Baby, it's cold outside.

Chores are much more difficult in this frigid weather. Our high for today is predicted to be 4 degrees, and tonight, it is expected to dip to -11. Fortunately, we have found a heated drinking bowl for the goats, with a metal coil on the outside of the cord so they can't chew through it. However, even the heated bowl will get a bit of frost on it, in temperatures like this. You would think that chores would be the same, just colder, during the winter. Not true. The animals seem to think that this is a good time to make things more difficult for me.

I'll start with Emma, our dog- she loves to "encourage" me. When it's time to milk, she'll stand in front of me and stare. If I don't respond immediately, she'll start to whine and lunge at me as though she is about to attack. Finally, I'll get exasperated enough with her to just go out and do what I need to do. I cannot get dressed quickly enough for her. She will consistently press her cold, wet, nose into my bare skin as I try to put on my clothes. I can't stand it. As obedient as Emma is, she will not stop doing this no matter how many times I scold her for it. When I'm dressed and ready, Emma also feels that I need to be told in what direction I need to be going. She will herd me out the door, down the steps, and all the way to the barn. It drives me bonkers to have her constantly nudging me. She doesn't do this in the summer, so I think that all the extra layers make her think that I am too fat to walk on my own, and a little bit of nose up my rear is necessary.

When I entered the barn in the warmer months, the goats would bleat and yell like the place was on fire. They knew that milking time meant grain. Now when I walk in, they stare at me. They remain huddled together on the ground, chewing their cud. I call to them, and they continue to stare. I enter their pen and wave my arms a few times, and they look at me like I'm stupid. Then they pretend as though I'm not there, and start finding things to look at on the ceiling. Right now, only Maple is giving milk, so I'll go wrestle her to her feet and hook her up to a lead rope. Socks follows us for the sole purpose of harassing me. As I begin to milk Maple, Maple will slowly start to lean into me until she is literally laying in my lap. She doesn't do this to Shawn or Olivia. It's quite frustrating. She and I have both learned that if I try to push her off of me, I end up flat on my back in manure. I find it much less humorous than the goats do. So, as I precariously balance myself and 75 lb. Maple while I maintain a squat position, I milk as quickly as I can. Socks sneaks up and pulls my hat over my eyes, or gets a grip on my pants and yanks me over; sometimes she practices doing both in quick succession. I'm so glad that goats can't laugh, or I would probably lose it.

Goats are not very sanitary creatures. Every day there are several helpings of turds in their water bowl. In my bowl cleaning experience, I have come to understand that scarves- while necessary to keep me warm- can be used against me. One day (as I was still recovering from an assault from the goats which landed me on my back), as I bent over to clean the poopy dish, my scarf fell straight into the murky contents. My first instinct was to jerk it out, which resulted in frigid brown water spraying all over my face. As I spit and sputtered with my eyes closed, Socks grabbed my soiled scarf and gave it a good pull. I spilled the milk all over myself, which quickly froze to my jacket. After I gained my composure, I brought the offensive water bowl outside to scrub it out. I grumbled and cursed the whole time, and once I finished, I found that since the bottom of the bowl holds the heated coils, there was gooey dung all over the arm of my coat. I now had poop covering every square inch of my winter attire. When I finally got inside the house, I was greeted with, "Mommy, you smell!"

I have been doing everything I can to bribe Shawn and Olivia to do the chores, and luckily, I seldom have to milk anymore. They know that I'm not just paranoid- the goats really do have it out for me. If they had opposable thumbs, I doubt I would ever sleep again.

