Getting A New House; Making A New Home

We just got a new old house -- a real fixer-upper, priced low enough for us to pay in cash. (Almost as mind blowing as the restoration work we have to do!)

One of the joys of a new house, is day dreaming about how we'll live there, make it our home. Given that it will take us so long to restore the house, those days are years away... Meanwhile, I've been reveling in the chance to organize where we are living now. Making sure to reuse and recycle not only what's in the old farm house but what's in the house we rent now, we are getting rid of the rest. (Sooo many trips to the thrift shops to donate; so many vintage and antique items in our personal collections going up for sale!) It's not only changing the way we will live, but the way we live now.

Whether you've been thinking about restoring an old farm house, taking advantage of the deals to be found in the current housing market, or just need a different house to accommodate your needs, mortgage rates are very low right now.

'Round Here, We Call Days Like This "Saturday" (Part Two)

After an unusual start to my Saturday, we took the little van, Star, to the local Firestone shop to get a new tire, killing the waiting time at the public library across the street. Once Star was repaired, we headed out for some rattin' around: a few thrift stores and the used bookstore. Then we stopped to eat at Burger King.

We were sitting in a booth, eating, when a young woman yelled obnoxiously loud. Des recognized & identified the girl from her school as a special needs kid (as if the yell hadn't told us that already), but other than this brief alert to the girl's presence, we thought nothing more of it and continued our meal -- with Derek continuing his mocking the "Daring Girls BK toys" for being anything but daring.

Suddenly, there was a blur and then pressure on the right side of my face, quickly followed by more pressure down my right side -- the girl was pressing her face, nose smashed uncomfortably into my cheek, drooling, onto my face. Because she was sitting at the opposite side of the restaurant and a row behind me, I hadn't even seen her approach. Suddenly she was just there. Firmly there. In what can best be described as a very wet yet motionless dry-hump.

I'm a tolerant person -- even if I weren't parenting the kids that I am, I'm understanding and tolerant. So I remained still, aware that her caretaker was somewhere nearby, perhaps still ordering at the counter, and so I expected a rescue shortly.

But shortly is a long time when you're so uncomfortable.

Not just physically uncomfortable, but emotionally so.

I felt that special vulnerability that comes with another's vulnerability... Given our position, the full front of her body pressed against my seated right side, I quickly ascertained the few options I had... I didn't dare slide to my left for fear she'd lose her balance. Ditto turning my torso to use both arms. So I figured I'd only be able to use one arm or hand to touch her -- but I was afraid that even if touch wasn't something she might be startled by, the simple use of an arm to resist her crush would somehow disturb her or her balance. I also figured that the odds were pretty high that any attempt to touch her could result in, however mistakenly, a blind inappropriate touch.

Plus, these days, touching anyone makes you vulnerable to accusations & recriminations.

So I just sat there, waiting rescue of some sort -- be it the girl's own decision to stop or her caretaker's intervention.

Time seemed to stand still in that odd way time has, leaving you to just absorb all the details of the moment. Details that seem surreal in their crystal clear logic of the moment.

Her drool, unexpectedly cool, likely from her mouth-breathing and/or from pooling about the outside of her mouth, was now running down the side of my face.

I turned my face toward her, all gleaming eyes and mouth; she seemed happy.

I suppose I could have said something; but the girl wasn't talking either, so what could I say? Besides, these days, directing anyone can be described as "bossing" or "bullying," leaving you nearly as vulnerable to accusations & recriminations as touching. So I just sat there.

Aware of everything. Knowing that time had stretched -- but little of it had passed. I knew that too little time had elapsed even for my husband to do anything. I knew I just had to wait, no matter how uncomfortable & long it seemed in that moment.

In less than a minute the caretaker was there. I felt the girl leave me. Still speechless, I turned to look at her. The young twenty-something female caretaker had the girl by the arm. "I'm sorry. Remember, personal space," the caretaker said -- looking at me. I knew she was speaking that personal pace part to her charge, but addressing me in that apologetic I-hope-you-see-what's-going-on-here way. Of course I did. I've given those looks myself. As a parent, I've given those speeches & looks with far more hopeful prayer than that caretaker felt the need to express too. I smiled; I nodded. Then they were gone. Before I could even say anything.

All I could do was wipe the drool off my face and continue eating my meal as if nothing had happened. I wanted to go scrub my face; but I was afraid of how it might appear to that girl, and I didn't want to shame or embarrass her. So I unceremoniously used a paper napkin to wipe the side of my face and finished the meal with my family.

After we left the restaurant, I nervously laughed about it all. Not cruelly; just to shake off the discomfort.

And then our family had a little talk about what manners really are: they are norms and standards of behavior which are there to prevent people from being uncomfortable.

In this case, the girl, for whatever reason, had not learned them. Yet. She was still being taught about personal space.

But those things we teach the children about being polite, those things kids find silly or a pain or too formal or 'whatever,' are there to help us all feel comfortable.

Case closed, right?

But I still felt funny.

An odd mix of feeling both violated by and protective of that girl...

Even writing this post feels like dashing off to the bathroom to scrub my face clean.

But in the end, you have to do something to validate to yourself your own experience. You might begin with the giggles to wiggle the crazy-awkward feelings off; but at some point, you also want to acknowledge the deeper issues... The questions...

You don't want to blame or shame this girl who didn't know any better (or, if she did, who just couldn't control her impulses); you aren't looking for a pound of her flesh. But it isn't over. Not yet.

It could be your own personal neurosis, your decades of training in observation & problem solving atypical behaviors, but you do have to wonder, "Why me?" Why did this girl single you out? And what had she singled you out for? Was it a 'good' feeling that she impulsively followed? Or was she agitated, acting out of anger? Whatever she was feeling, why did she find you so important to share it with or direct it at? And did you respond appropriately -- or have you somehow made things worse?

You don't know the answers; you won't know them. You wouldn't dream of asking for such things & making others uncomfortable (including your spouse who was there). But you can't ignore it all in the name of politeness either.

As a writer, you write it.

'Round Here, We Call Days Like This "Saturday" (Part One)

Seven minutes after I wake up on Saturday, I go out on the front porch for a smoke (no lectures; that's another story/post/time/place); hubby and middle child join me (they would have to speak to their own reasons & neuroses).

