Can I just vent for a bloody moment?

I know it's better than having some strange guy approach me in the grocery store and letting me know, but why should I have to be subjected to B.Rube gently informing me that I've got blood on the ass of my pants at all?????

Eh? It just doesn't seem fair, does it? I know I'm the one usually advocating that we celebrate our periods and honour that whole goddamn process, but sometimes enough is enough, you know?

I could almost see the snicker in his eyes as he told me.

We need an FAA around these parts

It can't be a normal obsession, can it? Like, where he decorates his workshop from ceiling to floor with his favourite football team colours of green and white? Or an addiction like gambling, where at least once in a while, he excitedly wins big and we all get taken out for dinner? I'd even settle for building and flying those remote-controlled airplanes, like an ex-boyfriend of mine did. (I think I'd draw the line at a video game addiction. It would drive me crazy to have him in the house and lying around on the couch like that.)

No. My guy has a Farm Auction addiction. Go ahead and laugh, but I see this serious affliction as having extraordinary ramifications. For starters, when I look around the auction, I see clearly what B.Rube is rapidly becoming - an old, balding and hard-working man with a paunch, overalls with a permanently indented circular tin of chew in his back pocket and a checkered flannel shirt, even in the dead heat of summer. The more he hangs out at this place, the more his destiny appears to be wrapped up. Or, should I say... OUR destiny. yikes.

And then there's the issue of the animals. The ever-increasing variety of farm animals. Today it was 3 Bard Rock pullets and 2 young Guinea hens. You see, like an alcoholic sitting in a bar or a gambler sitting in a casino, B.Rube can not attend the Farm Auction without buying something. As if baseball, hockey, golf and working around the farm wasn't enough... This week, he attended the auction on Wednesday, as well as Saturday. The auctioneer and owner call him by name now.

I see the need for a Farm Auction Anonymous support group. If they held it AT the auction itself and were able initially to subliminally infiltrate the minds of the afflicted Gatherers-of-Fucking-Animals, they might be able to actually talk some sense into these guys.
What would it take to deter them? Apparently, the lack of support and encouragement from their wives don't do it.

Yet Another T.Rube Pooping Incident

I'll let S.Rube tell you all about this one...

TTT

Toilet Training T.Rube

I'm not a super-vigilant, pushy and overly structured mom. I don't even attempt the toilet training whatsoever until they do. As a result, T.Rube hasn't gone pee or poo in the potty yet. Up until about 3 weeks ago, she had shown no interest in the whole idea (other than insisting on examining my own poo, sometimes before it's even hit the water.) But, lately, she'll ask once in a while to be put up on the toilet. She hasn't produced anything yet, but she's starting to get the concept.

So, on Sunday night, we are in a hotel room and T.Rube told me she wanted to go poop on the toilet. So, I put her on the toilet. She pushes like she is going to go poop, but doesn't come out with anything. A few minutes in, she gives up and wants down.
I leave her without a diaper, and continue organizing our clothes.
She comes to get me again a few minutes later, telling me she has to poop. I take her to the bathroom to put her on the toilet and she squats down to point at the floor right at the front of the toilet - where there sits two decent-sized logs. She points and says "poop, mommy, poop".

Shit!
She did it. Kind of.
The intent was there. She had the right idea.
Right?

So, we celebrated her shitting on the floor.

The High-Protein/Low-Carb Vulture

Goals starting NOW

1. Drink more water. (Okay, simply "drink water" would suffice, too. Cuz, I suck at this one.)

2. Stop eating the pasta, bread, potato, and rice again. (I was off all starches for a few months leading into early summer, but have been slowly introducing them over the past little while. Now, they seem to be occupying a permanent position and I really want to back off a bit again and make some better choices about the bit of whole grain that I will be eating - like a piece of Squirrely bread here and there, or a bit of Ryvita.)

3. Put in at least one good intense workout here at home each week, to supplement the 2 workouts with Teri. (Ideally, I'd like to be doing 2 workouts at home each week, but I'll start with a more reachable goal like one.)

4. No more sugary sweet treats. (It's all or nothing here, baby. I gotta cut them out for a while again. It seems, lately, I've been giving myself permission all over the place to eat whatever the fuck I want. NO MORE.)

