Costume Party

I have a confession to make!  And boy, is my mom's heart racing now!  (Relax, mom!  You probably won't even need your support group of mom's-who's-daughters-have-blogs for this one!)

Here goes: I change my clothes 266 times a day.  And JUST like Hannah Montana, hilarious accidents happen!  But I don't usually notice until it's too late.  My first outfit is called "try-not-to-embarrass-your-son-at-the-bus-stop".  He has final veto power and will protest if what I'm wearing looks suspiciously like my rosebud-wallpaper patterned pajamas with red, Quebec slippers (because I am a pajama and slipper connoisseur and would spend my entire life in these outfits if life let me).  And why do I stand out at the bus stop with my son?  He stands in front of the front window and I can watch him from there, clearly.  But... mornings and the push to shove your children into clean clothes, clean breakfast and clean teeth before hurling them out the door can get a little stressful.  And standing at the bus stop is a nice chaser.  We chat, play games, or just huddle in silence.  It is one of my favorite parts of the day which means I will not be skimping on it and if it requires a separate change of clothes, so be it.

Then come the barn clothes, old jeans, boots, cow crap... well, you've seen that one.  So risque!

Then I have the clothes I'm going to wear to homeschool or the ones I'm going to drop Blue off in.  Experience has taught me that if I am going to go in the car, I should wear a bra (I try to keep one in the car) and non-shit-covered boots and pants, because sometimes I drop by the grocery or hardware store on the way.  And this is when it gets interesting if I've forgotten key items like: brushing my hair or teeth, the previously mentioned unmentionable, or clean clothes.  The interesting part isn't what you'd expect.  It isn't that people look at me funny, point and laugh, call the cops, the health department, or what-have-you.  The interesting part is that this is when I am most likely to be hit on.  It totally baffles me.  Why not hit on the blond with the tall hair and mini-skirt?  She sure looks ready for it.  Why me?  I tried to fix this nuisance by wearing a baseball cap low over my eyes, but that's not off-putting enough, apparently, and I just run in to things and can't find my way out of the store. This whole thing bewilders me because in addition to my clothes being dirty, I am usually filthy (not like THAT!) too.  I can't seem to figure out when to shower: before the barn chores, before gardening?  Never before bed, unless I want a week's worth of hair from hell that makes Medusa look like a cherub.  I think my hair even bit someone last time.  Stinky, grimy, wearing holey slippers or shitty rubber boots and all I can say is that I will never understand men.  It's apparently not about the shoes for them... or maybe it is.  I don't know.  I'm usually in some spaced out reverie and won't even notice what I'm wearing until someone makes a move and then I go through this sudden self-consciousness: why is this happening? Is it something I'm wearing? (because I come from the dark ages and learned that it's all about what I'm wearing: everything men think and feel and do can be rightly blamed on my clothes: war, commerce, flashing, etc) And this leads me straight to: Oh! God! What AM I WEARING!!!???? So... I try to wear something normal and clean because some men just need all the help they can get in order behave and if I can remember, by golly, I'll help them!.

Then I change back in to my dirty barn/garden clothes (if I'm not still erroneously in them), or into something comfortable but not for public consumption, like my leopard print velour leggings.  They are so cozy and comfy, but scare the crap out of me.  I saw a photo of me wearing a hot pink tank top and these pants and I  violently refuted that it was me as I would EVER wear anything so tacky!  I tried to claim it was a photo of my sister... but that was even more unlikely.  Horrified, I faced the fact that I am Peg Bundy. And yet, I find these timeless classics to be cozy and comfy and don them to do whatever it is I do all day around here when I'm trapped inside.

I did go out planting this past week in driving rain.  And my rain coat, I noticed, was very skilled at collecting the rain and dumping it on my jeans and down my boots.  And one has to ask, "Why the frack am I wearing this?"  With the wind, the cold, the rain and the May being on the calendar, I broke into hysterical laughter while wrestling with some black plastic weed barrier.  I clearly have a gardening problem if I'm willing to suffer this all and laugh in the face of weather's nastiest.

Then there's the pick-up-the-kids-clothes again, and then making-dinner-clothes which historically requires stainability as well as fire-retardation (although with the microwave, I have reduced my monthly kitchen fires by half!)  And, I almost forgot!  The soccer and track-mom clothes and another attempt to be socially acceptable.  And then we get back to the real reason for my existence: pajamas!


