90% rate of compliance, and we'll save money, keep people working (and paying taxes, and (most importantly) be humans again. 

Flotsam and Jetsam

We're still in the process of integrating our two households into one, getting rid of the excess spatulas (it's amazing how many spatulas you accumulate over 50 years of living), figuring out which mandolins to keep, getting rid of the crappy towels...  Mostly doing kitchen stuff right now, and it's definitely a walk down memory lane.

To begin with - I don't drink hot drinks.  I mean, I'll maybe have a cup of tea when I'm down with the flu, but other than that... And while Roger is a coffee drinker par excellence, he mostly uses a Thermos to keep it warm throughout the day.  So how is it that we have so darn many coffee cups?  Heck, moose emblazoned coffee cups alone, we've got enough for your average squadron (especially if you include Moose dachshund cups).  Then there's the Corps of Engineers ceremonial cups - I've still got one from the Mt St Helens celebration when we finally completed the sediment detention structure.  We've got three different Sunset Bingo cups - they've outlasted the actual business we got them from, which closed down shortly after I left for Utah (I'm sure there's no connection.) The funny thing is that I've never bought a coffee cup in my life... Kind of like how moose-themed objects just seem to appear in my presence.

A Day In The Life

Little bits and pieces of life here on the goat ranch:

- The family planted potatoes today - I wisely took a nap and managed to avoid this, but I did my part last night, when we cut up old potatoes, separating out pieces with eyes on them.   This got planted in Mom's yard, out past our fridge planters with the tomatoes and other veggies (seriously - we've got six old refrigerators turned onto their sides and filled with dirt that we use for vegetable planters.  Hey, it's slightly less redneck than using them as appliance fencing...) 

- I figured out how to get the paperwork for selling the house and dealing with the escrow to our credit union in Roosevelt so we can go in and sign tomorrow- selling a house long distance is a lot more travel intense than I thought it would be.  Part of the problem, of course, is we don't have a fax machine because we don't have a home phone line (and apparently Docu-Sign is only trusted so far in the house selling community - which after the whole 2008 debacle, I can appreciate, but still... pain in the butt.)

- While Roger and Uncle Ron were working on the irrigation system for the garden (ably assisted by Gary and Briggs - for certain definitions of the word assisted), Mom, Sherri and I attempted to play cards, assisted by baby Riley.  His assistance mostly consisted of crawling at a high rate of speed to the kitchen door whenever he was not being actively held - although he did eventually give up and start playing with Mom's cabinets, dragging out as many serving trays as possible. 

- During the card game, Marlo got loose and came looking for her Maaaaaa.  We've started trying to wean her, and frankly, she's not having it.  She seemed pretty determined to find me (and more importantly, to find the bottle, and was sadly disappointed when I came up empty, so she went over and started conspiring with baby Riley to try to bust out of this joint, until Roger showed up and firmly dragged her back to her tractor.

- This may feel strange, but life here feels more like a commune than I think anyone else living here would feel comfortable with (considering that I'm the hippy liberal in the group.)  We have our house and Aunt Sherri/Uncle Ron's house side by side each other, separated by a porch and a driveway, Riley, Cassidy and the boys just across the road, the other cousins popping in on a regular basis, and at times, it feels like one big house with some exceptionally open hallways (and 30 acres of scrub brush and goat/cow/horse range all around).  Maybe it's genetic, but I'm starting to enjoy it - as long as I have my room to retreat to.  Tonight, we're going to be grilling burgers out on the porch, with the guys grilling, Sherri doing up corn on the cob, me possibly contributing a salad... all of us trying to get Briggs to eat *something* (he's at the "I don't like that" stage.) 

Goat Goat Dancing

We've been having issues lately with the goats escaping.  Well, I say we've been having issues - Roger's been having issues.  It started out with just Houdetta and Domino (Houdetta so named because she would manage to escape the herd so often we figured she had to be Houdini reincarnated - and Domino, her son, so named because he's pure black with white spots.)  Roger finally managed to fill up all the holes she found and stop her from helping herself to a hay buffet - he didn't really grudge her the hay, but she'd eat through the twine to get to it, which made it a lot harder to haul around.