Sun Peaks in Summer

Curly, Moe and Larry Arrive at the Rube Farm

B.Rube went to pick up the dogs from the kennel yesterday afternoon and, in staying starkly true to his nature, arrived home with new farm additions. I hardly blink anymore when it happens.

Here are our new Indian Runner Ducks:



An interesting breed, these ducks walk upright, more like a penguin than a duck. They live with the hens and wander about the yard, eating worms and slugs and other bugs, as well as some grass. They are cute and funny to watch, particularly when they run. And, most importantly, they are not vicious like the geese were and won't be attacking my children.
(Rest in peace, geese. Your friendlier replacements have arrived.)

Dear MaMa P....

Are you the equivalent of a stalker? At the very least, a heckler. But, in fact, I couldn't hear you heckling because I was out of town. Away from the computer for FIVE FREAKIN' DAYS! On a lovely summer holiday with my family. Not concerned in the least about my blog or what I was going to write about next. (well.. that's not entirely true. I tried my damndest to get a good shot of the devastating pine beetle damage for you. See? I still think about you when I'm not here.)

So, I'm sorry for not writing since Friday morning. Whatever happened to the "no pressure", "write at your own pace", "I'll be here for you when you DO post"????

I'm here. I'm here.
I have some beautiful Rube family pictures for you when I get a chance to sit down here again.
(and I'm pms'y this next week, so should have no trouble finding something bitchy and angry to write about.)

(and, you know I love you, right?)

Butterfly Birthday Baking with J.Rube

Just add your cake mix directly into the cones - about 2/3 of the way up. I didn't add quite enough to mine.

Bake as you normally would bake cupcakes, keeping an eye on them. You should do smaller batches than I did, cuz the ones in the middle of the pan didn't do as well as the ones on the outsides.

Looking good, looking good.....

I mixed up some purple icing. I LOVE this part of the process! Doesn't it look cool?

After icing, I added some candies in the shapes of beautiful butterflies.

Hung like a... Donkey

Grab your daughters! Shield your eyes! Run for your lives!



Don't you just feel a little nastier for simply looking? I certainly felt dirty zooming in on him (it) to get the best shot. I so wanted to post this for you yesterday but didn't want to taint my sweet darling's birthday. I also figured that some of you dirty dogs would mistake it for my Sunday Secret and that my reputation would be shot. (okay, so it's not so hot to begin with.... but it's never included animals before, has it?)

Poor Julio. Poor confused Julio. The ewes are in heat and Julio is feeling the love. In all the wrong places.
B.Rube insists that this isn't erect. It hurts my head to even think about.

Happy Birthday Matey

It's your day, S.Rube. The one you've been waiting for for 364 days. I can't wait to see your eyes sparkle in the morning when you wake up and realize that today you are finally 4.

4. I can't believe you're 4. It's so cliche to talk about how fast it all goes by, but, fuck, it goes by fast. And I'm here with you enjoying every last second.
There is nobody that I'd rather spend my days with, S.Rube. I never ever tire of you.

You are gentle and kind and funny and creative and independent and caring and thoughtful and helpful and intelligent and beautiful and so wonderfully positive. You see the sunshine in every cloudy day.

You ARE the sunshine in every cloudy day.

I love you so so so much and am grateful for every single minute I have you in my life.
Happy Birthday, pink pirate. Happy 4th Birthday!

It's Done

Day Three


and, finally.... on Day Four

On Michael Phelps...

A friend of mine suggested this morning that Michael Phelps was a yummy piece of eye candy.

B.Rube and I agreed last night that he looks better with his swim cap on (which wouldn't generally be such a great thing, except that he wears it a lot; more than your average person. So, that helps.) But, other than that, I think he looks remotely inbred at times. (although his sisters look just fine. So, I'm not sure what happened there. And his mom is a middle school principal, so you wouldn't think she'd be involved in any incestuous scandal. But, still. You never know - and who knows where or who Dad is. (evidently some fish or water mammal). He wasn't sitting in the crowd next to Mom.)

Ben just thinks his ears are big. I think he has a really bad set of teeth that he should use his millions to fix.

