There really IS just something about her

See my Tabblo>

We got our new car....

....and suddenly B.Rube has turned into my dad.
He's out washing it 10 minutes before we have to leave. (although, unlike my dad, he has already had his shower.)

p.s. Today my baby turns two! We are off to celebrate her day. At Dinotown no less.

Let It Be Known.....

...that I just folded a load of laundry WHILE IT WAS STILL WARM.
This is fucking unheard of.

(only 9 more loads to go!!!)

And Then There Were None

No more geese.

There are no sign of feathers or anything this time. She just disappeared into thin air. poof.

I hope that we can figure it out or solve the problem before B.Rube comes home with more water fowl. But, somehow I think this is unlikely.

In Case You Didn't Believe Me...

....when I told you a couple months ago here (you can click on that 'here' to get 'there') that the disgusting slugs compete with the raccoons for the leftover dog food. And win.

I stepped outside tonight to bring in the leftover dog food dishes and found this:
(note the mucous)

And then, I notice these two making a run for it. Possibly even racing - at a snail's pace, of course. Whilst all the while pushing boulders of kibble in front of them with all their might.
(note the mucous)

It really is pretty friggin' unbelievable, isn't it? Disgusting and unbelievable. Do you think that they actually push the kibble right out of the dish? I wonder if they act as a team. Where do you suppose they are taking the kibble? Back to the nest? ewwwwww. Imagine that. A slug nest. A nest full of slugs. That's revolting. I tell you, though, if ever there was a place in the world where one would find a friggin' slug nest, it would be here. Right here. Probably just below the deck out there actually, now that I think of it.

The Sounds of Summer

The summer is defined by the sound of the flies, not yet dead, stuck to the fly tape, and frantically buzzing their way to demise.

Everything 'bout' the Kitchen Sink

I definitely spend at least a thousand times longer worrying about packing than it takes to actually pack. This is the sign of some sort of anxiety disorder, isn't it? I've been in an absolute paralyzed state for the last week because of it. Now, here it was, today. My final day of preparation. The day when I could finally bring things to the front door to form a mountainous heap.

After about a half hour into my dreaded task, I looked around the living room and was overwhelmed with the mess that the young Rube girls had created. Not surprised. But overwhelmed.

I began to lecture S.Rube (cuz she's old enough to know not to walk away) about it, explaining at great length that I was packing for camping today, and proceeded to list every single thing that we needed to bring, without a breath in between.....

"...every single thing that we may or may not use over the next few days, including, but not exclusive to....

every article of clothing that you, your sister and myself are going to wear; socks, underwear, bathing suits, shorts, shirts, shoes, sandals, pyjamas, pants, sweatshirts.
every thing we are going to sleep on and sleep in; the tent, the mattresses, sheets, blankets, pillows, teddy bears, choochies.
a change station; diapers, swimmers, wipes
the potty (for late-night happenings by S.Rube & ME!) and toilet paper
flashlights, batteries, bug repellant, string, clothespins, tarps, hammer, tape, hatchet, firewood, newspaper, lantern, Coleman stove, matches, barbecue lighter, citronella candle, candles, tiki torches.
the kitchen and everything we are going to eat over the next 5 days; food for every meal and snacks, every dish and piece of cutlery, knives, pots, pans, dish soap, scrubby pads, bowls, a collander, a spatula, scissors, a wine opener (AMEN) and a can opener, garbage bags, paper towel, tea towels, dish cloths, table cloth, tin foil, saran, baggies, tupperware.
the guitar and capo and tuner and sheet music.
Cranium and poker money.
every possible kids toy and book that they might want, including everything for the beach and sunscreen too, towels, lawn chairs, umbrella, blanket.
the t-shirts that I made for all the kids and all of the activities and games.
their bikes and helmets.
a mirror
and lots of alcohol. "

S.Rube looked at me in amazement and said, "Boooooouuuut....are you bringing the whole house or someping?"

Yeah, pretty much.
Holy hell. No wonder I'm overwhelmed. That's a lot of shit. But, it's all piled up at the front door.
I can't wait!

