Round Four (in which I get my mother of the year award)

Thanks to everyone for your good wishes. Can I call ya'll for bail if I need it? Seriously.

Round four in the "let's see just how much more she can take" beatdown occurred last night. Silas had just finished his bath and was about to brush his teeth (teefs). We have a stainless steel pop-top trashcan in the bathroom that he likes to stand on because it puts him at the perfect height for teef brushing. Yes, we do have a step stool. He likes the trashcan, shut up. As he leans over to get his toof paste, the can goes out from under him. In a matter of what seemed like ten minutes two seconds he slams his chin on the granite sink top, goes ass over teakettle onto the floor and cracks the back of his head on the toilet. Much screaming (his, not mine) ensues. Much blood ensues also.

His little system was in such a shock from the pain, he was bucking around like he was being electrocuted. My first thought was "oh god, he's seizing". Once I got him settled down to check for damage, it wasn't so bad. Bump on the back of the head, gash on the chin, cuts to the inside of the mouth.

If this had happened only a half hour earlier, we could've gone to Urgent Care. As it was past 8pm, we had to utilize our esteemed ER. How dare my child inconvenience me by injuring himself at a late hour? We spent four hours waiting to get a 1 inch gash looked at. And then, thankfully, he didn't need stitches. Because it was a straight cut, it could be glued shut. (I asked about the possibility of glueing his mouth shut too (my child? he's a talker) but no go). So Durabond is my new favorite thing. I was so grateful he didn't have to be sewn. SweetieDarling had to have stitches in her chin at his age and it was awful. They strapped her down and everything.

Silas was a real trooper through all of this, charming everyone in the ER with his nonstop chatter. I'm sure all of the sick people waiting to be seen were quite entertained. Me? Not so much. With my burned looking hands and feet, inability to walk properly because of said feet hurting on the bottoms and general grumpiness because I had just injured my child by letting him stand on a trashcan, everyone kept their distance. I didn't mind.

Here's the tally so far. Husband, jail. Kid, hospital. Me, sickbed. When's that mothering award coming?

Gloom! Despair! and Agony! on me

Oh poppets, where to begin? It's been one thing after another. I'm usually one to roll with the punches, but I believe I may be down for the count. I have been thrown for a loop, or is it through a loop? I've been looped either way. I don't consider myself to be better than anyone else, or above anyone else. At least I don't think I do. But if I don't consider myself better than anyone, why do I feel the need to caveat the following story by telling you that we are upper middle class, hard working, law abiding, contributing members of society? That none of us has ever spent time in jail or has ever been charged with a crime? Because I do feel the need to point that out.

And I need to point that out because last week the state police rolled up in my driveway and took my husband to jail. Because of me. And I am so ashamed. And horrified, mortified, embarrassed, and any other adjective of that ilk that you can conjure. The look on his face when they cuffed him, cuffed him..my husband who has never raised his hand in anger to anyone, in handcuffs. I have never felt so helpless in my life. All those years of law school, trial law, striding confidently into the courtroom, fearing nothing. All for zip when it's someone you love getting pushed down into the backseat of a police car.

Two years ago I wrote a check as a deposit on a new insurance policy for our company. Let me emphasize that I printed, I signed, and I delivered this check. I also signed for the policy. I also own 100% of the company that owns the checking account that the check was drawn off of. I am the one who didn't verify that all checks had cleared before I changed banks. When the insurance company called me, I didn't follow up. When they turned it over to the police, I spoke with the officer handling the case. I asked him how to pay it without having to come in to the station. He said he would find out and get back to me. I didn't follow up. The result of my failure to follow up is my husband facing a felony charge of uttering. The result of my failure to follow up is my husband spending a night and half of a day in jail, jail, waiting to be arraigned for something he knows absolutely nothing about. He doesn't know what to plead, he doesn't know what he's being charged with. He knows absolutely nothing about a check for insurance because HE DIDN'T WRITE IT!

I begged those officers to double check the warrant. I explained that they had the wrong person. I pleaded with them to take me. I showed them my copy of the check with MY signature. I used all of my wiles and charms (there was cleavage involved) to no avail. They had their warrant and that was that. One thing I'm very grateful for is that Silas was not at home. That would have wrecked me. As it was, I spent the night in abject terror. How angry will he be? Will he leave me? Will he make me leave? Should I just pack now? Not very rational thoughts, but in the middle of the night, when your husband is in jail for something you did, reason tends to be scarce. And I do know that if the tables were turned, I would be one pissed off puppy. I would probably be petty enough to use it to my advantage, i.e.: What do you mean "What's for dinner??" I went to jail for you!

