The pigs have landed

I refuse to find them cute. The fact that they already stink helps me to stay disconnected from the little wriggly pink rodents. They don't have names now and they won't have names ever.

They will be yummy yummy in my tummy by December.

(Please save all of your food scraps for me.)

Here's their new pen. It is very likely too close to the house, the yard and the firepit.



They arrived in the box on the back of the truck on Saturday afternoon with pink markers down their backs. How fitting for the little Rube girls.


They stayed in this temporary pen for the day while B.Rube finished up the new pigpen.


And, happily moved into their new digs a while later.

Dare I....

....complain about the heat?

I thought that my week in Vegas would have prepared me for the heat when it arrived.
Not so much.
Somehow it's different when you're lying next to a lazy river and the only three things that you HAVE to do are 1) Dip in the pool when you get too hot, 2) Order yourself yet another football-shaped margarita and 3) Apply more sunscreen.

When it's over 33 degrees here and the things that I HAVE to do include (but are not exclusive to. ) : 1) Wiping up and otherwise dealing with shit (human, sheep, rabbit, human, human, goose, human, dog, human, human, human, donkey and pig, in that order.) , 2) Applying more sunscreen to everyone but myself and 3) Cooking a meal that involves the oven set to 450 degrees.

I am wiped out, man. no energy.

Right now....

B.Rube is burning the stinking decomposing possum that we found stuck in a barrel today.
It kinda killed the urge for sitting around the fire, I gotta tell you.

Some of what I gained while in Vegas:

1. A heavier credit card bill. (We'd win at the slots and lose it at roulette. And never regain it again at pai-gow, sinking us deeper into the hole.)

2. A new tequila drink for the summer. (Steep tequila (preferably good tequila) with some fresh fruit and cane sugar. Add ice and ginger ale when you're ready to drink it. mmmmm)

3. A heightened awareness of how affected I am by my hormones. ( Vitamin B6 is worth a shot. or some sort of hormone replacement therapy. if worse comes to worse, a complete hysterectomy would be appropriate here, too.) (Sorry about Thursday night, B.Rube)

4. Two new friends from New Jersey. (cuz they reminded me so much of my current one.)

5. A flattened penny from the top of the Stratosphere.

6. Affirmation that I am truly and completely incapable of utilizing those automatic hands-free faucets and soap dispensers in all of the bathrooms. (they are just unable to detect me or something. kinda like a ghost not being seen in a mirror.)

7. A wicked tan. (which I plan on preserving all summer long, God help me.... okay... and the tanning salon can help too.)

8. A reconnection with B.Rube. (The schoolgirl outfit kicked ass. Need I say more?)

9. 3 lbs. (water weight... all must've been water weight.)

10. Two inflatable tubes, slightly used and a bit oily.

11. A hemorrhoid. (I am refusing to expand on this further, because it is just not a nice subject, although that has never stopped me before.)

12. Some vintage toys from FAO Schwartz. (S.Rube had requested that we bring her back "a spinning top" from Vegas. We found one, along with a few other items.)

13. The most comfortable and necessary pair of flip-flops. (stashed daily into my purse for all of our outings.)

14. An autographed ball from Pete Rose.

Our Goose is Cooked

Well, not really. Although that was one of the options; the others being 1) sending them back to auction on Saturday, 2) gutting them and stringing them up on a pole at the front of the driveway, 3) putting them in the pen with the donkey and watching the ensuing fight or 4) move them out to the pasture by the pond.
Far away from my children.

I won't say "I told you so." but, I told you so.

One of the geese, more dangerous than the poor roosters we sent to certain death a couple of months back, attacked poor S.Rube the other night. She had gone out to the trampoline after dinner and I was cleaning the kitchen. Then, I heard horrified SHRIEKING! At first, I thought that she had fallen climbing out of the trampoline, but when I looked, she was being viciously attacked by a goose. The other, which I suspect is the female, was idly standing by, with a disapproving look on her face. I ran, with my weapon of choice in hand.
The deadly dish towel.
I mean, this goose was attacking my child, for Chrissakes..... what better weapon is there than the dish towel? (the spatula? a butcher knife?) The dish towel is capable, as we all know, of delivering a stinging snap that even a wooden spoon can't duplicate. It was well-suited for the job of goose slaying.

With Ma-Ma Rube to the rescue, the attack came to a quick and sudden halt. (I only needed a couple of swats with the towel.) S.Rube had 10 bite marks on her - starting with the worst of them on her collarbone and going down to her chest, stomach, arms and back.
I was furious. She was forgiving.
More forgiving than is appropriate here, I believe. When provided with the options, she chose the relocation plan. And was, in fact, worried that the sheep would go after the geese. (I was concerned with the sheep's safety myself.)

What a tough little farm girl.