Neighbor from across the streets exits the door of the cute little 1920's apartment building. He is wearing a too-bright, too-cheery yellow & orange Hawaiian shirt & khaki shorts. "He's blinding me with shirtness," I wince. Hubby begins to work the word "shirtness" into Dolby's Blinded Me With Science while the neighbor heads out of sight to the parking behind the apartment building.

Moments later, the neighbor cruises up the drive -- on foot. I know he's heading towards us. Before he's reached the street, I've already tossed out the anxiety-ridden possibility that he'd heard my comment about his shirt and was coming to confront me and got the psychic vibe that he's going to ask for a ride. Sure enough.

"Can I get a ride to 19th Avenue North?" he smiles, "I thought I drove my car home last night, but once I got to my empty parking spot, I remembered I was too drunk to drive..."

This would be too much even for those with an irony deficiency, let alone me. Unable to control myself, I start laughing -- which sets off hubby. "You have bad luck, dude," I chuckle, "Of all the houses on the street... We have two vans, but neither is running."

It's the truth. Days after repairing Ookla, he busts a hose & is non-movable until hubby finishes the repair, and Star has plunged a bolt (with washer, so that it sealed the hole long enough to get home) deep into one of her tires and we were minutes from taking in her in for a new tire. ...Then again, at our house, at any given time we have car problems.

But anyway, the neighbor is undaunted. I'm pretty sure he was still under the influence. And not just because of the too-bright-for-anytime-let-alone-with-a-hangover shirt.

Looking at his watch he says, "Yeah, I'm supposed to meet my friends at a restaurant at 11:40 and it's 12:23 now..."

I don't have the heart to tell him that even if we could give him a ride, we wouldn't be able to deliver him back in time to join his friends.

Instead I joke, "You're name must be Murphy, huh?"

"No, my name's Chris," he happily responds.

"Uh, I meant Murphy, as in Murphy's Law."

"Oh the irony of the universe!" he happily acknowledges. And then tacks on an awkward, "I love you guys!" before he leaves.

But this is my life and I've only been up, what, like 15 minutes now? So the awkward is only just beginning.

Children's Bulging Eyes

We held a family rummage sale Friday & Saturday. A week's worth of preparations, one day miserable in the damp cold, two days with the Blue Angels & other loud planes passing overhead from the local air show (I hated those planes; but hubby looked up -- mouth open -- for every one), and, because we don't have a garage, sore muscles form all the repeated set-up & take-down.

The results of all this was just enough money (after paying for the ad) to buy the family three large pizzas. (The combined funds raised by the kids equaled more than what we made; next year, they chip in on the ad.)

I consoled myself with the fact that only three boxes of crap would return to the basement. And that for two days we spent quality family time on the front porch. (Not much different from quality family time when you work from home.)

When the rummage sale was over, we packed all but those three small boxes of trinkets into the old conversion van to donate them to the closest thrift shop. There, while waiting for the family ahead of us to unload, I spotted a guitar in the back of their SUV and committed the cardinal sin of asking, "How much for the guitar?" The man brought it over, showed us where it needed repairs, but said we could have it.

The eyes of the 13 & 9 year olds bulged with delightful surprise.

From there, we decided to go to another thrift shop we had not been to in awhile. (The kids & I had just shopped this thrift store earlier in the week.)

A few blocks away, in the middle of construction, the old conversion van (named Ookla, after the the mok in Thundarr the Barbarian) made a few strange noises and then died. Hubby & I sprang out and, holding onto the door frames, began to push the van. We made the left turn through the intersection surprisingly well and, now trotting as much to keep up with the rolling vehicle as anything else, I could see a number of open angled parking spaces ahead on the right on Broadway, the main drag in the old downtown. I was thinking how lucky we were, good weather, close enough to home -- we walk to & from the old Fargo downtown rather regularly.

And then the dinging warnings of an approaching train on the train tracks just a feet ahead of us. Hubby flew into the van and used the brakes to stop us just before the bars lowered before us.

Hubby & I began to laugh hysterically. What else? Who else?

The kids, still buckled into their seats, had bulging wide eyes again -- this time because they were freaked. I talked them down from their panic while the train rolled by. But we grown-ups was still giggling.

The train passed, we rolled the van into one of the angled spots, locked her up, and began to walk towards home. More quality family time.

Just a few blocks to go and the 20 year old calls on my cell. "Hey mom, just passed you guys walking; we're going to eat at King Buffet."

I told you we walk a lot; it never occurred to her that there could be a problem associated with our walking. So I replied, "Wanna know why we're walking?" and then gave her the quick run-down of events since she's departed the rummage sale.

When we got back home, we ordered the pizzas (yummy Duane's!) and then busied ourselves with taking some pictures for blogging (yes, that's a tease). When the pizzas arrived, we paid the delivery girl with our meager rummage sale earnings and sat down to watch Rock-a-Doodle (review to at Kitsch Slapped soon).

'Round here, we call crazy days like these "Saturday."

I'm Not Always A Crank, Part Two

(In case you're wondering, Part One is here.) I'm not always a crank, or an intellectual, or an obsessive collector, or whatever this is... Sometimes, I'm a fun mom. Just a fun person even.

Today's evidence comes from a recent excursion to the countryside...

Turning the minivan around in a farmer's driveway, I spotted an animal that at first glance looked like a cat. But once it started walking way (then bounding through the corn field) it was clear it was too long to be a cat. Hubby said it was a polecat -- a term used 'round here for everything from mink to skunks. It looks a lot like a cat, but a few inches longer, making the dark legs seem a bit too short, like a (very large) ferret. But with little bear-like faces.

As he bounded off through the corn field, we spotted two more polecats running into the field. We pulled over to get a closer look at what looked like furry slinkies bobbing in & out of the young corn. Occasionally, one of the polecats would sit up, prairie dog style. Then, along came another two polecats!

I was so excited! I jabbered at them like women do with animals, telling them how cute they were and how happy I was to meet them.