But the past couple of days, the entire herd has been getting out somehow.  Roger isn't sure how - he's rode the fenceline, and he's even staked them out to see if he can figure it out, but no luck yet.  It's not really an issue - they come running when you bring out the fresh hay, but still...  anyway - today, the herd came visiting Marlo and her habitrail.  I'm not sure if it was just a prison visit, or if they were offering to bust her out (although the fact that a couple of them came up on the porch leads me to believe they may have heard about the sweet deal Marlo's got and some of them may want in on the feeding/couch jumping.)  Part of me wishes that Marlo hadn't been in her corral - I'd like her to go ahead and integrate into the herd - but part of me is glad she was because it did not end well the last time she played with these guys (Ron and Roger ended up finding her bleating her poor little heart out, abandoned in a gully she couldn't get out of.)  But it'll be interesting to see if she can integrate - in a few weeks.  I've still got a couple weeks of her being my little bummer.

She's Getting Dangerous

Marlo's midday feeding was... fraught.  For one thing, Roger's been having to put her in the corral during the day, because she just jumps the fence of her habitrail.  So she gets anxious and ready to free-range once it's feeding time.  The minute he lifts up the corral and she can slip under it, she makes a beeline for the door, slipping when she hits the wood on the deck, but barrelling towards her bottle.  Unfortunately, today Miss Lili was also on the porch, chilling out, and Marlo ran straight over the top of her.  Poor Lili is ok, but she's still muttering something in canine about "What the heck hit me?"

Then, once she slurped down the groceries, Marlo decided she wanted to come up and climb Mount Midoramommy... which is, of course, where Lili had gone to lick her wounds from the first encounter.  Lili made her way up me to the back of the sofa as Marlo was coming around my front, so further injury was avoided, but Marlo decided she wanted to go shopping on my desktop.  After informing her that no, she can't eat my stationery, or drink any of my caffeine, or eat my glasses, or... she finally decided she'd better suck up quick or she wasn't going to have lap privileges anymore, so she went back to her old fall-back, suckling on my ear. 

She hadn't really suckled my ear since the first week... trust me, she's got even more teeth now, and she's got absolutely no finesse - think horny 16 year old boy on his first date - but it was a nice reminder of when she was my little kid... ok, so she's kept lap privileges.  For now.  Stay away from my stationery, though!

Travails with Hank

Hank the Tumor has been too much with me the past couple of weeks.  Partially because it's coming up on our anniversary - April 8th 2013 is when my uterus exploded and Hank entered my life, but more than that, I've got an appointment at Huntsman later this month to talk to a new set of doctors about him and I'm irrationally nervous about paying any attention to him.  He's been amazingly quiet, considering, and I'd really rather not wake him up. 

I really should be celebrating - I was talking to Mom about it, and if you consider the rarity of myxoid ULMS... 6 women a year are diagnosed - if you round that down to 5 for ease of math, and consider that there's a survival rate of 50% the first two years, 20% by year five - I might be the sole survivor of the class of 2013.  (I know, black humor - hey, it's got me through so far.)  My current doctor said he looked over the notes from my former cancer doctor, and she has absolutely no clue what I'm doing still alive.  But here I am...

Marlo Moments

I always questioned whether the whole "goats go for high ground" thing was a myth... but Marlo definitely prefers to be high sentry.  She's already climbed me (multiple times), but now, she's making the assent up Mount Sofa whenever possible.  Not just the seat - she's climbing the back, trying to get as high as possible.

She also has a definite preference for her dad - Mom and I were doing the morning feeding while Roger was in the shower, and the minute he got out and came into the room, she was right there under his feet (trying to climb up his legs, of course.)

She's a bit unhappy about us putting her in the corral with the high sides and lid, but it's for her own safety.  Yesterday, she was over trying to make friends with the cow and her calf, and the calf was *not* having it.  She almost got herself trampled before Roger got her back.  She may be growing fast, but the calf still has a few (hundred) pounds on her.