How Quaint

My friends really enjoy my status updates on Facebook, and my blog entries on here because they think that the things we do are hilarious, in a "Isn't that quaint?" sort of way. And I have to agree. There are times when I am doing something, and it makes me think, "Awww! This is cute." For example, I absolutely love our wood-burning stove. It sits in our cozy, orange dining room, and I decorated around it with antique pots, cookie cutters, and and a bundt pan. I am a terrible decorator, but am quite pleased with this particular corner of our home. On top of the stove, we have an old teapot, and a cast-iron chicken that holds water to help keep the humidity up. Sometimes I put a cinnamon stick in there, or dried marigolds from our garden as a potpourri. It's all very quaint looking. In the evenings, the girls and I will sit at the dining table by the fire, so we can keep warm while I read to them. We drink hot chocolate or tea and go on booky adventures. How quaint!

Of course, some of the not-so-quaint aspects of this are things like having to unload truckloads of wood into the barn. I unloaded a few cords and stacked them myself, which I was quite proud of (just ask my husband- he heard me boast about it for days), but it was certainly hard work. Even that has a little appeal, kind of like, "I'm a real pioneer now!" Another drawback to wood heat is, by the time I get up in the morning to get the girls ready for school, all that remains of our fire is a couple of glowing embers. Our master bedroom is the furthest room from the fire, and boy is it hard to convince myself to get out from under the covers! Very chilly. I now wear slippers at all times, which I swore I would never do. I mean, who am I, my mother?! (When I finally confessed to my mom that I wear slippers daily- just like she does- she replied by saying, "Turning out like your mother is a bitch, isn't it?"). If I start wearing long underwear all the time, I'll be mortified. Anyways, when I finally get brave enough to throw back my covers and hastily put on my slippers, I scurry out to the stove to stoke the coals and put more wood on. The cats and I glean as much heat as we can, then I go to wake the girls. As they groggily come out of their slumbers, I put their clothes over the chairs at the dining table so that they can be warmed by the growing fire. When the girls get out of bed, we all get dressed around our stove, and once again, I am thinking, "How quaint is this?!" It makes getting bundled up and heading out to the barn for an armload of wood worth it.

My friends and family still think that us milking goats is the funniest thing they have ever heard of. My relatives additionally expresses their amazement at our lifestyle, claiming that I was the last person that they ever expected to do this. This always surprises me, since I was a farm girl that has always loved animals and the barn. (In fifth grade, I begged my parents to let me live in a tee-pee and live off the land like an Indian. My dad had to be all logical and ask me how I would survive the winter with an allergy to the cold.) My family explained that this is what doesn't add up to them- I was the tomboy, the jock, the "won't take any crap from anybody" kind of girl. To them, all of this is about the most domestic lifestyle they can imagine. I guess I don't see it that way sometimes. When I'm struggling to load the truck with heavy hay bales or cleaning the goat pen out, it all seems very un-feminine and not domestic. Then again, I consistently wear aprons and my small income comes from making and selling goat milk soap and crafts. I own the traditional "woman's role" in the house and do all of the (exceptional) cooking, (indifferent) cleaning, and (satisfactory) mending. Maybe I can see what they're saying.

After a year of living in this house, so much has changed. It went from being the perfect set for a horror film, to becoming a home. I have learned how to can, make much of our own food, milk a goat and make stuff out of it, and how to get a fire going (which is not easy, trust me). Olivia and Genevieve have gone a year without television in our home, and Shawn and I have been a year without cell phones. All of us have experienced a shift in our senses of humor. Shawn thinks it's funny when our new milker, Maple, gives him kisses on his cheek while he milks her, yet she stabs me in the ribs with her horns when I milk her. Olivia thinks it's funny when Socks poops in a corner right after I finish cleaning their pen. I will say something to Socks to express my gratitude at her audacity, and she'll cock her head at me and lift her tail, letting another string of black goat pearls fall to the ground. Olivia nearly chokes, she laughs so hard. The other night, Olivia had a friend over for a sleepover. The little girl asked me what time it was, and I was busy making her a bracelet, so I murmured, "I don't know," distractedly. Her eyes grew round. "You guys don't even have clocks?!" she yelled in disbelief. This time I laughed so hard I nearly choked. I told her that we did have clocks- one is even digital! Our perspectives have changed so much, and the novelty is not wearing off. This lifestyle appeals to me even more than it did in my imagination, and I have a feeling we'll be homesteaders for quite some time. How quaint.