Then one last polecat came along -- this one bounded towards me. I swear (and have hubby & the kids to testify!) this polecat was as into me as I was into him or her. It would bound a few steps closer, then sit up and look at me. Then walk-bound or slink a bit closer & look at me again... On & on, while I crooned it closer, until it stopped on its side of the ditch and looked at me one final time before bounding off in the directions all it's little polecat friends had gone.

I was 12-15 feet away from my first polecat!

Turns out, these specific polecats are Fisher martens. They are supposed to be solitary hunters, so seeing a small "herd" (i love saying "a herd of polecats lol) of them was pretty rare... We suppose that either it was a mother with nearly-raised young, or a group of individuals who was feeding on the food the farmer left for the farm cats until the pending rain moved too close and they were heading home for cover. Despite my interview attempts with all the polecats, not one gave me any answers, so I don't know...

Here's the one photo hubby managed to get that doesn't look like a blur bounding through the corn:



I'm completely in love with Fishers -- absolutely ga-ga for them!

The kids were fascinated with them too. Until a few nights later when we went back there at night to watch the meteor showers. Then they, especially Hunter, were afraid any noises were dangerous predatory Fishers (or worse!). I would have loved to add Fisher martens to our meteor show. But none showed themselves.

I like to think they were there in the corn, watching us.

Life Lessions In Lesions (Or, The Gross But Necessary Breast Post)

On Easter Sunday I had to take myself to the emergency room. It took me an hour & a half to convince myself it was necessary, even if I wasn't bleeding or otherwise looking like my life was in peril... Bad things had gone on long enough.

A few weeks ago, I was charmed (not!) to discover that I had a zit on the underside of my left breast. I know; what a complete "Eeeiiiwww!" But ladies, especially those ladies with large breasts, know that break-out on the bosom happens -- especially on the underside of the breast because, between bra cups & underwires, and, when you dare to go braless, the underside rests against your chest. The skin cannot breathe, and is often moist, perfect for bacteria etc.

Typically I slap a bit of Wayne's Whoop-Ass Healing Balm on the offending zit. (Seriously, that stuff is awesome!) Every now and then, when the zit is behaving stubbornly (and is twice as ugly), I apply the old hot water compress. Even in the worst case scenario, things come to a head and heal within a few days.

But not this sucker.

This zit was not your usual zit.

After sticking around over a week -- despite all my TLC -- it was only becoming more angry. After two weeks, on the Saturday before Easter, it was not only a zit with no head, but there was a hot, angry, red patch of skin surrounding it, working it's way towards my nipple...

I did just have my mammogram around the new year, and all was fine; surely if there was anything that was gonna burst out of my breast they would have seen it coming. But naturally such rational thinking did little when faced with such ugliness. So I probed, gently (which still pissed-off the zit and made 1/4 of my size E breast ache), lifting the skin to grab it to see if it was attached to my breast tissue. It felt like it was all "in my skin" only... There was a lumpier pocket where the zit was... But the red area wasn't just hot and sore -- the skin was thicker... Like a stale pancake or the hard top layer of Jello; bendable, but thick and sorta rigid too.

I gently washed it, applied a hot compress, then dried it and put on some of the healing balm before heading to bed.

The next morning I awoke to discover that nearly 1/2 of my breast was now red-hot angry. It hurt just awful. It was so bad, I refused sex with my husband.

"Let me see it," he says.

"No, you'll never want to have sex with me again -- at least not in the missionary position," I say.

But he does look at it; pronounces it an infection, as if that was "all" it was, and gave me the "let's continue" look. Uh, no, thanks.

Before dressing for Easter Sunday with family I applied more balm, popped some aspirin, and hoped it would just heal already.

When I returned home that evening, I was sore and tired. More washing & balm (was it bigger or was I imagining that?), more aspirin -- and a nap. I woke up feeling a bit better, but by the time dinner was over, I began thinking...

What if overnight it again doubled itself? Clearly this was no ordinary zit... What was it? The heat told me it was an infection, but what was that thing that, originally anyway, looked like a zit? With no other terminology, I called it a boil. Wasn't the treatment for a boil rather like a zit? But then it wasn't working and there was clearly an infection... But does one really go to the hospital for an emergency room boil lancing procedure? Not that I really wanted one. But it hurt. And it was ugly. Oh, gawd, if I went, not only would I be "the woman with the boil on her breast," but I'd have to say it out loud. In public. Oh ick. But after my son was hospitalized for three days because of an infection from a dog bite, I don't like to underestimate infections. In just a few hours, you couldn't find the nose on Hunter's face... What could this infection do, engulf my boob? Sounds funny, but it wasn't. Round & round I went with myself for 90 minutes until I decided that pride be damned, infections could be serious, and if it was worth an hour & a half of thinking, I should shut up and drive to the hospital.

There was the humiliating experience of announcing my problem to the registration staff person. There was the added humiliation of having to repeat it two more times -- to the intake nurse and then the doctor.

I used humor to diffuse my embarrassment. I was cracking jokes my whole time there. See, I have an anxiety condition (PTSD from domestic violence) and the whole thing made me nervous as hell. Which not only means I'm seconds away from crying, but my blood pressure goes up and then I have to explain that it's just nervousness & have them take it again... Which reminds me that the new-fangled automatic computerized blood pressure cuffs hurt -- actually leaves me bruised. And so I hate having to have them take it again -- nearly as much as I hate to tell people I'm an emotional mess. So it's make jokes and have a (possible) reason to cackle, or risk having them consider admitting me to the psych ward for emitting too much maniacal laughter -- while tears stream down my face.

But I digress.

There was the nearly comical reaction of the doctor's assistant who had to touch my breast and the affected area -- twice. Each time with a sourpuss look on her face followed by a dash to the wall dispenser of hand sanitizer and a furious scrubbing of her hands.

I know it's gross, lady, but I bet at some point in your career you've been wrist-deep in a cadaver and experienced human excrement; how's a breast boil so much worse?

(Note: The doctor wasn't so reactionary, but I guess that's 'cuz he doesn't have a breast to imagine that on.)

