Resistance is Futile

The man walking through the airport was obviously mentally ill. He nodded frequently and talked aloud to himself. It took a few glances to realize he had an earbud and mike set, and was talking on his cell phone nestled in his shirt pocket. It was years ago, of course, for now, talking on hands-free cell phones is quite common. It was the first time I had seen such a thing, and it made an impression.

Since then of course, technology has exploded in ways we'd never thought possible years ago, and talking to someone a world away while walking through an airport is commonplace. Still, I wonder how much technology a mind can take?

In Discover Magazine this month, there is an article called "Rise of the Cyborgs", describing the most recent research work to merge humans and machines. While I applaud the efforts to help the disabled and "locked-in" humans, I wonder at the impact on unimpaired humans,
"provid[ing] the brain with speedy access to unlimited memory, unlimited calculation ability, and instant wireless communication ability, we will produce a human with unsurpassable intelligence."

You know, already I can't go to the bathroom without someone banging on the door. "What'r'ya doing in there???" Guess, genius. Now I picture I'll be in the shower when suddenly, my head starts ringing. There will be no escape. You can't say your phone battery was dead, or you forgot it - it's implanted in your brain. You can't say you were busy, for of course all you have to do is say "answer" to activate it. You will be accessible 24/7 to anyone with a cell. You can't throw the phone down in frustration without causing brain damage. It just doesn't sound good to me.

Obviously, the devices are being designed by men. Read this:

"We have created a profound new paradigm for the brain...to enact its will without the limitations of the biological machinery that we call a body. 'My children probably will see the day when they can sit physically on a beautiful beach in Brazil but at the same time control a rover on Mars, experience Mars...Their bodies will be here, but their brains will be free.'"

Okay, my first (okay, second) thought is that if anyone is lucky enough to make it to a Brazilian beach, why ever would she want to tune it out to pretend she's on Mars? Obviously, she is not a hard working Kentucky homeschool mom. Obviously. Secondly (okay, it was my first thought) is that it is difficult enough to give a monologue to hold a conversation with your husband without his free mind going someplace else or imagining you are someone you are not. You catch my drift?

So while I'm all for advancing technology, I have to wonder if all of it is for the good. The automobile had it's detractors, and perhaps I'm just as skeptical and misinformed as they were. Perhaps it is my age showing, for it is getting more and more difficult to keep up with the blazing change of everything known. Of course, once I get my implants (for my memory, silly, I really don't need any other kind), I'll not have to worry about my aging mind. I will have "unsurpassable intelligence".

That makes me wonder yet again. Can we take Kentuckian beer drinking Bubbas and give them unsurpassable intelligence? And what ever would they do with it? That's a scary thought. If you started out pretty smart, would you then be smarter with implants than Bubba with implants? Would those that could afford implants take over the world and dominate those who can't?

What do you think? Will cyborgs improve the human race or be the end of it?

A Facelift

As a child of a family that didn't like conflict, politics and political issues make me uncomfortable. Lately, however, I find that I am enjoying watching the back and forth, particularly as they keep referring to Palin and Obama as too young to be vice-president and/or president. As someone who may be about their ages, give or take a year, and as someone who sometimes thinks of herself as getting older by the day, I like hearing daily about how very young these candidates are.

On another note, d'ya ever joke to someone that you'd sell them (or give, if it was a particularly bad day) your kid because of their behavior at the moment? Alternately, has anyone said to you while smiling, "how much would you take for that beautiful boy (or girl)"? Don't do that anymore. What's this world coming to? And seriously, what mother would take the old boy literally? I mean, it would take at least two fatted hogs.

Wordless Wednesday - Where Life is a Costume Party

Building Fences

My Town Monday

Teaching Little Leaguers "Good Game".

Amish Wanna Be

All he needs is a cotton shirt without buttons.

Correct Use of Cuisenaire (Math) Rods

Adoption

When Arby wrote about his seldom spoken of son, "Idunno", it shamed me into writing more about our own second son, adopted from China. "Not Me" has been living with us about a year now. I'd love to share a recent photo of him, but he is either very quick or shy, for every time I ask "who did this?", I'm sure to hear "Not Me", but I've yet to lay eyes on him. Perhaps I could put out one of those motion detection cameras they use to film rare animals in the wild.

How We Spend Our Evenings

Like most families, we sit around after dinner seeing how many grapes we can stuff between our gums and our lips, and how that affects our appearance. Lauren is particularly good at it, at least up until she laughs and shoots the grapes across the room. In this video, someone (not me) said she looks like Michelle Obama and again the grapes go flying. She'll do so well in college.

Why Johnny Can't Read

It has become apparent to me why boys have a more difficult time with learning to read. Over the last year, I worked with William to learn his letters and beginning reading. He showed some interest, but it soon petered out, and each day was a struggle. I decided to wait until he showed more interest - which was today.

He now has great interest in learning to read words that have meaning and interest for him. Useful words like fart, butt, and poop. Now, he practices on the white board writing these all important words and what sound "ar" and "oo" make. He also has become quite adept at illustrating his writing. It seems Johnny can read - if the words are worth reading.

Put It Back!

When we got to the car, William ripped the stickers from his shirt and threw them to the ground. He was MAD! We'd just been to the dentist and because William normally lets me pull teeth without even a wimper, the dentist got hold of a very wiggly tooth and twisted. It was a little more rooted than she thought, but now sideways, she had to continue to pull it as William squirmed. Quickly though, it came out.

"I don't like this look," he complained while looking in the car mirror. "And it feels weird." He looked a the hole left by the missing tooth.

It's tough growing up.

Wordless Wednesday - The Incredibles

Life's a Beach

William woke up this morning at 7:30 a.m., talking a mile a minute and ready to start his school work. Bleary-eyed, I tried to see this as a positive. Usually, it takes me about a week to recover from a week away, and I'd been gone 10 days to Holden Beach, North Carolina. To the left, you see the view from our rental's back deck. The rolling motion, gentle sounds and warm air still call to me, yet it is time to start again another school year.

Each year, dh's family gathers there like the Loggerhead turtles who lay their eggs on this beach, following some ancient call. They've (dh's family) gathered along this coast for some thirty years, maybe twenty at Holden. The first time I remember going was in 1992. This year, 58 people were present.