For more quaintness, be sure to check out my website! www.katiescustoms.com I will also be in my very first craft show in Rochester on Dec. 4th at Christ Lutheran Church from 8:00am-3:00pm. I would love to see you there!

Katie

Crazy Lane

The title says it all. I literally think I live on Crazy Lane. On the right we have a lady who gets into an argument with me, and yells. I can't even get angry with her, because she is so obviously unbalanced that it would be a waste of time. She says nonsensical things to the point where I'm pretty sure the topic of the conversation is going to move to how it's my fault that the dragons are extinct, and I should quit kidnapping all of the fairies. I excuse myself and leave, but she comes and pounds on the door for ten minutes straight with a bottle of booze in her hand, yelling that she "knows I'm in there!" until my mother-in-law comes to the rescue and shoos her away.

Across the street, I chat with Sixty-six years old (remember him?). Shawn says I have to use his name now, which is Al. I suppose since I would have to change his name every year- he would now by sixty seven- this is a good idea. Al is slightly off, but very sweet. He always wears his suspenders with his jeans, and no shirt or underwear. How do I know that Al doesn't wear underwear? Well, his suspenders don't do the job nearly as well as they should, and I am much more familiar with Al's aging body than I would like. As we chat, Al informs me that his girlfriend's son has moved in with them. That explained the glowering, middle aged man that lurks outside their house every day. Al continues on, telling me that the son was just released from prison. I try to hide my alarm with a polite, "Oh?" Al nods, and then tries to frown, which is difficult for him because his face is frozen in a permanent smile. It really is. "He's not havin' too good a time," he says conspiratorially. I raise my eyebrows, unsure of what to say. Al mimes drinking from a bottle, and I nod my understanding and sympathy. Inside, I'm a little nervous about an alcoholic ex-con moving in across the street. Nothing prepared me for what Al said next: he shook his head, and said, "You know, he gets bored, and he just kills people." Again, he shook his head, as if to say, "Kids these days." I nearly raised my eyebrows off my forehead this time. I stared at Al, waiting for him to say he was joking or at least exaggerating, but he suddenly brightens and starts talking about our goats. I tried to recover, and mumbled something about giving them a bar of the goat milk soap that I've made, as Al's girlfriend and her son pull in the driveway. How does one greet a killer? My "Etiquette for Dummies" book nevercovered this. I greeted them both and tried to seem far too sweet and friendly to kill. I was about to head back home to get the soap, and my dog Emma took a giant dump in their yard. I froze, hoping I hadn't just given the son a reason for my death. Luckily, the Mundane Murderer seemed to think it was funny. I scrambled across the street, with the girlfriend (Marie) calling after me, "Watch for cars, little girl!" Ironically, in that moment, I was quite pleased to be called a little girl. It has certainly been some time since I've heard that. I quickly returned with twobars of soap and a plastic bag for Emma's turds. When I finally got home for good, I locked the door.

On the left of us is a family dynamic that we can't quite figure out. Remember Genevieve's ogly lady with the gumby boobs? Her husband had a stroke one day, but since the cats had knocked the phone off the charger and the phone was dead, she just sat there. All day. Yes, she's in a wheelchair, but they have a ramp. Instead of wheeling outside and waving at cars or yelling for help (I most certainly would have heard her), she let her husband stroke out until a county helper showed up for their weekly appointment the next day and called an ambulance. Their daughter comes to visit quite a bit, and she really creeps Shawn out. She's obviously a little slow, but in a way I've never encountered before. I had two friends over one day, and I went in the house for a moment. While I was inside, she snuck up behind them as they sat in their lawn chairs, chatting. When the finally noticed her staring at them, they kind of freaked out. I suppose I understand. She invited us to a birthday party for someone we didn't know, and left. So did my friends. This lady used wander our backyard in the middle of the night until Shawn shined her with a flashlight, but I still have an ear cocked to the backyard while I sleep, and it doesn't take much to wake me up.