There's Nothing Like a Baby Goat

I started out the morning with a figurative black dog on my shoulder - dealing with trying to pay invoices from the painter, where the credit card company was rejecting the invoice because it's not the kind of thing that I normally buy.  Yeah... I'm not normally trying to sell my house, so I don't normally hire painters.  Look, I've got more than enough in my credit line - just pay the damn thing! And then, of course, the painter who said he would have an invoice to me last Thursday, but didn't get it to me until yesterday evening, calls immediately this morning to tell me that it's not going through, without giving me time to fix the problem.  And, of course, my bladder decides this is a good time to start the waterworks... and I'm dealing with the house cleaner coming and a doctor's appointment, which is going to involve going to town and my knees screaming at me for the next couple of days, and...

And then it's time for Marlo's morning feeding.  She runs in the door, heading straight for me, joy on the hoof. She bumps her little head against me, impatient for the groceries, but also letting me know that I'm her whole world for the next five minutes (or however long it takes to slurp down her bottle). And then she climbed up Mount Sofa and headed straight for my lap, wiggling and writhing and trying to eat my glasses, my hair, nurse on my ears... whatever part of me she could get to, she wanted part of.  She made me laugh and I could feel the black dog slumping off... it's not that he left the room, but there just isn't any room for despair when a baby goat is nuzzling you.  I wish that joy for all of you - not necessarily a baby goat (they are a lot of work), but something that can bring you back to joy when you most need it.

A Rough Start to 53

Rough start to the morning - I fell out of bed.  Well, not so much fall, as slowly slip down past the point of recovery.  I've mentioned my issues with my knees before - basically, there's no cartilage left, and I can't put any weight on them - so when I'm down, I'm down.  And of course, the reason I was trying to get up in the first place was that I needed to go to the bathroom, in the worst way.  Yep.  This was the worst way... stuck on the floor in a puddle, needing to be rescued. 

On the other hand - Uncle Ron rousted our neighbor down the street, and between Roger, Mom, Ron, Kelly and the two lovely women from the tribal ambulance, I'm back up vertical, with only psychological bruising - thankful I was dressed when it happened, that I didn't do any damage to my body, that it was something easily (well, relatively easily) solved - and for a wonderful family who all rallied to my aid. 

I'm really grateful for my family's reactions, too - Sherri was very encouraging, seeing the bright side, Mom made sure to cheer me up afterwards with an incredible Easter basket/birthday present, Roger stayed with me and comforted me while we were waiting - and Uncle Ron is currently researching where to get the tarp lift just in case this happens again.  And the kindness of neighbors - I hadn't met Kelly before, but he came right over to help lift me up, joking about not even having to miss church, since it's Conference weekend. 

It was a hard way to start the day - but it could have been much worse.  And then we got on with the day - Marlo's morning feeding, where she slurped down her milk in record time, and then proceeded to climb the couch.  She's growing up so fast! Almost too fast - I'm going to miss her once she grows out of needing us.

Oh, and gifts - Mom found an Easter bunny bag with my name embroidered on it!  I think this is the first time I've had anything with Deci embroidered on it.  She filled it with adult goodies - lotions and shampoo and Lindt chocolate bunnies and carrots, all the necessities of life.  Roger found me ammo to deal with Briggs and Gary - a laser gun with noise and lights that I can use next time they're running around like hooligans.  Oh, and he got me the Elton John Diamonds box set - it's absolutely fabulous, of course, with art postcards and a hard-cover book with factoids about each song.  All in all... the day is looking up. 

Marlo's First Week

She's definitely growing - she's large enough now that lap feeding was no longer really optimal.  (Plus, she's a feisty little girl, and my ears were starting to object to being nibbled on constantly.)  She's graduated to having us put a blanket down on the floor, and me holding the bottle down for her.  She still is one of the messier eaters I've seen (although Mr. Riley is a close second - what is it about kids of all species that makes it so hard to actually load food into their mouths, as opposed to their cheeks, chins, back, etc...?)  But she is drinking down at least half a bottle three times a day, and we're thinking about upping the volume. 

