Mulch Ado About Nothing

Will and I decided to plant a garden this year. The soil in our area is horrible and we have very little non-shady area to work with, so we elected to go with raised beds. Will and I (read as me doing all the work and trying to occupy a 5-year old and not get either of us injured) build three large wooden gardens and four smaller ones. That was the easy part.

When it was time to get soil, that was another ball game. We live in the country, sort of. Defiantly to far away for delivery to be cheap. Steve was also working 12-hour days seven days a week, so his truck wasn't an option. I spent two weeks calling around and getting prices on soil and delivery fees.

Steve finally was able to let me have the truck on a Saturday. So, Friday, Will and I (see earlier note) added wooden sides to our small trailer to increase the amount of garden soil/mulch we could carry. Steve took off and drove us out to load it up. We ended up with four square yards of soil.

The day we purchased the soil I filled two of the larger garden areas. The next day two more. The rest the following. I'd like to interject here the fact that the soil was wet and heavy and had to be shoveled with a pitch fork into a wheelbarrow with a fast leak. We are talking really fast; I had less than 30 minutes before I had to air up the tire again. Believe me, you do not want to get caught with your tire down.

It rained just as I finished filling my garden beds and I had a few days off. Then I filled up three small flower beds in the back yard. The following day a HUGE flower bed the length of half my house. Then it rained.

This week, we managed to hook up the lawn trailer to the riding lawn mower and use it to haul dirt. I used the remaining dirt to level out the worse dips in the back yard.

Nothing earth shaking, I just moved dirt. But for a middle age woman who is a little fluffy, and a lot inactive, looking at that empty trailer and realizing that, by my self, I shoveled out and transported four cubic yards of mulch was priceless.

Well, it actually cost $65. But who's counting.

Toilet-Free Front Yard

Will and I were in the process of moving a toilet from our driveway to the backyard when Steve got home from work on Tuesday. He helped. I asked earlier in the week if I could give it away, but he wants to replace the one in our bathroom with this one when we redo the bathroom. So I'm stuck with a toilet sitting outside until then.

My new philosophy on junk in the yard is that it's okay as long as it's behind the wooden privacy fence. No one needs to know we have a toilet sitting outside but us - and our closes friends, relatives, and the neighbors.

Today was the first day I've been able to drive up to my house and not see a toilet in a long time. Maybe a year or more. Oddly, - well, at least odd to most people - this is not the first toilet to occupy real estate in my driveway since I've lived in this house. I'd go so far as to say that there have been at least five toilets, most at different times, greeting company as they arrived.

When Steve did handyman work full-time, he did a lot of bathroom remodels and he always ended up carrying off the old fixtures. He'd unload things in the driveway and when I got tired of looking at them I would haul them into the back yard. When he made a trip to the dump he'd haul everything off or I'd freecycle it.

Will and I have been steadily cleaning out our driveway and either throwing away junk or moving it behind the fence. You can actually drive all the way to the garage doors now. If the garage was clean you could park a car inside it.

Yep, life is good.

The Latest Experiment

I am always trying something new; a new pattern, a new theory, a new way to accomplish something. Today, I set in motion a new experiment. I made my own Mesquite Barrier and applied it to the back yard.

If you've never heard of Mesquito Barrier, it is an expensive liquid you can order to spray on your yard. It is basically a high concentration of garlic in liquid form. You mix the garlic with a teaspoon of liquid soap and then use a water sprayer to coat your entire yard.

The liquid soap is so that if any of the spray lands in standing water, and there are mosquito larva in it, they will be coated and unable to fly - thus die.

We paid almost $60 for a bottle several years ago. It works, basically. While advertised to work for up to 3 months . . . that is only if it does rain much - ours lasted about a month. So we never did it again.

However, when researching alternate methods of keeping mosquitoes away from the house I found that you can sit bowls of apple cider vinegar around a perimeter prior to an outside party and it will keep the mosquitoes away.

Then, earlier this week I was spraying my vegetable for bugs with a mixture of water and a little canola oil to rid them of bugs.

So . . .

I mixed 1/2 a gallon of apple cider vinegar, 1/3 a cup of canola oil, and a half a table spoon of dish soap into a sprayer and filled the remaining portion of the 2-gallons with water. Then I sprayed the back yard. The fences, back of the house, porch, broken down cars and lawnmowers, wood pile, play equipment, grass, trees, etc. Everything. I actually ended up having to make two more containers to cover the entire back yard.

