IDP talks PMS

High-tech Redneck Hubby here (formerly known as the Imaginary Dead President or IDP, a name I neither sanctioned, nor appreciated, but I digress.) Not that I'm excited about being named after a George Jones song, but when it's that or Mr. Lincoln, I err on the side of The Possum.

Anyway, I didn't come here to talk about names. I came here with a warning. But before I get to that, I'd better explain. And since the wife is not exactly herself tonight, you're stuck with me.

7:35 pm - I entered the residence after a long day at the office to find an eerie calm. Not even the dogs greeted me at the door. The scent of home cooking hit me the minute my feet cleared the threshold, but there was no sign of my wife. Never a good thing.

7:40 pm -  I turned off the fire on the skillet of Sloppy Joe bubbling away on the unattended stove, sauce splattering every nearby surface. Then I followed a trail of empty candy wrappers to the living room where I discovered my wife, the writer, curled into the fetal position on the sofa, hair sticking up in all directions and mumbling something about  chocolate. I approached slowly, using the list of soothing words she'd put on the refrigerator for just such an occasion, but stopped cold as her eyes met with mine.

7:50 - Watched with growing trepidation as my wife bounced restlessly in a chair, whispering curses at her temporary laptop, eying me ever few minutes as if she could burn a hole in my very soul with a single look. Then as if I hadn't heard her voice in ages, she spoke. "We need to go to Walmart." Perfect. The one place in a fifty mile radius where a homicidal female might not stand out in a crowd.

8:30 pm - After a quiet thirty minute drive where I'd deluded myself into thinking things might work out ok, we arrived at our destination and I realized how very wrong I was. The minute we walked through the sliding doors, my wife began her assault on a pair of shopping carts that had gotten tangled up together. The pure evil oozing from her eyes was enough to turn my blood cold, but like a fox in a trap, I couldn't leave. Using my list of soothing words, yet again, I wrested the carts from her white-knuckled grasp and untangled them, carefully pushing a free cart in front of her like a peace offering.

The people of Walmart were clueless as to how close they were to meeting their end as my wife drove the cart through the aisles, growling under her breath about things like sharpies and chalk outlines. I pretended she was talking about markers and chalk boards, but let's face it...that was as far from the truth as I could get.

9:00 pm - Our cart was filled with more junk than Fred Sanford's backyard. Chips, candy, cheese dip, and three huge boxes of sugary breakfast cereal. I wanted to tell her how bad those things were for her health, but feared for my own if I opened my mouth. I simply kept my thoughts to myself and reveled in the fact that I managed to toss a few screen wipes for my laptop and a new 16GB USB flash drive into the cart without her noticing. Her vocabulary had been reduced to mere grunts and growls as she pointed to each thing I should put in the cart, and like the dutiful husband, I complied with each one.

9:16 pm - We made it out of Walmart alive. More importantly, we made it out without anyone else dying. There were a few close calls (namely the woman who refused to move her cart out of the aisle as we attempted to go down it, and the woman who engaged us in a random conversation about her cat while we walked down the pet aisle looking for a new collar for one of our dogs.)  Once we were safely in the car, I gave her a candy bar and pulled my fingers away before I lost one. The night was still young, and the evil was still coursing through her like the mighty Mississippi.

9:30 pm - I made one last stop before heading into the semi-dry county we live in. The liquor store. I know there are drugs out there specifically designed to combat the effects of PMS, but since I had no clue what those might be, and feared for my life if I fell asleep before she did, I went with my gut. After an encouraging smile from the wife, I picked up a bottle of berry flavored vodka, a liter of Sprite, and a sippy cup (what can I say, it's Georgia) and drove as fast as I dared to get home. 

10:59 pm - One drink. Scratch that. One half a drink later and the savage beast has officially been soothed. I'm not sure if it was the liquor or the bag of Hershey's kisses, but either way, I think I have successfully navigated another month and another Ultra-High Red Alert.  If nothing else, I hope I've managed to warn others who may not be aware of the tips and tricks of traveling down that slippery slope of life with a wife. Let's just hope I have fair warning next month too.

Until the next time...I'll be making myself one of those drinks before bed. 

bittersweet bacon

Back in December when it was suggested we add a few piglets to the farm, I remember thinking, "Oh, piggies! How cute." And boy were they cute. Five little bundles of pink. Each of them just a tad bigger than a bag of potatoes, but much more wiggly. I had no idea how much trouble those adorable little buggers would be.  