Needless to say, I have been a little on edge lately. Last night, I decided that I would like to relax. Shawn was asleep, so I took a book and a bag of Dill Pickle potato chips, and settled into the recliner by the window. The window which has no curtains. It was about 1:30am, and I was trying to figure out if it was possible to pickle one's own tongue. I could no longer feel it. Being that I was heavily distracted, I didn't notice the subtle noises outside the window. Then, I heard a thunk. My heart jumped, but I quickly told myself that it was probably the neighbor's cat sticking to our screen again. See, even the animals around here are completely nuts. Since it was dark, I couldn't see anything, so I leaned back in my chair and focused on breathing again. Then, there was a distinct tap-tap-tap on the window. My eyes bugged out. This was no cat. I scrambled to lean away from the window while desperately trying to see what was out there. I finally saw a pair of eyes. And, a pair of horns. The devil himself was knocking on my window. I was so scared, I couldn't even scream. As Satan craned his neck to get a better look at me and what I was doing, I realized that it was Nibbles. The goats had gotten out and decided to window peep. They were most interested in my bag of chips. I wanted to laugh, yet wanted to kill them. I went out to put them away, and saw that they had been having the most wonderful adventure out of their pen- they had torn open the garbage bag I had left by the door, and had also been playing with the stuffed animals that Olivia and Genevieve had left by their little pool. I couldn't stay angry when I saw the stuffed kitten left in front of the back door for me. The goats are so darn social, that they literally had tapped on the window to get my attention when they saw me through the glass. I put them back in their pen, and reinforced the hole they had made. Once back in the house, I double checked all the locks, and finally fell asleep.

My first 5K!

I can't believe it- I actually ran a 5K! (Well, mostly ran). I absolutely DESPISE running with a white-hot passion. However, I want to be a runner. Isn't that weird? My friend Kim, is totally my inspiration. This girl is the ONLY other female that understands the love of food that I have, because she shares it as well. We have been friend since kindergarten, and she has always been the most driven person I know. Kim does crazy things like full marathons, and triathelons. And wins. So imagine how I felt when she asked me to run the 5K that our hometown was putting on for the yearly festival. How does one say no to a mere 3 mile run when this girl runs almost 30 straight? You can't back out of that without looking like a TOTAL sissy. And I have been meaning to do it... so I said yes.

I longed for death about a block and a half into the run. And Kim, God bless her, stuck with me the whole way, even though she could have finished in half the time it took me. She kept saying things like, "Ok, we can walk now, but when we get to that sign, we need to start running again." I could barely hear her over my exploding lungs. Sometimes Kim would suggest outrageous things like, "Let's run until the curve in the road, then take a walk break." As much as I wanted to protest, I was breathing too hard to talk. I would whimper and try not to cry. The great thing is that she wasn't super chipper about it all; there was none of the annoying, "Only two more miles to go! Isn't that great?! You're doing swell!" She was simply supportive and consistent. My favorite memory of the run was toward the end; we could almost see the finish line- I had hoped to not take another walk break on the last stretch, but I simply could not run any further. I gasped, "I have to walk or I'll puke," and certainly expected some sympathy. Kim quickly retorted, "You can puke at the finish line, let's go!" I laughed on the inside.

At the finish line, there was a man giving people fives. He just stood there with his hand sticking out, letting people smack his hand on the way by. He was saying generic things like, "Good job," and "Way to go." However, when I lumbered across the finish line, his eyes bugged out and he said, "Are you ok?!" and reached out to support me in case I fell. Apparently it was quite obvious that I was struggling. I suppose my bright red face and lolling tongue gave that away. Still, I wanted to punch him.