I figure by tonight I should be able to tell if it impacts the mosquito population. In two to three days I should know if it is going to make Will sick or cause him to break out. And by the end of the week I'll know if it kills the grass.

What fun!

I Don't Remember That

Today was Steve's birthday and it started fine, at least I thought it did. We gave him presents and lazed around the house until noon. We met Tori and Steve's folks for lunch at a steak house and came back home for home-made German Chocolate cake.

Where things got weird was when I started to tell Steve's parents about our new plans regarding handling the upcoming birth of my grand baby. You have to understand first off that I have been very worried about how I'd get to CO, who would watch Will, how the finances would be arranged, etc.

The main problem is that I can not drive more than about 3 hours without falling asleep, so there is no way I can drive myself to CO. If I go alone, I have to fly. Since there is no real telling when a baby will come, I can't purchase my ticket in advance. I'll have to pay the highest premium. If I fly in, then I'll have to rent a car. I also can't stay with Bonnet as she is now living with the ex, so I'll have to get a hotel room for the 3-5 days I was hoping to stay. And if all of this wasn't enough to worry about, what am I going to do with Will?

I talked, weeks ago, to a sister-in-law who volunteered to watch Will. Keep him for a solid week. Sounded good. But when we were down there recently, he wouldn't even spend a single night at her house while we were in town. I realized he's never stayed the night away from us. And for the first time to be in a strange town for an entire week - not going to work.

I'm also majorly concerned about funds. I expect to have to pay $1,000 for my tickets as they are going to be last minute. If I save my business funds from now until then, I'll nearly have enough to purchase my ticket. Then I'm going to have to use family funds, or Steve's credit card, to rent a car and pay for an hotel. Not to mention eat. And I still have no idea on what to do with Will.

So I'm talking to Steve about all of this last week, I think it was Wednesday night. As I was talking it all out, telling him the same things I've just shared with you, a solution comes to me.

If Steve takes off work and goes with me,
we can drive.
I don't have to find anyone
to watch Will.
We can make the trip on what
airfare would cost me.
Steve and Will can
have a vacation and do fun things
while I stay with Bonnet.

So, I suggest it.

We can manage to take only part of a week off depending on when we get the call. So part of a week and a weekend; 5 days. Even with a day to drive up there a day to drive back, that leaves us with three days to see the grand baby and the sights.

We talk about it a while and Steve finally says, "Let's try that."

I can't begin to tell you how relieved I was. After literally months of worrying about how I'd get up to see Bonnet and my granddaughter, everything seem to be coming together. Plus, we haven't taken a vacation in years. It will be nice to get out of Texas. All of us together. And Will can meet his niece and visit Bonnet.

It's perfect. And that's exactly what I tell my best friend at breakfast the next day. It's all settled. It's wonderful. Life is good.

So back to today. I start to share our new vacation plans with the in-laws and before I even get a complete sentence out of my mouth Steve breaks in . . .

"I don't remember that."

At first I thought he was joking. That would be so like Steve. So I smile at him and tell him to quit joking.

"No. I'm serious. We never talked about this."

Then the men start talking about how women ASSUME a discussion means an agreement . . . yada yada yada.

I was livid!

Everyone has the right to not remember a conversation. You do not ever have the right to state the conversation didn't take place because you can't remember it - that would mean I was lying. Nor do you have the right to put the blame on the shoulders of an entire sex. And I told them so.

Unfortunately, the rest of Steve's birthday wasn't as peaceful.

We were both upset for our own reasons and did our best to avoid any confrontations or discuss the elephant in the room.

I feel really bad this happened on Steve's birthday and I hate the strain it caused. We probably didn't speak to each other for five minutes the rest of the day and I got no good-night kiss or hug.

I feel really alone tonight and further away from seeing my grandbaby then ever.

The Snake is Back

A few months ago, Steve went to help my brother Paul move into a new apartment. Besides reducing from a house to an apartment, Paul was having to get rid of a lot of his ex's stuff at the same time. Steve brought home the snake statue shown above. Paul, the man with good taste, was throwing it away.