And yet, all these months later, suddenly the destruction of each house built for them (the house of straw, the house of sticks, the proverbial house of bricks) the divots left in the yard--both here and at the neighbor's house--during their frequent escapes, and the fear coursing through my body each time I had to step inside their pen to feed them, all seem like mere bumps in the road. I've enjoyed their odd brand of company, their sweet faces--even as they were smeared with mud and muck--and even their horrible smells...ok, so maybe not the smells.  But I'll surely miss them once they're all, well and truly, gone.

Yesterday, the IDP and I went to pick up the pigs we'd dropped off on Monday. On this trip, they rode, not in the back of a trailer, but wrapped in small packages and tucked into boxes. There were no more of the barking sounds I had no idea pigs made. No more bumping me with their flat noses. No more trying to eat me. No, this time, they were on their way to being someone else's dinner, and as much as I told myself I wouldn't be sad, I was. No matter how hard I tried to dislike them, in the end, they were pretty sweet piggies (Hey, I'm being sincere here, not referring to their delicious taste.)

But sadness aside, this was our first major sale on the Leaning Duck Farm. Though we ended up breaking even when you factor in the initial cost of purchasing the pigs, add in the food costs, and the actual processing costs at the end. But despite the "break even" cash outcome, we'll still end up with a year's worth of food in the freezer out of the deal, and a valuable lesson learned. We'll definitely do things differently next time.

Still, we ended up with very happy customers. People who have already told us they can't wait for the next thing we have to sell...turkeys for Thanksgiving...farm fresh eggs on a weekly basis...goat's milk in the future. And more pigs. So as crazy as life was with pigs around, I guess we're going to do it all again.  

But not yet. I think I need to rest for just a little while. Being a farmer is serious business. 

Until the next time...I'll be working on my next book. 

pigs, pullets and pumpkin seeds

We've just passed the halfway mark in July, which also marks the halfway point for summer, meaning not just July, but all of summer is half gone. But worse than that, I've missed another pumpkin planting deadline.

For the countless year in a row, I've forgotten to plant the pumpkin seeds. Just like the Christmas cards I buy each November--then write out and address but never mail--I've stocked up on pumpkin seeds, yet again, that will never find their way into the dirt. Which means I will be buying my pumpkins from the farmers market again, instead of watching my very own seeds grow into mighty pumpkins before my eyes.  

I have just one thing to say about that...crap.  

I've lost track of how many years I've wanted to plant my own pumpkins. Ever since the year a rotting jack-o-lantern ended up in the compost heap and we discovered an entire pumpkin patch growing in the back yard. Totally in the wrong season, I might add.

I was sure I would have a proper pumpkin patch once we moved to the farm. I had my rows of seeds lined up on the counter, just waiting for someone to dig me a hole. Oh, I know what you're thinking, "go dig your own hole," right? But it doesn't take a genius to realize I'm not cut out for digging holes or preparing planting beds. I'm more of a  director . I'm the one who says, "no, a little more to the left, honey. That's it! Now back to the right...just a little more." Then I drop the seeds in the hole and push the dirt back over them. I'm really good at pouring stuff on the ground. Just ask the chickens. I'm their favorite feeder. Even the little pullets (young hens for you non-farm people out there) follow me around outside. They know I'm good at dumping the grain on the ground, but when it comes to serious farm stuff, it's time to call for the hus...I mean, the IDP.

Of course, even the virile IDP needs help from time to time. Just this weekend, I assisted in building the TCU (transport containment unit) to take the first two pigs to the giant freezer in the sky. I did an excellent job holding the wood panels while he screwed them together then secured them to the flatbed trailer. I even made design suggestions. Just between us, I had way better ideas, but you know men, you have to make them think it was their idea...shhhh.  

But when it comes to planting, I'm going to defer totally to him. That way, when it all goes to shit, it wasn't my idea. Speaking of shit...I may just dump the damn seeds in the pig pen. There's plenty of fertilizer in there. In fact, I'll bet pumpkins would grow like weeds in there. And the worst thing that could happen is nothing happens. Who knows, I might even end up with super-pumpkins. I could win a ribbon at the fair or something.

Or I could be stuck with the stinkiest pumpkins in Georgia. But at least I'd have pumpkins! 