Like this morning, William was full of energy during our week there and combined with family functions, I spent less time in the sand than I would have liked. I suppose there is time for that when I get older. I sometimes look at the ocean cam, seeing that in another place far away, the ocean continues on without me.

"Can I Have A Box for Mine?"

Joey's eyes widened as the waitress put a plate of crab legs in front of Daniel. My twelve year old nephew had never, I think, witnessed anyone eating such a thing. Daniel, also my twelve year old nephew from my husband's side, loves crab legs. He dug in, cracking the legs, digging out the flesh and eating with relish.

Joe looked down at his hamburger and back again at the crab legs. Joe, you see, picks tomatoes and onions out of his salad, preferring plain lettuce. Exotic food is not for him. Dan picked up the crab leg cracker and worked down the leg of the crab. Joey sat and watched. My sister, Teresa, and I wondered if he was going to lose it right there on the table. Typical of a twelve year old, Dan grinned when he noticed the slightly green hue Joey was taking on and smacked his lips a little more. Joe made it through the dinner, though his went untouched.

We had reason to be concerned, as Joe's gag reflex is highly developed. He once lost his lunch smelling my sister's Lean Cuisereen dinner, claiming it smelled bad. Still, I was proud that he managed to keep it in check and go on to have a nice night after.

Please?

"Please, what?" they would say when I first moved to a new city. In Cincinnati, where I was raised, the German immigrants had contributed a bit of the Motherland to the English language. Please meant excuse me, I didn't hear you, or if you live where I live now, WHAT??? But in Cincinnati, everyone said please as a polite way of asking someone to repeat what they just said. Transplanted to a new environment, no one knew what I meant and I was forced to drop a little part of my German heritage, a small line to my German grandfather, Karl (pictured left).

On my desk sits a photo of my great-grandmother, Teresa, mother of Karl. She is very old in the photo, toothless and wrinkled. When I look at the photo, I wonder what she was like, and how she could stand that her son lived an ocean away in another world. In those days, moving to America meant likely she'd not see him again. How could she have let go, stood such a loss? What did she think when he became an American soldier, fighting against Germany?

Now, our world is much different. People blend, move, travel with ease. Teresa sits in a wicker chair, waiting likely for a letter carried for weeks by boat. We can communicate instantly in a myriad of ways. Still, small messages come from our past in how we simply ask "Please?"

"Good fences make good neighbors."

A rolled wire fence separates our property from our immediate neighbor to the southwest. This fence once sported an electric wire across the top, keeping the horses from grazing on the greener pastures on the other side - though horses on both sides disagreed as to which side was which. When the neighbor leased the place out, the new tenant unplugged the electric fence charger, something about the fence charger being plugged in near the propane tank. (Well, that would solve some of my neighbor problems. Shame on me for thinking so.)

Dh and I are going to try to install a new fence, high tension electric fence in September, removing the rolled wire. I want a "I'm coming to you Jesus" electric fence, one that puts the fear of God in those damn lovely horses my neighbor has. Dear Daughters and I were put in mortal danger when this neighbor's stud jumped said "fence" in March 2007. Only after threatening to geld the neighbor the horse myself and sue him until he lived under a bridge did he take action and geld it. Still, the horses socialize over the fence and munch on the much better grass that seems to grow along the other side of it.

When it is completed, I am going to get Chris' kids to come test it. Her post reminded me of a visit from my sister, Teresa, some years back. A city girl, she was out in the front yard supervising her young son feeding carrots to our horses. She leaned in a little too close, and at that time, we had great fence charger. For a moment, she didn't know what had happened and who she was. She looked momentarily stunned. That is what I want to happen to those horses. It was very difficult not to laugh, though in all fairness, she did once she recovered.

For now, I am going to replace the top electric wire and and hope that it makes "good neighbors" until we can get to building a new one.

You Say Tomato.....

For dh and I, premarital counseling told us we were compatible but missed one important detail. Both Ohioans, we assumed we had the same accent and pronounciation of important words. Like syrup. But dh was from northeastern Ohio, whereas I, Junosmom, was from southwestern Ohio. And over pancakes one day, the exact day is lost to history, we discovered that I pronounced the word, "seer-up", which caused dh to laugh, for surely it is "sirr-up". I protested, but right or wrong, I have found that my children have somehow been indoctrinated with his position, and laugh at me. I'm not sure how that happened, given that I spend every waking moment with them and they ought to be grateful.

Educated in Ohio, I was brought up to believe that Ohio was on the "right side" of the Civil War and that I was a "Northerner". Imagine my surprise when I found, shortly after marriage, that my new inlaws considered me, now a Kentuckian, a Southerner, and wanted my recipe for pecan pie. I was aghast! I was not a Southerner. Now, I laugh. I am indeed more southern than northern. Or at least, based on my recent trip to New York, I do know that a red light means STOP, not stop after at least five cars have slipped through the intersection.

But the accent has made me realize there are real differences between the corners of Ohio. For example, I loved the name Lauren and knew almost no one named that (and of course later learned that everyone born that year was given that name). It was perhaps not the wisest choice, for I didn't know until we began using it on my beautiful child, that dh and family called her "Lor-en", much different from my family and I that called her "Law-ren". For family harmony, I've given on her name, but still enjoy seer-up on my pancakes.

The latest is our van, knicknamed "Eugene". Dds insist "he" is "u-GENE" and laughed at my pronunciation, "U-gene". We got on this topic with a friend one night while watching our sons play baseball. Lauren and I appealed to her for a pronunciation. What were the odds? She had once lived in "u-GENE", Oregon.

How about you? Do you pour seer-up or sirr-up on your pancakes?

Can You Say Sedentary?

As if we humans weren't in bad enough shape, we now can rest our weary wrists (from all this writing on our blogs, you know) and not even have to turn our ice cream cones. Inventors have come up with rotating ice cream cones. You need only hold up the cone and stick out your tongue. Wait, my arm might get tired holding up the cone. I wonder if it comes with a stand?

