Miz S

Hats off to Cazza.

I know, I know, I KNOW. I said that the next post would be all about Tony, the little brother of Oscar and the divulger of family secrets. I believe I even optimistically said it would be "tomorrow," which was 2 days ago. But damn, my job kicked my ass this week, and the last thing I felt like doing at night was sitting down and typing even one fucking word. And this morning I only have a few minutes because I really, really, REALLY have to be at work before 7am if I expect to make it through the day without tearing my hair out.  I will have time over the weekend to sit down and tell you about little Tony, and you'll all be, "Oh, Miz S, you're so To Sir With Love!"

But before I run off to shower I would like give a special shout-out to Cazza, my blog friend in Australia. I am very fond of Cazza for many reasons. She has 3 young-adult sons, a husband, and a full-time nursing job. She doesn't update that often, but I always like hearing what she is up to. One of the things I love about her is her calm attitude towards child-rearing. With three lively, handsome sons, one of them is always into something.  Cazza takes it all in stride. She has firm limits, but she is also a believer in kids experiencing the consequences of their own decisions. They are a close family, and her sons confide in her and come home to eat with her and ask her what she thinks about things. She loves the noise and bustle of the 3 kids and all their girlfriends and the raucous conversation. I bet she's hellafun in real life.

But here's the real reason I am telling you about Cazza: 6 months ago, she was fat and out of shape and depressed and unhappy at work.  She was drinking a scary amount of wine every night.

So she decided to change her life.

One of her son's friends, Fireman Sam, took her under his wing. Cazza committed to a training regime that is daunting. Fireman Sam had her out in the park running and boxing and God knows what else at 5am. I don't mean one time she got up at  5am. I mean day after day. She does it on her own now, although I think Sam checks up on her now and then.  And she lifts weights, too. She never went on a diet, but she tried to put mostly healthy food in her body, with a treat now and then if she felt like it. She stopped drinking a bottle of wine every night.

She got a new job.

Do you know how hard it is to make huge changes like that? Of course you do.

She is amazing. Go read her official 6 month update. It's not the weight that she's lost that is so impressive to me. It's the idea of taking control of one's life.

We Went Away. Then We Came Back.

We went away for the weekend. Our friends, Mark and Trish, have been itching to take us to Mark's brother's vacation house in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. 'Cause we are so much fun!!! I was a little leery about it, because, you know, 48 hours of socializing and being polite takes its toll.

Somebody had the bright idea that we should all drive down together in the same car. I will admit that when I first heard this idea I said, "That sounds like fun!" But their 3 kids, whom we love with all our hearts and souls, were in fightin' mode, causing Trish to have to yell at them 40 or 50 times, and that was a little awkward. Plus, the drive was 4 hours, and, I don't know, I was tired I guess.  I wished I had my own car.

The weekend was fun, though. It was all about the hiking on treacherously steep trails and the eating and the watching of movies at night. And then more of the hiking. Occasionally I had to go hide in my room for a little while because you know how I am. I NEED ALONE TIME. Plus, I missed the dogs and I had to call my mother-in-law to check on them.

The drive home today was not quite as bad as Friday night's drive,  because I took one for the team and volunteered to sit in the way-back with the two youngest, so that the 15 year old could sit in the middle seats with Josh, thereby separating the two biggest fighters.

I missed my precious being-home-on-the-weekend-time, but I'm glad we went. My only regret is that we didn't see any bears.

Hey, remind me to tell you sometime about when my sister Sarah and her then-boyfriend now-husband, Robert, were attacked by a grizzly bear in Glacier National Park. Hoo-boy, that was exciting!

I Don't Know Butchie Instead.

                         

                                 Why? Why must I close my eyes for every photograph?

Please, one of you smart people out there, explain the last episode of John From Cincinnati to me. Please? I am a literal-minded person, and I never understand allegories or symbolism. Only seldom do I catch on to clever allusions.

It's something to do with God, right? Spell it out for me, baby. Don't make me read one of those discussion boards.

I hope that today might be the last day that I have cause to mention anything medical. Even a hypochondriac like me has her limits. This morning marked the end of the 48 hours that I was ordered to REALLY rest and keep my feet up, after a bout of bleeding on Saturday morning. Don't worry, the bleeding stopped.  But I am continuing to take it easy because it suddenly occurred to me that I start back to work in 6 short days, and it will be beyond inconvenient if I am not well.

You guys have all been very kind-hearted with your comments and emails. Thank you. And check this out: Angie signed me up for a free month of Netflix in a desperate attempt to make me sit still. I swear, if Angie were not so busy milking goats and coddling hens, I believe she would have driven up here, spoken sternly to me in person, whipped the entire household into shape, and spoon fed me with wholesome homemade goat-milk yogurt. I intend to have all future medical procedures done in Virginia, and recuperate at Angie's house.

And guess what came in the mail today? A care package from Wende, complete with a tiara, a lavender sachet, and 2 incredible bars of dark chocolate. Dark chocolate is good for me, right?

You guys are very sweet, and I truly love you.

If you are looking for me tomorrow, I will be sitting on my couch, wearing my tiara and watching movies while stuffing my face with chocolate.

And after tomorrow, let's never talk about my vagina again.

You Can Call Me MISS Miz S From Now On.

I have wanted to visit Angie's farm for over 2 years, ever since I first read her blog. Here is a short list of things that Angie knows how to do: design blog templates, sew clothes, refinish wood, repair furniture, paint rooms, garden, can her own vegetables, cook anything, wire a barn for electricity, raise chickens, and God only knows what else.