What would I have done without Kim? I would have quit. I would have walked the majority of the race, and not felt bad about it at all. I would have thought, "At least I'm getting 3 miles of walking as exercise, that's great!" I probably would have been rather proud of myself just for showing up. Instead, as I gasped and heaved for breath after I crossed the finish line, trying not to vomit, I suddenly realized... "I DID IT! I actually DID IT!" It was totally Kim that kept me going- she is the reason that I can be so proud of myself and say that I accomplished this goal. Thank God for awesome friends!

Amish, Crunchy, Hippy

I've been called all of those names recently by my friends. I don't mind. April has already been a busy month for us. I took my craft business, "Katie's Customs" online to Facebook (more websites to follow), and have had some fun filling some orders. I really thought that my wood burnings would be the big sellers. I was hoping for people to have some sort of spiritual experience as they gazed upon my art. However, I have ended up selling a bunch of sock monkeys. It has been a humbling experience.

Also, after much research and contemplation, we decided to get ourselves a milking goat. I know, weird. But, I figured with all that I'm making and cooking myself, why not get my own milk, and make my own cheese, yogurt, and ice cream? It will cut back on grocery costs, and do a lot for the environment (no plastic milk jugs, yogurt containers, cheese wrappers, etc.) I really expected Shawn to say I was crazy and finally put his foot down, but to my surprise, he thought about it for a few weeks and decided that I was on to something. It's so awesome that we're totally on the same page when it comes to our new lifestyle.

Locating people with milking goats took me a very long time. I conversed with Mennonites and Amish, and it's not like I could just call the Amish folks up to ask them. I had to cruise around to each farm. No one was selling, but they would tell me about someone else that they thought might be, and I would drive to that person's farm. Finally, Uncle Harry got us a number off of Craigslist. We called and made the plans to pick up our new goat. As soon as we pulled into the driveway, I swear I heard the faint strum of banjos. It was horrifying. Trash and animals scurried away from the car as I slowly crept up the lane. There were geese, ducks, cows, pigs, horses, goats, dogs, sheep, and even a quail in a cage. Some random people wandered around. A Doberman mauled a baby goat in front of us, and no one seemed to care. Shawn and I looked at each other with wide eyes. It was too late to turn around, we had already been spotted. We cautiously opened our car doors and stepped gingerly in the mud. I instantly snapped at the girls that they were to stay near me at all times. A young man with some nasty teeth gave us a nod, so we headed in his direction. He led us to a tiny, rickety barn that I was afraid was going to fall in on our heads, so I changed my mind and told the girls to wait outside. Six goats stared back us once we entered. Only one milking nanny didn't have horns, and she seemed to be the only one that seemed not just social, but healthy. This place was festering with diseases. My common sense told me that I should turn and run before I caught something. Since we technically live in town, I knew we should get a companion for our milker. The last thing we want to do is piss off our neighbors because our lonely goat bleats for attention all night. The cheapest option for a companion is a young kid. We asked to see the kids, and we were brought to the garage (it just looked like several other decrepit buildings, but that's what the guy called it). As I walked in, my lungs withered. The stench of animal urine and feces was overwhelming. and my eyes burned as much as my lungs. When I could finally see, I realized that there were at least 20-30 little kids crowded into a pen. There were cages of puppies all over. I tried not to act appalled. Why? Because I was afraid. Olivia and Genevieve sprinted in, and instantly picked out the most unhealthy creature that I have ever seen. This baby was the smallest by far. It was not simply a runt, it was starved and so ill. Green gunk covered it's tiny face, coming from it's eyes, nose and mouth. It's eyes were also cloudy. This time my common sense screamed at me to not buy this wretch. Now, I was raised a farm girl. It's not like I'm someone from the big city that has never seen a sick animal before. I'm not a bleeding heart, and I like to think I'm logical. But it was so pathetic that I couldn't say no and leave it in this place. We paid for our social, seemingly healthy nanny, and the nasty little case of death clutched to Olivia's chest. The nanny hopped in the back of our station wagon, and we got the heck out of dodge. I have since called the police.