Anyway, after a brief Q & A (how long have you had it, me describing my treatment of it, assurance that I just had a mammogram, etc.) and several words ending in "itis" etc., the determination was "an infection." Antibiotics would be the remedy. (Initial relief at no lancing; but then, "Oh, joy, a yeast infection will be here soon!") But because the doc couldn't feel a "puss sack" he wanted an ultrasound just to be sure...

Sure of what? My nervous brain wanted to know. Looking for a "puss sack" was the answer. Oh, so if chapter one was "The Breast Boil Lady", chapter two was "Looking For A Puss Sack". What an utterly charming story this was becoming.

While awaiting escort to the ultrasound, a very cool nurse tried to get an iv with an antibiotic started. I politely warned her that I'm a hard stick & that my veins blow too; she shouldn't take it personally. Of good cheer, she proceeded, confident in her ability -- greatly underestimating my non-cooperative blood vessels. Bless her, she both tried and was kind.

While she waited, gently slapping my arms to get a vessel to sit up & take notice, I regaled her with amusing stories of other iv experiences. Like when I was giving birth to my son, how the young nurse couldn't stick me either. And I told her that it was because I was royalty; that's where the expression "blue bloods" came from, our delicate thin, blue veins. It was a joke -- but she didn't get it. She was amazed -- on her way out she repeated it to another nurse, in all seriousness. *eyeball roll*

(Whenever I tell that story, I have to include the part about how during very painful labor I rhythmically chanted, "I would not, could not, in a boat..." To which the amazed & impressionable young nurse cooed in reply, "Oh, how beautiful, I've never had a laboring mom quote poetry before!" Dr. Seuss is poetry? I mean come on. That's when I ordered my mom to get that girl away from me.)

But I digress. Again.

While I babbled on the emergency room nurse laughed -- which probably helped her mood as she grappled with my non-compliant arm veins. But even she of positive attitude had to give up on my arms. I suggested my wrists; the veins are very visible there. "Oh no, that's really really painful," she warned. She gave my hand a try -- very painfully in, & then the damn disrespectful vein blew.

I asked what would happen next... Since I was going to get a script for antibiotics, couldn't they just increase them & skip the iv antibiotic? She looked at me and seriously shook her head and then quickly said, "Oh don't worry, I've only got two tries and then I pass you onto another nurse." To which I blurted, "But what if she can't either?" She continued on, "There are only 9 of us working tonight," oblivious to my horror. "So I'm looking at 18 stab-sticks before we move onto option B?!"

She went to get another nurse. A not so nice nurse. A gruff by comparison nurse. Ah, but the ultrasound tech is here and I have to go!

A momentary reprieve before I remember we're looking for a "puss sack" and start to sweat away at least the bottom half of the magic marker dotted lines Nurse Sourpuss-Wash-My-Hands-Too-Vigorously had made to monitor the size of the infection area.

Embarrassed & literally sweating out what was to happen next, I ask her -- to ease my tension, you know -- if my boil was a boy or a girl. Ba-dum-dum!

"'Cuz maybe after all this fuss, I should name it..." I babble on.

Inside to myself I'm screaming, "Shut up already!" but it's babble jokingly or cry, so I say, "I suppose I shouldn't say that; you'll admit me to a different floor..."

"No, we don't do that here. We'd kick you to the curb," she says. Images of homeless mentally ill people flood my mind. It's a sobering thought & mercifully I shut up for a bit.

Then I ask, "What are we looking for here..." I don't expect her to reply with anything other than, "The doctor will tell you that," but the tech shows me the infected area, the skin line, that the infection was not in my breast tissue, and that there was no abscess to drain (back to that lancing option, were we?).

Just as I started to relax she told me she had been called from home to come in and do my ultrasound. I didn't have any jokes for that. I apologized and just thought to myself... Umm, what didn't I know about me, my boob, and my boil sorry, my infection that required a person to get out of bed at night on a holiday? I've seen that on ER, and that's not ever good.

Oh, but the gruff nurse was waiting for me; I had more attacks at sticking me to distract me for the time being.

She tied that rubber thing on my arm so tight that all but the tails of the knot disappeared in the flesh of my arm. I complained and got the gruff tough love explanation of how a tourniquet works. Uh, yeah, I know that; but sheesh when I came in here tonight my pain was a 2 or a 3 and now it was at a 5... Could we be a little nicer?

Oh, and can't we just give me a larger script for oral antibiotics and skip this iv mess?

"Oh, no then you'd need the shot."

"Fine, the shot can't be any worse than all this painful sticking."

"No, this shot hurts."

I don't think she understood the pain I was experiencing.

Anyway, this nurse fares no better -- in fact, she doesn't even try to stab me but instead, after minutes of none-to-gently slapping my arms, she says she's going to go get this lady EMT who "can stick anyone in a vehicle bouncing down the road." Awesome, I'll go anywhere to get this stabbing over with -- take me to the bouncing rescue vehicle!

But I didn't have to leave; she came to me.

She assess my multiple stab wounds & frowns; suggests my wrist.

"That's what I said, but the first nurse said it hurts a lot."

"I think it hurts worse on the hand than the wrist," she says matter-of-factly.

What the hell, let's try it.

It worked. It hurt a lot (about the same as the hand, I'd say), but it was done.

Now for the iv antibiotic. Twenty minutes of sitting and reading from the book I'd brought for the waiting area. But then, in calling hubby (so he doesn't worry about how long this is all taking), it occurs to me that I've never had this much fuss ever. Forget about the problems sticking me (I'm trying to), emergency room ultrasounds from staff that had to be called from home? Intravenous antibiotics? In addition to multiple scripts for simultaneous antibiotics? And I have to return to the urgent care center tomorrow to have it looked at again? Just what the hell did I have?

Well, as it turns out, the check-out slip says I have cellulitis. So it was a good thing I went in. Even if it was all so bizarre.

I went home and have followed all instructions -- except the "keep the area raised on pillows" because the whole area is a pillow. The directive to "rest until healed" is easy to do because cellulitis knocks you on your ass.

Days later, I've still got an ugly breast. See?



I'd apologize for this photo's grossness, but felt it was important to show women what it looks like -- so that those who recognize something like this on their own breast know to get medical attention. Got this thing or one like it? Get thee to a doctor.