She's loving the Habitrail that Roger built her - I've caught her playing king of the mountain on top of the logs a couple of times, and it looks like giving her a stuffed moose to cuddle with was a good idea.  She's also at the point where Roger doesn't have to carry her in and out of the house anymore  He just lifts her over the fence, puts her on the ground, and she follows him into the house like he was the Pied Piper, generally accompanied by Daisy and Lili.  In fact, Daisy has claimed her - she checks in on her throughout the day, she does a quick physical on her while she's feeding... I figure it's redheads sticking together (they do have remarkably similar coloring.)

Anyway... she's doing well, and we seem to have survived becoming foster parents - at least for now.

Back to Motherhood (of a Sort)

I've been feeling a need to nurture something, and Mom's dachshunds are frankly both nurtured enough, so... Uncle Ron presented me with Marlo (the baby goat up above.)  She's a bummer - apparently, that's the term for baby goats that are rejected by their mothers, so I'm going to be feeding her by bottle three times a day.  Ok, and possibly crooning lullabies, buying her cute little sweaters, saving up for her college fund.  I may be a tad obsessed for a while here.  She really is a cute little thing, though - and she's got a healthy set of lungs on her, and one heck of a survival drive.  She also has a fondness for nursing on my ear, which is a little odd, but hey...  I can deal. 

Anyway - meet Marlo.  So named because her ears turn up at the ends in a perfect flip, kind of like Marlo Thomas in That Girl.  I'm pretty sure you all will be seeing a lot of her (at least I hope so... I'm going to be seriously bummed if she doesn't make it.)

Scenes from a Mormon Dinner Table

Short one #1 - "I like carrots." 
Me - "Good, you can have mine."

Short one #2 - I want barbeque sauce
Aunt Sherrie - You want ketchup.
SO#2 - I think I want barbeque sauce.
Aunt Sherri - Ketchup.
SO#2 - But I like barbeque sauce.
Aunt Sherri - You like ketchup.
SO#2 - I'll have ketchup.

Short baby - nomnomnoom
Mom - Hey, he likes vegetables!  Not as much as the ice cream, but...

Short one #1 - I don't like potatoes!
Grandpa - try it with ketchup on it.
Grandpa - Ok, put your finger in it and try it like this
SO#1 - I'll get messy!
Grandpa - Ok, try it with your fork

Short baby - bangBang BANG!!
Mom - he seems to want more vegetables
Short #1 - I don't like this!
Short baby - dropping vegetables to the puppy from the high chair.

Short one #1 - But (short one #2) said....
Mother of short ones - I am your mother, and it doesn't matter what your brother says.

Duke (the German Shepard) - You sure you don't have some small meatloaf crumb for me?  Maybe if I come back in a couple of minutes?  Just let me know...

Minor Phobia

So, I have this fear.  I fear getting a call from my doctor.  It's not a crippling fear, but it's still there, bubbling up from my subconscious, and since I haven't set up my voicemail on my cell phone yet (that's a story for a different blogpost, also involving fear) the fact that my doctor's office called twice and I missed it both times had me... I was going to say concerned, but let's face it, I was mildly wibbling and starting to freak.

It's not like this fear is unjustified, you understand.  The first time I got a call from my doctor, I had gone in because I hadn't been feeling all that great - just a general malaise, lack of energy, whatever... oh, and I was constantly thirsty.  By the time I got home from the appointment, there was a message from my doctor to call them back immediately (I think they thought that I was driving - fortunately, I'd taken the bus.)  See, normal blood sugar is between 80 and 120 - mine was north of 500 at the time.  So... that's how I found out that I was diabetic. 

The second time... well, the second time was when Hank entered my life.  On Monday, my uterus suddenly exploded (well, not really... but I was bleeding out blood clots the size of a dinner plate approximately every 15 minutes or so until they finally did a emergency D&C the next afternoon - I ended up needing three pints of blood, and I was still a little woozy.)  They thought it was due to fibroids and took a sample, and sent me home the next day, and I thought I was fine - until my doctor called.  On a Saturday.  It's never good news when the actual doctor calls, especially on a Saturday.  So... that's when I found out that I had cancer. 