On my bedroom floor are five piles of current outfits, none of which get tremendously dirty, or if they do, they are never TOO dirty for what it is I need them for and that is because I do most of the laundry around here.

This is a true behind-the-scenes confession of a farm grrrl and her outfits.

Dancing in Destruction

Cows and fences.  Owl and chickens.  The cycles of creation and destruction continue to cause me to go insane... break down sanity, re-create insanity.

The cows are in the field peaceably chewing cud and sitting.... Oh wait, that's not quite sitting, more like frozen in mid-roll...like giant balls that need a few pumps for that minor deflation. They are pregnancy defined.  They look like what all women feel like at this point in the similar nine month gestation.  And they're kind of crazy too.  Not that they scream about vacuum cleaners or throw bins of dried currants across the kitchen or sit around naked in open windows during 104 degrees of un-air-conditioned heat because who the frick cares who sees. The cows too have been wearing the same clothes for a very long time... they haven't, however, dribbled yogurt down the front and smeared chip powder on the sides.

The grass was popping up green everywhere, and for some reason, in the spring, or really all year, the grass seems greener just outside the fence.  And our electric fence wasn't working, because sand is not a good soil type for completing a circuit, it turns out.  And because I have no idea about anything electric.  And because Huck's been out of town for most of the last six weeks. And what was I going to do?  Say, "Hey sweetie!  So glad of you to drop by for a few hours this week.  Don't play with the kids.  Don't do the dishes.  Don't ... ahem... take care of me.  Just go out and get this crap done!"  NO WAY.  Until... there they were, giant bowling ball cows going for the split, leaning so far over the fence, they'd smashed it down to two fully-surmountable feet tall.  And panic struck.

Luckily, Huck was home and my parents were visiting.  And between us all, we got that fence up and running.  And the furry zeppelins haven't touched it since! Except for once.

Then the owl attacked.  The good news was that Huck was home that night too and I needled him out to check on those screaming chickens.   What he saw was a pile of feathers and only three chickens cowering in the hutch and a three foot tall owl on a post a few feet away.  We were both glad there were no saucy remains to deal with and we set a spotlight on the coop.  But in the morning, that crafty little chicken, Goldilocks, was there!  She'd hidden some place far more clever than the coop and was only a little damaged.  We've gawked at that owl a few times since, just feet from our faces.  And I say to it, in my most dominion-ating voice, "Go."  And it does.  It's an uneasy peace, if that's what we can call it. 

And we went to the sweet old neighbor lady's farm auction.  70+ years of accumulated farm stuff... on auction!  And here were all these farmers,. checking out the crap of 10 out-buildings.  This is how men work, apparently.  They go hunting.  They go fishing.  They go to farm auctions.  Call it useful.  Call in necessary.  And then they sit in a travel trailer, drink beer, and watch satelite tv for three days.  No honey, I didn't kill anything this time.  Maybe next time: heeheehee.  The farm auction: men wandering around, coffee, donuts, chatting for hours with a few bids thrown in so they can call it work.  It makes we wonder if women aren't really ruining work, upping the work bar. Now men have to actually WORK at work. Three martinis and wheelbarrow full of fresh chat is not longer considered work.  No wonder so many resisted women in the "work" force.

And the auction itself!  The habeeda habeeds habbadada 15 hoppity hoppity hoppity 20! Gave me anxiety in my chest and a pounding in my head.  It think it's all part of the clouding of the brain that makes an auction so very profitable.

An auction is a nutty way to sell things you'd normally have to pay to dispose of.  Old-school Craigslist.  But not.  Because the auction preys much more cleverly on desire and competition.  Something that might have sold for $10 on Craigslist, is suddenly bid up to $85!  Twice the price of new!  Three half quarts of oil?  Really? The curiosities: threshers from the 30's and 40's.  And an oven from every decade since 1930.  All in all, a fascinating waste of a day. 