Until the next time...I'll be lining up my seeds for planting day.

to blog is human

Confession time.

Sometimes I share too much. I know. My elusive husband is forever telling me I have a terminal case of TMI syndrome. It's true. The world probably knows my scheduled PMS episodes better than I do. And my desire to share with the entire world is what prompted my husband to forbid me to share any information about him, thereby sparking my new relationship with the imaginary dead president, or IDP for short.

But deep down, I don't care. I like blogging. I like sharing. I like connecting with people on a deeper level and letting my hair (and my inhibitions) down. Well, in a strictly platonic way, of course. But this is who I am.

Blog girl.

Yes, blog girl can handle just about any situation thrown at her with grace and diplomacy.  I may be destined to trip over chainsaws, loose rocks, and air on a daily basis. And ok, I might be forbidden to play with fire or boil eggs without adult supervision, but I'm more than capable of dodging real life situations to make up way more exciting pretend ones instead. Whether it's marauding pigs, the plagues of Egypt, or evil garden gnomes, you're likely to find me right in the thick of it...possibly face down after tripping over my own shoelaces. But I'm out there. Sharing with the world. Holding nothing back!

Except the stuff I'm not allowed to talk about. But you didn't want to know about that stuff anyway.

Until the next time...I'll be waiting for my next adventure! 

OMG my OCD has PMS

You’ve heard the old adage…if a tree falls in the forest and the only one around to hear it is a woman with PMS, does she fly into a rage trying to convince her husband it really happened?

I am completely convinced husbands do not understand the power of PMS.  Do they not realize they have to sleep at some point? And I don’t know a single woman without a sharpened razor at the ready! (For our legs, of course…but still!)

Men just don’t get the danger!

There, I’ve said it. It’s a wonder the human race has survived this long when you consider how often women get PMS and how often men mock our pain.

It’s ok…I’m fine now. I’ve had a cherry cheesecake and a few bits of leftover chocolate. But a few hours ago? Things were pretty dicey around here.

I’ll admit it. I have a love/hate relationship with conflict. I’m a writer, so I know a good story is isn’t complete without conflict.  Conflict drives the story. It’s what keeps us turning the pages.  

But in reality? Conflict is the crazy taxi driver of life!

My ride started with a trip to the grocery store…well, it started a day or so before that, but the trip to the grocery store brought everything full circle.  I made a passing comment to my husband about feeling an overwhelming urge to swear.  Specifically, the eff bomb. Repeatedly. Until heads turned and whispers of “does she have Tourette’s” filled the air. 

I didn’t do it.  It was just an urge.  An overwhelming urge, but I resisted. 

My husband listened to me with a blank expression then counted on his fingers before proclaiming, “Ah ha! PMS.”

“PMS and OCD are never a good combination,” I reluctantly agreed.  “It’s the dreaded acronym soup feared by men everywhere!” I added with a smile.

My husband tossed in his two cents with an acronym of his own.  “CFB.”

I mouthed the letters back to him, scrunching up my face as I tried to decode them. 

“Crazy fucking bitch,” he said with a sneer. And the winds began to turn.

What I should have said was, “Kind sir…why do you mock me so?” What I actually said was, “Fuck off, IDP!"

And with that primitive little phrase, I had opened Pandora’s box and let the eff bomb out.  Trust me when I say, Pandora’s box is like a brand new tent. It’s all nice and neat until you take it out, but no matter how tightly you roll it up, you can never get that fucking tent back into the bag it came in. 

The innocent little exchange became a full-blown war of epic proportions.

I think I’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.  But don’t feel bad for me. I’ve booby trapped the bed with a little help from my “always willing to help with some drool” dog Indy.  And I swapped out the new toilet seat for the cracked one I was saving for just this occasion.  Hey, if a man sits on a broken toilet seat in the night and gets his butt pinched but no one is there to see it…will he still learn a lesson? Don’t ask me…I don’t give a fuck.  I’m just going to smile when he yelps.

Until the next time…I’ll be hunting for chocolate!                                        

f#@%ing pigs!

​Another day, another pigtastrophe. It's about time we had a pig roast...if you know what I mean.