I got him bonded out at around 11am. I was waiting in the truck when he came out and I was so ashamed I couldn't look him in the eye. He got in and I braced myself for the well deserved smackdown I was sure was coming. He cracked a grin, gave me a wink, and said he wanted some breakfast. I was gobsmacked! You're not mad? I said. "No, they told me how hard you tried to get them to take you. I know it wasn't on purpose." Sigh. Now I feel worse. It would've been easier if he'd been livid. Round one is over.

Round two begins almost immediately. He bonded out on Friday morning. The paperwork said he'd have a preliminary hearing within twenty days. Monday evening the bondsman calls and says he missed his court date that morning. The magistrate put a capias out when he didn't show up. A capias is a warrant that sends you straight to jail with no bond to wait for your hearing, which can take up to, wait for it...twenty days! The bondsman was amazed that they got a hearing scheduled that quickly. I'm wondering about a little technicality called notice, otherwise known as letting someone know they have a court date. So off to the courthouse we go. Thankfully, the magistrate realized the error, rescinded the capias, and we went on our merry way. Poor Sam was so hyped up, the adrenaline had him shaking for an hour after we left. I didn't get quite so upset, but I wasn't the one looking at going back to jail either. There's a sentence I never thought I'd be typing! Round two and I'm still standing.

Round three has me on the mat, literally. When we left the courthouse, I noticed that my feet were burning, kind of an itchy burning. That afternoon while at the bank doing a wire transfer, my left palm was itching so bad I thought I'd dig right through it. Unfortunately the old "itchy palm means someones giving you some money" saying is a lie. By Tuesday night, my hands were so swollen and red that I couldn't close them. My feet looked like I dipped them in fire. These alarming symptoms were quickly moving up my legs and arms. The itching!! There are no words. I went to urgent care, where they asked me what chemical caused the burns! When I explained that I hadn't been in any chemicals and gave the sequence of symptoms, she determined it was an allergic reaction. To what, who knows? Maybe if I posted more than once a blue moon, I'd have a better recollection of my travels. My course of treatment was to be a shot of adrenaline to "break the reaction". Alrighty then, if you say so.
She proceeded to inject a liquid taken from the fiery depths of hell into my arm. Twenty minutes later, with my heart racing, my blood pressure up, and dizzy, she decides that it's helped a bit, but not enough. More adrenaline, stat! The other arm gets the liquid lava. Then the fun starts. Heart rate is irregular, blood pressure spikes, an ambulance is summoned. Apparently, I'm allergic to adrenaline! After much deliberation, it was decided that my allergic reaction was caused by my body being in such a state of "fight or flight" for the past five days. The adrenaline used to break the reaction exacerbated it. So I am, for now, down for the count. Don't count me out yet though.

And ten points for whoever can place the song reference in the title.

It may be time to downsize

I currently drive a Ford Expedition sporting the license plate seen above. At this point, I'm fortunate to be able to feed myself and this beast. I've driven an Expedition since 1999 (not the same one) and it is my vehicle of choice. It serves its purpose by having enough room to haul materials needed for various jobs, being high and heavy enough to traverse very off-road job sites, having a large enough engine to pull various smaller pieces of machinery if needed, and, most importantly, a dvd player to keep Silas occupied whilst being hauled around all day. Unfortunately, I can't keep it and it breaks my heart.

I'm not the type to name my vehicles and talk to them and anthropomorphize them like some do, but I do have some loyalty and feel like a traitor getting rid of it. The fact is, I just can't afford it. And that makes me angry. I've worked hard to get to the point where I should be able to afford anything I want, within reason.


My industry is fuel based. My machines can't move without diesel fuel in them. Diesel now is very close to $5 a gallon. Because of the economy, or everyones perception of what the economy is and is going to be, my customers will not tolerate any price increases. Operating costs are quickly approaching the levels of the money coming in. Amount of $$ coming in = amount of $$ going out = no $$ for me.


So in the interest of economy, I'm downsizing. To this:

And if I need to get around a muddy job? I always have these:

(No, I don't actually own these. I snagged the picture off of ebay. Where no one had purchased them yet. Go figure.)

Aaaaaannnd.....we're back!

Isn't if funny how the fates conspire to overtake our schedules? I had every intention of posting the second part of my wrathful vengeance story last week. Now? I'm glad I didn't. Do I really want you to know that I was shitful to a perfectly nice woman who asked me if I'd been saved? That I berated her for asking a question that I perceived to be too personal and none of her business? That because "I have a degree in philosophy and religion, I can debate the veracity of King James' version of the christian bible till next week"? No. No, I don't. So we'll be moving right along to other, more pleasant things.