Science Friday

All good scientists know math. Arby asked, "If you have four chicken eggs to hatch, what are the odds that all four will be roosters?" If you Google "sex ratios in fertilized chicken eggs" or some such thing, you'll find that there are quite a few studies to determine if environmental factors affect the outcome. Because I've not yet earned my PhD in Avian Studies, I'll stick to a "given no other variables" approach. The possible configuration of baby chicks is as follows:

GGGG

GGGB

GGBB

GBBB

BBBB

where G is girl and B is boy. Therefore, Arby, your chances of having all roosters is 20%. You should buy a lottery ticket with your ability to beat the odds. I have experience with this, as we once hatched three eggs, and you guessed it, three roosters. I will say, however, you might want to keep a few roosters around to keep your hens entertained, and perhaps that is why she crowed. What she is trying to tell you is revealed at the end of this article.

Signed, Junosmom who knows more about chickens that a human has a right (or needs) to know

Science Friday Photos: learning from the holes in the woods

Healthy Food

In a nutrition class, I remember hearing that if given the choice, humans, particularly young ones, would choose healthy foods as their bodies craved nutrients for their growing bodies. If this is true, why are we a nation in the middle of a health crisis? We obviously are not choosing broccoli at the StuffMart.

More complicated than that, the human body has been programmed to go first for high fat, something rare and hard to attain when one had only a rock to bring down one's steak for the night. Think it's just us humans, though? Horses crave grain, something they must search for tiny morsels in the wild. Given the chance to get into it, they eat enough grain to kill themselves.

Many people don't know that chickens love meat. If I throw them the kitchen slop, they go after meat first, fighting over it and carrying it to a corner to try to keep it to themselves. After meat, they crave white carbs, particularly bread, but also cake, pancakes, corn cobs, anything white. Fruit comes in third with veggies coming in last - just like many of today's Americans.

Speaking of chickens, Arby posted about his crowing hen. I have heard of that, Arby, especially in the absence of a rooster. And, you need to re-think calling them "dumb". Chickens are very smart - at being chickens. How many human adults do you know that if turned loose in the woods, could fend for themselves, finding food, finding mates, and reproducing? Chickens, however, are another story.

Arby also asks, "What are the odds of getting four roosters in batch of four eggs?" Great math problem. So readers, what are the odds that having hatched four eggs, all four are roosters? Answer tomorrow.

Happiness

Travis asked "Can you define your happiest day?" Happiest. Perhaps no other culture has concerned itself with happiness as we have. My life has been punctuated with moments of pure joy - making eye contact with dh as I walked down the aisle, the birth of my children, the light of understanding in a child's eye, laughter shared. Happiness, however, isn't a moment or a day. Its a state of being, a collection of moments and days. Its a sense of direction.

One night, I was walking back from the barn. It was dark and beautiful stars lit the sky. My family was safely inside the house, healthy, fed, and the horses nickered softly. The night wasn't remarkable in any way, but I thought to myself, it doesn't get any better than this. As quickly as I admitted that sense of well-being, I wondered what would happen next? Surely something, as I couldn't believe that God would allow me to continue in such a state of happiness forever or I'd not grow and learn.

And sure enough, times changed and some were hard, but again I'd come to another day when I'd say, "It doesn't get any better than this". Helen Keller said, "True happiness is not attained through self-gratification, but through fidelity to a worthy purpose." American culture teaches us to reach for individual happiness and orgasmic moments. "It's all about me." And this selfish search for those perfect moments and individual happiness, rather than a collective overall happiness of us all, is what is bringing down the American family.

Reading Material

Olympics

The men's relay race in swimming had so much to enjoy - from the swaggering French who were beaten, the come from behind finish, and the reaction of the teammates on learning they had won. We laughed and laughed watching Michael Phelps and teammates yell and pump their fists. Speaking of Phelps, when he won the 400 m, they showed his mother watching the race. She yelled and carried on, "Go Michael, go Michael..." Dear Daughter said, "That's embarrassing!" But I had to smile, for during the interview, his eyes scanned the audience and he said he was looking for his mom and couldn't find her.

Other notes: Since when is beach volleyball an Olympic sport?? Dh sure is enjoying this year's Olympics. I think it is more of a spectator sport. Even better - it seems to be raining during the game. Huh.

And if it isn't enough that I have to watch the beach babes, I have to hear about a forty-something swimmer who has a washboard stomach, had a baby in between swim meets, and beats all the 20-somethings. I'm going to go find my ice cream carton of Death By Chocolate.

Could We Have More Cheeps?

Dh was parking the car as I got a table at our favorite Mexican restaurant. Thoughtful as ever, I ordered a beer for him along with a Corona for me.

"My husband will have a Dos Exxis."
"Si, signora, Dos Exxis...."

I am nodding before I hear him finish
"...grande," as he walked away.

What do I know? Thinking Dos Exxis comes in bottles, I shrugged it off until about the same time my husband sat down, they brought the 32 ounce (!!) frosted mug of beer. We began to laugh, as it was a bit embarrassing. At the table next to us, sat three policeman in full uniform. In addition, we were there after Mass because the girls were sitting at the table with the Church youth group at a send-off for a seminarian who'd spent the summer here. Oops! Thank goodness Lauren has her driver's license! Dh and I had a good time.

He Didn't Learn That From Me

Six year old boys fidget, and in particular, at recitals and at Church. Not only does he not want to be there, he can't stand it that you can't talk, pick your nose, or put your feet on the chair in front of you. In the very quiet moments of a service or recital, I have often wondered what would happen if someone farted very loudly just then. At last night's service, William gave us the opportunity to find out. During the solemn sacrament of the baptism of four infants. Lauren, Anna and William began to laugh in that hysterical way you do when know you shouldn't laugh, but in looking at others laughing, you start losing control and tears begin to form. Lauren quickly got control. I was facing away, and dared not look back, or Anna and I would feed on each other's laughter and really lose it. I heard the boys behind me snickering. Lord a' mercy, boys sure are a treat to raise.

Niagara Falls

I hadn't been to Niagara Falls since I was eleven years old. The only memory I have of it was being on the Maid of the Mist. I wonder if this year during our visit, we rode the same boat? In my mom mode, I made mental notes of the location of the life jackets, knowing all the while it was a futile (and in the end, unneeded) thought.


In those days, they issued yellow rubberized rain coats to each passenger, and I remember not wanting one. I wanted to get soaking wet. When we neared the Falls, everyone went to the side of the boat to look and the boat tilted dangerously, prompting the captain to ask people to spread out and that the boat would soon turn, giving everyone a fair chance to see the Falls.