See, there's a reason to fear the phone call.  But I'd forgotten the Utah caring factor.  This call, it turns out, was just to let me know that my lab results from Tuesday were back, and that, while I still have the Vitamin D levels of your average vampire and that he wanted to consult with my cancer doctor about some other levels, on average, I'm pretty healthy.  You know, I'll take that.

Dog News

I think I may have been adopted. 

If you've been following my various travails, you might remember Miss Daisy (well, I call her DaisDMona, based on her vocal protestations every time you stop petting her).  She and Lili are Mom's dogs, and we've been taking care of them while Mom's in Oregon.  For the most part, Daisy has decided that she's my puppy to deal with, and Lili has sensibly chosen Roger, although they tend to switch back and forth, based on who currently has food or open lap space.

Anyway - yesterday, Rog and I had a "town day".  We went to Roosevelt to meet my new doctor (and get prescriptions filled - yeah!  It worked!) and run errands, but by the end of it all, I was hitting the wall, big time.  Hard core wiped out, had a hard time just getting down the hall.  Daisy was very good about applying oxytocin, though - stayed mostly in my lap, making sure I was ok.  But then, during the night, about 3:30, she started shoving me and dancing on top of me, trying her best to wake me up.  Turns out that I was having a low blood sugar episode, and somehow, the little darling knew that I needed to wake up and deal with it - just like Moose used to.  I have no clue how she knew - but then I'm starting to get used to miracles occurring. 

Anyway - I got up, ate, spent some time watching political tv while I could without inflicting it on anyone else and finally slipped back into bed about 6ish.  She let me sleep until 9, but then she started a terrorism campaign to get me out of the bed - barking at me, dancing on top, shoving cold noses into my back... I finally gave in to her terrierist ways, got up - and she snuggled back under the covers and promptly went to sleep, as if her work here was done.  Yep, she's definitely got some Moose in her. 

Thoughts on the shutdown

In almost every Government office, there's one person who is essential.  It's not the one with the big office with the windows, although they are usually allowed to think they're the one.  No, it's the survivor in the corner, the one who has been there forever (usually), who has seen everything and knows how to navigate around it.  They know how to fix the latest computer mess-up (generally because they schmoozed the ones who installed it, and paid attention).  They know who to call when the copier throws another fit.  They know who to talk to in Finance to get the needed supplies approved sometime before the next ice age.  How do you find them?  Look for the person with the best chair - the chair that's ergonomic perfection, that's like sitting on a cloud. 

Ok, you might say - why is this important, and what does it have to do with the shutdown? In general (and for very limited periods of time), you can actually keep an office running with just these people.  Not for long, and not at top efficiency, but at least the lights will stay on and basic functions will continue.  In previous shutdowns, these were considered "essential employees" - they were designated as such, and came in and worked without a paycheck.  Mostly because they were invested in their jobs - it meant something to them that the job get done, as well as it could.  Civic duty, and all that.  But also because they were fairly confident, under the Clinton and Obama administrations, that at some point they'd be made whole. 

As for this shutdown - I'm not as sanguine.  For one thing, this administration has been leaking these employees like a sieve.  They've been reassigning them to worthless positions, or canning them with no notice, or just making life miserable enough by preventing them from doing the job they signed up to do that they go ahead and put in their retirement papers.  They've also been installing management idiots that wouldn't recognize genuine skills if they were whacked over the head with them.  Then there's Mic Mulvaney - have you listened to this guy?  Good luck getting paid back for that unpaid overtime from this schlub...

I'm just saying - I think this one is going to be painful.  More painful than previous shutdowns, for both federal employees and for the general public. 