The Women of my Dreams

In 2004, after S.Rube was born, I was blessed with meeting the women of my dreams. I know that sounds a bit gay or perhaps cliche, but I guess it's true. Women friends are important. More important than just about anything really, I think. Because without women friends, I don't believe that we adequately feed ourselves with the energy and the understanding that only other women can provide. And, if we aren't getting that energy, we aren't giving that energy. So, our families suffer.

So, feed yourself. That's my theory.

I wanted important women friends in my life. I found them at the health unit. It was a casual "Mommy and Me" group, where we could sit in on 6 different info sessions with our new babies, and figure out what the hell we were doing. We were all first-time moms. We were all confused, scared, struggling and anxious to get back in shape. Every day of the week, we met to walk. We refused to sit solitarily in our homes with our babies becoming more and more isolated from the real world. After walking, we would sit in coffee shops for hours, monopolizing entire seating areas with strollers and breastfeeding to our heart's content. Anything, I think, some days, to not have to go home. We saved each other, in many ways.

I think there were 18 or so to begin with. After the 6 sessions ended, we began meeting at one of our homes every week, each taking turns to host the playdate and provide lunch for all the moms. Most of our playdates involved 12-16 moms and the same number of babies. All of the kids were born between May and November of 2004, the year of the Monkey.

Our group began to branch out further and we started to get together without the babies, too, creating a monthly Poker Night. We began participating in community activities together with the kids, such as joining a music class, or signing up for swimming lessons. We started to include the dads, too, and began to create tradition for the kids with an annual birthday party and Christmas gift exchanges. We held a "Name our Group" contest and the winner was "The Monkeys & the Ma-Ma Sisterhood", so we refer to the kids as the monkeys and ourselves as the Ma-Mas.

Today was our big Monkey birthday party. I always get a bit mushy after being with 'my Ma-Mas.' It's just so good. It is just so easy. And it's just so good. There are so many of us and so many possible combinations of relationships between us and, yet, there is never a problem. (almost never anyway). (and, if there were a problem, it is probably likely that I was involved).

I feel like I have 16 best friends. It's crazy. I would go to any one of you in a time of need and I trust you all implicitly. I am more myself when I'm with you than I am with anyone. I look forward to seeing you, and am aware when I've been neglectful and am in need of my 'Ma-Ma Time'. Sometimes I can't get enough of you. I love what we are creating together; not only for the children, but for us. Because, one day, our children will be grown up and gone. And, the only silver lining in that dark cloud is knowing that I'll still have 'my Ma-Mas'.

(Was it Mexico we decided upon? or Hawaii?)

(Peg, I missed you today. You're in my heart, doll.)

Genetically Doomed

Sorry, T.Rube. You're doomed. There are a million other incredible genetic gifts that your father and I have given you, but boobs ain't likely one of them. (or, two of them, either, for that matter)

So, you might as well get accustomed to the chicken cutlets now - it can't hurt to practise up a bit. But, just be aware that this isn't one of those "practise makes perfect" situations. No amount of preparation is going to help you here, in terms of growth and development. They're not going to rub off on you, or anything like that.

unfortuneately.

I tried.

Vegas pics

Why is it...

....that I find myself at 11:00 at night madly searching the house for Goldie?


I easily found Teddy and both Chocolates, but I can't find Goldie. He's the Golden Retriever that her cousins gave her last summer. She has never really had a big attachment to stuffed animals or a blanket before. I could see her 'Teddy connection' growing steadily stronger over the past few months, now that I think of it. But, each night as she goes to bed, I kinda just hope that she'll fall asleep, not realizing they're not in bed beside her. But, each night now, she remembers.


And, I'm left searching madly for an increasing number of stuffed animals - one bear and three dogs at this point. Teddy, Chocolate, Chocolate, and Goldie. The two Chocolates are actually two different brown dogs, but are similar enough in colour to have been interchangeable at one time, up until a few nights ago. Now, they are both requirements; no longer able to just sub in for one another on any given night.

( The timing for this sudden onset of a need for her stuffed animals doesn't surprise me, considering I was just gone for a week. She claims to not have missed me, though. When I say to her, "I really really missed you when I was away.", she replies, "Well, I didn't miss you, Mommy." and when I act surprised or ask why not, she replies, "We're just not the kind of people who really miss people."

"We're just not the kind of people who really miss people." Wow. Weird.
That kid is kinda deep. and shockingly self-aware. And obviously has no need to tell me what she thinks I want to hear.
But, you know. She's right. We're really not. )


It's Goldie tonight that I find myself madly searching for. I found Teddy in the bed and both Chocolates together on the floor.
I finally find Goldie, underneath a pig, in textbook doggie-style. With a big grin on his face.

(And by the way, I DID miss you, S.Rube, regardless of what kind of people you think we are. In fact, my heart ACHED for you and your sister a few times. I missed you so much it ached.)

(Other than that (and a night of raging hormones), Vegas was awesome!)

SEXUAL POSITION OF THE WEEK....