This didn't happen this year, when I returned to ride with my children and mother-in-law. We were issued what amounted to sticky, disposable garbage bags to keep us dry. Just like when I was young, my girls and William all enjoyed the spray, and put back their hoods to get their hair dripping wet.

The Cave of the Winds didn't disappoint us for sheer fun. Again, we were issued garbage bags, this time yellow, and took an elevator down to the bottom of the American Falls. People screamed and laughed and had the most fun having the water cascade over them. If only we could experience more of the pure joy of living in daily life! We did not ever figure out why they called it the "cave" of the winds, as we didn't enter any cave unless you count the tunnel to the elevator (man-made) to be a cave.

Here is Lauren and William (to her right) getting a drenching:

This morning, dh recounted a dream he had last night. He was dressed for work and getting into his car when a miniature buffalo (that apparently was my pet) turned his rear to dh and "let loose" on him, getting all over his clothes and car. I'm no psychologist nor Joseph in the Bible, but this dream was easy to interpret. Subconsciously, dh felt shat upon when being left alone when the kids and I took a five day trip.

Now, before you feel too sorry for him, a dear friend's family did much of the work while we were away, and dh, in fact, did the work cheerfully. He accomplished much while I was away, so much so that I've threatened to leave on little trips more often. I'm sure he truly didn't mean that my little animal farm here was shooting him manure, but I suppose I should pay a little attention to his subconscious.

Blogs, I am told, are like the newspaper. You must write each day and never miss an issue in order to not lose readership. You are not, however, supposed to tell people when you are on a trip for security reasons. I fully intended to have blogs pre-written and scheduled ahead of time, but getting ready for even a small trip for me is the equivalent of preparing for a foreign invasion. So, I left you, my poor blog readers, hanging.

Before the girls were younger, it was even harder. I remember dh once asking, as we prepared for a trip "What was there to do? You just put a few clothes in the suitcase and leave." It is a sign of my control that he lives still. It has gotten easier as the girls have gotten older, and can help pack and get the homestead ready for our departure.

So, leaving our home in the care of friends and dh, we traveled to Rochester, New York for an "International Friendship Concert" in which Lauren played the second movement of the Italian Concerto. In between her practices, lessons and rehearsal, we explored that town and Pittsford, NY. Lauren played beautifully. From there we traveled to Niagara Falls for a day, and then to dh's family farm for a night. It is good to be home.

Photo taken along the Erie Canal

Bathing Beauties

My string bikini days are long over, but I remember the days enough to understand that it is the kind of bathing suit my daughters would like for lounging on the beach. You certainly can't call them "swimming suits" for they are not at all suited for swimming, at least in an ocean. But now that I have daughters, I look at bikinis a little differently. I told them I'd pay for their bathing suits if I could pick them out. I was thinking something like this, just for while we are on a beach.

The Motherhood of the Traveling Pants

My black capri pants went missing again this morning for the second time. The first time I ranted and tossed things aside, as I'd looked everywhere. The only answer is that the capris had "traveled" to a teen daughter's room. If so, I'd never see them again. I won't go into why this is so, because that could have verbal repercussions from unknown persons that might or might not live in my house. I would only say that some people might wear the same size their mother might wear and/or sometimes do laundry and mix clothes together.

After searching for some time, and blaming everyone else (I'm sure you've never done this), I found the capris had "traveled" somehow to my lonely sock basket - you know the socks that had somehow lost their mate? That basket was in my bedroom closet where it lives. So, I was the culprit after all. I briefly thought about hiding in someone's room, and then claiming I found it there to not appear guilty of having laid blame elsewhere. But wait! Maybe, that is how it ended up in my basket of socks. Maybe they were planted. I've been framed!

But this morning, I knew that the pants had just been misplace by myself, but I could not remember where I had put them. I looked everywhere or, as I used to tell the daughters, I guess I obviously had not looked everywhere or I would have found them, but everywhere I could think of. I finally located them on a shelf which I never use for clothes in the laundry closet. I can only think that my mind is now traveling, for I seem to have misplaced it.
To read more on wandering things, go here.

A No Noodle Day

I should have known what kind of day it was going to be when I opened up a can of chicken noodle soup and there were no noodles. Not a one. I looked at the photo on the label. Yes, it was chicken noodle soup. Right then, I should have gone back to bed. But nooooo, I had to soldier on.

William was feeling better, but Lauren felt a bit under the weather. After a little first aid on her, I dealt a little with the general house chaos before setting off to volunteer at the thrift store. There, mountains and boxes of donated items were overflowing everywhere. Broken glass, pure junk and Christmas items were mixed in with items of real value. Both my visiting nephew and my son wanted to come to "help", and yet were ready to leave after the first fifteen minutes. And, I would have been happy to have Lauren come get them, except the phone was dead at home, no doubt from the power outage we had for unknown reasons earlier in the day. I experienced my first on the volunteer job injury by accidentally kneeling on broken glass shards that I didn't see. I wonder if I can get workers' comp?

After the shop closed, leaving mountains of stuff still unsorted, we headed to the grocery to take evasive action so that nephew will not starve to death.

"It's obvious that we have different tastes in food," he informed me.

Yes, I told him, I don't only eat white things. And, I'm not a vegetarian. (As one comedian put it, if God didn't mean for us to eat animals, why did he make them out of meat?) Nephew will eat hot dogs, however, but asked me not to say how they made them. And hot dogs are not white, so one point for Nephew.

Driving home, we continued our luck by having a train roll through town. The track runs east-west, and I, going north, cannot get around it without driving a long way out of my way. So we sat. Once home, I prevailed upon the boys to give one last effort and carry up the groceries I had in a basket. Too heavy. So I gave Nephew the lighter basket, and he preceded me up the stairs. Poor thing, his Tourette's causes him to gag somewhat, and on the way up the stairs, he threw up. Into the basket. William had to run around to the front of the house to come in, fearful that he would get it on himself.

Gathering towels to clean up, Anna told me that she was not going to her art class tonight, as she was feeling bad now, too, with a headache and fatigue. Could I please call her teacher? Only, the phone still doesn't work. I cleaned up the vomit, fixed the phone (by unplugging and replugging in the answering machine which must have been zapped by the power surge), put away the groceries, found Tylenol for Anna, called the teacher, and found snacks for the boys, tired out as they were from all their hard work at the thrift store.