But when I didn't get that riding lawn mower, I realized that I actually wanted one.  We currently have no working mowers, unless you count the push-reel mower which was great for our city lot, but can't do a thing out here, but make me sweat and curse.  My friend's father-in-law bought a fancy new riding mower and needed to offload his old fancy riding mower.  He named his price.  And I said I'd check with Huck and our bank account to see if we could try for it.  And then he says, "Listen, I just want the thing out of my garage.  You should really negotiate with me.  I'm going to be a push-over and I suggest you take advantage of me.  I'll deliver it.  I'll fix the wheel.  You just name your price." Okay!  So that was a cheap mower and I felt kind of bad about it.... but it was his idea!  And I spent two blissful hours cruising around our property yesterday.  Oh my god, what fun!  Gave the kids rides, mowed weeds to keep the Noxious Weed Board happy for a while, and mulched through some failed projects involving manure in really stupid places (because, I thought, I'm not going to move it twice.  I'll move it to where I want it and then... let the kids play tether ball in it until it biodegrades into...not manure.)

I've got my four chickens, my three (soon to be five) cows are contained, my 3000 square foot garden has increased to 4500 thanks to a work trade with the neighbor, and I've got a powerful, snazzy riding lawn mower. And my husband's home.  I am a very happy, very dancing farm girl.

Spring Concert with soprano and bass

Yesterday, I was wondering where all the fulfillment is that those parenting ads promise.  The kids bickered all afternoon, and all through dinner.  Time-outs were issued.  Threats made. Desserts rescinded.  Screen time nixed.  And yet the insults, the screaming, the crying, the pulling of the hair, the swatting of the bodies continued.  I had no other option but to take my book ("How to be Idle"), with tea and cookies in the conservatory while they duked it out.  And it wasn't even amusing squabbling either, not about evolution, god, or the afterlife, just bland stuff. Frankly, I don't even think I ever knew what it was about.

And it turned one's mind to foster care.  You know?  What about foster care?  Just a weekend.  I could pretend to be high, and then pull myself together real quick.  I know some good families taking foster kids right now. 

But it turned out to be Coyote's First Grade Musical night.  Why do they always plan these things for after he needs a haircut and right before he gets one?!  Not this time:  I subjected that kid to the fastest, crookest shave possible.  It was like a sheep sheering contest and when it was done I flung up my hands and looked for the score cards to show my standing.   He'll need a secondary trim this evening.  But at least we could see his eyes.  The hair in front of them was gone and I hadn't poked them out, even though he was sure I would and squirmed enough to make it likely.

And then we got in the car and they fought the whole way to school, where we met Huck, and I buried my head in his chest and begged him to take me far from here.  But instead we went in and sat on folding chairs which looked like they might spontaneously fulfill their mission while you were using them.

And suddenly: there was Coyote, gleaming in his white button down shirt, tucked in to gray pants, and goofing off like crazy with all his friends.  Coyote, as you might glean from his name, is a rabble rouser. Every time I see that kid at school, he's organizing some rebellion or sneak attack.  I was so proud and so smiley that my teeth and lips dried up and I got stuck open.  There!  YES!  That is the reward!  Watching your son push his teacher's buttons and create mayhem among the children.  THAT, my friends, is the pay off.  I was so glad to see he had friends.  It's been a long, hard struggled and he won.

And then they stood up there on the risers and sang Rhyme-in-Time plus a bunch of Raffi songs which the people behind us found hilarious and I was thinking "Um... haven't we all just spent the past six years singing these ad nauseum until we long for death to all our senses, in particular our hearing?"  But "O loke to ote ote ote opples and bononos" was knee-smacking funny in the row behind us.

And then... and then... I saw all those kids up there... in their Sunday best... smiling and singing their hearts out.  And I saw all these weddings, and births, and funerals, and graduations, and firsts and lasts, all the big big moments.  A lifetime of big moments for all 65 kids up there.  And I just fell apart.  I wept.  I am not one for the weeping.  But it was so intense and overwhelming and beautiful and perfect and sad and simply amazing.  I tried to hold it together.  I choked down my louder sobs.  But the rush of emotion was so intense, the tears just shoved their way out, rammed down the walls of my stubborn Dutch stoicism and poured down my cheeks.

And Oh! There was Coyote.  Happy incarnate.  And clean.  I could see his eyes.  His freckles.  His perfect soul reaching for the high notes.

Check out that bow!

And then it was over.  Some kid barfed, of course.  And we all went home.
And I felt as mercurial as the spring weather.  Sunshine now.  Storms again. And then a long long rain (or snow, whatever, it's supposed to be rain).

As I tucked him in to bed, he says, "Wasn't that a great concert, mom?"  "Oh yes."  "Didn't I do a great job, mom?"  "Oh yes."  "I really liked that."  "Me too."