I've decided that my cast of characters needs new monikers. Piglet and the husband just aren't doing it for me anymore. So, after three seconds hours of contemplation, we have a winner! Piglet will now be referred to by the name I wanted to give him at birth. The husband and I had a deal that he would name a boy and I would name a girl. I lobbied hard to name him Silas. I just love that name. Of course, he would have none of it. Suffice it to say that my son now walks through life with a dogs name. Literally. We have both had dogs in the past with the name that my son now has. It's a perfectly fine human name, it just works equally as well for dogs. So Silas it is, here in my computer, where everything is how I want it.

The Husband, in the interest of alliteration, is Sam. See? Shania, Silas, Sam? All esses. Even SweetieDarlin fits in. My work here is done.

Those who have incurred my wrath

Updated to add that I was unaware of Mrs. Flinger's Brutally Honest Monday's when I wrote this.

I need for you to be brutally honest with me today. I'm going to tell you of two interactions with people who raised my ire. You tell me if a) I was justified in my reactions; b) I am a complete and utter social moron who should never be allowed in public again; or c) somewhere in the middle. Tell it like it is now. I'll only cry for a bit and I can't count on anyone else to be true.

Interaction 1:

Because of the isolated area we live in, my husband is convinced that we will get robbed if we don't get another home security system (aka "a big dog"). I reluctantly concur that he may have a point. We are the only house in our subdivision that hasn't been broken into, largely due, we think, to Maximus . The husband had this in mind when he made an appointment to look at some puppies at a nearby farm.

We arrived and spent about half an hour playing with the puppies and checking out the parents. Chatting with the gentleman revealed him to a registered nurse, his wife an elementary school teacher. Near the end of the visit, said wife arrived with their adorable two year old daughter. She was pregnant with their second.

While we're chatting, the little one decides to take off her shoes to feel the grass on her feet. Her mother told her to put them back on. When she didn't, the mother explained that she could get something in her foot and that this was her warning. The little one ignored her, as little ones are wont to do. With no indication that anything was amiss, the mother snatched the little girl up hard enough to snap her head back, whipped her around and hit her bottom, HARD.

I was gobsmacked. I really didn't think the behavior warranted such a forceful punishment. I closed my mouth, turned around and offered the gentleman my hand. I thanked him for his time and told him that we wouldn't be giving him a deposit on a puppy today. As this was a complete change of heart from two seconds ago, he was understandably taken aback. In answer to his questions, I told him I wasn't interested in an animal that had probably been abused. He was offended that I insinuated that he'd mistreat his animals. I said, "Good grief, man! Your wife just hit a baby, I can only imagine how the animals are treated."

He rightly pointed out that it's none of my concern how he raises his kid. I agreed that of course it's not, but when it's indicative of how the animal that I'm about to bring into my home, around my kid, has been treated, it becomes my business.

I took my leave in a huff. My husband was lagging behind, most likely mortified. I yelled back "don't you dare apologize for me!" because I just know that's what he was doing. I don't feel I was out of line. I made no judgement on the mother. She may have been having a bad day, we all do. But the fact remains that if you're willing to hit a baby, you probably won't hesitate to kick the dog.

So now, poppets, tell me. Complete and inappropriate over reaction? Justified concern? Could you possibly care less?

Tomorrow....interaction #2!!

Through the garden

Dahlings, it's June!!! It's hot and steamy and everything's growing like a weed, including the weeds. I've been outside quite a bit, pruning, straightening up, trimming, cleaning, mowing, getting my hands dirty and generally being happier than a pig stuck in mud. (How's that for a lovely visual?)

I'm sharing some of my hard work for your viewing pleasure today, mostly because I'm trying the different settings out on my camera and didn't think I should have to suffer alone. I've also been inspired by Ree's garden post, which has some wonderful links on it that have given me some good ideas.




I've been using this to scare small children for years. He's much more effective when sitting on dirt or grass. It looks like he's coming up from underground.

These are some examples of the fine housing I provide for our feathered friends:





Instead of using these, they pick an old stand on the bottom porch and make their nest in the top drawer:
Fountains that work:



And don't:


Purple flowers with small dog:


And without:


Finally, my favorite, the wisteria, which is fading fast:



Hopefully, we'll have some roses and peonies for next time! Out of curiosity, how do you pronounce peony? I say "PEE uh nee", my friend says "pee OH nee", hubs granny says "PIE nee". What's your version?

Growing out the grey: Update

It's been a month so far.

This is not as painless as I anticipated. I have reverse candy corn head, and it ain't pretty. And don't be hatin cause I got such a rawkin robe (inside out, no less!)