The woman made her own wedding cake. Who the hell makes their own wedding cake??

I am fascinated by people with such a wealth of practical skills.

So, I ventured into Ol' Virginny on Friday, so I could visit Miss Angie on her farm. Normally I like to boycott Virginia because it pisses me off.  It is a measure of my affection for Angie that I made the journey.

I had so much fun. I got to meet the whole family, even Steve, who took the week off from work to get ready for the goats. Angie charmed me by referring to me as "Miss Mary" in front of the children.  Colby (age 20) is sweet and polite and kissed her momma goodbye and said "I love you" when she left for work. Gracie (age 9) is as sassy as could be and revealed family secrets to me, including that after the family eats Mexican food, the children close their doors at night because Daddy emits noxious -- oh never mind I won't finish that anecdote. J. (Steve's daughter from his first marriage) is 12, and looks exactly like her dad, right down to the shy, quiet smile. Little Steven is 17 months old, and might be the cutest little boy on God's green earth.

Angie spent the entire morning cooking me a home-grown meal. Almost everything on the table came from their garden. Vegetarian lasagna (with zucchini), garden salad, red and yellow tomatoes with mozzarella cheese and fresh basil, and homemade tapenade as a starter.

And it was all gooooooood. I ate myself silly.

After lunch, we toured the barns and the meadows to see the goats, chickens, and ducks. You should see that damn chicken barn. It smells better than most people's houses. Those chickens are living the life of Riley, I'll tell you what. The best chicken feed, augmented with expensive sunflower seeds and kitchen scraps, pristine water dispensers, a radio playing music, and an electric fan in the afternoon when it gets hot. That's a sweet life for chickens.

The goats, which were delivered by my brother on Thursday, seem to be adjusting to their new home just fine. (When I asked my brother if it seemed like the goats would be happy on Angie's farm, he said, "If they can't be happy there, they can't be happy anywhere.")

All too soon, it was time for me to face traffic on I-95 again. Which sucked, if you must know.

Anyway, it was a lot of fun to meet the person behind the blog. Angie is really nice and funny and easy to talk to. The only thing I can't figure out is how she ever has a minute to sit down and write a post because DAMN, running a farm, even a little one, requires a lot of work.

Angie's Secrets

Angie had two secrets, really. The first one was that my brother and my niece drove from Pennsylvania to Virginia yesterday hauling an open trailer with 6 goats, so as to deliver said goats to their new goat momma, Angie.  The thought of some horrible goat/car accident had me fretting all day yesterday, but the pictures up at Angie's place prove that they arrived safely.

Angie's other secret is that we planned our own little Blogher convention for today. Just the two of us. Oh, and her daughters and her son and the goats, chickens, and other assorted animals. Yep. I am driving to her farm in a couple of hours. Angie will be chairing the What Do Farm Wimmins Serve For Lunch breakout session. I will be leading a panel discussion on Does Angie Take Special Vitamin Pills?  (For those of you who don't read Angie's blog, she is famous for having an inordinate amount of energy and doing stuff like wiring the barn for electricity before lunchtime, then making a quilt before dinnertime. I exaggerate only slightly.)

Anyway, I am excited about meeting her. Angie was one of the first people outside my family to read my blog.  (Leah was the very first one. Do you know Leah? She is so awesome. Back then I referred to her as The Mysterious L from Chicago.) Angie and I wanted to get together last summer, but somehow the time got away from us. Angie is this funny, paradoxical combination of old-fashioned, conservative, Southern farm girl and modern, tech-savvy, I-met-my-husband-on-the-internet woman. I am dying to see her little farm and meet her kids and hear her Georgia drawl.

If I am going to arrive on time, I had better get started with dog-walking and other little chores. Shit, Angie has probably canned 40 quarts of beans while I sat here typing this.

I don't have any other special plans for the weekend, other than bonding with Josh while doing yard work or perhaps cleaning out the basement. We know how to have fun around here. What about you? Are you hanging out this weekend or going away or what?

Sporty! I meant SPORTY!

Jane quite disapproved of the fact that I equated "scooter" with "sexy" in my last post.

"You've lost your mind," she explained helpfully.

Wait, wait, said I. Let me 'splain. But by then she was busy eating Thai food and asking for extra cilantro because she just can't enough of that stuff.

What I meant about scooters is that they are carefree, sporty, and adventurous. When driven by a woman, that is. When a man drives a scooter, it implies that his wife or girlfriend will not let him get a motorcycle. Which is exactly the case around here.

There have been no further scooter escapades for me because Josh has been home late almost every night what with softball games and whatnot. And, y'know, he scoots to work. 75 miles to the gallon, Al Gore!

Hey, guess what?  I have been a veritable paragon of industry as my surgery date closes in on me. Man, if I could just schedule surgery 3 or 4 times a year this place would be ship-shape like crazy. I am cleaning out closets, filing papers, arranging estimates for some long-awaited projects, taking cars in for inspection and repairs, weeding the garden, and some other shit. Like artfully arranging canned goods in the kitchen so that everything is symmetrical and straight. NO WIRE HANGERS!

This is a very special time for my uterus and me. Our last week together. I'm writing a poem about her.

O, womanly vessel! Hue of pink! Shape of pear!

Why do you hate me so?

Well, that's as far as I've gotten. But I think it's awesome so far, don't you?

Anyway, surgery date is a week from today, August 1st. No need to get excited because I will be posting between now and then.