BUT! and there is a but, I do appreciate how low he wears his swim suit on his hips. Inappropriate? BAH, I say. It's the best part about him.
Oh, except for the way he swims. (which the inbreeding must be responsible for, because NOBODY swims like that!)

(okay, maybe there's something remotely appealing about him...)

Synchronized Squealing

Put your speakers on high!!

Bunny Tragedy

(Don't worry. There aren't any pictures.)

A horrible horrible thing happened overnight. (warning: sad event)

Mama Rabbit panicked and removed all of her babies from their nest, killing them. God, I hate shit like this on the farm. Mother rabbits are highly defensive and, possibly because I went in there yesterday, even though I didn't touch the babies and I did the whole scent thing on her nose and I wore gloves, she freaked out. Her cage is also attached to other females and this may have heightened her fears. I found two of the babies had been pulled through the cage by these other two does.

I guess the other option is that the babies fell out of the box (there's a little lip on the bottom to prevent this.) At which point, Mama didn't know what to do. (because, remember, I did find that other dead one the other day outside of the box.)

This morning, I found she had pulled all the fur out of the box. And her 7 young kits were strewn about the cage. One was in the cage next door and one was in between, caught in the wiring.
It was a horrifying and ugly scene. That I had to deal with, as B.Rube is at work. I'm having a bad morning.

Sorry. No cute bunny updates for a while. :o(

My slightly slimy desperate lonely drunk messenger, Rick

I believe in life there are messengers. And that they come disguised as just about anybody and that they offer you a lesson when you're least expecting it. You can be ready and realize it, or you can remain oblivious and continue through life with your blinders on.

Thelma and I, together, met one of our messengers on Friday night in an unlikely form.

Thelma was having a tough week, as previously mentioned. She was disappointed and disillusioned and wanted a good night out. I warned her in advance that she might not like to hear what I have to say, as I am known to challenge my friends' issues and present them with a positive side that isn't always easily acceptable. We had great discussion through the night (in between the air surfing and butt wagging.) I went on my POSITIVITY rampage (which some of you are familiar with) and I could see Thelma making sense of it, I think (she's a very smart woman, you see.)
I could still see that skepticism, though, too.
And the belief that somehow she'd be 'settling' if she simply accepted her life the way it is. A resignation of sorts.

At some point later in the evening, we had joined tables with two other women, and Thelma and I popped outside for a few minutes. On the way back inside, Thelma grabbed her water bottle from the car, which seemed to be shaped remarkably like a purple metal Barney penis,with a smooth round white head on the top. We were laughing like 14-year-olds and Thelma rubbed the smooth head on the top, commenting how much she liked that part.
We rejoined the women we were with and realized that 2 guys had joined them in our absence. One of them was a guy named Rick - he introduced himself to us quickly. Rick then looked at Thelma's water bottle and says something like, "Look at the top of that water bottle. I like it."

Now, as bizarre as this sounds, for Thelma and I, it was a sign.

(What I believe happens, you see, is that we are first given a sign that we can either notice or not notice. If we choose to notice the sign, we are also likely to get the message that is to follow. If we don't notice the sign, the message will likely not be apparent to us either. The sign provides validation to the message you are going to get. So, pay attention to the signs. They're important.)

In this particular instance, Rick was a 45-year-old drunk, who was desperately looking for a woman, and had no problem asking us directly if we were available or not. When he learned we were not available, he moved on.
But, not before giving us his message.

So, to recap: the sign for us was the water bottle comment. It wasn't just a coincidence. It made us take note and pay attention. It alerted us to the weirdness of what was happening. My heart started pounding and I was shaking slightly even. It was intense and it was very profound.
Seriously, bizarre.

Because, what happens next, out of nowhere, out of context, Rick starts talking about complete positivity, about finding the strength in everything he sees, about looking for the best in people and circumstances, about switching his perspective on something that might otherwise be deemed as tragic, about being the hero rather than the victim, about moving on from the shit that has previously befallen him, about celebrating each day with all that you're blessed with. It was FUCKING INCREDIBLE. Rick validated everything I so powerfully believe. He said things that were precisely what I had said to Thelma not an hour earlier.

Now, speaking of Thelma.... She,understandably, was freaked out too, and awesomely aware that we were experiencing a unique moment. We didn't even need to hear what he was saying at that point, because we got the message loud and clear........

