Pretending to Farm

I Love Her to Infinity

Jessica Dillon, my baby, my first-born, my little girl who thought the moon followed her at night because her hair was (is) beautiful, got inked yesterday. Yup, ladies and germs, my daughter went and got herself a tattoo. She’s been wanting one for a while, a long while to be inexact.

Each time she inquired, begged, promised me favors that would never be carried out, I said the same thing, “When you are 18 and can pay for it yourself, you may get a tattoo. Now go scrub the cinders around the fireplace.”

I have not seen said tattoo yet. She is visiting my mother in San Diego, my mother who is already offering to have the thing lasered off, and the sneaky woman/child had it done there. She chose an infinity symbol followed by an ellipsis. I think she’s going for irony.

You might assume her permanent-body-marking actions bother me but then you would make an ass out of you and me because I am unconcerned. She didn’t commit a crime, bowl poorly on national television, or fall off her shoes and break her ankle. Plus, the slight fact that I have my own tramp stamp, applied at the grand old age of 35 whilst going through an I’m-getting-old crisis, gives me negative ammunition even if I wanted to fight her. That whole “do what I say, not what I do” argument doesn’t fly with my intelligent, authority-challenging girl.

The rest of the family, on the other hand, does not share my nonchalance. For you Jane Austen readers out there, it’s as if poor stupid Lydia eloped with Mr. Wickham all over again and, for that, we are all ruined. I’m not sure if David’s big brother will ever recover. I think he felt personally responsible for our shame and even offered to reimburse Jessica’s deposit money if she would change her unchangeable mind and retain her pristine flesh. Like that was going to happen. I’ve lived with the child for almost 19 years now; she’s nothing if not stubborn.

Today we welcome the return of the prodigal daughter, heads held high, ignoring the stares of those Lucases down the street (Jane Austen again, sorry). I hope I will like the tattoo. If not, c’est la vie. Worse things have (and do) happen.

Liver, Chopped Accordingly

Over the last year of the Pint’s residence with us, David has been griping off and on about being “chopped liver” to Anthony in comparison to Jessica and me. Lately, however, he has been a gloating fiend. Grampa is numero uno in Pint-sized eyes and, although he hasn’t emotionally abandoned the rest of us, we all know with whom he truly wants to spend his time.

Grampa and Anthony read together, swim together, and go to the playground together. They are a great buddy story in the making.

Joyfully sharing a club chair, they watch football together.

Showing great skill and precision, they practice synchronized drinking together. Hmmm... can one practice synchronized drinking alone? If this was an Olympic sport, these two would be serious contenders for the gold. For now though, Grampa and Pint will continue to practice on schedule each Sunday afternoon.

Very early this morning, after hearing a stirring Pint around 2 am, Grampa went to check on him in the bedroom he shares with Jessica. Upon seeing the man otherwise known as Hunky Husband, the Pint-Sized Fan slid out of bed with Jessica (she had brought him there to quiet him down and get him back to sleep) and ran toward Grampa.

“Take him,” Jessica grumpily remarked. “All he keeps saying is Grampa, Grampa, Grampa.”

Methinks someone else is feeling a bit liver-ish now.

Jumping for Joy

Did you ever watch “The Man Show” on Comedy Central? It was an overly silly, patently misogynistic spectacle hosted by Adam Corolla and Jimmy Kimmel who sat smugly on the stage and drank (and sometimes chugged) mugs of beer throughout the half-hour while being catered to by self-objectifying women in bikinis and lingerie. They cracked tasteless jokes and played Benny Hill-esque skits. Needless to say, David loved it. Me? Not so much.

At the end of each show came the grand finale. The excitement among the audience of overgrown teenaged boys was palpable, the noise deafening. It was time. Time for what, you might ask? Well, girls on trampolines of course.

Here is our own version starring Jessica (who is doing very well in college) and Robert (who is still on his “Bead Dude” high). In contrast to the now-defunct Man Show, I found it tasteful, entertaining, and just plain fun.

Happy Saturday.

At Least He Doesn't Sleep in Bed With Me

My new best friend is taking up all, yes literally all, of my time. He is my constant companion, whether I am folding laundry, brushing my teeth, or attempting to type on the computer (he likes to add extra symbols and change the cursor position). Like a new puppy, he cries nonstop when left alone in his crate and, since his crate is in our bedroom/ David the Husband’s office, it is impossible for David to conduct business on the telephone when he is in there. After all, it’s not exactly professional to talk to HOA board members whilst a turkey poult peeps mournfully and insistently in the background.