Why, you ask yourself, other than an obvious lack of taste, would my husband bring home such an interesting piece of yard art? Because he thought it would go well with our other yard art, an alligator.



Normally, this alligator lives in the greenery near our front door and has been known to scare the s_ _ t out of people. It scared our neighbor at least the first twelve times he came over after we purchased it. Yes, even the alligator is kind of tacky - I really wouldn't expect to see it on the White House lawn. But it's fun.

The snake, howere, I hated on site. But I said nothing. Who knows, cheap statues crack easily . . . especially when bumped with lawn mowers driven by blind wives.

The very next day a friend of ours from down the road stopped by and he LOVED the snake. He wanted it. Seriously, he literally asked for it. You'll be proud to know I didn't send it home with him. But when Steve came home I made sure to mention how taken Rex was with the snake. Steve grabbed a few beers and the snake and headed up to Rex's.

That was at least a month or so ago.

On the way from taking the trash out the other morning I nearly pissed myself as I come around the corner to find a coiled snake ready to strike. No, it didn't scare me. I just have to find another no-class friend of Steve's to talk into taking the snake home. Oh, and make sure their wives are more accommodating.

Of coarse, if that doesn't work out, I will be doing a lot of mowing this summer.

Black Hawk, CO

I overnighted an employment application and resume to the City of Black Hawk, CO for Steve on Wednesday. I'm still in shock.

I had no real idea he was going to apply for the job until the night before. I have a vague recollection of him mentioning the job, but had sensed no intent on his part to actually follow through.

Now I'm freaking out. What if they call to interview him? What if they offer him the job? What is we move there? What if . . .

I looked up the city online and it's a casino town. In fact, it's darn hard to find anything about the city that doesn't have to do with casinos. Casinos are not my favorite thing. I'm also really worried about the cost of living in CO. If Steve gets the job, he'll be making more than he makes here . . . but will that compensate for the increase in the cost of living?

I'm also a little bummed because Steve and I have talked for almost a decade about stepping out of the fast lane. Moving to a small town with a lower income bracket and escaping some of the pressure we've been under. This seems a wrong turn for that dream. But, this opportunity would come complete with health benefits and a retirement plan I'm sure. Something our "dream" doesn't have.

Pro's? I'd be closer to the new grandbaby coming this summer. We'd actually get to experience winter. Steve would be out of Texas. We'd have health insurance. Steve would be in a job that wasn't as dangerous as his current one is.

Con's? I'd miss Tori and my friend, Charlene. I'd experience winter - and probably hate it. I'd be out of Texas. I might have to get a job outside the house to help meet finances. We'd have to sell our house and move immediately.

Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm overthinking it. He hasn't even been called in for an interview yet. It's just scarry.

Montero Wedgie

Over the last month, with temperatures rising in Texas, I've began to encounter a real issue with exiting my Mitsubishi Montero. My shorts snag.

I'm short and the climb into the Montero is a little steep. The easiest way to exit is to basically slide from the seat until my feet hit the ground. However, there is this one seat adjustment handle that sticks out just far enough to catch the left leg of loose-legged shorts.

Not only does it leave me momentarily dangling in this air, I'm left feeling like the girl in the photo above.

I guess I'll have to train myself to exit the vehicle some other way, or wear pants this summer. Because I'm starting to pick parking spots for their lack of visibility.

Toothless and Alergic

My husband and I took our five-year-old, Will, to see How to Train a Dragon this afternoon. It was a cute story; animated of coarse. The setting was a remote island in the past that housed Vikings whose main job was to slay dragons.

The hero was a weak, thin, unappreciated boy that wasn't anything like everyone else on the island. He ends up befriending an injured dragon and eventually leading the entire village to a better understanding of dragons, thereby stopping a century long feud.

It was a good animated movie and we'll buy it first chance we get. But what I was left thinking about on the way home was the change that seems to be occuring in children's movies.

There have always been weak people that become strong, evil that turn good, ugly that become beautiful. But lately I've noticed that animated movies are trying to address more important, and seldom portrayed, aspects of human nature.

Toothless, the star dragon in the movie, was injured by a trap and lost a wing. He could no longer fly. The boy made several wings for him and together they were able to fly in the sky. Clearly showing that Toothless was no less without his wing; no less fast, scary, or helpful. The hero treated him no differently. They were just friends.