It had to be something out of the ordinary, didn't it?? I mean, it's Vegas week. It had to fit the venue. I know you know what I mean.

(I have to tell you, though, in all honesty, that the only "third party" likely to join our Monte Carlo suite this week is AuntfuckingFlo. Actually, it's not likely to happen. It BETTER fucking happen. Cuz, let's face it, the only thing worse than getting your period 2 days into your Vegas holiday is NOT getting your period 2 days into your Vegas holiday. In fact, I think I'll celebrate her arrival, however untimely, with an enthusiastic drink or two or three or four....)

So, while I'm gone... get it on. bang-a-gong. Wish you were with us. ;o)

I met my friggin' goal!!!

In 2003, before getting pregnant with S.Rube, I weighed in at 129 at my fitness evaluation. Although part of me never imagined in a million years that I would ever weigh that much again, I've always held that magic number as my unimaginable goal.
You know, not only did I never imagine I would reach it again, I actually wasn't even sure it was possible.

I'm here to tell you. It's possible. Even after sitting at 140 for 5 weeks into my diet and fitness regime back in April, I reached 129 on Friday.
(and I'm not finished yet. I'll let you know when I am.)

(In case I don't get back here before 6 a.m. Monday morning, you can please picture me at the pool under a palm tree with my book in hand, looking sexier than hell, IN VEGAS! I'll be back late on the 15th. with stories to tell.)

The Slug Sisters

Whatcha find, T.Rube?

ughhhh.... slugs. I HATE SLUGS. And both of the little rubes love them. They think they're cute. (CUTE??!!!!) They love their squishiness and their softness. They even love their slimy'ness.

You've heard of The Mole Sisters? Well, I have The Slug Sisters.

They carry slugs around constantly; sometimes I'll find 3 or 4 in T.Rube's clutches. It was S.Rube who started it; who turned her sister on to slugs. They're both equally disgusting slimy little girls. Both guilty of slug-loving.

Any gardener would cringe at the thought of loving a slug. They are the worst culprits in the garden. No amount of geese could rid us of the slugs here. Some of you - MOST of you - won't be familiar with the infamous Pacific Northwest Slug. There are actually many many varieties of slugs; all of them loving the wet rainforest climate of our region. I noticed my first 2008 slug about two months ago, and, admittedly, it was pretty cute. Pretty SMALL and pretty cute. Kinda like how all puppies are cute or all kittens are cute (but then they grow up.)

I didn't want S.Rube to be afraid of them. (that would be worse than her loving them.) So, when I saw a slug, I would remark on it; how cute and small it was; how soft and squishy it must feel. I guess it's no wonder that both girls have developed a bit of a crush. I clearly encouraged them.

The problem with the cute little slug is that it grows up, too. And they become RIDICULOUSLY large and more fucking DISGUSTING than just about anything you'll ever see. ( I mean, these slugs compete with the raccoons at night to eat the leftover dogfood from the dishes left on the deck - and win!)

God forbid you ever step on a banana slug with your bare foot (like I did last September).

I died.

Seriously.

My heart stopped.

It is worse, by far, than stepping barefoot into a pile of shit. I know, cuz I took a poll on facebook at the time, and the overwhelming majority of people would choose to step barefoot into a pile of shit, before stepping barefoot onto a slug. For, although the slug doesn't smell as bad as the shit, you are able to hose the shit off very easily. The slug... that's another story.

Which brings me back to my issue of the girls carrying the slugs around. I wouldn't even mind it, if it weren't for the mucous. ugh. the mucous. The mucous doesn't come off. Only time wears away the mucous. No amount of water, soap, or scrubbing will remove the mucous. In fact, this is primarily the reason why S.Rube is currently avoiding the slugs. I scrubbed the skin right off her hands the other day and I guess it wasn't a very enjoyable experience for her. (hmmm...so sorry about that, S.Rube). She's currently a bit wary of the slug mucous that requires scrubbing.

You know, the mucous is used in their mating ritual. They slime all over each other. And, in case you wanted to know more disgusting information about these mollusks, I have a couple of doozies for you:

1. Slugs are hermaphrodites (that means they contain both female and male parts, for you illiterates). And, when they mate, they each insert their penises into one another at the same time and each deposits its sperm into the other. No bloody wonder there are so many of them!!! They are all simultaneously able to reproduce. (An average garden will have over 16000 slugs in one season. And, even if you remove them all, there will be just as many the following year. )

(Here's the penis of a slug. Man, that thing is big enough to violate my daughters. Yet another reason to keep them away from the slugs!)

2. And, after making the sperm deposit, one slug will often eat the penis of the other one, thereby preventing them from having sex again. ( and your men thought the vasectomy was a barbaric option!)

In fact, many times, they will both eat the penis of the other and both leave the sexual interaction penis-less. ( I hope it was worth it for you.... )

Now, there's the ticket right there!

Scientists just need to figure out how to make all of the slugs eat all of their penises all at the same time. Done.