So here he sits with me, either on my lap, on my shoulder, or at my side and Pint is jealous. Yes, you read correctly; my grandson is experiencing a difficult case of sibling rivalry with a baby turkey.

I’m not sure how to remedy this. After all, I’m a bleeding heart wimp who can’t cut off my feelings for any living creature. Zorro is here to stay. I have already invested too much time in the little guy to turn him back to the perils of the farmyard and risk finding his wee baby body cold and dead on the ground.

To add to this, we have summer trips planned and tentatively planned. Do we bring Zorro along? David already visualized the hotel check-in, complete with the “Any pets?” question. Do we answer, “Just a baby turkey.”? The predicaments I get myself into.

So for now, he’s with me. All turkey care, all the time. Pint will just have to get over it somehow.

By the way, those of you wondering how SR Jessica is doing out in the world of independence need not worry. My big girl drove herself to LA to see an intimate Eddie Izzard comedy show and wormed her way into meeting him. She’ll do just fine. And she still calls her mommy just about every day. Weez loves her.

Finally, I need some big time prayers sent to fellow knitter/blogger and good friend Beth. Her very young son, Tom, is in the hospital having a challenging time thriving physically and we need to help him get better and help the doctors figure out what is going on in his wee body and make it better. Fire up the positive healing channels, everyone. The little guy needs our help.

A Case for Mr. Monk

I began the morning by sternly eyeing all the children and telling them if they make me cry one more day in a row, I cannot be held responsible for the consequences. Hey, I’ve read Dickens. I can make them eat porridge day in and day out and don grey rags for clothing while they scour the stone floor from dawn to dusk. The lack of corporal punishment manner in which I have been raising my children could be a mistake; I might just pull out the belt AND smack their hands with a wooden ruler. I have one, you now, and have been the recipient of such a smacking, humiliatingly delivered in the front of my second grade classroom by a stern woman with cat’s eye glasses, drab dresses, and a permanent scowl sculpting her why-did-I-become-a-teacher-because-I-hate-children face.

Well, guess what? They behaved. They did their chores as asked and limited their bickering to acceptable levels. Nothing like a well-delivered sincerely meant threat to keep them in their places. And should they fall back to their previous tear-inducing ways, I still have that whole corporal punishment/ Dickensian way of life to fall back on. (Did you notice? I just ended a sentence with a preposition; Grammar Girl said I could as long as I have an object. Dickensian way of life or purely life is my object. So there. Now if I could just rid myself of this nagging guilt like I did something wrong even though I know in my head I didn’t.)

I had wanted Jessica’s visit to go so well. Deep inside I held onto the hope that she would change her mind and stay if only I could keep David the Teenager from instigating their omnipresent arguments, if I could keep my mouth shut about the towels she can’t seem to avoid throwing on the floor and leaving there, and if I didn’t ask for one iota of work out of her. I know now that’s completely unrealistic but I had no idea the visit would go so far from well, at least as far as the sibling battles. When I found her marching angrily down the hallway muttering about remembering why she moved out in the first place on her first full day here, my hope dwindled and I tried harder than ever to make things right. Yet, each time I did, some unknown force pulled them even farther in the opposite direction.

Regretfully, I have accepted this. Jessica has moved out permanently and that’s just the way it is. I will find a way to live with it somehow and enjoy her visits when blessed with them. So be it. Moving on…

Found: This combination of objects on the cutting board in the kitchen when I awoke Thursday morning. Although I can usually deduce what has gone on from the detritus left in the they-were-clean-when-I went-to-bed kitchen and living room, this mixture has me stumped. Now, I realize not all of you are knitters but a good many of you are SO…

The person who most creatively and humorously comments on the story behind the use of these combined ingredients, judged by David the Husband and me, will win these two skeins of Cherry Tree Hill sock yarn, enough to make two pairs of socks or one pair of knee-highs and complete with stray bloodhound hair scattered on their surface. So put your thinking caps on and fill me in on whatever strange ritual my offspring are getting away with while I sleep.