To take it one step further, towards the end of the movie there is a huge battle in which the hero loses his foot. He wakes up missing (oddly enough) the same foot as his dragon is missing a wing. Now him and Toothless, and their mechanical pieces, can fly threw the sky together.

Oh, and the allergy reference? The hero's love interest in the animated movie Cloudy with a Side of Meatballs has a deathly peanut allergy and suffers an episode during the movie.

My best friend's son is highly allergic to peanuts and her online allergy-support group were ecstatic about the movie. For the first EVER a character in a child's movie was portrayed with serious allergies. What a great way to let children whose entire life is ruled by their allergies know they are not alone as well as show children without alergies the consequences for others.

I'm sure all the support groups for children with amputees are buzzing about Toothless.

And I feel like the world I live in is just a tiny bit better tonight.

And Cigarette Butts

I'm always looking for ways to encourage Will to go walking with me in the neighborhood. A few months back I did it by taking along a plastic bag and picking up trash as we walked. It was amazing the types of things we found along side the road. Glasses, wrappers, bottles, a ten dollar bill, and tons of cigarette butts.

Will loved to shout, "Cigarette butt!" each time he saw one.

Another thing Will loves is the wildflowers that are covering the country side in Central Texas right now. In particular, he loves the blue bonnets.

We were leaving a store this morning and he was going on and on about the beautiful flowers. I commented on his fondness for the flowers.

"I love bluebonnets," he said.
"And cigarette butts."

A "Good" Book

I don't know how many of you know this, but I only attended high school for about six weeks. I was having a lot of health and family problems at the time. You can't exactly say I ran away from home at fifteen, because my mother helped me pack and drove me out of town. She dropped me off with my dearly beloved aunt, who was only three years older than I was.

After that life was all about work. I lied about my age and got my first job, then my second, then my third. I manage to help with my share of the rent and purchase progressively better vehicles. At 17, I studied and passed my GED. Over the years I've taken a few college courses, and received a 'diploma' in computerized accounting from a commercial college.

I have never considered myself a stupid or unintelligent person. However, there has always been this barrier between what others learned and what I did. Oddly, it seems to revolve around books.

It's odd because my one true addiction is reading. However, I don't read what you might consider good books. Many times in my life I've actually had people refer to my book preferences as "trash" or "smut". My daughters call them porn - and sometimes they are not far from right. :)

I have always read romance of one sort or another. I spend a few years emerged in a sub genre and tire myself out; so I try another one. I've read historical, modern, Christan, suspense, paranormal, and erotica. All within the genre Romance. I can easily read a 300 page book every day - and no, there are no pictures and the type is normal size.

But what I've never read were the books everyone else was forced to read in high school and college. I've never heard them discussed or debated what they meant. And other than Steve's family, I don't tend to hang around a lot of people who are highly educated. Regardless, it is amazing how often a references is made to a book or play while I'm with a group of people and everyone gets it; except me.

I was honestly thinking of making a list of books I should have read and trying to read one a month or something. Just to catch up. Well, I was considering it until this last weekend.

My younger daughter is in her third year at university and called me Friday night near tears. Before I go any further, I have to tell you that she HATES reading. It's not even that she hates it as much as it is really hard for her. She can read for an hour and only get through 8-10 pages. She's been this way all of her life and this has been one of her toughest challenges in school. While told months ago a book report would be due this week, she didn't bother buying one of the books she had to choose from. Her room mate took the same class last semester and just purchased the condensed version to write his essay off of. He made an A.

With time getting shorter and shorter, she went online to buy the condensed version to find out none of the books she could choose from were available. A desperate search throughout town yielded not a single copy of any of the actual books. I told her to call the bookstores in Austin and if she found a copy I would pick it up for her. She found one. I picked it up. It was almost 300 pages so I offered to read it for her and email her a summary from which she could write her essay. I tried to read it all day Saturday and Sunday. I was up until 2:00 AM trying to read it. It was a fascinating documentary on slavery in America. But it wasn't a story. There was no flow. There was information, after fact, topped by conjecture. I found out quickly I could not read while the TV was on. While Will was awake.