We're not settling. We're living our perfect lives. Just because they are ours. We can choose to wake up every morning and pay attention to all of the things that are missing, and take notice of what our partners fail to provide.
Or we can choose to wake up every morning and be acutely aware of what we DO have and be absolutely grateful for all of it. My choice is easy.

And then Rick was gone, as quickly as he'd arrived. The whole thing was blessed. insanely blessed.

A messenger can take many forms. Ours was a slightly slimy, desperate, lonely drunk guy in a bar after midnight on a Friday night. Easy to have tuned him out. Easy to have avoided him. Easy to have dismissed what he was saying.

But, we got it.
Believe me, we got it.

For those of you....

....who prefer to see your baby bunnies alive and well.



I went into the nest today to make sure that there were no dead ones and to give them a quick count. You'll be happy to know, as I was, that all is well. There are 7 active and wiggly bunnies in there. The white fur you see is what the doe builds her nest from. A pregnant rabbit starts to grow a big hairy dewflap (snicker, snicker) under her chin when she gets pregnant and the fur continues to thicken and fill in for the month. The night before giving birth, she goes into a serious 'nesting' mode, and pulls out the fur from her dewflap to build a warm soft nest.

It's super important for her to not be able to smell me on the babies, so before touching the nest, I put a dab of essential oil on her nose. She'll be smelling wintergreen for the next little while and the risk of her rejecting her kits is lessened.

Thelma, Louise and Shakira too

Last night, I went out with a friend that I've known for 20 years. She called Thursday in desperate need of some time away and wanted to head out of town for a couple of days with me. Not being able to swing going away, we settled on going out last night and she dubbed us "Thelma and Louise".

We started our night with a yummy shot and a thought of who we would have to kill in order to start our night off in true T&L style. Fortunately for the white-haired jogger, we swatted the fly instead. We also decided that we always hated the end of that movie and I vowed to not drive the car over a cliff at the end of the night.

We did, however, debate just driving and never stopping, and figured that between both ipods, we had a good 7 or 8 days of straight music. That could get us far.
We went to a pub, instead, where they were holding a "Name that Tune" game and we named our team, you-guessed-it, Thelma and Louise. The young guy who hosts the show is one of the construction dudes that her husband has working with him. His name is Justin, but you can refer to him as our J.D. (think Brad Pitt) for these purposes. (think easy to look at, for these purposes.)



Admittedly, he kinda favoured us a bit and we made the rise from 6th place to 3rd place after the first round. Guessing Funky Cool Medina instead of Wild Thing and not knowing the Dixie Chicks set us back slightly. Eye of the Tiger by Survivor put us closer in the third round, but the true point winning of the night went to my awesome "air surfing", which I won, and the "Shake the Booty" contest, with which I kicked some serious ass (no pun intended) and easily earned the name change from Louise to Shakira. ( I owe my new ass-shaking ability to Teri, my personal trainer, who has recently blessed me with a lovely hard ass and the strength to jiggle it. Nobody even came close.)
(The only thing I've ever won in a bar before was a "weird human tricks" contest, when I demonstrated being able to bend my middle finger to the back of my hand. (oh, and I guess I won B.Rube drunk one night, too, whilst singing loud Irish songs, like The Unicorn, at the infamous Blarney Stone.))

Here I am here:

no, really.

With a tie for first, and an extra $25 in our pockets to pay towards our bill, the night was a huge success. And we hadn't even received the life-changing message from the desperate drunk yet. But, for the sake of our slower readers, I'll save that for another post.

Summertime Update on the Farm

It's been a while since I've done a good farm update. So, here she is....

It was a bit of a rough July, as the coyote family living behind us, found an easy way in, and called the Rube Farm their lunch box. The week after losing both of our geese, we realized that sweet little Cindy was gone. (She was named after Cindy Crawford, because of the cute mole on her face.)



We have located the hole in the fence (a rather elaborate tunnel through the blackberries) and seem to have the situation under control.

The sheep and Julio are living together now, in the hopes that Julio will help protect the sheep from coyote predators, although he was seemingly useless the morning Cindy was taken.
We haven't sold any sheep this summer yet. There are a number of lambs that we are keeping, but there'll be a few heading to auction in the next month or so.