I apologize for the photo's blurriness. I had to take it myself because hubby now doesn't want to see my icky boob. When I hinted at sex he was looking at my (fully covered) breast with that "Eeeiwww" expression.

"What, now that it's getting better, you don't want to see it?"

"I didn't know how gross it was; now that I do, no thank you."

Nice.

But I can wait him out. *wink*

Oh, and should you ever need to know, I was told by the doctor who gave me my follow-up exam the next day, that increased redness at the infection site for the 36 hours following antibiotics is normal. It seems contrary, but give it a few days and it will start to clear up.

And that concludes today's life lessons in lesions.

Adieu.

The Bra Nazi: I Wish I Was Just Some Ultra-Conservative Worry-Wart, But I'm Not

It began with Des' mom and her grandma (hubby's mom) buying Des very short skirts and high-heeled black boots because they think it's a cool look (for her?!). When I met Des at age six, she had plenty of those outfits. But they made me cringe so badly (I've written before about how I feel about inappropriately dressing children), that I told hubby I would not appear in public with her dressed like that and by the 5th grade it was forbidden because it was inappropriate.

Des, now 12, is obsessed with wearing black. It's not quite the typical "goth" thing, more of a rock-n-roll-slash-biker rebellion dealio, a carry-over from those "cool" outfits, I suppose. (Those boots are still popular with her, but now she only wears them with pants or long skirts; and Des is now too prudish to wear short skirts unless her 80's leggings are underneath them.) But the fact is, Des will do just about anything to wear her black clothes, including picking them out of the dirty laundry pile. If she can't do that, she'll at least wear a black bra under a white t-shirt.

I've repeatedly told Destiny that she cannot wear her black bras under white or other light clothing; it shows thru. Each and every time I get a, "Oh, I didn't know." Which one might be inclined to believe if they weren't the one telling her once a week -- and if the kid weren't extremely weirded-out by anything remotely "risque". But after so many times, it's infuriating.

Now oddities about Des aside, and leaving out the "typical power struggles of the pre-teen in Western culture" conversation, we must first deal with the fact that I am step-mom.

As step-mom, it's only "natural" (and I say this because what we call "natural" and "normal" regarding the role of the step-parent in this culture is mainly out-of-whack because as a society we allow and perpetuate it), that she test me. Many times that I've pointed out Des' visible black bra her father has been present -- but said nothing. What's more, he's been the first to see her, send her off to school, without, apparently, noticing it. So understandably she might think that the lack of comment of disapproval on his part is approval by omission, and I, by comparison, am just noise she can ignore.

I needed to get hubby to support my statements.

Step one was to educate him about how serious this was. Not just giving Des the impression that she could divide and conquer, or ignore what I say, but because I see this "bra thing," like the short skirts and boots, to be a safety issue.

He doesn't get it because he's never had to live like a woman.

The fact is that as much as I wish it otherwise, girls and women are held responsible for the actions of boys and men.

I'm not (only) talking about date rape ("She went on a date with him, didn't she?" "Why else would she let him in her apartment?" "She was dating him for so long... it can't be rape."), or "real rape" ("What was she wearing?" "What was she doing in that parking lot?" "What is her job?") -- and don't even get me started talking about domestic violence!

And I'm not some alarmist prude either, imagining every boy, man-child and man as a sex predator or abuser. I'm just talking about the facts.

Ever since Allie was in middle school, continuing through high school and Des' start of middle school, I've been getting those notices about how girls should and shouldn't dress at school -- specifically stating things such as no visible bra straps protruding from or sliding out beneath the straps of tank tops. Girls with blossoming buds and young women with full breasts are monitored for the "snugness" of their t-shirts.

Why?

Because the boys in class could be distracted.

We can't have boys running around distracted! And we certainly can't teach them to control themselves. No,no, no. It would be much better if we taught the females, the tempting sinful devils that they are, to behave in ways which do not elicit problematic male responses.

So, like Muslim women who must pray at the back of the mosque so that their prostrated backsides won't distract men from their God, girls and young women here in the US must mind their place and their dress so that boys and young men will not have to be responsible for their own thoughts and actions.

I certainly don't think a young girl needs to display her thong or otherwise dress like a mature sexualized adult, but I am completely against this notion that females are the ones responsible for male thought and action. It makes me furious!

But...

Knowing that this is the world we live in...

That the girl with the showing bra straps is the one who will be sent home -- not the leering boy.

That should some young man touch her, she will not only be the one abused but she will have to defend herself, her actions & her dress -- and, no matter the outcome, she will be the one with a ruined reputation.

Knowing all this, it would be damn-near criminal of me not to protect her from the fall-out of a visible bra.

It's not right, it's not fair; but it's what happens in our world.

And so Des cannot dress as she likes. She (and anyone else) can hate me for it for the rest of her life. But it will be a safer one.

And What Did You Do During The Flood Of 2009?

Unless you've been living under a (dry) rock, you've probably heard about the flood situation here in Fargo; now we wait to see what the melting snow (so beautiful as it fell; see photos below) will mean for a second crest this month.

But what you don't know, is what that week was like for us.



Aside from the worries about the house & basement, the closed roads (oh, and the limited stock on grocery store shelves -- hello, expensive bread!), lost pay for hubby as non-essential businesses were closed , schools closed for about 10 days (which means momma isn't just home with kids who perform the usual work distractions, but are asking you all sorts of flood and science related questions -- yup, including "what causes global warming" and "will the earth crash into the sun) -- and then the additional struggle of snow-filled streets which would have to wait to be plowed because city workers were busy with the flood situation -- we had special troubles of our own.

The week before the historical crest of the Red River, we went to Wisconsin to get my son. His spring break does not line up with the local school break, so we took one of the days the girls were off school to drive to Milwaukee, spend a day with my parents, then drive back with Hunter who would then spend his week of vacation with us here in Fargo. That part went rather well, considering.

On Sunday, we all packed into "my van", named Plum Luck, and were to follow my parents in their van out of their driveway to a local restaurant for breakfast before we left for our 10 hour drive back to Fargo. Plum Luck backed up, but as hubby threw her into drive, she jerked three times and then refused to move. Not forwards, not backwards; no movement at all.