I reread the first page of the Preface six times before I felt like I had actually read it. By the time I went to bed Sunday night I had only finished 28 pages! There was no WAY I would finish the book in time. And now I was worried about retaining enough of the information to be able to consolidate it. But I didn't want to let my daughter down, so I went on line and paid $15.95 for a large essay written by someone else. One she could adapt to fit her needs. And I only feel a little bad about doing it.

What really bothers me is the loss of my dream to read "good" books that I missed by skipping the traditional high school and college experience. For after my battle last weekend I'm pretty sure it's a no-go for me.

Unless they have condensed versions.

Three Things

I watched this movie years ago called City Slickers. It was a comedy where three men plagued with mid-life crisis's join a modern-day roundup to help them find answers. Jack Palance plays Curly; the old weathered cowhand in charge of the roundup.

Jack dies during the trip. But before he does, he gives the character Billy Crystal plays (Mitch) hell, for everything. He also tries to help out the floundering man by telling him that life is all about one thing . . . just one thing. Unfortunately, he never tells Mitch what it is. So through the entire movie Mitch it trying to figure out the one reason for life.

The ONLY reason I bring this up is that tonight I saw a commercial for Olive Garden. It reminded me of the movie.

"What three things bring families together?"

Sure, in the commercial the response is, "Bread, Soup, and Salad."

What is funny is that when asked, "What three things bring families together," my immediate thought was:

"Funerals, birthdays, and holidays."

Some Body's Shoes

Will is at that stage in childhood where he is attempting to pass the blame, only it's really hard to do when you are the only child around.

He'll be helping me with the dishes and suddenly pass gas in a loud and obnoxious way.

"Will! Did you just fart?"

A stupid question to be sure, but an automatic one. His reply?

"No. Papa did it."

If Steve was home I might be willing to consider it, but he's not. Will doesn't just choose his father as his patsy. He has blamed things on Rocky and Bullwinkle (our dogs), Mr. Scott (our neighbor), and assorted stuffed animals.

Apparently everyone he knows is responsible for wearing his clothes, moving his shoes, tracking in dirt, farting and burping, dropping things, pushing things off shelves, and making a general mess of my house.

I try not to make a big deal out of it when he attempts to pass blame. I know it's just part of the developmental process. Sometimes I joke with him; letting him know I don't believe him. Sometimes I point out why it couldn't have been _____ who did something - it's really hard to believe even Steve could fart so loud that we'd hear him from twenty miles away.

Apparently he's listening.

We stopped by Burger King for lunch last week and after getting our food went into the play area. There was only one other family in the room. A mom and two small children, all sitting at a table and eating. Will kicked off his shoes and put them in the cubbie before heading to the entrance of the playscape.

I'm pulling everything off the tray and sitting the table when I hear:

"Someone left their shoes over here.
Shoes go in the cubbie."

Sure enough, I look over and Will is pointing out the correct location for shoe storage to the mom of two. He's a stickler for others following the rules.

The mom replies. "They're not ours."

Will looks at her like she's lying and shrugs his shoulder. With a sigh, he turns to crawl back into the playscape.

"Well, they're some body's shoes."

The Garage Door

Our house was built in the mid eighties and is beginning to show it's age. One of the most irritating issues is our garage doors. Most of the time they do not close all the way. As a result, we are always getting visitors in the garage. Frogs, snakes, birds, frogs, mice, etc.

Last year there was this one bird that kept trying to nest in the garage. Two of the windows had broken out of one of the doors and Steve ended up stapling up plastic to keep it out. Well, it - or another one like it -- didn't give up.

Over the last month, I've surprised a bird in the garage several times. When we left town this weekend we made sure the garage doors were completely closed. We were gone two days.

The evening we got back I went into the garage and heard a weak chirping noise.

Chirp . . . chirp . . . chirp.

A nest with a baby bird was somewhere in our garage and we'd locked the mother out all weekend. Steve wanted to just leave the doors closed and let the little bird die. I couldn't. It's a baby.

So Steve went back into the garage and opened the door a few inches.

The next day I was in and out of the garage all day as I worked on the driveway. As I headed into the house at the end of the night I made sure to close all the doors. A few hours later I didn't even have to go in the garage to hear the baby bird complaining - in a much healthier chirp.

Chirp! Chirp! Chirp!

I went in and opened the door a few inches.