DOA

Grim Reaper at Lincoln City

It's spring and in spring one's mind naturally turns towards death, as snowdrops turn their droopy heads toward the compost they sprung from.  I don't know why death is so dear to me lately.  Since high school, when our school's smartest and snarliest guy went all blase about someone's dear relative's death and drolled, "Death is just as much a part of life as life is,"  I've understood this concept.  And I have contemplated it in detail.  For what is life for, other than thinking about death?  I am no aimless wanderer, I know just where all of this living is headed.  I know where I am going and I think it behooves me to spend most of my journey contemplating exactly that.  I'm kidding.  Living, is just as much a part of death as death is.  So, now we've figured out the destination but I'm still not sure which road I'm taking to get there.  But I seem to be getting closer anyway.  Maybe death is more of an as-the-crow-flies thing instead of an as-they-slapped-down-the-roads issue.

I've thought a lot about death.  Not what comes after.  There's no point in thinking about that.  This doesn't keep my children from constantly arguing about it, however.  While other people's kids fight over the remote control, mine come to blows over the afterlife.  We had another round just this Tuesday, as a matter of fact. Blue: nothing.  Coyote: heaven.  Blue: nothing.  Coyote: god. 

Actually, I have thought about what comes after death, a pointless exercise or not.  I just can't help myself. 
And I've thought about how I'll die. Usually, what happens is, I get a runny nose.  And my differential goes like this: Lou Gehrig's?  Ebola? Alzheimers?  Cancer? pre-cancer?  I can usually talk myself down to "cold" but it might take an hour or two.  Maybe it will be an industrial accident and that's why I don't want to go to work.  Anyway, thinking about how I'll die is also kind of pointless.  Thinking itself seems kind of pointless, frankly.  But that never seems to stop me for doing it, and doing it too much.  Perhaps THAT's what makes people go cross-eyed.

But back to death,  I think lots of other pointless and ineffectual things about death.  Such as how come we seem so opposed?  Why do we keep making it legally impossible?  Between the FAA and dragged out death scenes that go on for years, and sometimes decades, it seems the one thing we Americans can't tolerate is death. 

And also, I think about why death exists at all.

Maiden, Mother, Crone

Of course, just like everyone else on this planet, I don't relish enduring the death of a loved one. Ick.  And I don't really like to imagine them enduring my death, if they really love me like they say they do.  And I tend to be superstitious about it.  I don't imagine that in most cases it is pleasant to endure, whatever part you're playing.  It's the suffering associated with it.  It's the missing.  And the finality. No one can make amends then.  No one can say that one last important thing.  And I fear and dread that aspect of it.  The going-on when it's over for a part of you.  So other than death totally sucking and being perhaps the worst part about life,  there are other things to think about it. 

I can think a lot of things about a lot of topics, as you can probably tell, but sometimes after thinking about something, reasoning it out, coming to logical conclusions (I did get a 4.0 in Logic) or not so logical, the truth of what I've thought-out will wash over me as an emotional/spiritual wave.  And I'll suddenly get it, like a religious experience: oh my god! That's true!  And I'll feel it all over, in all my buzzing little cells.

Death of a Ruddy Duck Pinata.

And that's death for me right now. I am so very thankful for death.  Death is perhaps one of the greatest miracles (after living, of course) that any of us will ever take part in.  Death is amazing.  Death has done me well.  A) It's made room for me here.  Imagine 14 billion people on this planet.  Nope.  I never would have been born.  And maybe my existence is great or not-so-great to you, but that's all pointless to contemplate.  I'm here now and I've managed to find a way to think that's pretty cool, and I think you should too.  B) Every thing I eat is dead.  Plants, mostly.  All dead. And they all grew from dead things.  I'm out in my garden for hours every day now and I'm up to my elbows in death.  Planting little seeds in it.  Cute, ookey-bookey, lil' seeds.  And killing quack grass, evil serpentine quack grass  C)  I am totally 100% post-consumer recycled product. I am ABC gum.  Everything in me has already been caught, devoured, and released.  And here I am. 


And I feel it.  I stretch out on my spring dirt.  I make full-body contact with it.  I lay in my garden rows, and I feel that dirt all along me.  And that glorious death.  A riot of death.  A hootenanny of death.  A bosom of death.  Ahhh... bury me alive... in all this death...but leave a little air hole for now.