Sincerely,

She who used to have a chair with a higher IQ than some congressmen

Day 5 at the Ranch

So... day 5.  Mom and Cassie (and everyone - by which I mean Riley, Ron, Sherri, Gary, Briggs and little Riley Lou Who) are heading back to Oregon to pack up my house and do repairs, while Roger and I hold down shop back at the ranch.  Well, Roger is mostly holding down shop - he fed the livestock, built up fires, etc.  I mostly cuddled my nose - the plague I got last time I was here seems to have found me again, so I'm mostly in a Nyquil-induced haze. 

The little girls cuddled briefly this morning, but since then have been staging a "not the mama" sit down strike out on the driveway, while Duke patrols the ranch, keeping out evil-doers.  I'm not too worried - I have two main advantages over the girls.  I have a knowledge of the refrigerator, and an opposable thumb.  They'll come in when they're hungry. 

It's definitely different here - Saturday night was family night, with lots of people, lots of dogs, and clay pigeon slaughter out in the backyard.  One of the cousins was surprised that Roger knew how to shoot, and I had to remind her that he was in the Army - in fact he spent time in South Korea at Camp Gary Owen, among other places. 

Notes from the road: Steven King Meets Mayberry

On our trip, as we passed through the wilds of Eastern Oregon, we had just passed Baker City when Roger's gas light came on.  We were a little worried because Ontario was still farther away than we wanted to try to press our luck, but fortunately, both GPS systems indicated that Huntington was within range, with both a Texaco and a Chevron, so we should be fine.  First lesson - put not your faith in GPS systems. 

We hit the turnoff for Huntington, and I started to get nervous - there were several suspiciously gas-station shaped buildings boarded up, and a general air of abandonment.  Not to mention that there was low-lying fog, several mournful looking cows, trucks appearing from nowhere to pass us heading back to civilization... the only sign of habitation was a hand-lettered Truck Repair sign. Nevertheless, we followed the GPS coordinates - straight to a State Park.  Not good.

We went back to the Truck Repair place and sent Daniel in to knock on the door - the red door.  The only spot of color in an otherwise gray landscape.  The perfectly nice man told us that we just needed to head on down the road a couple more miles - "It's right after the marijuana dispensary, you can't miss it", he said, going back to his odd-smelling barbeque (ok,  I may be embellishing a little - but I swear, he looked like he owned a cleaver and knew what to do with it.) 

So, we continued on, past barbed-wire fences, poles tilting toward the road as if something had escaped captivity, over the part of the road where it seemed to have been washed out, until suddenly...

The sun appeared, the weed store was on the left, there were white picket fences everywhere, and there was an honest-to-God Country Store, with one fuel pump and a lovely, helpful proprietress who bore an uncanny resemblance to Aunt May.  We filled up the trucks, escaped with our lives and headed on down I-84... but I think I heard a deep chuckle behind us, as though we were allowed to leave as a warning to others. 

Monday Mourning, Coming Down.

I want to say that mornings are the hardest... but then again, it's all pretty rough. However, our morning routine was so practiced, so absolute - it feels like every motion I go through is truncated, incomplete somehow. 

First off - there's no one to nag me about spending too much time in the bathroom.  I can sit there, reading to my heart's content, without the gradual escalation of first hearing his heavy breathing under the doorway, followed by a soft little "wuff", and then the heavy artillery - the low whine.  The "I'm a poor abandoned orphan" whine.  The whine that has everyone with any heart reaching for the phone to call the ASPCA.  I could actually finish a WaPo article if I wanted to... I just don't have the interest anymore.

Then there's the chair.  I have full occupancy of the chair now - I don't have to contort my body to make room for a furry comma to wrap itself around my body, settling at the hip.  I can count out my various morning pills in peace, no wet little nose nudging my arm, trying for a few more ear skritches.  God, I miss that warmth!

And typing... I can go ahead and type at full speed, not having to deploy my arms in a contortionist's pose around a rub-starved belly shoved between me and the keyboard.  I just can't see what it is I'm typing because my eyes are swollen from too many tears. 

I know - this is just the first couple of days, I'll get over it, I'll move on.  Well, literally, I'm moving on - we leave for Utah tomorrow.  But for today... God, I miss my boy.