And then the final insult. I read my email and found that my YouTube video of the gelding of a miniature horse somehow violates their community guidelines and has been removed. I am on report. I read all the guidelines, and cannot see how it does violate it, unless some "wuss" thinks it is too graphic. Myself, I found it educational and had very many emails thanking me for it. All I can say is "WUSS". (I pulled that word from my childhood. Don't even know what it means. Don't tell me, it'll spoil the mystery of it.) If I mess up again, I'll lose my account. And then sign up with my dog's name.

It has just been a no-noodle day.

Guest Blog by my nephew, Joey

Today's entry is brought to you courtesy of my nephew, Joey at Lifetime Adventures. Please bop over there to read about his adventures from hunting with his Uncle Joe to living life with Tourette's Syndrome. Please leave an encouraging comment for a new young blogger.

The Fair - Continued

He's growing so fast. This slide occupied him for an hour last year, and he went on it over and over, his little face growing red with the strenuous activity. This year, a few times was enough to satisfy him, and he yearned for the rides for which he was not yet tall enough. Maybe next year, I comforted him, all the while happy that he was not yet tall enough to spin crazily in the air.

As to the rest of the people at the fair, I can only say that if you need to develop characters for writing a book, or just like people watching, the fair is your place. I peered at the faces of some of the younger fair ride operators and wondered how they got there. Was their face on a poster of missing kids at StuffMart? What landed these people to life on the road, living in a trailer, pushing red buttons to start a ride? Most seemed kind, yet very bored.

As the evening wore on, crowds of teens began to form and the blaring music began to get to me. Disappointed with the lack of entries in the arts and crafts, almost no entries in the agricultural division, and no other exhibits to view, we decided we'd seen enough.

You may ask why we bothered to attend? Well, to see Anna's art exhibited - taking first place in five categories in the junior division.! William also entered a painted African mask, which also took first place in the "other painted object" category.

Where's My Sense of Adventure?

Somewhere along the way, I changed. Well into my thirties, roller coasters couldn't go fast enough and spinning rides caused me to laugh continuously. This was, of course, in times before coasters could pull G forces sufficient to get you away from the Earth's atmosphere and on your way to the moon. Today's roller coasters no longer roll or coast, rather they test the outer limits of the endurance of the human body.

Sometime after the birth of my daughters, I noticed that spinning rides made me quite queasy, and I was ashamed of my new found weakness. My sense of balance or something changed, and I no longer enjoyed being centrifuged to a wall of a circular room with a floor that dropped away. Rather, I pondered while spinning around if I threw up if it would just drop to the floor, come back on my own face, or worse yet, hit the person across from me.

Sadly, I shake my head when my son asks me to take him on fair rides, and send my older daughter to ride with him. I stand below and pray that the "carnies" put the ride together well and had taken all their medication that day. You think I over-react?

While at this particular county fair, we stood in line to ride a "kiddie" roller coaster in which a sea serpent train traversed a tubular track. The ride operator walked over to a track support and as I watched, he hand tightened a nut on a bolt that had come loose.

"Alright, we're not going to be riding this ride," I told the boy as I dragged him away. "How about the nice slide?"

"Why can't I ride this ride. Why?"

I checked back later, and the nut was again at the end of the 3 inch bolt, ready to fall out. Several moms looked in panic at their kids on the ride as I pointed out the bolt to the kids. "See, this ride is still falling apart. You can't ride it." To my knowledge, the ride is still operating with the man still hand tightening the bolt when he thinks of it.

I bravely climbed aboard the Ferris wheel, figuring it doesn't really spin and I can still handle drops, just not spins. Sitting high in the air, I noticed that large cables hold it together, and I thought of the girl that had her feet severed at a local amusement park on a ride when a cable broke. A ride that my girls rode two $^&$%& weeks before the accident! I did manage to finish my ride and keep my lunch down.

Not so two poor souls that will forever remember the summer they, after a ride, threw up in front of their girlfriends. Not cool. Two young teen boys (at least I think they were both boys, the jury is still out on one of them) could not take the spinning either. Perhaps it's not just a sign of my aging. Perhaps it is a sign of un-coolness.

More on the county fair tomorrow.

Outrageous!

In a country that is supposed to be a world leader, our educational system struggles. There are many causes in this complicated topic, and I don't deem to understand or have the answers to it all. I just chose not to be part of it. Reading the paper yesterday, however, I could not believe what I was reading. Locally, the contracts of 18 teachers were not renewed. This has gone to court to force the school district to renew these contracts. Note, I am not saying hire/rehire as from what I've read, these teachers are on contract.

The teachers' union maintains that even if there are serious charges and problems with a teacher, regardless of what happened, each teacher "was still entitled to that 12-week period of time to correct his deficiencies."

Sounds reasonable until you read about the alleged infractions of one of the teachers:

MR, a High School teacher who the district said chewed tobacco during class time, had absentee problems and allegedly was heard threatening to bring a gun to school on May 27, his last day of work. He is charged with terroristic threatening, a second-degree felony, which is pending in court. According to the criminal complaint, R was "aware that this was his last day of employment, (and) was overheard by witnesses commenting that he 'might go home and come back with a gun.' " The complaint states that R said he was "just kidding." Court documents also state that R tested positive twice for alcohol use while at work, and was discharged from a district-required treatment program for noncompliance.

So, it is alleged that he chewed tobacco, doesn't always come to work, threatened to bring a gun to school, didn't have the maturity to know that joking about guns at school isn't done, he's tested positive at work for alcohol and couldn't or wouldn't complete a treatment program. Yes, he certainly (I am about to throw in some satire folks for those of you that read the New Yorker and don't get it) is someone I want teaching my teen daughters.

And he deserves 12 weeks to get his act together? How about that detox program the school district sent him to complete that he did not? Was that not his chance?

Perhaps the school district completely made this all up. Perhaps he is a great teacher and someday someone is going to make a movie about how he motivated inner-city school kids to rise above and 100% of them went to college because someone believed in them. I highly doubt it. As for the union officials, I don't know how you sleep at night.

Disclaimer: this is just my opinion. I'm sure I know nothing about it.

Above and Below

Not Yet!

As soon as we entered "Knobby Dobby", I began to feel anxiety. This is a store for shoppers, for people that decorate their house and are good at it. Row after row of decorative items pounded the hammer on my skull reinforcing that I am a decorating disaster. It all was so overwhelming. The tension increased as I helped a daughter pick out scrap booking materials, (her project not mine). I began hyperventilating. I don't do crafts.