I know why having a bird in your garage is bad. But in our garage it will stay until something (besides me or Steve) kills it or it flies away.

We really need some decent garage doors.

Cussing at the Cemetary

While in Brady this weekend I stopped by Becky's grave and took her some new flowers. I try to do this each time I'm in the area. Some times I stay and sit a while. Some times I talk to her. This weekend I just cleaned up around her site and swapped out flowers. I wasn't there very long and there wouldn't be much to say, well, except for the cussing.

It was a beautiful day and the cemetery was packed. There were no less than fifteen cars sprinkled throughout the area. A family in their Easter best was just a few grave sites over from Becky's resting place. They presented the perfect scene for a movie; two parents (opposite sex), two children - a boy and a girl, all dressed up. They were quite and polite. Respectful.

I reached down to pull out the old flowers and came away with several stickers stuck into my hand. They were hard, dried out stickers just like the ones in the photo. When I was a child, mom use to call them devil heads. In un-landscaped areas of Texas they are very prevalent. As a child, our punishment often included spending so many minutes or hours pulling up devil head stickers from our lot. Needless to say, I'm not fond of them.

They didn't appear to be growing around Becky's headstone, but there were weeks overtaking the area so after removing the faded flowers I reached down to pull up some weeds and drew back a hand covered in more stickers. "Shit!" Wising up, I pulled out my small knife and used it to ply up the weeds, cussing the entire time. I ended up with seven stickers and one cactus spine - it was hiding under the weeds too.

I could almost feel Becky's presence as I dug up the weeds; laughing in the background. "Bitch!" She would have got the biggest kick out of me digging through stickers.

Perhaps it was that moment of recall, that feeling of closeness, that made this weekends brief visit to her grave more painful than the last three of four. Leaving me with a slight smile and tears in my eyes.

In the Looney Bin, Again

I found out today that Mom is back in a state operated mental institution, aka, the loony bin. While some people grow up without ever having to visit a mental institution, none of them are related to me. My mother has been in and out of mental spas all of my life and I'm in my mid forties.

In the early years she'd admit herself when she needed help. Then it progressed to the point her counselors or doctors would have her committed. Then to the point her family would have to force her to the emergency room and sign papers to have her admitted against her wishes. You haven't lived until you sign the dotted line admitting your parent to the loony bin. (The visits are way fun too.)

Sure, the first time or two - or two dozen depending on your level or optimism - you are thinking 'this is good for her'. She's going to get a chance to deal with her issues, get her medication taken care of, and things will get better. There isn't a one of us that believe that any longer.

Her decline in mental heath over the last few years has been shocking. Even to me. A common phrase that pops up when anyone visits her is, "there's no one home". She will sit and visit with her children like they're door to door sales men and she's lonely. She doesn't remember who we are, who we're married to, if we have/had jobs, or ask about our children. There is no connection at all.

A few months back she started imagining visits that didn't happen. She called my nephew and wanted to know why he didn't bother saying goodbye before he left. Going so far as to have a fit and hang up on him when he denied sneaking into the house and spending the night with her, in her bed. She wouldn't talk to him for weeks for lying about it and trying to make her feel crazy.

Apparently that was the beginning of the latest slide into delusion. She called my brother last week demanding he call her doctor (at the loony bin where she'd been for three weeks) and admit him and his family had come to visit the day before. They weren't going to release her until she could prove that he'd stopped by - which would be hard to do as he'd been in Austin with me the entire day.

As soon as she hung up, he did call the doctor and let him know no one in the family had been up to see her the day before. The doctor knew. He also knew there really were no people living in mom's non-existent attic and that no grandchildren actually slept under the cushions of her couch.

I don't feel shocked, nor saddened. Just resigned and very thankful for those who help me hang on to my own sanity.

My Kind of Crazy

My name is Misty Marquardt and my mother is crazy.

Oh, wait ... this isn't SSMI (Support for Siblings of the Mentally Insane)? Oh well. Just in case you weren't aware of it, my mother is crazy. Loco. Insane. Out of her head. Off her rocker. Missing the top branches in the mental wellness tree. Shy of a full load. Around the bend ... and the next one after that.

I worried for years that I'd wake up one morning and be crazy. Well, crazier. Like mom. Everyone always says that no matter what you do, you will eventually turn into your parents. Well, that's okay if you have the normal stuff to look forward to: weight gain, receding hair line, a uni-brow.