“Tomorrow is another day.”

Yesterday, my day began with an endlessly screaming toddler and two dentist appointments for the teenaged wonder twins. This was our first visit to this particular dentist (David the Husband and Jessica had gone before us) and the waiting room was plush. No hard stackable seating lined the walls, begging for an impromptu game of musical chairs. Instead, we were greeted by an overstuffed sofa and cushy arm chairs, all full of numerous toss pillows beguiling a 2 ½ year old toddler with an arm like Randy Johnson to fulfill their moniker. Within minutes of being there, the Zoom teeth whitening display was broken and the waiting room looked like, well like my house. (I had to fill out paperwork and stupidly entrusted his care to the not-so-wonder-after-all twins.)

There were good things that resulted from this omnipresent chaos that is my life. David the Teenager has no cavities (Robert has one broken tooth only needing a filling to repair) and SR Jessica was being pampered at the Carefree Spa with a 45 minute sugar and spice scrub followed by an hour long massage, our birthday gift to her. The knowledge that she was being thus Tasha-ed (Backyardigans reference, you have to watch it) made my experience bearable.

Other than a short nap, Pint continued his demon mood all day, putting a damper on any festive birthday plans and forcing Jessica to escape the madness which is our lives in an effort to enjoy the rest of her day. I hope she succeeded, poor thing. She seemed let down and who could blame her. 18 is a huge milestone with expectations galore, many of which were not met. What’s a trying-desperately-to-keep-her-little-girl-with-her-for-the-summer mom to do? Nothing apparently as she heads back to San Diego today. Sob and sigh.

I did receive an email from Grammar Girl, a highlight of my day, that and the cat pin I am getting from Sara at Barking Biscuit but that’s another post. I probably should have listed Grammar Girl’s podcast in my favorites but, as I said, I was limiting myself to three. She and Mr. Manners (I listen to both) each run a podcast out of the QD Now network; and during each show, she answers grammar questions and offers examples of wrong and right ways to state things in a grammatically correct manner.

I had written her with an ongoing puzzle of mine, whether or not it is correct to end a sentence with a preposition. To avoid doing so, I find myself constructing stilted sentences in my writing and resenting the dismal results.

Below is her reply, no more for which-es to avoid the dreaded dangling preposition. I heart Grammar Girl.

Hi Lauren,

Here's a sentence that shouldn't end with a preposition:

Where is Claire at?

Here's a sentence that is fine with a preposition at the end:

What did I step on?

The important thing is that prepositions need objects. The quick and dirty tip is if you can leave the preposition off the end of the sentence without changing the meaning, then you should leave it off.

Thanks for listening!

Mignon

Now if I can only figure out the proper placement of a period when using parentheses.

As GG says, that’s all for now. And as Scarlett O’Hara says, “Tomorrow is another day.”

Thanks for reading, my friends.

The Other Meaning of Tiananmen Square

I read the following in the NY Times this morning, triggering a flood of memories:

On June 4, 1989, Chinese army troops stormed Tiananmen Square in Beijing to crush the pro-democracy movement; hundreds - possibly thousands - of people died.

For most of you, the demonstration and massacre at Tiananmen Square is an historical event. It is for me as well but in a different way. At the time, my parents were visiting from their home in Hong Kong and I was heavily, as in 65 pounds gained heavily, with the child who would be Jessica. If I remember correctly, June 4th was my due date. I had just visited my OB/GYN and was told that nothing was happening, that I was not having this baby for at least another week, perhaps two. Determined to contradict him, the next day, David, Daddy, Mom, Meagan, and I went hiking the Kilimanjaro Trail at the San Diego Wild Animal Park and I went into labor that night.

So it was that on June 6th, as I was mid-labor, experiencing the worst pain I had ever endured, my father had to up and leave. Because of Tiananmen Square and the general unrest that was spreading throughout China, and because he was running a toy company (Tyco) that had manufacturing interests there, he had to return to Hong Kong for the good of the company. This was not for the good of my spirits and, I have to admit, for years I resented his action until one day my mother told me that the CEO of the company forced his return and Daddy had no choice in the matter. He was always a good soldier.

Although these were pre-cell phone days, I also found out that he had arranged with the doctors and nurses to keep in contact with him via the airlines and his plane’s pilot. And that is the way my father, and 200 some other passengers found out that I had given birth to a healthy 8 lb 4 oz girl minutes after it happened. Daddy always had a way of getting things done.