Still, I need coat hooks for the front hallway. It really doesn't say much for a household when guests lay their coats on the bed and come back to find a nest of animals huddled in the middle of them. I headed down one last aisle, only to hurry back to my daughter.

"Quick we have to leave."
"What's wrong?"
"I'm going to throw up - they have Christmas stuff out, aisles of it, in JULY."

It was hard enough to try to keep up when Christmas started the day after Thanksgiving. I might as well throw in the towel.

Downward Spiral

It started Sunday morning with noticing that two big breasts of chicken (see, I told you I'd get that in future posts) prevented the door of the freezer in the garage to fully shut. Everything was thawed and blood and purple berry juice was dripping on the floor. We were on our way to a family gathering in another city, so I just shut the door, and we left.

Later in the evening, a line of thunderstorms and possible tornadoes lined the interstate we were supposed to take home. I knew we weren't going to get home before dark, so I called my friend to go lock up the chickens. By the time she had gotten there, a chicken was dead. The raccoon had struck again and it wasn't even dark yet. Likely, the raccoon wanted to go through the drive-through before the storm hit, but the friend and her children had interrupted her order, for the body was still there. When I got home, I confirmed my worst fear - it was Chicken Licken.

I lay in bed that night with the lyrics of "Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover" replaced with "Fifty Ways to Kill a Raccoon". I fantasized with rat poison, pellet guns, minor explosives. I dreaded telling William, yet in the morning, he seemed to take the news better than I. He was very sad, but I guess the poor little guy is getting used to loss now and again as a way of life. I promised that we'd try to get another Silkie again. William brightened at that, but said perhaps it might be better not to name the new one Chicken Licken.

Monday was otherwise uneventful, taking Anna's art to the county fair was the highlight. As we pulled into the fairgrounds, it appeared that someone had spilled brownie mix or chocolate milk. Not so. Eugene now sports chocolate paint on his tires.

William also had an entry in the fair - a painted African mask. After handing it over, he began to tear up, having difficulty with leaving it behind. I assured him we'd get it back, but he was not buying it. He was having more difficulty leaving the mask than with the death of Chicken Licken, or perhaps because of it.

On Monday evening, an odor began overpowering the garage - the dripped blood, I would guess. Upon investigation, I found that some genius in freezer design had the drip pan welded to the compressor so that I had to use a spoon and syringe to get the coagulated mess out of there. To top it all off, it was evident that some mice had taken up residence under the freezer and were using the floor as their potty. Lately, I spend more time with Mr. Clean than dh.

Pleased with my efforts, I took a shower and got ready to make dinner. My brother, who is visiting, had requested grilled hamburgers for dinner. My luck continued as I ran out of propane gas halfway through cooking. I finished cooking them in the frying pan, William began to complain of a stomach ache and fell asleep in a chair. Thankfully, he waited until after I had eaten to begin throwing up.

Honestly, I'm afraid to leave the house. What is next?

Stats Up

I have various ways of tracking activity on my blog. Now, before you log off, worried that I'm tracking your every move, I can't tell which specific computers are on my blog, though I'm sure that technology is available. Rather, I look for information as to how a person arrived on my small corner of the blogosphere. Some are direct hits - they knew exactly where they were going. Some followed a link from another blogger's site. Occasionally, someone will Google a word or phrase, and my blog link will come up.

A few of the sites that give me information on site statistics, such as Google Analytics or the Feedjit map in my margin to the right, will actually tell me the keyword the user was searching when they stumbled upon my humble blog. I have learned, in studying these stats, that of the keywords most used, big breasts and sexy hooker shoes are pretty popular. This being a family-oriented blog, I'll not go down the road of what these people were seeking, but I bet it wasn't my blog. However, I think that I'll recommend to new bloggers that if they want a lot of "hits", that they should include the words "big breasts" and "sexy hooker shoes" in every blog.

The Feedjit map is pretty cool - take a look. It shows on a map the country of origin of the most recent hits on a blog.

A New Low

Touching base by phone with a friend yesterday, I hit a new low. Her husband was talking in the background. He said he had a proposition for me. Friend said she wasn't sure she wanted her husband propositioning her friends, but okay, what is it? He offered to come over, climb a tree, and for $5, he'd whistle as I walked by. Surely, that is a new all time low. I have to pay to receive a whistle. Yeah, I'm hot. I offered to bring him some watermelon.

Notes:
William has forgiven me for the chicken massacre.

We had 9 teen girls, 1 pre-teen girl and one annoying little brother in the house last night for a sleepover, and I survived! (Actually, they were all a joy to have over.)

Dh and I made a fire outside last night, which Daisy loved. As darkness fell, the hackles went up on her back and she took off running - after the raccoon! We saw a dark shadow run towards the woods, Daisy in hot pursuit. Perhaps the dog can keep it away, rather than dressing like a chicken and hiding in the coop as Packsaddle suggests. Besides, my chicken suit is at the cleaners.

Catcall

I've come full circle. I heard a whistle yesterday as I crossed the street in a downtown area. I used to get whistles. Then came a time when if I did get a whistle, I'd check to make sure my skirt wasn't caught up in the back or I hadn't just passed an octogenarian eating watermelon. Now, I bask in the whistle, knowing I am fully responsible and deserving of a catcall - which is for my two daughters.

Notes:
Raccoons hit last night. Lost two young hens, fortunately not Chicken Licken. William will be very upset, and I dread telling him because it was my fault. I left one door down on the chicken tractor. That door isn't normally opened, and I am sad I forgot to close it.

...Like a River

As the evening sun played on the water, I thought about how much the river has always been part of my life. It's ironic that my father grew up along side this river, even swimming in it as a child, and now, though it is five miles from my house, I am living along side this same river. In my early professional career, dh and I both worked for a company along the river, and you could see it from my apartment balcony. One of our favorite restaurants while dating was on the river. We hadn't been there in awhile, so we went there to celebrate Lauren's birthday.

Sometimes, the amount of time that has passed shocks me. Just this morning, I was reading a literary agent's blog about "ageism" in publishing. That is, a publisher would rather have a younger author who, if successful, has time left to put out more books. So, if you are say, 50 years or more, it is best not to mention one's age. Not there yet, but a sharp intake of air might or might not have occurred.