It has been a couple of days now. Quite frankly, I'm surprised the little baby (now named "Nibbles") has made it this far. Our milker, "Socks," has gotten the nose gunk too- big surprise. I went to the Fleet Supply and picked up antibiotics and a syringe, and have started them both on it. I think that's the only thing that has saved Nibbles' pathetic little life. We have since found out that contrary to what we were told, Nibbles had not been weaned and started on solid foods. She doesn't know how to eat yet. Socks doesn't give a whole lot for milk, but I milk her and feed it to Nibbles. I picked up some milk replacement, and feed Nibbles bottles of that as well. Aslo, I have realized that Nibbles in completely blind. Some research on the internet says that she could possibly regain her vision if her disease hasn't progressed too far. I don't think there is any hope for that, but she seems much happier now. In just a few days, she has gotten strong enough to walk! I have also de-liced the goats, since they were covered in the little buggers (thank God that they girls didn't catch it!) Today we experienced a dip in temperatures, to the point that even Socks was trembling a bit. I couldn't believe I was doing it, but I brought Nibbles into the house. She is in a cardboard box with a blanket, sitting next to the heating vent. I have gotten so soft! I'm not ashamed, though. This little creature was moments from death, and we have saved her. How many times has God looked upon us and seen something festering, pathetic, and blind?

Shawn and I have been tossing around the idea of having a baby, and we are discussing doing foster care. Seeing baby bottles in the dishwasher and mixing formula makes me chuckle. I seriously thought the next time I would be doing that would be because we had brought in a foster child. Here I am, feeding a goat. In the laundry room.

April has been so different than I had expected. I'm busy making bottles, squeezing teats, and mending fences. I'm preparing for our huge garden, and I got a wild hair up my rear and repainted most of the house. I'm sewing sock monkeys, and cramming stuffing into their crotches. Isn't it funny how our plans go in complete opposite directions of where we think they should be going, but it all works out in the end? I've seen the bumper sticker that says, "If you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans." How true is that?!

Winter

Here it is, March already. I think it is safe to say that we have survived our first winter in our new home. Actually, our winter was much milder than it was for my old friends in Rochester. Rochester got hit a lot harder with the snow, which made all of us (except Shawn) insanely jealous. The entire city of Rochester literally shut down at one point, which I have never experienced before. No fair! I figure if it's going to be butt-cold, then we might as well have tons of snow to look at. Also, I'm not expected to go anywhere. "Sorry, it's mac & cheese for dinner, I couldn't drive to the grocery store this week." Being home-bound was exactly what the girls were hoping for as well, but Olivia didn't have a single snow day this year. I have never heard of such a thing. We have always had snow days during the winter, ever since I was a child. When Olivia and Genevieve have a snow day, we love to watch movies and drink hot chocolate, thoroughly enjoying our stolen time together. My car even started every day! I'm so baffled.

On the plus side, there is now tanning available at the hardware store in town. I don't know how comfortable I would be stripping down to the buff in a male dominated atmosphere, but apparently they get a lot of business. Creepy.

Olivia, now the ripe old age of eight, recently applied for her first job. (I know, I know, why wasn't she working already? Kids are so spoiled these days.) There is a restaurant in town called "Kim's" that we like to go to. Granted, there is only one other cafe and a Subway, but we really do like Kim's. Kim and Wendell own the place, and the girls think that they are possibly the neatest people ever. Olivia decided that she would like to be the cook, and Genevieve figured she should be the waitress. Kim graciously discussed this scenario with them, and promise them jobs in the future. Olivia only needs to wait seven more years, and Genevieve, a mere ten. The girls settled on drawing them pictures for now; cats and horses eating pizza and drinking hot chocolate.