The pigs - cute, smart and disgusting - are growing. Both in size and on me. I kind of like them now. They're very playful and pretty funny. Witnessing one of them eating the poop right from another's butthole this morning kinda set me back a bit, though.




There hasn't been much to report on the bunnies until this week, when we had our first bunny litter bred with our own rabbits. Bunnies are actually called kittens or kindles. Two nights ago, one of our New Zealand rabbits gave birth.
We aren't able to go into her nest yet to check the babies - not until tomorrow - so I can't report how many are in there. Yesterday when I went out to check on them, I found one poor little kit dead outside of the nest. Based on its appearance, I would guess that it had died shortly after birth (or stillborn). I took a picture of it. This is what a newborn baby bunny looks like. Please excuse the lack of a heartbeat and lack of blood flowing through its little body. (Think of it as educational.)


The playground construction project that I mentioned earlier:
Here's the end of Day One (dismal)


And, finally, some real progress can be seen by the end of Day Two


One of my favourite views out my kitchen window this summer:

Extreme Home Makeover this is not

How the hell can they build a whole damn house, fully decorated and landscaped in one week? We can't even get the new playset up. (and we didn't need to bulldoze an old one, build a foundation or wire it up for electricity.) B.Rube and Gramps have been working for two solid days, with no breaks, and it still isn't half done. I should have learned a few years back when I went away for 2 days and hoped to find my bathroom renovation completed when I returned. BAH! I tried to convince B.Rube that he could do it; like on While They Were Out, but he didn't go for it. He told me that real life doesn't work like it does on TV.
What? Really? I call bullshit. It's reality TV. Of course it's real.

There is no reason we can't get this playset built in 3 days.

Not Pregnant

(is that short enough for you to read, MamaP?)

2WW

I get asked all the time if B.Rube and I are done having kids or not. It's right up there with (when) are we getting married?
After the miscarriage back in November, we hadn't really talked about it seriously. Until we were in Vegas in June.

Someone commented to me that it must be such a difficult decision to make, and they wondered how a couple goes about deciding to stop or to have more. I told her that it wasn't difficult at all; that if it is to be, I'd embrace it. And if it isn't to be, I'd embrace that too. Embracing is easy.

So, B.Rube and I started trying. Whatever that means. (I don't want to get into details here, but our trying looks a little different than our not trying).

And the roller coaster ride begins.

For those of you who aren't aware of how the whole thing works, there is a two week period after ovulation/conception before a woman's period would usually start. This two week period, for many of us, IS EXCRUCIATING. and, at the very least, distracting.
We pay attention to every little possible detail or symptom there is. And we pee on sticks. Yes. POAS, as the online world says. Pee on a stick. The POASoholics become obsessed with pregnancy testing. They will start peeing on a stick at Day 6 or 7, knowing full well that their hormones would not possibly even be detectable yet. They will pee on a few sticks a day after that, until they get their positive result, or they start their period. Usually the latter. Although most POAS addicts purchase cheap tests from American Dollar Tree stores or online for $1 apiece, they often don't trust the negative results that these tests provide, so they go out to purchase better, more expensive tests. They will pee on 4 different sticks at a time by Day 11, looking for that positive result that they so desperately want. They will ask their husband to carefully examine the stick, to search for any sign at all of a line. They will post a picture of their sticks to online sites, like www.twoweekwait.com, and online friends begging them to please see that invisibly faint line. They will document online every shit they take, every sweet food they eat, every bad scent they smell and every dream they have. They will also document their body temperatures at various times during the day, include detailed description of their cm (cervical mucous) (I'll spare you the cervical mucous talk. The slugs are the only ones disgusting enough to include mucous talk.), and correlate knee and foot pain with implantation, or elbow and hip, if that fits.

The two week wait sucks. And is often a time you go through alone. If it weren't for those empathetic online friends.
Because, let's face it, nobody wants to hear you talking about your possible early pregnancy symptoms. Even your husband, no matter how much he wants another kid. I mean, really, all you can do is wait, right? So, no use in obsessing about it.

And, in any case, I have you. You have to listen. Because the other option is not reading my blog, and you know you won't do that.