Occasionally, I have these panic attacks. It comes on when I reflect on what I've accomplished in life compared to all the women my age that may have taken different paths - perhaps career tracks. And, I wonder, as we sometimes must do, when it is all said and done, what will be said about me? What will I leave behind? And then I remember:

Happy Birthday!

Happy Birthday to my "little girl" who is now a young woman.

You are everything I dreamed for you and more.

He Flies through the Air With the Greatest of Ease..

William has added to his list of future occupations: trapeze artist. Where he got this, I don't know. I asked if he was going to be in the circus and he got quite agitated. No, I'm not going to be in the circus. I'm going to be on a trapeze. Add this to the growing list of occupations:

• 'Struction Worker
• Gymnast
• Diver
• Piano instructor
• Olympic diver
• Trapeze artist

Dh says it sounds more like he's trying to become one of the Village People. Well, and he does play ball for the YMCA. There you go.

Watermelon

I don't buy watermelon. Well, hardly ever. Occasionally, I'll break down and spend $6 on one piece of fruit to the refrains of "I promise I'll eat it this time". I heave the thing into my cart, and later, watch a child carry it into the house, expecting it to be dropped at any moment. Yet, like the last time I bought one, the watermelon takes up precious refrigerator space, leaking pink water everywhere and no one eats it.

A good friend of mine, however, says that it is one of her family's favorites and she buys watermelon frequently. So, after reading yesterday's news, I had to tease her to find out if there was a reason her family ate so much watermelon:

The nutrients in watermelon can "deliver Viagra-like effects to the body's blood vessels and may even increase libido," according to Science Daily.

On reading further though, I found the following:

The phyto-nutrient called citrulline that relaxes the blood Vessels is found in highest concentrations in the part you generally don't Eat...The watermelon rind. "Would it take like a whole watermelon rind to eat to do any good, you might get yourself sick before you do yourself any good.

Ah, but not if you are small. And are a rooster named Lester the Molester. You see, the family often brings the leftover watermelon rinds to Lester and his hens who eat them greedily. Now I understand Lester's, shall we say, enthusiasm. My friend, having witnessed Lester's brutal assaults, says she's "cutting him off".

Notes:
No change in Ginny. The vets says it's likely a pituitary problem (with no cure) and may resolve itself.

It tastes...

...a bit bland, maybe a little salty. And, yes, I did.

Anyone for a café au lait?

When the girls come back from the barn, I always ask, "Is anyone dead?" Before you think I'm a bit pessimistic or morbid, with animals you never know what surprise lies in store for you each morning. A perfectly good morning can turn sour in an instant with, "Mom, (name of animal) has a huge cut on his leg" or "I need you to come look at (name of animal) because she's not feeling well". Or, as in the case of this week's challenge (are you up to it?), Ginny - a quarter horse cross - is lactating. That is, producing milk.

I don't mean she's dripping a bit. I mean you can hit someone across aisle in the barn with a stream. To our knowledge, she isn't pregnant. Well, there was that incident last March when the stud jumped the fence and had his way with her, but she'd have foaled by now if the shot we gave her hadn't worked. And he did jump the fence one other time (uh oh) before I threatened to sue the neighbor if he didn't cut off the horse's geld the horse immediately. Could he have made a midnight visit? Nah, she was locked up at night. And she doesn't seem otherwise pregnant.

We've scanned the Internet, because of course all the information a vet might have is on there anyway. Right? Well, it could be mastitis, a tumor on her ovary, a hormonal imbalance, a spider bite, too much clover, a phantom pregnancy, maybe no reason. Glad we have it narrowed down.

But it is milk. One website said that the taste of the milk (is it salty or sweet?) could help diagnose the problem. I told Lauren to let me know. Ewwwww! both girls replied. Yet, when they went to the barn, Lauren held some of the fluid in her hand and with Anna looking on, wondered if she could, maybe she would.... Anna cheered her on. "Do it Lauren, just do it."
In the end, she couldn't do it. Later, I told her perhaps it was a good thing. After all, it could be an infection, and the liquid could be pus. Everyone busted out with grotesque gagging noises and laughter. Who knows? I may have mare's milk for free. Anyone have a recipe for kumis?

Update: The vet says it is unlikely, given the date he gelded the neighbor's horse, that she is pregnant. It is more likely a pituitary problem, and will resolve itself. This might explain why she's had something behaviorally strange going on these last few months.

Junosmom's No Good Very Bad Night

Last night, The girls were at a party, William was already in bed asleep, and dh was watching golf with his eyes closed. After locking up the chickens, I sat on the back deck and watched the rose-colored sky through the trees. Lightening bugs danced around in the dusk, crickets sang, and I tried to think that this peace was what people must have experienced before there were too damn many people in the world.

Not a thought too soon: some moron began setting off firecrackers down the street, which set the redneck neighbor's hound dog to howling, all of which threw my dog, up until now sitting quietly, into a nervous panic as she began licking me to death. Mosquitoes simultaneously began trying to get blood out of turnip by poking me over and over. I gave up and retreated to the air-conditioned indoors. Perhaps I'll move to Australia.

Notes:
Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Science Friday: Moths

One time, we found a caterpillar, and without looking it up, kept it alive a few days before it spun its cocoon. Finally, the day came, and out came a wasp-looking creature. What a disappointment. Last year, however, we were lucky enough to hatch a luna moth and a monarch butterfly.

William found this dead moth that looks like it's wearing camouflage:

It's a Pandorus Sphinx.

Given our wasp-like experience, I decided to look up this colorful creature before investing any time in waiting for it to cocoon and hatch. Good thing. It makes a rather plain White-marked Tussock Moth .

Science Friday Challenge

These eggs were found on the topside of a spaghetti squash. What kind are they? (P.S. I don't know the answer! Please send a link.)

Am I That Bad?

"You're not using that as a purse, are you?" asked dh.
I know that I'm not a fashionista, and I do fully expect Clinton and Stacey (of What Not to Wear) to abuse my wardrobe some day, but surely I've not sunk so low as to have people thinking I'd use a burlap sack as my purse? Or have I?

And for your information, it contains William's coloring books and crayons.

Notes:
Me: We are home-based learners.
Anna: We are self-taught geniuses.
Dh: We are home school slackers.