I got out, walked to the driver's side of my folks' van, shaking my head in that near-hysterical- sort of confidence that shock mixed with "this is my life" brings, and told my dad that we weren't moving. Dad & hubby played a bit with the van until my mom, hungry, said, "Let's all go get breakfast and talk about the options."

So we all piled into their van & went to eat.

But neither our van, nor our situation, was mentioned.

When we returned to my folks' house, there was more poking about in Plum Luck's engine etc., and then discussion of the options.

There were few of them. Mainly because we were down to one working van to begin with. Ookla, the big 70's porno conversion van, had been stuck for weeks with what was deemed to be a small repair -- but due to so much snow, cold temps, and no garage (let alone a heated one), hubby obviously could not get under it to see much of anything. So it sat while we operated our lives with one vehicle.

So while we could have taken a bus back to Fargo, or, as my folks' offered, have them drive us back, we would have been stuck once there. Hubby thought maybe we could borrow his dad's car and get Ookla fixed -- but I knew better. No disrespect to hubby's abilities, but "car repairs" are not in the easzy-peazy slam-dunk-fix category. Plus, if my life has taught me anything, it's that when it rains it pours. I wasn't going to bank on a repaired Ookla.

My parents loaned us my mom's van -- very nice of them. Especially as when, during the wacky week of flood-watching, hubby was able to get under Ookla, it (so far) has proved to be anything but an eazy-peazy diagnosis, let alone fix. So at least we had one reliable vehicle for the week and for the return to trip to Wisconsin to return Hunter.

Now Plum Luck, as it turns out, needed a new transmission; that price tag was way more than the van was worth. So while we had a van to get to Wisconsin, we would be stuck there. Or we'd have to make the trip by bus, have my folks drive us home, or get a rental. Once at home, we'd be without a vehicle.

Unless we drove two vehicles to Wisconsin. We thought about borrowing hubby's dad's car, but that would be a short term solution to a long(er) term problem. So we figured we'd need to buy a new (to us) vehicle.

So there we were, in the middle of both a flood and a blizzard, looking for a car -- make that a used van that would hack the road trips. And one that we can afford. And get financed post-bankruptcy.

Options were few, but the solution was Big Lot. We got a new-to-us van (dubbed "Star").

Because our drive was full (the not-moving Ookla and my mom's van) and due to the snow emergency (no parking on the street), we left the van there, intending to pick it up the next evening and park it at my father-in-law's house for 36 hours until we would leave for Wisconsin (Grandpa Dave watches our dogs at his house, so we'd be going there anyway).

But the evening we went to pick up the van was not only blizzard conditions, but due to the flood there were only two bridges open into Moorhead -- and few ways to get there. We sat in the van for over an hour and didn't even get to close to the bridge. So we called, said we'd be there the next morning.

Late that night hubby & decided that we'd leave to get the van -- and keep driving. We'd get the hell out of Dodge and go to Wisconsin a day early.



We got up early that still-snowing-morning. Each of us had less than six hours of sleep, but by 8:30 AM hubby had called Des' mom (to change her weekend visitation), I had updated my folks that four of us would be coming a day early, and we had dropped the dogs off at Grandpa's.

We magically got to and over the bridge quickly & easily and picked up "Star."

I was driving with Hunter and Des was with her father in grandma's van. I pulled out of the Big Lot lot, following hubby, and "ding" went the gas gage. I phoned hubby and we agreed to meet at the gas station a few blocks away.

We each filled our tanks, went inside to pay. I returned to Star and Hunter told me my cell had rung. I picked up the phone and looked at the missed call info. I didn't recognize the number, so I dialed it. While it rang, I looked out the front windshield. I saw hubby driving toward the road to I-94 -- and I saw a huge crack on the windshield.

Now when we test drove the van (something which excited both Des & Hunter to the point you'd think they never been on the 10-12 hour drives to and from Wisconsin), I noticed the "ding" on the windshield, on the passenger's side, near the center. I hadn't complained because prior to the test drive, we'd been informed of repairs they'd made on the van and among them was "filled windshield repair," so I just noted, "Ah, that's where it was."

But now, it had spread -- to this freakish long-horn, bicycle-handlebars, thing.

My jaw dropped just as the phone was answered.

It was Tammy, Allie's case manager for her apartment staff, would we pick her up? They were evacuating the apartment while they could control an evacuation -- and while the building was (likely) safe, there would be no staffing. I explained that we were leaving town, they could contact Grandpa Dave. But when I hung up...

Oh well, no time to reconsider, my phone was ringing again. It was hubby, where was I?

I babbled about a windshield and Tammy's call. He said to stay put, he'd drive back to meet me.

When he arrived back at the gas station, he took one look at the windshield and said, "What did you do?" ARG!

It was a normal enough question -- an automatic one, actually. The next thing out of his mouth was something about the fill not working. We stared at each other in silence for a second.

The he suggested he'd drive and get Allie while I went back to Big Lot and had them look at the windshield.

So off he went, back over one bridge (and then facing a potential problem getting back over again on the other) while I franticly called Allie, to have her be packed and ready. But Allie didn't answer. I called home & cell, repeatedly. Soon I was back at Big Lot, where upon being greeted at the door, I began to verbally vomit The Windshield Story in a rush of adrenaline.

"No problem," they said, they'd take care of it, replace the windshield when we returned.

I was stupefied. It couldn't be that simple; God was playing dodgeball with me -- the proof was on my windshield. But it was that simple.

Now Hunter & I just had to wait for the rest of the family to get here with Allie -- Allie! Oh my God, I had to get a hold of Allie! I called. I kept calling until I got her. She was barely awake and here I was barking her to pack her bags for a trip to Wisconsin. This Auspie doesn't do "unplanned" very well -- but she did very well.

Now the car salesman knocked at the window -- were we OK? So I had to tell him the story of the windshield and why we were waiting for hubby... Oh my God, hubby! I'd better tell him that Allie had just been told, that she likely wasn't going to be ready when he got there. But when I reached him, he was already there and things were going well because she was excited to see Grandma & Grandpa and tell them all about her trip to New York City. Oh my God, I had to tell my folks the latest plan -- there would be five of us now, and I'd call when we officially were on the road with an ETA.