So, as you can probably tell, I'm at the tail end of my "two week wait". And it's driving me crazy.
How is that every early pregnancy symptom there is identically duplicates that of PMS,too? Just to fuck with us further. Because the 'not-knowing' is just not enough, eh? Instead, I have to break out with a number of pimples, including one threateningly dangerous crater just sitting under the skin on my cheek bone.
( Understand: I don't get pimples. Not since Grades 6-8 when my permed bangs and the traditional 80's grunge style made a real greasy mess of my forehead. )
I experience waves of nausea at various points in the day and swallowing water at times makes me want to puke. I have horrible acid reflux and heartburn; enough to have bought some Tums from the lineup at TOYSrUS, and again a few days later.
This may be directly correlated, however, with my (over)eating. Holy crap. Major appetite - just want to eat and eat and eat and eat. I've blown my whole new 'diet' every time I opened my mouth and put something in.
I've been crampy - this one little area in particular. It almost feels like a little pinched muscle in there. At times, my lower back also aches. Speaking of aches, I've had bad headaches off and on for about a week now. And have just felt so lethargic and exhausted that I've only wanted to sleep. Speaking of sleep, I've been dreaming, too, every night, for the last 5 or so. OH, and gassy!! I am pretty sure that, for a few days, I was solely responsible for increasing the size of the hole in the ozone layer. yikes. Almost worse than our big white dog. But not quite. (Because NOTHING is worse than the big white dog. Nothing.) I'll spare you the toilet details and the cm (as previously promised), but just know that they were also right in line with all of the other accumulated data....

It all adds up.

Summer Sanity Secret

I have a summer secret that is slowly leaking out. It is part of what helps me stay sane (argueable)and have a little fun (also argueable), and I figure, as we have approached that halfway point of summer vacation, some of you may be looking for any bit of fucking help that you can find, in your last ditch attempt to find sanity and fun for yourselves this summer season.
(although I have a friend whose husband will swear it made him insane and I'm sure he's not the only one with this story. He'll tell you he entered into a 3-month anxiety attack that prevented him from even going to work. It's THAT good!!)

Rev.
(you can click on that pink rev word to check out their website.)
Frozen Rev. Packed in every little lunch cooler and snack pack you put together this summer. (Provided you are on the outing. Please don't pack frozen Rev drinks for your kids for summer camp. The guarana in there could really fuck them up, never mind the 7% alcohol. You'll have Child Protection on your ass faster than the mosquitoes can eat you up in Fort Langley, or the flies on the Rube Farm gather on a clump of fresh sheep shit.) Forget about ice packs. You don't need them. All you need are frozen Revs. They help to keep your lunch cool, while melting at the perfect speed to provide you with a delicious slushy caffeine-filled vodka drink all day long. (and who doesn't need a good dose of caffeine and vodka to pick them up in the afternoon, I ask??) Their inconspicuous plastic bottles and blue-freezee colour make Rev the perfect undercover bevvy.

Try it. You'll wish the summer lasted until at least October. At which point, we will have to explore the hot toddy options for the fall and winter season.

(You may have Child Protection on your ass regardless.)

(Now if we can only find an American alternative for my unfortunate friends to the south.)

Miracles DO Happen!

On Tuesday this past week, the girls skipped off to Grandma's for a couple of nights. I dropped them off there at about 4 pm that day and returned home, stopping to buy two bunches of the most incredible sunflowers from a roadside stand. As I turned onto our street, I had this detailed and bizarre fantasy that I would arrive home to find that B.Rube had tidied the house, put away the toys and vacuumed the living room rug. (I often entertain these type of thoughts. Mainly to torture myself, I guess, as I have to come to realize that B.Rube does little to nothing inside the house, except watch TV, eat and sleep. Even on this particular Tuesday, B.Rube had been outside all day working, as usual, and would not likely have ever come inside at 4 pm to clean the house.) So, I dismissed the insane notion as irrational thought and grandiose delusion, and turned into our driveway. I decided that I would have to tidy up, put away the toys, and vacuum, even before setting the flowers into their vase. And certainly before I could properly relax.

I walked into the house to find B.Rube lying on the couch watching TV.
The rooms were tidy, the toys were put away and he had vacuumed.

UnFUCKINGbelievable!

I had only to place my flowers into their vase. And pour myself a drink.