I recently had conferences with Olivia's teacher. Olivia is reading at a high fifth grade level, and is above average in everything. Her reading and comprehension skills are in the top 98% in the NATION! Of course I'm proud, but I can't help but feel a little stupid. She's pretty much smarter than me now. I once had lofty aspirations of helping her with her homework until she was in middle school. I suppose I can make her tutor Genevieve from now on, and not have Gen discover my lack of intellect until later in life; although, I'm guessing Genevieve suspects more than she lets on. She can navigate the computer far better than I ever will, and most likely thinks I'm dense.

I am still surviving our Laura Ingalls lifestyle. No television, no cell phones, and I try to make all of our food that I can. We only recently began buying vegetables from the grocery store- our frozen beans lasted this whole time. Our apple butter and pickles have lasted as well, and we gave a lot of apple butter away as gifts for Christmas. Now, with Amish cookbooks from my mother, I have even begun making things like crackers and cereal! Yes, I am most certainly impressed with myself. This summer, we will have a large garden of our own- not just Harry & Christine's to raid- plus I will get more apples from the tree (I didn't even know until fall last year that the apples were edible). I plan on freezing not just vegetables, but pies as well. The apple pies that are made from our tree are amazing! I cannot wait to can again, as crazy as that sounds. It's so much work, but is very satisfying.

I will leave you with something to ponder... kids always help me look at things in a new way. The other day Genevieve closely observed some bird poop and mused, "It's all smooth- like man boobs." Something to mull over, no?

Progress & Growth

The house is coming along nicely, and rather quickly I might add! I do believe that we will be able to live in it soon! I'm actually just happy to be alive, as my ditziness has nearly killed me again. Cleaning the house was required before we could do anything- even paint. If we had tried to paint over all the filth, I'm pretty sure it would have slid right off the walls. I grit my teeth and got down to business. I opened the windows and put on some gloves, and got to scrubbing. I quickly discarded the gloves, for they were too bulky and I couldn't keep hold of the sponge. After an entire day, Olivia's future room was cleaned and ready to prime. That's when I realized that the windows have two layers, and I had only opened the inside one. I had been cleaning with the windows closed. I marveled at my lack of observation, and primed the room (P.S. You know why they call the primer Kilz? Because when it gets in your eyes, it kills). Anyways, after a couple days, Olivia's room was done, and Shawn could come in to do the floor. I moved on to Genevieve's future room and got to scrubbing. While scrubbing, I noticed my right hand was turning yellow. I figured that it must be from the nicotene stains on the wall, and it was getting on my hand when I leaned against the wall for support while scrubbing with my left; but sometimes it would come and go. As I puzzled over my hyper-color hand, I realized that I had done the exact same thing that I had done in Olivia's room- I had left the outer window shut. I was seriously losing brain cells. Genevieve's room has been scrubbed and primed twice now, despite my dim-witted foibles. Later that night, I googled ammonia and its side effects. Turns out that if you expose your hands to it too long, they will swell turn yellow because the tissues are dying. And my headaches and nausea are no doubt from the lack of ventilation. I am happy to say that three days later, my hands are no longer yellow, and my fingertips are just about back to normal. I can even bend them!