It's not so okay when you have insanity to look forward to.

I remember the year that I quit worrying about the sizing of straight jackes. It was the year I turned thirty four. With my mother being just eighteen years older than I am, I realized that by the time she was thirty four I had been sixteen. She'd already been WAY crazy for years by then and I wasn't showing any signs of that type of insanity. Go me!

So, the real reason behind this post ...

I was having lunch with my friend the other day and I was explaining about this weird habit I have that drives me bonkers. I explained the most recent display of said issue.

1. Bonnet told me she needed a crib set for her daughter. I wanted to make one like I remember seeing in a book I use to have.


2. I can't find the book. I spend a week trying to track down or locate a copy of the book with no luck; driving to three different book stores and spending hours online searching.


3. I decide I can reprodcue the crib set without the book so I spend another week surfing the web for photos of similar crib sets. When I finally locate one, I realize how expensive it is going to be to purchase the material to make one. I could easily spend $150 or more on material and then have to spend a week or two making it.


4. Deciding to give my self some slack, I look on the local craigslist and find a cute set for $35. I send Bonnet a link and ask if that is okay. That's fine by her, so I buy it.


5. I hate it. It's got bunnies on it. How did I not notice it had bunnies before I bought it. Maybe if I take one side of the bumper pad and change it to a solid color I'll like it better. Then I can use the old fabric to make a matching curtain. So I spend four days taking the pad apart carefully.


6. I also buy fabric for the back of the pad and enough to make three matching sheets and complete a curtain; spending $25-$30.


7. While in a thrift store I find a bumper pad I fell in LOVE with for $4. So I buy it. I get home and the dust ruffle from the other set sort of goes with it. But the blanket doesn't. Well, I can just make a new quilt that matches.


8. Another trip to the store and I've spent $35 on fabric to make a quilt out of and a matching window topper.


9. Since I no longer need the taken apart bumper pad or matching quilt I am going to sell them in a garage sale that my sister-in-law is having over the weekend. So I spend three hours putting the bumper pad back together. By this point I have also come to the conclusion the ruffle really doesn't match with the new fabric I purchased to make a quilt out of, so I'll sell it to.

I end up selling the crib set for $5 at a sale. After 3-4 weeks of time, energy, and several trips to the store for supplies, I've managed to spend a minimum of $100 on a crib set I haven't even started yet.

Sadly, this isn't the first time I've taken this convoluted path to reach a destination. My entire past is littered with detours and wrong turns that would drive a person to drink. It is just something about the way I'm wired, the way I work.

After I tell my friend about my issue she just smiles at me and says,
"It's just your kind of crazy."

She was also raised by an insain mother. As she pointed out, while we may not end up with our mother's insanity, we all end up crazy.

Oddly, I feel much more at peace with my slip into insanity now.

The Cow Next Door

A few days ago Will and I were headed out to the car when he noticed some flowers had popped up in our front yard. They've been studying gardening, plants, and pollination for a few weeks and he is extremely interested in all plants at the moment.

While buckling him in his car seat we discussed cross-pollination and the need for butterflies; something he'd just learned.

As we pulled out of the drive and drove in front of the house he said:


"Hey, the flowers go in the neighbors yard too.
Maybe the cow planted them."

Since we had just been discussing cross-pollination I thought maybe he'd seen a cow in a trailer or something and thought it had been responsible for the flowers. So I asked him what cow.

"The one that lives next door."

We don't have anyone near us with cows, and I tell him so.

"The girl that lives next to us. Papa and I call her a cow."

[[Important side note: Steve and a neighbor have an ongoing hate/hate relationship. It's complicated - involving dogs, barking, a messy yard, and two strong personalities.]]

I immediately let Will know that our neighbor is not a cow and that is a bad thing to call a person. He's confused.

"But she's a girl cow like a cowboy."

I can see where in his mind that might be what he thought Steve meant when he called her a cow. I just explained that calling someone a cow was like calling them fat or ugly.

The next day I heard him tell his Papa, "Mama and I don't call people cows, it's mean."

Steve took it to heart and has made an attempt to no longer call her cow. Thought to be honest, I'm not sure her new nickname is any better: The neighbor formally known as cow.