And there’s your piece of history for the day. Now for a few current goings-on here at Rancho Laurena…

Lost: The final baby turkey to the German Shepherds next door. We are sad; Lauren the Turkey is sadder. As I write, she is stubbornly sitting on more eggs, some of which are chicken-laid, in a persevering do-over.

Found: This snake skin in the feed shed. Oh, my. Methinks I will don my cowboy boots and keep a wary eye before farming in the future. I truly don’t care for creepy crawly things with no arms or legs, especially when they interfere with morning farm therapy. Snakes are not Zen-like in my book.

Discovered: Seaman Recruit Jessica walking into my bedroom at 10:30 last night. Freshly debarked from her Mexican cruise ship, she wanted to visit her family. I was delighted, shocked, and surprised. I couldn’t stop hugging her. It sure is nice to see her car parked in the driveway again, if only for a few days.

Finished: The spinning of Cookie’s first shearing (as you can see, I was experimenting with skein size). The color is called moorit and it is 100% lamb’s wool weighing a total of 1 lb 8.5 oz or 695 grams. That’s almost fourteen 50 gm balls which is very sweater-worthy.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I must move on to Leroy’s fleece. For the first time ever, David the Husband has requested a sweater knit from a combination of our sheep and, being a good wife, at least knit-wise, I aim to please (and like to spin and knit, I’m not totally selfless, you know.)

Oh My.

Today, Seaman Recruit Jessica, my pumpkin lumpkin Michelin baby who strongly resembled Winston Churchill on her first birthday, whose hand I tightly held as she fearlessly entered school on her first day of kindergarten, who I have been privileged to watch bloom and grow, beautiful flower that she is, whose secrets and intimate questions I have been proud to keep and answer, and who still gives me a kiss on each cheek when she arrives home, graduates from high school. Wasting no time, tomorrow she leaves, first for a 7-day cruise with my mother to Mexico, and then to live with a friend in San Diego for the summer until she has to report to boot camp in Michigan on September 4th.

I’ve been trying not to think about this. I know it’s happening, that I cannot stop time or change her ultra-stubborn mind about her summer plans. Believe me, I have tried; I have asked nicely, brandished the guilt weapon, bribed her with promises of fun travel, and attempted just about everything else with the exception of getting down on my knees and begging. (I did think about it but I do have some pride.)

David the Husband has been tearing up at regular intervals, something I have never seen him do in the 22 years I have known him. He doesn’t want to let go of Daddy’s girl and who can blame him? I, in contrast, have remained unusually stoic about the matter, no tears, no breakdowns, nothing. In short, I am in complete denial. Knowing myself as well as I think I do, the flood gates should open Friday as she drives away. I will morph into a puddle of memories and loss and, shaking with emotion, hug my husband, squeeze my boys until they can barely breathe to hold them here at home with me, and head straight to the ruminant pen for sheep therapy to head off another funk before it takes hold of me.

I will miss my little girl. Although it will never be the same, at least she’ll come back to visit, hopefully still planting a kiss on each of her mother’s cheeks each time she returns.

Congratulations Pumpkin Lumpkin. Your presence has blessed my life.

A Full Weekend

Every frequently-posting blog writer gets to take the weekend off now and then, right? I truly shouldn’t be feeling the guilt I am feeling right now, I realize, but it comes with the territory and, plus, I missed you guys.

That said, I do have a good excuse, at least for Saturday. I was dadgummed busy! Awesome father-in-law and warm and fuzzy brother-in-law were hankering for a little motorcycle adventure. As the second scary colon (or lack thereof) surgery is on the horizon, the Amazing Matt wanted to do something while he could still travel so the two of them ventured our way from San Diego with a short overnight stop in gorgeous downtown Yuma, Arizona.

Household ablutions had to be attended to, sheets cleaned, floors swept and carpets vacuumed (will these dogs ever stop shedding?) and food harvested, washed, and prepared. We (sniff) picked the very last of the broccoli and low and behold discovered a good-sized head of cauliflower. I harvested a beautiful set of beets and roasted and pickled them (I am sorry for the lack of photos; I was too busy to furnish you readers with any food porn). David the Husband barbecued a tri-tip, along with some veggie kabobs and prepared his master rice. A good meal was enjoyed by all.