Too Many Ghosts In This House

I don't know how widows and widowers do it.  How do they survive the first day?  Hell, how do they survive the first hour?  It feels like he's everywhere in this house - every time I go to do something, I get reminded that there should be a little furry tyrant dictating exactly how that thing should be done. Oh, right - I don't have to worry about leaving the bedroom door slightly open so that he can guard the house in the middle of the night anymore.  I can go ahead and eat that last bite of sandwich - I don't need to appease the walking stomach.  I can go to the bathroom now, secure in the knowledge that my own little Norman Bates won't be breathing his hot breath under the door, trying to lure me out of my sanctuary.  I don't have to make sure there is a clear path across the couch to my chair... hell, I don't have to deploy his favorite blanket across my lap the minute I sit down.  I'm never again going to be ruled by his loving demands... 

God, I've got to stop crying!  I'm making myself sick from dehydration, and I can't afford to be sick right now.  We're moving on Tuesday, and I've never been more certain of the need to move - I can't stay in this house where every single piece of furniture reminds me of my little furry shadow.  13 years we were together... a quarter of my lifetime.  Not nearly long enough.  Never long enough. 

Silly Solstice (Stolen from the Fallen Angel Choir, who stole it from the Karamozoff Brothers)

(Sung to the tune of Sentimental Journey)

We would like to wish you Merry Christmas

But we're not all Christians here

Hannukah would reach the same objection

What's universal this time of year?

New year!  We'd like to wish you Merry New Year!

But it's not the start of the Jew's year

Or of the Chinese

It's hard as heck to be politically correct.

Guess that all that's left is Winter Solstice

Of all the others, that's the cause.

Have yourself a very Silly Solstice!

Ritually sacrifice a Santa Claus.

See You Later, Al

I just saw Franken's speech announcing his resignation.  In an ideal world, I wish he could have stayed in and gone through the ethics review process - considering the allegations against him are (mostly) the kind where the two people involved might have seen the situation in two entirely different ways (not getting into the last allegation against him, which he denies).  But I understand the current political climate is one where we are at war, and there is going to be collateral damage.

What I would like to see...  Mr Franken talk with his accusers, apologize to them for any damage done, work with them to make things right, and then come back and run for office with a fresh deck, clear to be the effective legislator he has been, working for justice, equality and making America truly great, rather than just sloganized.  I'd like to see that happen in a lot of these cases - men who have screwed up recognize their actions, work to correct them, and receive whatever forgiveness they deserve.  Of course, that's not going to be possible for a lot of actions - those men who knew what they were doing at the time they did it and aren't sorry at all they got caught are slime, and should be shunned - but I think we need to recognize that in the minefield of relations between the genders, not every explosion is deliberate. 

Rant: Mortgage Blues

Warning - this is going to be a rant.  A big old rant.  There may be curse words.

About 10 years ago, we took out a small second mortgage on the house to fix the roof.  At the time, I set up an automatic withdrawal, twice a month (since we were both paid bi-weekly), and we've paid it faithfully - in fact, it's down under $3K at this point, so almost paid off.  I got a letter in the mail (with no special markings or anything - from someone I've never heard of) stating that my mortgage was being transferred to a business I've never dealt with. 

Now, first off - I was given no option in this transfer.  Ok, I understand that banks do this stuff all the time, but...  they also inform me that I'm going to need to re-do my automatic withdrawal.  Now, I know damned well that it's possible for them to transfer that info - my primary mortgage has been transferred at least twice, with no needed input from me.  So, now I'm on the hook for getting things reestablished (in the middle of trying to sell the house, move, everything else), with a vendor that I have no established contacts with, that expects me to send them the info through the mail.  Right.  That's not going to work for me.  So I am going to have to figure out a way to get this paid off and out of my hair...

Oh, and they want me to send them information on any other mortgage I may happen to have.  They can go spit for information on any other mortgage I may happen to have.  HBSC frankly has been one of my worst decisions, and if I had it to do all over again, I would not have done it with them.