And Then There Was One

Karma cooked the goose.

Something got our male goose last night. I just realized that the gander was pacing the fence line all alone and when I went a-lookin', I found me a pile of feathers. No blood, no body or its parts; just nice white feathers.

We're not entirely sure what it is, but are starting to suspect a small coyote. We've been losing hens in the same way. I'd been thinking it might have been the eagles or the big hawks that have been around, but I think that the predator must be attacking on the ground, rather than in the air, because the male goose would have been more likely to stand up to the predator and attempt to protect both geese, thereby losing its life. With the water levels low right now, the fencing over the streams isn't good. Even the sheep have been sneaking through.

A coyote kills and plucks, and then takes the rest of the animal back to the den. This is consistent with what we are seeing.

I guess that enough time has passed since this goose attacked my child, because I'm feeling bad. I've been enjoying looking out at the pond and seeing the two of them sunning themselves. The male goose LOVED the water, and although he hadn't actually gone swimming, he would jump in and out of the sheep's water tub, splashing and flapping and then running like a lunatic around the field.

Also, as is the case in any death, I feel particularly sad for those who are left behind. Watching the gander right now is breaking my heart. I don't know how much we personify this experience for them, though, or what she is capable of thinking and feeling. But... the poor thing.

To sum it up.... when I called B.Rube at work to tell him, he ended our conversation with "That's Life on the Farm." Yep, I guess it is.

SHEARING DAY!

Yesterday was a busy day on the Rube Farm.
We hire a local girl named Johanna to shear the sheep.













Here is the pile of white fleece and the pile of black fleece.


The sheep look hilariously like emaciated goats now.

Dear Mr.Scrapbooker

Let's just get this straight. I can't believe that I need to even send out this public service announcement.

REAL MEN DON'T SCRAPBOOK.

But, apparently, at least one man in the world didn't get his List of Don'ts, of which "Real Men Don't Scrapbook" is #8.

It's you, dude. The guy I saw in the scrapbooking store today who still has to get his Vegas album finished before excitedly moving on to new projects. The guy who I mistakenly felt sorry for prior to realizing that he actually IS a scrapbooker.


Do your friends know this about you? Do you display your albums on your coffee table? Do you pass them off as your wife's? Are you still resentful that your parents never put you in baseball or hockey? or that those guitar lessons never really panned out? Were you that desperate to find a hobby that you stole your wife's passion? Or are you that whipped that you gave up baseball, hockey and playing open mike with the band in order to scrapbook? Were you afraid to tell her that you're not really interested? Or do you honestly believe that it is a 'nice thing to do together as a couple; to create permanent memories for your children?' Is that the argument she gave you? Or did you not even require an argument? I'm sorry. I'm just having trouble getting this clear in my head. Please. Enlighten me.

I refuse to even entertain the idea that you enjoy it.


At first, I didn't realize that you were a scrapbooker. At first, I took a bit of pity on you because I believed that the scrapbook store would be the last place in the world that you'd want to be on a Sunday; your wife MUST have dragged you along for the ride; convinced you to come into the store, rather than just sitting in the car waiting. Your wife was showing you papers and telling you all of her ideas - blah, blah, blah, blah. I couldn't believe that you were actually listening, of course, but you did a good job of making it appear as though you were. Up to this point, you had been nodding and muttering a low level of enthusiasm to everything that Mrs.Scrapbooker was showing you.

And then I heard her say to you:

"Yeah, but have you finished your Vegas album yet? You should finish up that one first."

Your Vegas album.

YOUR. ALBUM.

That little bitty pity deflated from this hot sack of air quickly.
You were there by choice.
And you were certainly choosing. Lots of beautiful papers to accompany your creative and passionate ideas for your next page layout. And your next themed album. Once your wife outed you, you were comfortable discussing your ideas openly.

I think if you were effeminate, I could have almost accepted you more easily. I could have understood. But, you're not.

So, I don't get it.

Hey, at least your kids are getting permanent memories. More than I can say for mine. And I know there's not a snowball's chance in hell of getting B.Rube to scrapbook. Because real men don't scrapbook.