Now it was just sit and wait.

Soon hubby & the girls met us back at Big Lot. Then, because I had the "new van," one with a magical space-age door that opens at the push of a button, all the kids piled into Star to ride with me.

And we drove off to Wisconsin. It was 10 AM and we had 10 hours of driving to do.

Wet Underpants In St. Croix

Driving back from Milwaukee to Fargo; using my cute & fun little Acer netbook to post (it's magic!). Today's trip started shaky -- more on that another time because I'm following my own advice to hubby about only focusing on what you can control or do anything about at the moment. But...

Traveling west along 35, we stopped to stretch our legs in Alma using the locks along St. Croix as a reason -- because kids always need to hear our reason. *sigh*

Anyway, we pile out and hubby grabs my hand -- not just to be affectionate, but to bolster my nerves: we're going to cross and old metal walkway. Bridges of any sort, especially those with metal grids you can see through have freaked me out every since giving birth to my eldest.

As we climb the stairs, Hunter admits he's a little fearful, so I offer him my other hand. Once he hears me adnmit I'm afraid too, his fear turns to bravado and then mockery of me fuels his fearlessness and he runs on ahead, turning every now and then to ask me if he should jump or stomp on the bridge.

Ah, to be an 8 year old boy... When the greatest motivator in life is to make a girl squeal.

When we get across, hubby explains what a lock is & how it works. They are all enjoying the view and decide to go down a flight on this side to see what they can see. I opt to remain elevated -- not just to be lazy or remain stationary, but because after some winding roads of poor cell reception, I now have all my bars & I can listen to my missed call messages.

The most important call was from the eldest, Allie, who has spent the past 4 days in New York as part of the high school theater department's field trip. Now, any Midwestern mom would be worried when her baby goes off to the big city, but when the baby's an Auspie, well, it's much, much worse.

I begin to hear her voice when out of freakin' no where, a train comes along. I can barely hear my daughter saying she got back; the plane landed safely. I'm relieved and happy -- though annoyed by the loud-ass train, so I consider hanging up and joining the rest of the family, leaving my messages for another time I can really hear them. While my daughter babbles from voicemail, I look after the kids & hubby... Derek, Hunter & Des are all on that metallic thread of a bridge above the rushing tain! All I can think of is that if they survive the shaking-toss to the ground, the train is going to kill them. Torn between the sweet relief that one child is OK and that my babies and husband are in peril, I begin to laugh and cry.

This is how they find me, when they do return all smiles and excitement, borderline hysterical.

Now they're all teasing me. I laugh back, joking that I only peed a teaspoonful. They enjoy that. Too much lol But none of them knows the joy-meets-horror-wonder that is daily motherhood.

I tried to explain it. But they don't get it; maybe they just prefer not to... A mom with underpants wet with love is cooler than any truth or reason.

No Swapping For This Wife... But How About You?

Our family interviewed to be cast for ABC Family's Wife Swap.

But after a few long talks, we decided that we weren't a good fit for the show. Not only do we have a crazy family dynamic but the requirement to forgo being on any other television show for 18 months would then limit our pursuit of more educational projects, such as my work with domestic violence, special needs, and history/culture issues.

(Plus, while we don't mind laughing at or being laughed at especially regarding our collecting habits, we* aren't exactly loud exhibitionists.)

However, if you belong to a family of collectors and welcome the chance to participate in this social experiment called reality television (for financial honorarium too!), check out the casting call and then contact Matthew McLaughlin at matthew.mclaughlin@castingrdf.com ASAP. Don't forget to tell him that Deanna from Collectors' Quest sent you!

* When I say "we aren't exactly loud exhibitionists", I mean some of us are :cough-Me: and some of us aren't :cough-Him:

High-Five Fridays #12

1) Gracie's re-started her cult again.

These next few may seem to be a "downer", but that's only the case if you don't feel like respecting the honesty and truths which they bring...

2) Bunny's sobering post, Food Is Not A Bad Thing:

Have you ever stood by and watched someone die and not done a damn thing to stop it?

I have. It makes you feel like shit. I won't do that again.

3) Sarah Lynn's honesty regarding her marital communication requires some thought... There's no quote to grab here because it's a process, you know; so read it.

4) Suzy writes What You Just Can't See, which contains an honest truth regarding special needs parenting:

I have been through this grief before. I know that it will fade, and when it does I will feel whole again. And because I know that you can’t mother this way, or live fully this way- I bury it within me.

5) And a high-five to all of you who get your Mother's Day gift free this year -- with Buy One For You, Get One For Mom! We're giving away free copies of Suburban Diva: From The Real Side Of The Picket Fence, by Tracey Henry with purchase. So go get 'em and give 'em!

Want to give high-fives too? Find out how to give your High-Five Fridays here!

The purpose of this meme is to give high-fives to 5 people, posts, blogs and/or websites you've admired during the week. I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 5 high-fives on Friday. Trackbacks, pings, linky widgets, comment links accepted!

Visiting fellow High-Fivers is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your High-Fives in others comments (please note if NWS).

Find more High-Five Friday folks here!

Of Wildfire (& My Ire)

In 1973, I was but a wee girl of 9. I love horses, galloped everywhere -- and where I didn't gallop, I imagined my bike was a horse, including mounting like it was one. Naturally, I adored the song, Wildfire.

But it wasn't just the pure horse love. I loved the romantic & mystical qualities of the song, the longing... Including that a man would sing of and hope for such things.

She Comes down from yellow mountain
On a dark, flat land she rides
On a pony she named Wildfire
When the world went by her side
On a cold Nebraska night

Oh they say she died one winter
When there came a killing frost
And the pony she named Wildfire
Busted down his stall
In a blizzard he was lost
She ran calling Wildfire!
she ran calling Wildfire! she ran calling Wildfire!

By the dark of the moon I planted
But there came an early snow
Theres been a hoot owl howling by my window now
For six nights in a row
Shes coming for me I know
And on Wildfire were both gonna go
We'll be riding Wildfire!
We'll be riding Wildfire! We'll be riding Wildfire!