On to happier subjects, like cats. The girls and I have become fond of visiting the animal rescue shelter in Brainerd. They have a room full of cats, and you can just waltz right in and play with them. The last time we went to play, it was only us and a woman in her late 20's. She seemed shy, so I didn't chat her up. I know how obnoxious I can be. The girls found some rambunctious kittens, and I sat in a chair to watch. The woman stuffed her entire upper body into one of those cat cubes. Those things are only 12"x12", so it was an incredible feat to observe. On top of that, there was a cat in the cube with her! I waited to see if the cat would shred her face. I know I would certainly be terrified if I were shoved into a fuzzy box with a head warbling baby talk to me. Appearantly, the cat liked it, because the woman stayed in there for quite some time. That is, until I had the nerve to talk to one of the cats. A grossly obese calico jumped into my lap and settled in for a snooze. "Oh wow, you're a big boy, aren't you!" I exclaimed, incredulous over his weight. The woman in the cube immediately back peddled so fast that I thought that her cat had finally bitten her in the face. She spun around and gave me the stink-eye, snapping, ''that's agirl." I was surprised, and a little afraid of her sudden anger. I smiled meakly at her in apology, and began muttering things like, "that's a good girl, nice kitty, good female cat.". She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at me, and then turned and stuffed herself back into the cube. The cat in my lap purred, so I looked back at her and giggled at how fat she was. "If you were my cat, I would nambe you Chubsy-Wubsy. Yes I would!" Suddenly, the crazy cat women flew out of her cube and glared at me furiously. "Her name is ROSIE!!!" she snarled. This time I was rather terrified, and I nodded dumbly at her with my eyes wide. She gave me another nasty look, which clearly said "that's twice now," and retreated back into the cube to coo at her cat. I found myself whispering to the girls, and scrambling to get us out of there before I said something else that was offensive. We survived, and we even came back a week later and adopted that fat cat. And you know what? We named her Rosie. I'm not taking any chances.

To give you an idea of Rosie's size, I will use our cat Noelle for an example: Noelle is nine pounds, and has an ample stomache. When she lays down and stretches out, it reminds me of syrup, slowly spreading over a plate. Now compare her nine pounds with Rosie's 15. It's gross. Rosie is a sweetheart though, and loves to be loved. She did bite Shawn this morning, however. I came in to the house this morning (she stays in our fixer upper) and for the life of me could not find the cat. She's pretty hard to miss, so I was perplexed. Somehow, she had managed to get inside a hole in the floor that was waiting for a vent cover. Shawn had noticed her sniffing at it and had wondered if he should cover it. I had laughed at him, asking him if he was joking, because there was no way fat Rosie could fit down that hole. Unfortunately, she did fit; and pulling her out was a man's job. You see, fat oozes downward, with gravity. For Shawn to pull Rosie up out of the tiny hole was much harder, and she let him know that she didn't like it. So other than the one rabid attack on Shawn, she's very sweet. And I am very sorry now that I laughed at Shawn.

Uncle Harry takes good care of us, and we have an open invitation to his garden and chicken coop. He and Christine invite us over regularly for fires and conversation. The girls absolutely love it over there! They have a dog named Krissy, who just cracks me up. She is older than dirt, and all gray at the muzzle. There is nothing she loves more than taunting our dog, Emma. Her latest shenanigan was to defecate just inches out of Emma's reach, which of course drove Emma nuts. When Shawn peeked out the door to see what was going on, he scolded, "Krissy!" Krissy looked at him disdainfully, and proceeded to drag her rear across the lawn. She snuffed at Shawn and then left. It is clear that nobody tells Krissy her business.

Our other neighbors have been generous as well, giving us bags of food from their gardens. There is an elderly couple, Alice and Leo, who live kiddy-corner from grandma's house. One day Alice brought me a bag of red potatoes. The girls and I wrote her a thank-you note and gave it to her. About a week later, I made some Challa bread and we brought a loaf over. The very next day Alice brought me another bag of potatoes, plus muffins. Although I am very thankful, I'm beginning to wonder if I was one-upped. Is this how people keep up with the Jones' around here? I'm not sure yet. I just know that next time, I will have to bring her Challah bread, a cake, and a giraffe. Let's see how she responds to that one.

I will write more when I can. Sorry that this one was late- between working on the house and writing my thesis for Dr. Sprinkle, I'm either slaving or exhausted. Dr. Sprinkle rejected my first draft, so I have another couple of weeks to salvage it. Wish me luck!!

Oh, and one last thing- here is your thought for the day: The girls and I were eating at Applebee's and Olivia asked about a picture of The Lone Ranger and Tonto. I explained what I knew, and then sat back, expecting Olivia to ask me what "lone" meant. I was ready to impart my infinte wisdome upon her when she asked, "why do they call him the "lone" ranger if Tonto is always with him?" I didn't have an answer.