Somewhere in all this, I finally got to sit down and watch the Kentucky Derby which I had tivoed thankfully ahead of time. Go Street Sense! I have none.

In between welcoming family, preparing house and hearth, and spinning in circles, I was also morphing into my hair stylist alter ego. Yes, on top of everything else, it was Seaman Recruit Jessica’s prom night and after a good buff and polish, she looked anything but a future Naval cadet.

Her friend Steven flew in from San Diego and the two of them made a dashing pair. The prom theme was “Casino Royale” so of course, being the progeny of the two of us, had to ham it up for the camera just before leaving.
And no, they did not take the airsoft gun and the rifle with them as props. Those things are frowned upon these days, you know.

Then, after broad-as-my-ass hints from David the Husband, we PPV-ed the De Le Hoya/ Mayweather bout and although I did not want to watch it and said about a million and one times how barbaric I found the sport, I found my adrenaline uncontrollably rising, if only because Mayweather was such an unmitigated ass. Watching him strut into the arena in his opponent’s Mexican colors donning a sombrero accompanied by 50 Cent (that name just kills me) was uncalled for and insulting. But of course, the jerk won. He’ll get his comeuppance someday; they all do.

As far as Sunday goes, well I was just tired and spent my time sans David the Husband who joined his father and brother in motorcycle land, Pint watching and teenaged fight referee-ing. As I said at the beginning, I did feel guilty for no post, but fatigue and remnants of dumb disease flare won that thankfully free bout so I hope today’s ridiculously long post will make up for my absence. Or maybe it will bore you to cutting-your-last-home-grown-broccoli tears.

Not self but country?

2 am: The pint-sized stirs and whines, bringing me out of my already restless slumber.

“Do you think he’s cold?” I say to myself.

Get up, bring him into bed with David, Marshall, Molly, and I. Apollo the cat decides now is a good time to join us in the already very crowded bed and walk on top of me before drinking the water beside my bed.

What in the Hell did I do to my shoulder?

I can barely put weight on my left side which is now mandatory to glean any lying awake in bed space.

Was it turning the compost pile? Carrying the now 30-pound pint who if-he-keeps-growing-I-will-have-to-call-him-a-quart around? Ouch!

I am such a wimp; David is having major back issues and I melodramatically whine about a pulled shoulder muscle.

It’s going to be one of those insomniac nights. I can tell. As if I wasn’t already worried enough about upcoming spinal fusion surgery and its aftermath, Jessica had to go and join the Navy. My daughter, my liberal-minded, can’t-get-out-of-bed-in-the-morning, can’t-clean-her-pigsty-of-a-room daughter, up and joined the damned military while we are in the middle of one of the most error-prone, mistakenly executed wars in history.

It’s not all bad. She took their aptitude test, scored over the moon, and was told she could go into any area she chose and she picked linguistics. Thank God we sent her to Spanish immersion school.

“Korean,” the recruiter said, “they’ll teach you Korean first.”

What is our nude and deaf emperor planning now? Can’t we leave any of these crazy, corrupt despots alone to self-destruct? North Korea doesn’t have oil, does it? Wasn’t the Republican Party opposed to nation building? Is Mr. Incompetence going to try to re-fail any incompletely fought conflict of the past century?

She’ll go to Monterey, to the Defense Language Institute for two years and learn multiple languages.

I really hope we’ll be out of Iraq by then and not on to any place else. 27 soldiers died last weekend, lives ended before the promise of the future was realized. Those poor families, I don’t want to be among those poor families.

Don’t go there. It’s a good opportunity for her.

She’ll get a degree at the institute and have further college benefits if and when she gets her discharge. She’ll be able to buy a home without a down payment and have her medical care covered for at least the time she is in the Navy.

The Navy. Lord, give me strength.

Hours since awakening and after a great deal of knitting therapy, I rouse the boys for school and say a special prayer, wishing for a safe future for all my children, for everyone’s children.

I will stop worrying about this now. In 24 hours, they will be prepping my husband for surgery. My concern has to rest there for now.

Could I have a little more strength if it’s handy? Would you mind terribly? I’m sure I’ll use every last bit of it. Thanks a bunch.