AS AN ASIDE: (I spent an hour in a large scrapbooking store today. ( I am working on a very very cool Chawbacon project, that I will share with you in future months. ) I don't know about you all, but my heart rate accelerates as I walk through the doors of this store. It's the paper that does it to me. I am absolutely and overwhelmingly turned on by the paper. Both the texture and the patterns. And the colours. And the combination of colours and textures and patterns. And, at that point, my head is already close to exploding, with the ideas and opportunities, with the things I need and the things I want. And I haven't even entered thought into the next-step world of elements & embellishments yet. Brads, staples, stickers, corners, stamps, eyelets, buttons, ribbon, rub-ons, cut-outs, letters. )

Stinky Black Balls of Guck

You know how ears have all of those crazy little folds and little hidden crevices and dark caves? Tonight, while wiping T.Rube's face, I found an entire fucking potato in one of those folds.

(In fact, it got worse.)

My severe negligence as a mother was amplified further when I discovered that each ear had 2 near-invisible crevices that were filled with stinky black balls of guck that were about the size of a pea. (Albeit a small pea.)

(I was exaggerating about the potato.)

In any case, the stark truth is that I had no idea that these little dirty pockets even existed. Because I haven't really ever cleaned her ears.

I've fearfully poked a q-tip in there twice, when I could see the wax building up. But, I was too afraid to bust an eardrum, so I did what little shallow digging was required and abandoned the task.

I certainly never noticed these crevices before.

It made me run to S.Rube quickly and grab her head to peer into her awkward ears. phew

No dirty peas. Thank God. After 4 years.....can you imagine???......

Ugly Beach

What is it about the local man-made watering pit and a hot and sunny Canada Day that bring out the riff-raff? yikes.

There were some doozies at 'the lake' today. In fact, it was downright ugly. Ugly Beach. That's what we should call it.

First there was Grandma shrieking, "Stacey! STACEY! STACEY" all afternoon long. I think she'd been away from "the drink" for too long, if you know what I mean. She needed help. And her nose needed even more help. It was worse than W.C. Fields' nose. She really loves her libations apparently. Maybe she would have shut up today if she had a glass in her hand.

Then there was the dad with the oozing red bumps all over his back. (Think Woogie from Something about Mary). When the sun hit his back in a certain way, each bump was magnified to the size of a mountain. I was certainly hesitant about my daughters sharing the same planet with him, let alone the tiny little man-made lake, where bacteria happily thrives. Woogie had two fun games that he was enjoying with his kids. One was splashing them repeatedly and crazily directly in the face and shouting, "You think you can splash ME, eh? You think you can splash ME?" The other was catching them off guard, picking them up and throwing them in the air as high and hard as he could. They would land at least 10 feet from him, and scramble to the top of the water sputtering, choking and shocked, while he laughed maniacally. They were only about 3 and 5. Needless to say, the games ended quickly and in tears. I heard him defending his approach later by explaining that he had been taught to swim by his dad who threw him off the end of the dock. (Let's save this approach for cooling off the dog on a hot day, okay?)

Then there was the 4-year-old boy who spent the entire day butt naked. For some white trash reason or another, his family felt it acceptable for him to swim, play on the beach, interact with other children and eat his lunch completely naked. All day. ( It was suggested to me by a friend that perhaps the family was European and held different values regarding nudity. I can assure you that there was no degree of culture whatsoever in these people, and that the only bit of anything remotely European that they had in them was the "parc de traileur". I agree, however, that they held different values about nudity. very different. )
He certainly wasn't a baby. He wasn't even a "little" boy. He was a spirited and disobedient big kid. He continuously sat his naked ass on others' rafts, tubes, boats, and floaties. He continuously waggled his little weenie in front of everyone he came near. And tried to build sandcastles and play ball with my girls all day. When he approached me and my towel, with his groin at the same level as my face, I'd had enough.

I raised the white surrender flag and headed back to the farm.

(p.s. And I spared you the details of the woman with no neck who had the daughter with the deformed foot. You're welcome.)

May your Canada Day...

....be as wonky & spirited as hers, regardless of where you may be.