Wordless Wednesday

Why It is Better to Have the Boys in Uncle Keith's Canoe

Anyone Out There?

Why God Made Little Boys

To remind one that even when you have bills to pay,

a house to clean, and things to do,

you must still take time to swing in the hammock.

Science Friday - Fungi

A walk in the woods provides a wealth of science studies for the home-based learner. As we walked, we took photos of things we found, wondering aloud if the world as we know it came to an end, could we survive in these woods? Could we find things to eat? Of course, mushrooms are easily found in the woods, but who dares to trust their knowledge of the edible ones?

Here is a photo of chicken or "chicken of the woods" mushrooms, so named because properly prepared, they have a chicken-like flavor. Supposedly, there is no other poisonous mushroom that looks like them.

I'd have to be awfully hungry to fry up some of those.

And these are Turkey Tail Mushrooms. Evidently, whomever named all the mushrooms was thinking about what they'd rather be eating than mushrooms. They aren't very appetizing, but do have a medicinal value, supposedly, (not that I'm recommending).

But one of the coolest things we found was yellow slime mold: Physarum polycephalum, a plasmodial slime mold. Can't eat that! But, what is interesting about it is that it is not a mold nor fungus. It is actually more like an amoeba, and does move, hence slime or a member of the Kingdom Protista. It eats food! It moves! Creepy. Read more here.

Science Friday Challenge

The forest floor is also host to a number of critters. Name this bug:

For really cool information on science, go to Science Friday. Leave a link in the comments for your favorite science website.

A Few Clowns Short of a Circus

We call her "Roxie" but her show name is "Dumber Than Rocks". Before you think I'm cruel beyond measure, I love her to death, but you have to wonder about a horse that'll jump up on your back deck and can't find a way to get back down. She's finally learning to get off, but before she did, I'd sometimes come home to find her standing there, wondering how to get down.

It is in her nature to be sweet and loving to humans, but when it comes to intelligence, she's a few fries short of a happy meal. Still, I've never met a horse with a more loving and bright nature. She is perpetually happy and runs to see anyone who might be interested in scratching her or playing.

Which is why when I got home on Tuesday and saw her laying down in the yard I was concerned. Though sitting up, her breathing was shallow and rapid, and her temperature was up to 104.5 deg F, high for a horse. Lauren, who could be an awesome vet, went down to the house and checked our book, How to Be Your Own Veterinarian (Sometimes): A Do-It-Yourself Guide for the Horseman and the Internet. She returned with a theory that Roxie's illness was related to seeing her eating a branch with leaves the day before.

Ah, see the cicadas had caused "flagging" in the trees, the branches dropped down, blew five feet to the dry paddock where Roxie should have been eating her hay, but instead ate the leaves. Black walnut leaves. Which are toxic to horses, causing respiratory distress and eventually, founder if left untreated. These trees had never before posed a threat to our horses, located well outside of the paddock and pasture, and normally, keeping all their leaves on the tree.

Chiron, Roxie's brother and a good deal smarter but cantankerous, did not eat those leaves. He was fine. So what to do about Rox? A small dose of Bute, a pain killer, relieved her, and she remained fine all night. By yesterday, she was back to her happy-go-lucky style. The farrier came to trim her feet and said she appeared normal, except for her always twisted back hoof, common to mini's. Of course, she wanted that we would hold her while her feet were done instead of having to try to do the splits for the farrier who can barely get down low enough to trim her.

Who knew that cicadas could be so dangerous?

Wordless Wednesday

Blink-er

Well, she passed. My baby can now get into a car, merge onto the highway, and risk her life driving like the rest of us - all by her self. Just yesterday, she was my baby, so I don't see how this happened. Along with the bitter, there is the sweet. She can now drive herself to piano lessons, perhaps once in awhile drive her sister to art class.

I fought the adrenaline rush as we entered the courthouse, as I was about to encounter the "no pass/no drive" requirements and how that is administered to home-based learners (aka homeschoolers). By law, we are a private school and required only to submit a letter stating that our child has passing grades. It is clearly outlined in the law. Obviously, county clerks are only following direction of the elected official clerk, who is not a lawyer. I expected dull eyes and shaking heads, telling me that I needed a letter from the Board of Education (isn't if ironic that the sound "bored" is paired with education?) verifying that she is in good standing (like they'd know how she is doing).

The line snaked out the door and down the hall. Great, I was going to have an audience for my great debate. I did have that letter, which only verified that I had indeed written a letter last August stating that I was going to homeschool. Now, I had a letter saying I wrote a letter. It does have an impressive embossed seal that the administrative assistant squeezed onto it. I got it as back up insurance, in case they were adamant about having it and so Lauren wouldn't have to wait.

We quickly discovered that our difficulty was not going to be about homeschooling, rather we needed an appointment. Garrr....I'd missed that somehow, but we managed to get the last appointment of the day. We thanked them for fitting us in, and left. No mention of the letter or qualifications, despite a sign outside the door saying that proof of good academic standing was required. Perhaps the test administrator would ask? No. No mention was ever made of it.

Our next difficulty was Eugene, our van. Eugene is like someone that has lived to 100 years. While they may still get around fine, it is doubtful that everything works as it once did. Eugene, like some of us, has a little electrical problems now and again. His blinker to the left is frantic, not the steady blink-blink-blink you'd expect. Little did I know that it also meant that the outside front blinker doesn't work at all. Can't use this vehicle, the woman apologetically explained.

I begged for 10 minutes, time to run home to get the truck. It works! But oh, Lauren would have to parallel park the truck, something we'd not practiced and difficult for even experienced drivers. And the smell! Oh, the smell! Our truck is our farm truck, our drive our horses and dogs truck. And it leaks a tiny bit, okay a lot, when it rains and it has a rather musty odor. And the tester was wearing black pants! Can you say "dog hair"? All the other candidates had arrived in new cars.

Still, we hurried home and as Lauren drove, I covered the seat with a towel and rolled down the windows. The tester was there waiting, and I apologized for our vehicles. "My husband drives our good car," I said, trying to dispel the notion that when we finished, we'd go home to our trailer with a refrigerator on the front porch. They drove off. I sat watching clouds until they returned. She passed, with the tester telling Lauren that she wasn't sure she could have parallel parked the truck.

And so, from a little toddler who would stand and sing us songs, to a young woman that can drive alone, she continues to grow up and away.