On Wildfire (were gonna ride)
(were gonna leave some behind) Wildfire!
(get these hard times right on outta our minds... riding Wildfire) Wildfire

(Michael Martin Murphey, America's #1 Selling Cowboy Music Singer, performing Wildfire on Letterman, May 22, 2007.)

In 1973, hubby was but a fetus. And he claims to never know what song I'm talking about when I mention it. So I finally dragged him over to listen to it.

He took my hand and we slow danced in the living room -- which sounds awfully sweet and romantic, but then you didn't know that he was busy laughing at me.

Yes, a romantic sweetheart for proffering the chance to dance; but a meanie-bo-beanie for laughing at my little girl (and romantic believer) tendencies. :sigh:

Like most men, he giveth and the taketh.

I guess when Wildfire shows up, I'll be the only believer riding, leaving the hard times behind.

My Latest Kick: Kitty Pants Which Are Too Tight

When my cat is acting cranky, which is quite often, I've been asking her if her kitty pants are on too tight; she meows in agreement. And now when the kids are cranky, I've been saying their kitty pants are on too tight.

The other day, while explaining what this meant to the kids (which was necessary because they only listen half the time, so they miss things), the eldest still looked perplexed.

I did the old, "Do you need to me to draw a picture for you?"; she took me up on it. Not to be bested, I turned to hubby and told him to draw it. He did.

And so I give you, Kitty Pants (Which, In All Likelihood, Are Too Tight):


Still not willing to let it go (or perhaps not willing to let my delight reign supreme), the younger insisted that hubby ought to have made a hole for the cat's tail. I said that with kitty pants, the tail is covered, like an extra leg, only without a hole at the end. "This," I said, "is why when kitty pants are too tight, cat's get cranky."

There were no more questions.

Feeling Blue? Put On Your Bra & High-Heeled Shoes

It seems lazy fashion habits may be a part of my fatigue and general malaise.

Slip says not wearing a bra can lead to depression -- and while she's got no science to back her up, I'm beginning to see the facts in my own 'working from home' life.

Also, it seems that Slip's found evidence that high-heeled shoes offer health benefits with some super improvements in your sex life too -- not that I'm suffering there. Yet.

But truth be told, while the motivation to work isn't a problem, the reality is that I do not dress like I am at work. While that once seemed a huge part of the appeal of working from home, I'm beginning to see/feel a slide in attitude and yes, I'll admit it, muscle tone. Thanks to Slip, I now have two simple things I can do to help turn things around.

From now on it would be appropriate for you to picture me wearing a bra & stilettos as I sit and type here. I'll have to wear at least a robe, otherwise I'm sure my sex life will consume my work time -- *giggle* -- but for now, it seems this will be my work attire.

A Tree Blooms In Fargo

In the middle of our harsh below-zero winter, my jasmine tree blooms.

Yes, it's indoors, but after leaving out very late this year I didn't think there was any hope of it returning this year.

Normally it resides outside, on the deck, and then is brought in after the first frost or two. This way the plant actually blooms inside, in winter, and fills our house with its pretty scent. This year, however, we neglected to do so and you can see the toll it took on the plant with all the dry scrubby dead branches.



The wonderful thing is that even with just 3 full flowers open, the scent of jasmine fills the bathroom.

It's definitely a living metaphor for 'against all odds'.

Now I have lots of pruning to do. *wink*

Pomp & Circumstance

I went to the Art Burn on Saturday. I'm not a person who is big on ceremony, but whenever I attend some ceremonial event, I'm rather moved by it; this was no exception.

Hubby (who took the excellent photos) & I brought the girls, Des & Allie, and we all decided that next year we'd not only go again but bring some work of our own.

Knowing how long it took me to decide what to bring to the appraisal, I can only imagine the horror I will go through making the decision what work to burn, but the experience of attending makes participation seem mandatory for next year.

Fun With Packer Helmets In The Sun

It's a very rainy day here -- not storming, just a steady rain with little wind. It's the kind of day that makes you think back to sunny days, among other things. So it's a good time to look at photos.

These were taken over the Labor Day weekend in Wisconsin and feature Hunter with his 'new' Packer helmets (from yard sales). Even his pal, Rhino, gets to wear the mini helmet.





Poor Grandma doesn't have a helmet -- but at least Hunter poses nicely with her.



Here Derek teases Hunter that his Green Bay Packer helmet will fit him too; clearly it doesn't. But 'deranged' is one of hubby's best looks *wink*



Here Derek whines that it won't fit -- I think he's working himself up into Hulk-Smash mode!

I Discover The Joy Of Junk Yards

I've been to lots of junk sales, junk shops, and even own a lot of junk, but I've never been to the places where autos go to die.

A few weeks ago, in search of a pair of new-to-us doors for our Ookla, our conversion van, I broke my junk yard cherry.



Dirty? Yes. Hotter than heck that day? Yes. But girls, if you ever get the chance (are forced) to go the the salvage yard, go. Even the wheelbarrow race we had (though difficult to call a winner -- what with us each having a different sort of wheelbarrow to cart our door) was fun.

It's an amazing wonderland full of strange and unusual sites.

Yes, I'd seen those scrunched blocks of condensed radiators, but as they shown there in the sunlight, stacked incredibly high, they rivaled any metal sculptures I'd ever seen.




And I had no idea what to make of the way vehicles were piled...

Surely no one could salvage anything off a truck placed precariously on top of other vehicles, rendering all in the stack useless. But fantastic things to see nevertheless.

Ditto on those vehicles which were place on top of dumpsters. (What was inside the dumpsters? Why place a truck half-on, half-off?)



Overall, it makes your mind reel to see cars, vans and trucks in such improbable positions.

Thift Shop Fun

Today at a thrift store we discovered "Derick's Beanie Pole."


Of course my Derek (my husband) had to pose with it.


When I first met my husband, he swore his beanie pole would never be on the Internet -- I changed that *wink*

You can take the kid out of the city, but you can't take the city out of the kid.

Sometimes, this is how I feel about where I live...



Photo via Malls of America.

For more groovy retro shopping stuff, see this post at Kitschy Kitschy Coo.