It's a quarter past eleven at night and I'm just now coming in from the yard where my hus...I mean, the IDP and I ran wire around the unfinished sections of the perimeter fence to contain the pigs.​ I came home a little past nine this evening to find three of the little porkers halfway down the driveway and the other two rounding the neighbor's house on the way to their front yard. Yes, the pigs have escaped again, and my premonitions of zombie pigs terrorizing the neighborhood were suddenly realized.

IDP wanted to shoot them, and he might have followed through with the threat if we had enough freezer space, which we decidedly do not. ​I can't say I blame him...while I was gone today, he spend several hours luring them back to their pen with the promise of tasty treats. Unfortunately for us, the smell of freshly cut grass in the lawnmower man...I mean, our next door neighbor's yard...was too much of a temptation. In a brilliant flash of genius, the IDP decided to mow our yard, hoping to at least keep the pigs grazing at home. It was a good idea, but it didn't work. It would seem even pigs think the grass is greener on the other side of the fence.

I'm beginning to wish we'd stuck to chickens and ducks. And I would wager a guess I'm not the only one.​

Until the next time...I'll be preparing for the next jail break.​

another mouse bites the dust

Ok, things in the haunted farmhouse have gotten out of hand. And I'm not just talking about the faulty wiring, but let's just say, I'm tired of living in an episode of Little House on the Prairie. No, what I'm really referring to is the mice. As I sit here, propped up in my bed, surfing the net...I mean, writing my final guest posts...I'm listening to what sounds like the opening scenes of West Side Story going on inside my walls.

"When you're a mouse, you're a mouse all the way, from your first piece of cheese, to your last dying day..."​

So maybe the music is all in my head, but the ​fancy footwork is definitely all mouse. And these are no Disney mice. They're hooligans. I swear, I hear a full-on rumble going on. I can practically see ​them whipping out their little rodent switchblades as they dance around each other squeaking out Stephen Sondheim lyrics.

(Long pause as I listen)

They're going at it again. This time I know ​I hear them squealing. But maybe not the lyrics from West Side Story. ​It might be more along the line​s of a scene from Willard. And Ben is leading the pack. I'm afraid to close my eyes. I may wake up to find them surrounding me, arms loaded with traps and sticky pads, ready to drag me off to the basement. They do that in New York City, you know. The rats there are so big, they've taken entire families out of their beds at night, never to be seen again. I read about that while standing in line at the grocery store.

I'm going to blame my hus...I mean, the IDP for this. It was his idea to set out traps. We even snagged a few of them. But those that got free have obviously sent for reinforcements. The cat caught one in the dining room last night, and made a show of feasting on him, out in the open, as a warning to the others. And now that cat is missing.

I smell a rodent uprising. This might be scarier than the pigs! Ok, forget the IDP, I blame George Orwell for putting these ideas in my head. If I hadn't read Animal Farm in middle school, I might not be having panic attacks about ducks, and pigs, and mice (oh my!) plotting my gruesome demise like an animated version of Tales from the Crypt. ​

Or maybe I just need to lay off the wine at bedtime. ​

Either way, I think it's time we called in a professional to take care of the mice. According to Bugs Bunny, we either need a lion, or an exterminator. ​Or a way bigger trap.

Until the next time...I'll be sleeping with one eye open!​

amish paradise

Here we go again. Another chapter in the saga of my ancient haunted farmhouse.​

The power is out in the kitchen again. This time, the stove and the refrigerator are on the only circuits working, so that's a plus. But the overhead lights and the outlets are apparently on another, and they're out. So I can cook...in the dark. The hallway, bathroom and dining room are apparently on similar circuits, because they're out too. So I have  darkness in half the house and no outlets...again. And it appears as if we're talking opposite circuits from the last ​time this happened.

So I wonder...are we talking 100 year old faulty wiring? Mice chewing through cloth covered wires? Ghosts toying with my sanity? Or just plain bad luck? I have no idea, but I'm on the verge of tearing my hair out.​

My hus...or rather, my imaginary dead president, Mr. Lincoln, feels right at home. He's actually enjoying the black out. He lit oil lamps and placed them around the house, saying he actually prefers it this way. Figures. He's on 1860s time. He wouldn't mind it at all if we were forced back into the time before electricity and connectivity.

Well, I can live just fine without the lights. As long as I still have the outlet that charges my laptop, the one that powers the internet, and the one that keeps my space heater warm. The rest of it's just gravy anyway.

Until the next time...I'll be baking bread by candlelight!​